Friday 28 June 2013

Glastonbury: Ist Nations of a festival tipi encampment..

A guest blog from Jan Nieupjur. Tribal name: Dances with vowels.






Glossary of 1st nations of the Glastonbury tipi's:  


NATION                     Description

Indig
The easily Riled people of the shared loo
Fulmi
The short tempered loo queuers
Stag
Dwellers of the mud
Sali
Dwellers of the saltmarshes
Pug
The fighting tribe also known as the Angels of Hell
Conster
The puzzled people (chief Kevin Conster)
peregri
The wanderers who cannot find their tents
Desti
The people who have arrived
Predesti
The people who know they will arrive
Assassi
The back stabbers
Rumi
The thinking people who stayed at home
Procrasti
Those who dally in the mud
Emi
The great tribe in the VIP encampment
Abomi
The awful people (in the next tent)
Insubordi
The tribe that heckles in the poetry tipi
Impreg
The successful fuckers 
Resig
The people without tickets who sigh
Indoctri
The brainwashed people who think it is fun
Artificialinsemi
The petridish people
Contami
The tribe that is unclean (All become members of the Contami by the end of the festival)
Imagi
The fantasists who watch at home then pretend to have been 

Sunday 23 June 2013

The royal kitkat, common poo.

The muse played a gig at Buckingham Palace recently. she was delighted to find that the queen had popped down to Tesco Metro for a box of Kitkats for the band.


This is the royal Kitkat before we ate it... It tasted regal Ma'am!

The royal Kitkat is now sadly common poo.

Sic biscuittus disintegrat.

The seagull man of Bath. What a tosser.




Charlie Dancey, who made the video, writes: This is the Seagull Man, he turns up at Pulteney Weir each Sunday at 7am and feeds the gulls, who are a menace and have been grabbing the atention of the press.

Permission is granted for this video to be freely used by the media, provided that it is credited to me. I don't much like confrontation, but the gulls are a real menace, and they also kill ducks, and we all know how I feel about ducks.

This is a higher resolution shot of the best identifying picture of the Seagull man I can find in my video...

Charlie Lives aboard the 'Northern Sun' with Cleopatra the duck presently moored at Pulteney Weir and is a driving force behind the South Quay Community Arts Project in Bath: Details HERE

Does anyone recognise the seagull man? Let me know if you do.

Monday 10 June 2013

Portobello crime scene. RBKC guilty!

Gosh! I'm a criminal...

Yes I did it, I put my hands up, caught bang to rights etc etc.

On Thursday evening I put out a number of bags of garden waste for collection by RBKC the following morning. I had researched the methodology (a word local authorities are very fond of) for disposal of garden waste, I bought the green bags as required, I made sure the day was correct for collection on this street. I did everything asked of by RBKC.


The following morning the RBKC crew turned up, removed one bag of waste and left the remainder on the pavement.... Sheer idiocy! Why on earth could they not take it all?



This morning I found that the good people of RBKC had visited and declared the situation an 'Environmental Crime Scene'. The garbage added to the garden waste by the morons visiting the market doesn't help.

But am I the criminal?  My actions were those of a law abiding resident following instructions from the RBKC website. RBKC however (or it's minions) did not follow the instructions on their website. Surely this makes them the criminal.

I have telephoned the number on the sticker placed on the bags and have been fobbed off with the promise of a call at some time from the environmental officer... I await the call with enthusiasm.

At exactly the same time as my supposed crime the following photographs were taken directly opposite the house.



 As you can see from the lack of yellow stickers RBKC do not consider this a crime yet this scene is repeated weekly in this street due to a total absence of waste bins or skips within the market area of Portobello Green resulting in post market detritus being dumped on the streets and in our gardens. Oh, and if we should leave the litter in our gardens we are threatened by RBKC with prosecution.

Come on RBKC sort it out and clean your shit up!

Wednesday 5 June 2013

The Theatre of Small Convenience. A short film by Angelica Landry.

Angelica has made a lovely little film about the wonderful Dennis Neale and his theatre in what was once a Gents lavatory in Great Malvern... English eccentricity at its best.


