Fire angel

Oooh, i capture an angel in mid-flight over Meribel. Soon I will add more pitchas on the wedding wot I just attend, but golly it has been busy and I has been slack. Patience childers, patience.

B

Contain and Control

Hive Twilight City Event One featured the combined musical ministrations of infamous 'Dude of Yore' Jah Wobble, cruise line bartender and sound artist Philip Jeck and Borg percussionist Jaki 'Oh alright Hans' Liebeziet. Bringing a whole new dimension to the art of stage theatrics, namely that well known dimension 'One', the three groovers conjured up a series of narcoleptic riddims that had the crowd beard-stroking fit to bust. The Bug then cranked it up a dark n' dubby notch with the help of Warrior Queen; though the fire alarm accompaniment could possibly have been avoided, along with the endless tedious rewinds. Master Shackleton closed out the night with his distinctive brand of grimeordial landscapes, then it was all back to the loft for a Strcprstskrzkrk mega-mix.

A brisk walk along Crosby Beach the next afternoon, helped to jump-start the cerebral jelly; nothing like a hundred cast iron Gormleys staring blankly out to sea to give you a lift. 'Be kind, Rewind' happened in the evening, tho Gondry's unfortunate descent into touchy feely community hugginess left an unnecessarily cloying taste in our gobs (tho that may well have been the salt n' vinegar popcorn/M&M's combo.) The news of Bootle's mould shame was the final straw for me and I fled Liverpool as fast as the pendolino could carry me.

Thanks very much to the Phat Black and Cruiser for perfect hosting duties and a lorra larfs. Bring on event two!

B

The great kiss-off

Events queen locks lips (ahem) with a bevy of backdrop beauties.

B

CSS

Lovefoxx from CSS shows there's no need to worry about unsightly bulges when you're a rock goddess. This was one of the four songs we managed to catch before the lights went up and everyone had to burger orf. Fulishly we thought there was no need to rush to the gig, especially since we were only really going to see CSS and weren't especially bithered aboot the support acts. Little did we know this was a tightly regimented show, which started on the dot of 5.30 and wasn't going on a second past 9.30. Ah well, at least I got to see them perform the two songs I know, which counts as very efficient concert-going in my book. We had a jolly larf afterwards tho and it was nice to have the Brighton Babes in residence. Perhaps next time we push it to half an hour, whaddya say?

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De-liverance

I'm really enjoying not drinking. I think not drinking is the way forward. Not drinking beer and wine and spirits into the early hours of the morning, then walking around all day wishing you'd been not drinking. I do feel a warm sense of familiarity with Barcelona now tho. Streets are recognisable, landmarks are fixed. I'm no longer daunted by surly cab drivers and can make my way back to that cool bar on La Ramblas without too many wrong turns. It's deeply satisfying when cities you love finally infiltrate your mind and settle permanently into your mental geography. I have that with Cape Town and Johannesburg, and a few more visits to Rome will hopefully bed that down too. I have a new camera, the lovely Ixus 850i and while we're not yet firm friends, I'm sure a few million pixels down the line we'll be the best of mates.

There's no point going on about the event I've just attended in Barca, it has very little significance to anyone really. So much money is spent, and a hundred thousand zeppelins full of hot air is expelled to no avail. Phones have no sense of humour, I'm very close to hanging up.

Incidentally, the man above is God's Barista(tm), coming soon to a Shoreditch cafe near you. You will be eternally grateful for this introduction, he makes the finest coffee I have ever tasted.

B

Suits you!

Ooh! Ooooh! Ooh! Do you like it Sir? Does it excite you? Ooh!

This is the sort of shoe the discerning Mobile World Congress goer will be wearing this season. It is the veritable Maserati of shoes and I thank the powers that be that I only had to pay for a third of it.

Oooooooh!

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Billsworth in Barca

This blog has been severely lacking in content of late due to the fact that I've been preparing for imminent departure to Barcelona, for a week of fatigue n' frolics at the Mobile World Congress. If you want to experience all the fun of the fair, I will be blogging from the event for all four days. As I'm obliged to actually do this, there will be regularly updated content including, if I can upload it successfully, video. Check it out here. For an idea of the sort of rubbish we churn out, follow the link to last year's blog on the right.

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Cart him off

The site of this beast in my rear view mirror would be enough to drive me into a ditch, especially if it was manned (or womaned) by the crew who went carting this Saturday. I thort perhaps I could get away with trundling around the track like Jools Holland on Top Gear, occasionally waving to the rest of the crew as they barreled by. As if.

