Led Zeppelin Since I've Been Loving You 1973

Tristan sends me this link. he says: I was a teenager then, cool times. Ginette, a farmers daughter used to ride over to meet me half way in a wheat field. She'd hitch her horse to a hedge and we'd make crop circles.

Small ones but crop circles all the same.

Which leads me to believe that all those big crop circles are just evidence of Massive alien teenagers fucking in our fields.

One eyed Marxist Eurotrash.

A wet cold bank holiday Sunday... Just the thing to keep the Eurotrash away from the Westbourne.

Time for a beer over there then.

It's cool. You get Marxist doctrine wrapped up in a hip cool bar staff kind of way as if this generation of youngsters were the only ones. I was young once, I was like that, boy was I cool too.

Under the outside heaters that are killing the planet for your children ( but fuck it, who cares, you ain't got children yet) a one eyed woman mesmerised us as perhaps a cobra in profile might mesmerise.

It is hard to take a one eyed cobra seriously. Even Buddha knew that.

Kit said: She is gorgeous and look she has an eye patch and it has sequins on and everything and she is gorgeous and she moves as if everything is as it should be and she moves like a thoroughbred racehorse she moves like a supermodel.

Later, much later, I asked her about the loss of her eye; didn't it ruin her chances as a model?

She said: 'On the contrary. when I first approached the agency they told me that there were plenty of perfect models out there, we were ten a penny, common as anything. they said what you need is a fault, a defect, a flaw... I did not have the courage to cut my leg off so I compromised and wore this eye patch. I have not looked back since. Not on the left side anyway.'

Can you see your way to coming back to my place. I said.

No. she said.

Not on either side.

http://thewestbourne.com/

Notting Hill, nostalgia and bollocks.

An obsession with nostalgia is not a healthy thing.

Notting Hill, and especially the Portobello Road area seems obsessed with nostalgia and all things 'retro'. Forward thinking is frowned upon unless it involves the creation of some kind of twee 'heritage experience'. This will result in the area becoming a ghastly tourist ghetto filled with souvenir tat and crap fast food which will have no relevance to the lives of the local population and will kill the real market. Look what happened to Camden.

Instead of creating a crass shrine to the social kitsch we should be weaving strands of our history into something new and forward looking.

The punk thing appears to be the be all and end all right now but this infatuation will be as ephemeral as punk itself. Fads come and fads go and this my friends is just a passing phase which will be replaced soon enough.

It is also sad to see grown men salivating over memories of a short period of rebelliousness in their pasts, this sort of nostalgia should be safely locked away in the attic (next to the dressing up box) only to be brought out on Fathers Day.

The nasty habit of protecting street art with plexiglass is in itself nothing more than the enshrinement of society's self loathing; where is the next generation of disenfranchised youth going to express it's discontent when all the available wall space is dedicated to Banksy's (the Bono of street art) self congratulatory commercialism.

What is wrong with going forward? Only drunks and lunatics walk backwards.

Never mind the bollocks eh!

Insomnia.

How wonderful insomnia is for the happy. Or those in love or on a creative jag.

Those nights when sleep retires graciously allowing cherished 'extra time' for good behaviour and laughter, loving or just thinking.

Wearilessly.

Architectural weather.

Torrential rain hammering on the flat roof above my head.

A wall of sound. Or is it a roof of sound.

Architectural rain whichever way you look at it.

Makes me think of that house that Frank Lloyd Wright built; Falling water I think it was called.

It was so damp that the owners referred to it as rising water.

Moist architecture.

Voting confusion, Simon Cowell and the dumbing down of Britian.

I imagine, come polling day, millions of confused voters.

They will have discovered that their voting slips do not carry the names Cameron, Brown or the other one (you know the LIb Dem chap) and they will have no idea who to vote for.

I can imagine in future elections the ballot papers being standardized for all constituencies; They will contain no names or parties, just photographs of the party leaders.

Under the heading: 'Simon Cowell presents'

Lula-mae

Rusty sent me this:

He said it was the last picture he took of her before she ran off with the virtual snake oil seller from silicon valley.

Lula-mae... you've got a way with a gun.

The same way you got away with sticking a knife in my heart.

Under an assumed name.

I guess you'd been lying so long you forgot your real name.

but you didn't forget where you hid the knife. Or where my heart was.

Swimming for democracy.

Hey. You are bound by your fear of liberation.

You cannot let go because you cannot see the other side of the swimming pool.

And hey, you can't really swim

You have just been pretending, showing off to the girls

relying on us, the lifeguards, to rescue you

when you start drowning in ignorance

or laziness

and who needs the other side when this side will do

Just as well.

My inner woman looks something like this.

Election, X Factor and dictatorships.

The forthcoming election is not 'X Factor'.

One should be voting for the person who best represents you in your constituency.

Certainly not voting for 'celebrity' figureheads who care nothing for you and everything for their own ego's. This for them is nothing more than a stepping stone towards obscenely lucrative gigs when the politicking is done.

Whatever happened to career politicians who cared about the welfare of their constituents?

Depressing is it not that we shall have, once again, an elected (sort of) dictatorship rather than democracy.

Charity begins at home.

The current situation reminds me of an old folk tale:

John Albion was a woodsman. He worked hard for his living and then worked harder still to support his wife and six children. They were poor but fed and clothed; for that they were happy.

One day John came across a group of lost children in the woods, he took them home with him and instructed his wife to feed them and house them. She complained that they had barely enough to support themselves let alone newcomers.

'Let our children go without for a day or two. It will do them no harm'.

So the newcomers were fed and clothed at his own children's expense and months passed.

Eventually, out of despair, the wife departed, taking her children with her leaving behind a very unhappy John Albion surrounded by his waifs and strays who continued to eat him out of house and home.

.........................

I am not a member of the BNP nor do I support any of their policies. I have voted Green all my life. I have worked (as a volunteer) for charities supporting and helping the homeless and the disenfranchised. I have acted as peer advocate to a number of Immigrants and asylum seekers, taking on councils and government agencies on their behalf. I have always considered myself Liberal.

It is not the 'waifs and strays' that I am criticizing but John Albion's policies.

But enough is enough... This country has become the laughing stock of the world.

Am I being unreasonable? Be kind enough to let me know by commenting on this... You can do it anonymously.

The deerhunter

Dead gorgeous

I found this on the Vintage Scans blog:http://vintagescans.blogspot.com/ I paticularly enjoy the strumpetry.