The Theatre of Small Convenience from Angelica Landry on Vimeo.

visiting the theatre is now high on my 'to do' list.

Thursday 30 May 2013

Urban fox No: 3

This little chap has been visiting us for some time, she checks out the dog bowl for food and if it is empty pretends to limp to get a bit of sympathy. For my part I am happy to see the little chap... The bastard squirrels keep away!




Sunday 26 May 2013

Shadow dance... 真的笑死我了啦!'s video: 这表演太强了!不分享不行!




I know nothing about this except that it is very very good!

It is also very weird. someone somewhere seems to have the ability to change this embedded video at will. the video you are watching is not neccessarily the video I embedded in this blog. Is this a Chinese invasion of some sort?


Saturday 25 May 2013

The lovers.


Every day at 6.00 pm these two love birds turn up in the garden for a spot of billing and cooing. I've taken to feeding them on seeds from the lesbian shop. 


Life on Venus? Signs of an alien invasion.



The photo is a little out of focus and wobbly due to the shock of witnessing signs of extra terrestrial life!

Saturday 11 May 2013

Saporitalia Portobello Road. Dancing on Tesco Disco's grave. (The best pizza in Notting Hill).

The muse wanted a pizza and when the muse wants a pizza there is only one solution....

I decided to try Saporitalia at 222 Portobello Road. I wrote about the place when Tesco Disco closed some months ago and decided that enough time had passed for the place to iron out any wrinkles and soothe any teething pains.



The place looks and smells good and the staff were great considering I had gone in during a very busy Saturday night to order one solitary pizza; they could have been extremely snotty but were not!

I ordered, asked how long (seven minutes) ran an errand and was back on the dot to find said pizza waiting...

So far excellent. But what would the muse think?

Best pizza in the area by a mile was the verdict and the muse has tried them all. Good fresh ingredients, plenty of it, absolutely gorgeous and at £12.50 better value than anywhere else too.

Ten out of ten then! I'll be back.

The website is HERE

David Bowie - The Next Day.

What is all the fuss about?



Duncan McTier… Guilty! A curious silence! And what about Phillip Pickett?



I find it strange that there is a deafening silence in the music world after the arrest of Duncan McTier, currently professor of double bass at the Royal Academy of Music in London. I can only find reference to the arrest in the Guardian and regional newspapers. The Huffington post has run the story but the BBC is studiously ignoring it.

Why is the BBC studiously ignoring it and why is no-one rallying round in support?

The full Guardian article is HERE

UPDATE: I'm having to keep silent on this one, I'm not one to gossip, I've even banned Jan Nieupjur from putting his ten pennyworth in. My thoughts however do go out to Duncans wife and, of course, his students!

I do, however, wonder if Duncans German style of bowing might play a part in this Wagneresque penny opera! As my mum would have said: If he'd stuck to the French way this would never have happened! Not that my mum was a double bass player but she did liken my table manners to those of a German bassist and what the fuck would the Queen say if she invited me to dinner!

I did point out to my mother that the Queen was mostly German and would probably prefer to be fiddled with in the German manner!

UPDATE. November 2014.  Mctier pleads guilty! Surprise surprise: http://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2014/nov/11/double-bassist-admits-sexual-assaults-students

UPDATE. Jan 6th 2014.

I read in the Standard today that Phillip Pickett, ex teacher of the recorder at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama, allegedly raped two students who were under his care…

                                Phillip Pickett. Accused of rape.

I tried to log on to his website to read more but found that it is down for 'Maintenance'.

I have learned however that he took up the recorder after his teeth were kicked out as a student. Prior to that he blew his own trumpet.

If I were the parent of a daughter wanting to study music I would have to think long and hard about her studying in England, it doesn't appear to be very safe from predatory teachers.

Do male music teachers feel that they have an automatic right to abuse their pupils?

