It was bound to happen. The gentrification of Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove continues apace and another landmark is turned into fat cat housing. I love the use of the term 'Duplex', a ghastly Americanism meaning 'Maisonette'.
Wednesday, 27 November 2013
Sunday, 17 November 2013
Thursday, 14 November 2013
Black harp in a dark shed, Regents Park.
I like this harp, it is black and without embellishment or adornment. It is a harp that doesn't harp on about itself.
It is a Lyon and Healy number 30. Simple and elegant.
Wednesday, 6 November 2013
Kris Wilkinson Hughes at the Driftwood Sessions.
Wow
Maybe it is my age, maybe it is the autumn weather, maybe it was pure chance.
I've often said that the Elgin on Ladbroke Grove is the best music pub in West London which of course it is. On monthly wednesday nights Tom Moriarty runs his 'Driftwood Sessions'. Tonight I put the baby in the sink for safe keeping, kissed the muse then wandered down.
Kris wilkinson Hughes was playing… Yeah neither had I. I have now!
It is pure joy to witness such virtuoso song writing and the performance of said songs by… Well by… People doing it as right as you can get. Kris Wilkinson and Joe Hughes, without any pomp or circumstance, without any flash young bling thing, just did it, made my day.
I don't understand music and for that reason do not go into intricate reviews. I do however understand emotion and tonight dear reader I wept. Kris and joe did a song called: No More I Love You's'. A cover of an Annie Lennox song I hear you say. Far from it, Joe wrote it and the two of them tonight imparted something that Ms Lennox never did.
A truly enchanting chance encounter… but not really.
Tom puts on a well worth attending night with his Driftwood thing.
The band that followed was called Farrago. I had time to listen to the first two numbers wondering whether this was jazz or blues or what. The band leader has a voice that makes you want to think about it. I wish I had more time. I'm going to listen more to their stuff.
I had to leave early to ensure that the baby was not thrown out with the bath water but bumped into Joseph Dean Osgood on my way out. Joseph is at the Chelsea potter tomorrow night. Check him out.
Oh! The Elgin is free, the beer is reasonably priced and it is very civilised.
Maybe it is my age, maybe it is the autumn weather, maybe it was pure chance.
I've often said that the Elgin on Ladbroke Grove is the best music pub in West London which of course it is. On monthly wednesday nights Tom Moriarty runs his 'Driftwood Sessions'. Tonight I put the baby in the sink for safe keeping, kissed the muse then wandered down.
Kris wilkinson Hughes was playing… Yeah neither had I. I have now!
It is pure joy to witness such virtuoso song writing and the performance of said songs by… Well by… People doing it as right as you can get. Kris Wilkinson and Joe Hughes, without any pomp or circumstance, without any flash young bling thing, just did it, made my day.
I don't understand music and for that reason do not go into intricate reviews. I do however understand emotion and tonight dear reader I wept. Kris and joe did a song called: No More I Love You's'. A cover of an Annie Lennox song I hear you say. Far from it, Joe wrote it and the two of them tonight imparted something that Ms Lennox never did.
A truly enchanting chance encounter… but not really.
Tom puts on a well worth attending night with his Driftwood thing.
The band that followed was called Farrago. I had time to listen to the first two numbers wondering whether this was jazz or blues or what. The band leader has a voice that makes you want to think about it. I wish I had more time. I'm going to listen more to their stuff.
I had to leave early to ensure that the baby was not thrown out with the bath water but bumped into Joseph Dean Osgood on my way out. Joseph is at the Chelsea potter tomorrow night. Check him out.
Oh! The Elgin is free, the beer is reasonably priced and it is very civilised.
Russel Brand demonstrates that he really is Jesus in Parliament Square. Bonfire of his own vanity.
Showbiz correspondent Jan Nieupjur writes:
Russel Brand staged a demonstration in Parliament Square last night in order to vent his anger at the thousands of people who are refusing to pay to see his 'I am Jesus' show.
Brand stated: 'If all these people can afford to pay their heating bills I can see no reason why they cannot come to my show and see how brilliant I am'. He went on to state that: 'I've just bought a new house in Los Angeles and really need the money.'
Brand then went on to flatly refuse to hide behind a mask of anonymity preferring to be well and truly in the limelight.
Or was the light from the bonfire of his own vanity?
Friday, 1 November 2013
Operation Yewtree police guilty of gross hypocrisy?
Jan Nieupjur writes:
Having lived through the sixties and seventies and seen the way people behaved back then in the pre-aids let's get laid years I'm pretty disappointed to see that the coppers seem to have forgotten that they were accepting a quick fuck from underage girls in return for not nicking them for trumped up charges.
In the sixties none of my female contemporaries wanted a boyfriend of their own age... They wanted to get shagged by a DJ from the Radio 1 Roadshow and would duly bunk off school, dress like a tart, lie about their age and then hit on whichever DJ was there.
A lot of us knew that Saville was a pervert, a lot of us knew that Gary Glitter was weird (I know because I had some very weird conversations with Paul Gadd in the Stag near Banbury) a lot of us knew that underage girls took advantage of men... All of us knew that the police were corrupt and regularly abused their powers.
