Take stock

The old Stock Exchange in Barcelona has been converted into a conference and party venue, and makes for a particularly Gothic setting. This brooding atmosphere was sadly blown out the water by the hearty/ghastly latino sounds of Buena Vista Social Club, the crazed gobos strafing the ceiling with the Blackberry logo and giant vid screens in every corner, banging on about the joys of email on your phone. Email on your PC is bad enough, having it follow you everywhere you go is a thort too hideous to contemplate. Still, cool building, may the Gods of Architecture forgive the mobile telecomms industry its hubris.

B

Corndles

Ah yes, corny I know but at least the colours are nice. The Sugar club down by the port was the venue for the symba party and the scene of general depredation by 3GSM party scavengers. Yours truly had to bounce a few people from the door and it's not something I'd like to do on a regular basis. 3GSM brings out a sordid desperation in people, all frantically trying to blag their way into parties they failed to score tickets for. These parties are usually shite, and full of the same dull suits you've been trying to avoid during the day. Norman Jay was playing at ours and despite developing gastro on the plane over from a gig in Moscow, still managed to crawl onto the decks and lay it down for an appreciative few.

B

Burnox

Events queen gets too close to the camera and coruscates top layer of flesh. I like overexposed images like this, they warp the face to such an extent they leave the barest suggestion of the original visage but create an all new face in the process. Some would say this is a good thing (yes Spencer, you would say this) but no doubt EQ will squeal in horror when she sees this. Fear not EQ, there are many others to choose from.

B

Barcaned

Barcelona took its toll on mind, body and spirit, but I managed to get out of the country with the tattered shreds of my consciousness marginally intact, tho dribbling out my ears. A quiet weekend would have sorted me out but noooooo, we had to kick it till the room was full of homeward bound bovines. Sad to witness the passing of a fine piece of equipment, I do hope you'll be able you resurrect yon amp dear Sonje. If not, let it be said that it did us proud on many an occasion and its passing will be dutifully mourned (until the arrival of its replacement) To those who bothered to follow my Barca escapades via this link no doubt you thrilled to my adventures in the technological futopia which was 3GSM. According to my stats however, only two people followed the link I posted below so cheers friends cheers. I will begin the arduous task of wading through a gig's worth of photies and adorn this space accordingly.

B

This blog is coming like a ghost blog

Incontrovertible evidence that mojitos make your husband's eyes bulge (or something) Much joy to you Pamos, on achieving another year without actually aging in any discernible way (apart from that weird additional appendage sprouting from your shoulder.)

Hopefully Benjamo, that thyroid problem has eased up now too. Despite some idiot dragging us off to the wrong venue, we eventually managed to arrive at the right place in time for mojito madness. Good to see the Eurocrew in full effect, as well as the return of the wild New Zealand Girl and the Brixton Hill babes. Apologies for the singular lack of posting in the last few weeks, I must have been watching youtube and lost track of time. Congratulations to HelWill for furthering the species and to MeLinds for making honest people out of each other. Off to Barca on Friday where I will be blogging madly from my phone to this place. At least it'll be more prolific than this site.

B

PS These pictures are a lot funnier side by side, damn you Blogger and your crappy new layout!

Phantom of the Operette

Another night in the company of Mr.Incredible is always a treat and a good swing from the chandeliers never goes amiss. How we larffed and quaffed. A good thing Christmas provided some back-up malt liqueur as Mr.I's superdrinkingpower(TM) appeared to be set to 11. Thank you most kindly for the book, it will be cherished.

B

I don't think you're ready for this...

Herewith, a picture of my brain on holiday. I haven't had the heart to inform my brain that it isn't still lounging on a beach somewhere, but is in fact rotting on one of the lower tiers of hell. Sadly, even my brain knows something is up, what with all the screams and lamentation emanating from various meeting rooms across the way. Soon the proverbial penny will clang and dear old brain will return to full cognizance, blinking owlishly up at the tungsten lights and flinching at the desolate wails of other brains around it. Crying out with hunger, crying out in pain, at least the dirt will wash off, when it starts to rain. Shame.

B

Go fish

The Bartlett Gallery hosts some piscene portraiture at the moment, seen here hanging off the shoulders of artist Tommy's niece. Tortured Artist's gallery is soon to be demolished and replaced with student flats apparently. This is a blow indeed, especially considering the stickerthing crew were contemplating doing an exhibition there in the Summer. We will have to regroup and find a new venue for our borrowed art outpourings. Tom has also done a number of moody landscapes which I think are superb, if you happen to be in th Bethnal Green area, check it out. Niece not included.

B

Sundowner

There's no justification for this sort of picture really. It's a sunset, and a Cape sunset at that, it reeks of cliche, fair stinks of it. I took it with my phone which is its only saving grace and I've posted it to remind me that there is a sun out there and one day it'll come back. I also needed to post something to introduce the affable meanderings and amiable dementia of tomismyonlyfriend, which you may have noticed has now appeared on the left. There, I've done the introductions, I'll leave it to the Happy Harlequin to do the rest. I'm deeply fatigued, I stop.