UPDATE: From the Times 12th Feb 2014



Ex-Guildhall teacher Philip Pickett faces rape charges

A musician who taught at the Guildhall School of Music and Drama has been charged with 15 historical offences, including rape and false imprisonment.
Philip Pickett, 63, from Oxfordshire, is accused of eight counts of indecent assault and three of rape.
He is charged with two counts of false imprisonment as well as one charge of assault and attempted rape.
The offences, relating to nine separate victims, are alleged to have occurred between 1974 and 1988.
Mr Pickett, who lives in Chipping Norton, was a freelance teacher at the school between 1972 and 1997.
Since then, he has played the recorder and directed early music ensembles, including the New London Consort.
He is considered an authority on early music interpretation and has also collaborated with members of the folk rock band Fairport Convention.
He has been bailed to appear at City Magistrates' Court on 28 February.​​







Monday 29 April 2013

Bess Cavendish at Mau Mau, Portobello Road.



Bess was captivating!

You do not capture a butterfly in a net or a glass jar but in gentle hands that understand every nuance of that butterflies movements. 

Friday 26 April 2013

Damian Lewis flogging the Jaguar F type: Desire.




Damian seems to be sporting an interesting hair dye job and hand drawn eyebrows in this little promo film for Jaguar. Obviously they couldn't get Daniel Craig to do it so Damian is the next best thing for the US market.

The car appears to be bolted together bits of Maserati, TVR, Fiat and anything else you care to mention.

Tuesday 23 April 2013

Young entrepreneurs set for summer launch on Portobello Market


Young entrepreneurs set for summer launch on Portobello Market


I nicked this from 'Kensington & Chelsea Today'

Tuesday, 23rd April 2013
A fiercely fought competition to land an opportunity to trade on the world famous Portobello Market has seen three young entrepreneurs grab the chance to launch their products after they were named winners of the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea’s Market Enterprise Launch Pad (MELP) 2013.
Shani Grant, 22, who is starting a ‘tomboy’ fashion label called ‘Studz UK’, Remaro Hibbert, 25, owner of a positive message fashion label called ‘Point of View’ and Medina Mukhayer, 19, owner of ‘Mandola’ a company selling East African food and cultural goods, have each won: a £1,000 in start-up funds, six month rent-free market stall space on Portobello Market, a comprehensive support package from the Enterprise Lab and free business insurance. The Project was run by the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea.

Out of a total of 85 applications, nine young entrepreneurs were selected to pitch their ideas to a panel of judges, last Thursday 4 April, including representatives from the Council, Enterprise Lab, Rockstar Youth and Pret a Portobello. The judges had great difficulty selecting their top two candidates, the judges commented on the difficulty selecting two winners and although all finalists had brilliant business ideas and were feasible, some were better suited to a market environment than others.

Medina Mukhayer, 19, “I’m still in shock about winning, feels like the start of the rest of my life. I know I'll feel it after all the hard work, but because it's my own business I actually can't wait. I don't think I could have started my business if it wasn't for MELP, they really gave me all the tools and confidence I needed, especially as I had no qualifications.”

Remaro Hibbert, 25, “I'm happy to be one of the winners of MELP because it has given me an opportunity to really showcase my brand and actually make an impact.”
Shani Grant, 22, “Winning MELP feels fantastic, all the other entrepreneurs had solid ideas , so for my business to win MELP, I feel there is faith in my product which I never thought existed. I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone from the MELP team, Enterprise Lab and the judges, it was a great experience.”

All three will begin trading on Portobello Market in July.
Councillor Elizabeth Campbell, Cabinet Member for Family and Children’s Services, said: “The fact that the judges selected three young entrepreneurs instead of the usual two shows just how high the standard of competition was.  I wish all three young entrepreneurs the best of luck with their ventures.  Portobello Market is known across the world and has been the launch pad for many successful entrepreneurs.”
Follow MELP 2013’s journey on Facebook: Market Enterprise Launch Pad or Twitter: @RBKCMELP

Cherries in London.




















Photograph: Manon Morris.

Sunday 21 April 2013

A little bit of Polish shit in Portobello.



This guy sells 'oil paintings' of London on a stall in Portobello.... I'd heard about this kind of shit being painted in China so I asked him: 'Is this shit painted in China'? He looked horrified and said: 'NO WAY. This shit is painted in Poland'.

Which ever way you look at it it is still tourist tat of the worst possible kind.

And however much you polish shit it is still shit!