Get into the cramped confines of your rocket propelled cart and you are immediately consumed with the imperative to drive like a crazed loon. The initial warm-up session passes in seconds and the green light signals us to put peddle to tha meddle. It takes about two laps for me to realise that go-carting after a late night isn't the wisest thing to do. Vision blurry, stomach churning, I'm hurling into corners while trying not to hurl into my helmet. The mad bastards I used to call friends flash by me on all sides, no doubt larffing raucously to themselves as they jet past. Our first run is a 25 minute endurance race, and never has the word been more apt. I am sweating and panting like a wild animal, visor steaming inconveniently as I squeal around that hair bend yet again, time and space distorting as I desperately resist the urge to release the wheel and plunge into the barriers. Then, Oh Blessed Relief, they signal us to stop. I stagger across to the pits, eyeballs whirling in my head and my gorge well and truly risen. Oh God say it isn't so, that was just the first race, we have another 25 mins to go. I'm almost heading for the changing rooms before Benja shames me into getting back into the saddle.

Off we go again and this time all I'm thinking about is survival. The competition has reached fever pitch amongst the rest of 'em. Black flags are appearing thick n' fast as carts are rammed and I am sent spinning by some swine who utterly takes me from behind (no Spencer, not that behind). The checkered flag flashes up for the second time and I crawl from my coffin, hands reduced to shuddering claws and stomach nearing critical mass. Heading for the loo, I jettison the red bull I had in the station at double quick time and cease to communicate with everyone else for fear of vomming in their faces. As we are in Docklands it takes a grueling hour or so to get home, before I can lie down and die.

All in all, a great day out!

I look forward to our team spa treatment day, as I'm very good at lying around and being massaged and I reckon I can take you all!

B

Gevrey Chamberlin Vieilles Vignes 2003

Here we have the Gevrey Chamberlin Vieilles Vignes 2003 a burgundy with such immense charisma and class, it should really be sporting a cravat and monocle. Instead, I draped it with these kitteh (OK, it's very hard not to feature them!) I actively avoid French wine, having had a lot of crap over the years and essentially having no idea what's good or bad. This at least has given me a very good starting point to explore further. We enjoyed it while watching 'Fantastic Four - Rise of the Silver Surfer' a mindless piece of pap which fortunately did nothing to blunt the wine's fulsome flavour. Apparently posh vineyards are now producing half-bottles of all their major brands in order to lure us into purchasing the larger amount. This is a stroke of genius and will be the downfall of us all.

B

Beach babies

'The ocean doesn't want me today/but I'll be back tomorrow to play.' So sang the ever jaunty Tom Waits on the uplifting happy-fest that is Bone machine. It's a line which always springs to mind when I'm by the sea. I don't like it much, the ocean. I have a deep seated fear of it, having nearly drowned twice, and like so many other things on the planet (door handles, ovens, bicycles, most inanimate objects with sharp edges) I have a nagging suspicion it's out to get me. I do like to sleep by it though. I find the rush and pull of waves on a shore immensely soporific and would love to own a house near it (just so I can keep an eye on it y'know). Children seem not to suffer from this fear, or at least they're more exhilarated by it in that roller coaster way, rather than viewing it as the cold implacable killer I know it to be. They'll learn, mark my worms.

Oh yes, as for Warres Quinta da Cavadinha 1978, this stuff is liquid sex. This is the first time I've had a genuine vintage port and thanks to the handy link above, I now realize we should have taken our time with it, rather than slopping it about from a plastic jug with joyful abandon. No matter, it was delicious, with none of that lingering ethanol quality you so often get with fortified wines. I will attempt to seek out something similar and try to hang on to it for longer than ten minutes.

B

Project Pickering

It was clear from the headline that this was not a town to be trifled with. I thort perhaps my purchase of a sleek, matt black pair of wellies from B n' Q would allow me to blend seamlessly in with the locals, but no one appeared to be wearing them at all and I soon got the feeling I'd be joining santa in a brutal back street deflation from an irate Pickerite. We'd done the town sq. twice in the space of minutes and realized we were wasting our time and the only answer was to return to our cozy trio of cottages for more Olympic boozing.

Indonesian night passed by in an inebriated fugue. London night was ours so required a degree of sobriety, but only 0.01 of a degree. Cypriat night also featured karaoke, so no hope for abstinence there. Christmas day? Puhleeese. Murder Mystery night? You must be joking, especially when you're playing an American Indian called Lowawatha, with an alcoholic grandmother. Perhaps what made us open the wineandbeerandbrandyandwhiskyandbaileysand tequila every night was the fact that we'd all chipped in to a seemingly bottomless kitty and felt obliged to drink our share no matter how ghastly we felt. An SAS assault course one afternoon over some spongy yet sturdy terrain (laughingly described as a public walk) gave us a momentary respite from the bottle, but it was short lived.