B

Risk

I did. It was fine.

B

Stanford stitch

Hurrah, stitching rocks. Now if only I'd actually taken something interesting with it. Ah well, Stanford, woohoo!

B

Man trips light fantastically

Happy happy, and indeed, joy joy. So it is that we wake up into the new born year and, in the inimitable words of Jon Bon Jovi 'French kiss the morning.' This line has horrified me for years, not just for the fact that it's been sung by nob rocka JBV, but also for the hideous image it conjures up of John rolling over in bed after a night on the tiles and ramming his JD and marlboro coated tongue into the orifice of my morning.

New Year's eve was jolly fun and much thanks must be extended to Au Savage for the opportunity to blow his speakers and jump up and down on his wooden floors. Bad boy Sigh9 didst lay down some fresh tunage, hot off the Ableton press and the crowds gathered from far and wide (Brighton) to be bathed in psychedelic glory on the dance floor.

My office has three people in today, very tempting to make it two. No point in overdoing it, we've got all year for that.

B

The art of self parody is not lost

The Luchador's mask is his alternative face, the second skin he inhabits in the ring and the very embodiment of his wrestling persona. The masks are there to enhance the perception in both opponent and crowd, of a blank emotionless Harbinger of Doom, descending from on high to crush all in their path. That's the kinda look I'm going for here. I'm thinking of sporting this ensemble at my next Michael Flately retrospective, do hope you can make it.

B

Tenacious Defence

Metal. For some time now it has been but a concept, a way of thinking, a genre encapsulating all that is loud and guitar driven. Trust Tenacious D to summon up a physical manifestation of this abstraction, then kick it in the ball...er...goons. Here we see JB and KG laying it down with 'Metal' at the Hammersmith Apollo last night. Hard rocking was the order of the day- cock push-ups, rising at the crack of noon, the random consumption of magic mushrooms - all these things were required before the D was done with us. Having nuked themselves into Hell via some spilt beer and a faulty electrical point, our heroes do the logical thing and form a band with Colonel Sanders on drums (he killed a lot of chickens), Charlie Chaplin on bass and the anti-christ on lead guitar. They duck and dive between the first album and newer tracks and finally have to dual with Satan himself to return to earth, because Kyle forged JD's signature on the contract which got them to hell in the first place. JD is a one man monsoon of sweat by the end of it, and one can only hope a highly efficient roadie washes that one t-shirt Black has been seen in both on stage and on TV for the last two months.

For anyone who tires of the festive season, there's nothing quite like a rock n' roll panto to get those cockles roasting. We larfed, we sang, we rocked. Merry Christmas one and all!

B

The roof is vibrayding

When you fire a pistol, without wearing earmuffs to prevent your brain from liquidizing from the sonic boom, not only are you utterly deafened for days afterwards, you also experience fiendishly aggravated tinnitus. To obtain the same affect over a slightly more prolonged period of time, have a Flat Festival . Invite Testcard to play at your Flat Festival. Stand in front of massive JBL's in said flat while said Testcard sings at you from point blank range. Cry.










Muchos gracias to Sckrtch for the use of the 'Pool hall, t'was a very fine festival indeed. Respect to the Testcard lads, Corporate Athlete and all who managed to make music follow one track after another, in a row. Next time we take that clicker up to 3 figures. (or at least 20)

B

Twin of Chucky

This is also mine, though more on a share basis you know. The v.colourful one belongs to the Loved one, where it will go, nobody knows, possibly not the bedroom, it radiates like a supernova.


B

Everything you know is not enough

The top image is called 'Where's the remote' - it is mine, oh yes. (just need to pay for it, hmmm)

B

Blockhead

Soon he will be residing in the front entrance to the Nelson Mandela Children's hospital, just the sort of jaunty doorman you'd want to be greeted by were you an ailing child (i'd hope, they may run screaming) This is Blockhead, one of the sculptures featured in M.o.m.cy's recent exhibition, created by renowned sculptor and significant other Sybraman. The exhibition was fab and I'll be posting more pics from that shortly, I just have to muster up the energy.

B

Fiendishly clever disguise

'Hide in plain sight' I think the term is. Dr.Evil has obviously fallen on hard times and re-located to Lower Main St in Obs. No doubt a state-of-the-art security system lurks behind this unassuming grey door, but I was unable to test this theory as there was a large wrought iron fence in the way.

B

Africar

There were another two of these on the boot above the tail-lights. Such pride in one's Continent, that one would deface a Mercedes Benz with this nice shiny hood ornament. Seems logical to me, but surely if you were go to all this bother, you'd point it the other way? Guess there's no accounting for logic in downtown Observatory.

B