Friday 19 April 2013

Review: Sophie Barker at the Tabernacle.



Photograph: Manon Morris.

Okay! Let's get the negative dealt with first:

I have never heard such a fucking rude audience in my life. I've seen better mannered crowds at punk gigs in the 70's. Part of the audience tonight had no interest in the music and insisted on shouting at each other over the band. This was a well heeled bunch who should know better. I and my companions all were horrified.

Someone, rather than Sophie, who had to do it herself, should have told the idiots to shut up or go down to the bar below to honk and bray at each other. Ben the Bee (promoter) should have done something.... Oh well!

I know Sophie, I know how excited she was to be doing this (sell out) gig at the Tabernacle, I know how hard the band had worked to become so tight and right. Shame on you idiots for ruining it.

The band is good, Sophie is seriously good, she did some new stuff, some old stuff from the 'Seagull' album and a couple of covers  (the Cure and Fleetwood Mac) that made you wonder if they were not her own.

Sophie is about to go on another American tour, this time with The Egg, I hope American audiences are a little more appreciative.


Murray Lachlan Young's 'the Incomers'.





The writer, director and cast tell us about it.

Thursday 18 April 2013

The ecstasy of pregnancy.


Murray Lachlan Young's obit to Maggie poem.


Murray wrote the following for his BBC Radio 6 slot but the powers that beeb chose to spike it:


Maggie: Obit poem.   Murray Lachlan Young   12/04/013

Farewell to you Maggie Oh Maggie farewell
Some eulogise you, some give you hell
Repeating the phrases that caused notoriety
Stating there is no such thing as society

Friend to the bank, brutally frank
Reagan’s big pal, rode in a tank
You mobilized classes with social volte-faces
You mangled the unions, kicked euro arses

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie!

You parleyed with Pinochet, gifted the satirist.
Nelson Mandela, you branded a terrorist
Flogged council houses, sold the utilities
Founded new Labour in all probability

One usually lost if one stood up and fought yer
You hammered your colleagues like lambs to the slaughter

Stated the falklands were ‘ours’ in totality
Turned the big bang to a fiscal reality
Littered the city with monstrous earning
The lady you stated was never for turning

Your standing its seems in the final prognosis
Reviled and admired in similar doses
Some will remember the chill in your air
Some will remember your teeth and your hair

But most that you gave and you asked for no quarter

Maggie, Maggie, Maggie

Over and out

But not bad for a greengrocers daughter

Friday 12 April 2013

Thatcher to be buried in 'Green' reed coffin!

The family of recently deceased 83 year old thatcher Herbert 'Bunny' Peachey of Swaffam  have anounced that he will be buried in a coffin of his own making.

The coffin, entirely manufactured from the materials of his trade, is green and more importantly very very cheap. Says his son Margaret.

Neighbours of the never popular thatcher are not happy however at the councils decision to pay for the funeral as his family are refusing to do so. "Throw im inter fen'. Is the option favoured.

Bunny Peachy will long be remembered as the man who stole milk from children and set fire to the local school.
















Herbert Peachey, thatcher.

The worst meal I have ever eaten... The Dovey Inn, Aberdovey.


A few days spent in West Wales this week was only marred by the most awful meal I have ever  eaten.

The Dovey Inn in Aberdovey managed to produce a plate of inedible awfulness which can only be explained by a complete lack of concern for their customers. I guess they assume that their customer base is transient and unlikely to revisit. They seem to employ half wits and children in the bar and kitchen who cannot take an order properly, cannot pass on an order and certainly cannot cook anything resembling an appetising meal. Absolute shit!

I'd post a picture of the place but really can't be bothered.

The place is owned and run by S.A. Brain & co. A Cardiff based Brewery. They ought to put a great deal more effort into their management.

Avoid at all costs.

The previous day We had fish and chips at PD's Diner on the seafront in Aberystwyth which was great! The entire staff of the Dovey Inn should visit PD's in order to learn how to do it!













PD's Diner. Aberystwyth.





Photo's: Jan Nieupjur.

A picture of the sea.

Thursday 4 April 2013

Sunday 31 March 2013

Wednesday 27 March 2013

Squirrel eats fox.