This though, is the nature of Christmas. The time of fandamily and good cheer, of which we had in abundance. The entire operation was put together with military precision and I doff my metaphorical cap to Team Pickering (you know who you are) for their supreme organizational skills. I also extend my deep gratitude to all of House Grandage, for welcoming me to the bosom familias and giving me the most entertaining Christmas I've had in years. I hope gashed chins and fractured kneecaps have healed and that the phrase 'Tip Tip' quietly fades into distant memory, never to be mentioned again. Fat chance I fear.

B

Rimage 2004 Syrah

It has been pointed out to Billsworth, that the blog of late, has had an unhealthy leaning towards all things kitteh. While undeniably cute, this doesn't make for terribly profound reading. In order to make amends, I'm kicking off the New Year with a new blog project, working title 'Stuff that gets us pissed.' As Loved One and I have been receiving a very nawtee box of superb wine every second month from the gurus at Philglas & Swiggot, we feel it only fair that we feature on these hallowed pages, the stand-out stars from each box for your predilection. Naturally we don't want this transition to serious (ahem) journalism to be too jarring, so our first featured tipple, the 2004 Rimage Syrah will be introduced by yon kitteh, who appear to have indulged a bit over the chrissie period themselves. This taste monster was enjoyed with lemon n' garlic chicken and a driving bass line, followed by sticky toffee pud and a hearty swig of Benylin Chesty Coughs.

I will be posting Chrissie related pics and a breakdown of Christmas festivities, AKA, Project Pickering, shortly.

B

I haz a giant paw

Haahahaha etc. OK, so there's going to be a lot of this business going on around here, y'all just have to suck it up until I've exhausted my kitteh worship (which may be some time).

B

Crazee animal action

More evidence that tequila is an equal opportunities destroyer of minds, as poor duggy stares blearily out into the void. I didn't really mean for her to knock back my shot for me, but put your glass down for a second... Pickle the parrotcat could possibly do with a shot or two of the old mescal herself; perhaps a little too in tune with her primal instincts if the holes in Loved One's hand are anything to go by.

Many thanks to the whole fandamily for their most excellent birthing gifts and all round hospitality. There may be a few bottles of red left in the world for us to drink, but Christmas should finish them (and us) off, I have no doubt. I'm glad we had a chance to practice our cabaret routine and I apologize for moulting so heavily on the carpet, performing show tunes tends to bring on rampant hair loss in me, I don't know why.

Let Project Pickering commence!

B

The cuteness continues

Haahahaahaahahaahaahahahahahahaahaha! Aaah.

B

Interpol

This is the faceless, thousand yard stare of the post goth, post punk, post mortem Interpol gig goer. See how lifeless are his eyes, how the declamatory clang of Interpol's over used bangajanga guitar riff has worn away his slack jawed mouth. He has traveled further than every before to be here, this place, this N22, this Allie Pallie. He has endured pretentious, self involved noodling from a support band who frankly should have been stoned off the stage after one tune, rather than be allowed to play for over an hour. He has exchanged tokens for beer, tokens for cider, tokens for whiskey and coke, yet still the pain persists. The pain of post goth New York loucheness that gushes forth from the lips of Paul Banks as he barks:

Now I'm alone, you can't make amends/
Now I won't let you sit by/
But so call in the kids/
Now that's enough with this fucking incense

Just spare me the suspense

Yeah Paul, spare us all mate and fall on your fretboard.

Still, nice to get out and aways a pleasure to see the Elegant Analyst. Can I choose the next gig pretty please?

B

Man Illuminates Sign with the Power of His Mind

Must be that mega-watt smile.

B

We iz on yr couch, sleepin

Hahahahaahhahahahahahaha. Aaah.

B

House- Sandman cometh (again)

My buttocks are aching and I have lingering patches of varnish in bad places, but here it is, the newly sanded and varnished brekkie room. This will be the last (pre-party) house posting , the bedroom ceiling has been done and the first layer of sparkle blue applied. Hopefully another coat will do it, then a bit of eggshell on the wood and Robert is your Father's brother. Then we have to clean. Bah. Parties, who needs em?

B

House- final countdown

This tantalizing glimpse of the breakfast room is all I can offer in this, the final week of the great housecapade. You can see the thing for yourselves come the weekend, just don't tramp about in it with yer stilettos, swinging yer glasses of red wine about the place (specifically, about the sofa.) It seems rash after nearly 11 weeks of non-stop renovation, to be putting the whole thing in harm's way by exposing it to one's marauding com padres, but it's not every day a lady turns er, 21 +, so we have to celebrate in style. Be gentle please, it's her first time (her being the house, ahem).

B