Curious!

We had a foxes skull on the window ledge outside the kitchen. I would often find the skull on the ground and assumed that the wind had moved it until one day last week I saw a squirrel sitting on the decking gnawing at the skull clenched in its paws. The following day I witnessed the little bugger trying to carry the skull off... I got it back and returned it to the window ledge.

Yesterday the squirrel got the skull as far as the top of the garden fence before I intervened.


Today the skull has gone. I presume it is up in a dray being gnawed at by a family of sniggering squirrels.

Gayageum version of Voodoo Chile by Luna.

I


I like this! I shall be talking to the muse about a harp interpretation.

Tuesday 19 March 2013

Cannabis scratch and sniff cards. Or should that be scraff and snitch!

                             

Hilarious!

I read today in the Guardian that the charity 'Crimestoppers' is to circulate cannabis scented scratch and sniff cards in order to help the public identify pot farms for the police. Full article HERE

Phineus T, Fat Freddy and Freewheelin Franklin must be laughing their heads off at this, not to mention Fat Freddy's cat who likes nothing more than a snaff and scritch.

Potheads around the country will be eyeing little old ladies (handbags stuffed with the cards) with a new sense of amazement.

And a new term is coined: the scraff and snitch card!


Wednesday 6 March 2013

Notting Hill to have 'Literary Festival'.

According to an article in the standard Notting hill is about to have its own literary festival over the weekend of the 10th - 12th of april.

My inner cynic is screaming at me that it will probably consist of estate agents reading from their brochures, yummy mummies reading from menus and bankers bigging up their bonus reports.

The organiser is literary agent Laetitia rutherford so my inner cynic may be slightly off the mark.



We'll see.

Thursday 28 February 2013

Sea horse found in Iceland fish burgers!

Oi vey!

Scientists have discovered traces of sea horse in Icelandic fish products including burgers, steaks and fingers.

Wednesday 13 February 2013

Morgan Le Faythful, Marianne and memories.







































Back in the 60's this is the kind of thing I spent my pocket money on. It was commissioned by the Sunday Times from Peter Blake and it is of course Marianne Faithful. I sent off my postal order for 2 shillings and sixpence  and from then on this poster hung above my bed.

Saturday 9 February 2013

Jake Emlyn. NEW DAY.




I met Jake a couple of years ago, he did a show at the Tabernacle.

It is good to see someone move on in such an original way.

He will be big!

Boiling Water.



I walked away from it and headed north.

Towards evening on the second day the snow came, 
two hours later I was seeking shelter. 
Without snowshoes my progress was laboured and awkward.  
I came across a cave in a narrow ravine; 
a drift of smoke and footprints in the snow 
from someone coming from the north; 
small footprints, 
a woman or a child.

The cave was lit only by the fire 
enough for me to see the woman, 
dressed in grey, 
sheen of her hair like a well oiled gun, 
a woman from an unknown tribe, 
sitting, 

heating water. 

The makings of some ritual tea ceremony 
laid out on a rock.

Startled but unafraid she silently watched 
I found myself a place to rest opposite her, 
the fire between us. 
In perfect English she said: 
'We will wait for the water to boil. I will make tea'.
A shoulder gesture indicated the paraphernalia on the rock beside her. 
'Then you must leave'.

We sat in silence but for the fire 
as something foreign to us both crept into the cave 
settled within us. 

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
she she added a ladlefull of ice cold snow-melt. 
We sat on in silence.

As the water in the pot trembled close to boil 
I took up the ladle and added snow-melt to the pot. 
we sat on in silence.

Into the early hours we sat watching that pot never boil. 
Finally, having covered me in a blanket, 
she lay nearby. 
We slept.

I awoke to find her making coffee. 
We talked; 
each to the other brought magic.

On the second morning we departed, 
heading South.

In the cave on the fire rested the pot of water. 

Singing as it boiled.

Thursday 7 February 2013

Dead Tutus.



As the ballerina grows she sheds her tutu to grow anew
and as she ages the tutu changes colour
from the gaudy candy floss pink of youth
to the white of her prime.

Quite often these discarded tutus
can be found at night
in the lanes and alleys of Covent Garden
especially after an arduous Swan Lake!



  

Tuesday 5 February 2013

SPIT or the American dream.


SPIT!

Molly and John had been childhood sweethearts
Shared sodas at picnics

in the meadow by the Big Loving
as it snaked easily through the county.
Shared illicit beers beneath the bleachers

when she cut cheerleading and he cut track.
Shared moonlit skinny dips in the same old Big Loving

at the sand bar on the bend
where the turtles basked back in the day.
She had run naked laughing through poison ivy;

he had spat in his hand and rubbed it in the itching places.
Later she did not need the ivy to make the itch,
she had an itch of her own 
and he rubbed his spit onto that itch 
but that itch never completely went away.

Molly took that itch to New York.
John took his spit to LA.
Molly found music in the cafes at night, 

revolution in the air. 
‘New York City, imagine that’. 
She wrote him - as she itched at a sidewalk café 
– in an early westbound letter.
‘Yes I can imagine that’. 

He had replied. 
But he couldn’t.
So she itched in the city 

closed her eyes to the viscous string of men 
while he spat on the coast at a succession of starlets 
who practiced the Stanislavski itch  
tunelessly singing the Hollywood orgasm.

Fast forward… 

The two of them came together again, 
out of boredom most likely. 
Boredom and guilt, 
prompted on her part by the metronomic click of the clock, 
on his part by the young guns on the boulevard 
the fear that he was all spat out.
When they married the orange blossom was already dead. 

The children when they arrived 
trod the rotting petals into the floorboards 
of their Chicago brownstone.

He made money; she spent it. 
The American dream.

Molly sat on her itch for twenty years, 

took a course in etching early on 
never looked back and couldn’t look forward. 
Her life etched itself into her face. 
She got a part time job 
filling condom machines at railway stations.
Twenty years of itching and etching on molly’s part 

as she watched john occasionally drool diddle his secretary 
(did he buy his condoms at the station?) 
was enough.
 
 
 
Molly came to Spain 

change of life, 
change of continent, 
change of tense. 
for a week.
John had grudgingly agreed that she could take a vacation, 

a break from the shattered life they now shared. 
She would visit a friend in Toledo  
maybe take in an El Greco or two.
On her last day of work prior to traveling 
the itch had slipped a dozen condoms into her purse  
then dragged her into Victoria’s Secret on the way home.
The flight was uneventful; 

she sat between the two overweight boors 
each airline is obliged to provide. 

Marta met her at the airport.  
The Spanish air crackled.
The bullfight was - to Marta - an odd choice 

for an afternoon’s entertainment 
but Molly had read Hemingway,  
wanted to sit ringside  
black beret scarlet lipped 
as Eva Gardner had once done. 
She had little experience of bloodshed save her own; 
but blood in the afternoon held no fear.

Manolo arched his back,

flicked a disdainful cape 
at the snorting bull  
an ubiquitous sneer at the crowd,
stood in his black slippers
stained with blood and dust 
hawked a glistening gob of spit 
that sizzled as it hit the sun scorched clay. 
The bull died bravely as bulls in such tales do. 
The spit dried to a disc of mother of pearl 
that shimmered against the blood red earth 
as the bulls ear parted unhearing from the head; 
arcing it’s way into the stands, 
into the lap of Molly. 
An unrecognizable Molly. 
Molly lost, Molly found. Molly free, Molly bound.

‘Manolo.’ 

She whispered much later 
when the sun had gone down 
and the fiesta had dissolved itself 
into the barrios and tourist hotels. 
‘Manolo.’

I took up the dog eared copy of THE TIN DRUM. 

It fell open at the chapter titled ‘fizz powder’  
I read to her again of little Oskar 
spitting into the navel of Maria.
 
Molly flew to Boston four days later  

made her morning connection to Chicago 
.....in good time.
 
The fire-fighter moved dazed 

through the rubble of what had once been the World Trade Centre. 
The dust was thick and acrid  
he wished he had some kind of mask or respirator. 
He hawked and spat into the debris at his feet, 
onto a small black slipper. 
A slipper stained with blood, dust and tears.

America.