The guys I knew back then who joined the police force would regularly be seen at parties (in uniform) doing pills and spliff before going off to nick kids for the same and steal their gear.
In terms of corruption the police were and are far worse than those they police. Operation Yewtree seems like a way for elderly coppers to assuage their guilt about the underage girls they regularly sexually abused in return for leniency.
When are the police going to investigate the sexual abuse that exists within their system?
Having lived through the sixties and seventies and seen the way people behaved back then in the pre-aids let's get laid years I'm pretty disappointed to see that the coppers seem to have forgotten that they were accepting a quick fuck from underage girls in return for not nicking them for trumped up charges.
In the sixties none of my female contemporaries wanted a boyfriend of their own age... They wanted to get shagged by a DJ from the Radio 1 Roadshow and would duly bunk off school, dress like a tart, lie about their age and then hit on whichever DJ was there.
A lot of us knew that Saville was a pervert, a lot of us knew that Gary Glitter was weird (I know because I had some very weird conversations with Paul Gadd in the Stag near Banbury) a lot of us knew that underage girls took advantage of men... All of us knew that the police were corrupt and regularly abused their powers.
The guys I knew back then who joined the police force would regularly be seen at parties (in uniform) doing pills and spliff before going off to nick kids for the same and steal their gear.
In terms of corruption the police were and are far worse than those they police. Operation Yewtree seems like a way for elderly coppers to assuage their guilt about the underage girls they regularly sexually abused in return for leniency.
When are the police going to investigate the sexual abuse that exists within their system?
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
Monday, 28 October 2013
Pizza delivery chaos in storm lashed Notting Hill. The domino effect.
Photo: Christian Banfield. http://schmick.tv
The pizza lovers of Notting Hill today awoke to this awful scene and the prospect of cold turkey for lunch. A spokesperson for the pizza outlet in question was still in bed and unavailable to comment on the situation.
Tuppence Hay-Penny, Emeritus Professor of wind studies at Brunel University, on seeing the image, stated: 'The high wind resistance of the boxes combined with the domino effect was the cause'.
I pointed out that they were not Domino pizza bikes.
She replied: 'The domino effect is when a rival pizza delivery company pushes all your bikes over'.
I spotted further evidence of the phenomena later in the day:
Thursday, 24 October 2013
Brian Nevill, Boom Baby, Book and Kitchen, All Saints Road and memory.
Book and Kitchen is a small, idiosyncratic independent shop on All Saints Road: one of the few places in London where you can buy a book over a cup of coffee or lunch in very friendly surroundings. I've been walking past for a while, looking in and wondering.
Brian Nevill launched his book 'BOOM BABY' there tonight. I went!
They say that if you remember the 60's you weren't there. Brian was there and does remember thanks to copious diaries (and drug induced flashbacks?). I for one (was I there? I can't remember) am having problems remembering what Brian looks like... Some pictures should help:
Brian Nevill reading!
I'll be reviewing the book soon - I feel it is best to read it first if I can remember where I put the thing- I'll keep you posted.
Brian had a check jacket on and white shoes which was kind of rock n roll and I met someone I had been looking forward to meeting for a long time.
Brian Nevill signing!
Check out Book and Kitchen. You can find them HERE
And check out McZine Publishing : http://www.mczine.com
Friday, 18 October 2013
Bess Cavendish at the Elgin.
The Elgin on Westbourne Grove is by far the best music pub in the Notting Hill area, its one drawback is that the music room is also a dining area and a room full of nattering diners is sometimes hard to hold for the performers.
Not tonight though!
Before I go any further I should add that although I know Bess and have seen her perform a number of times I am not about to write an hagiographic review for that reason.... If I don't like something I don't review it. It is not my job to schmooze.
I frequently attend pub gigs with the good intention of lasting a couple of numbers before sinking my beer and sneaking out (I'm getting too old for this malarky) but not tonight. I lasted the whole set and could have happily stayed for another one.
Bess is now working with a new band: A great drummer and an accompanist on guitar who to my mind is the reverse image of Brian Jones (female, black bobbed hair.... you know where I am going).
The result is very very good.
High points were a cover of Gimme Shelter which brought me great joy and a song called 'Shoot Shoot' which oozes wit and a Rock Steady beat and should be a massive hit. I would be interested to see the writing credits for that one. Her penultimate number was seriously rocking and good too!
All in all a delightful evening not 5 minutes away from my front door.
And I wore a groove and a smile all the way home.
Monday, 14 October 2013
Saturday, 12 October 2013
The Purdey's saw blade and the muse.
The muse likes this stuff. What she doesn't like is the fact that she has cut her fingers twice in as many days while opening the bottles.
The thumb of the muse after a similar encounter with a Purdey's bottle.
The muse is a musician, as you can imagine cut fingers are not a great asset to a musician.
The very stylish Purdey's bottle is made of glass and has a metal screw top the retaining ring of which, when opened, becomes a mini saw blade with 8 jagged teeth. It is these teeth that do the damage.
I can only assume that the bottle top, along with the stylish bottle have been decreed by some very expensive and stylish marketing people in Hoxton because whichever way you look at it Purdey's is a carbonated soft drink made by (or at least owned by) Britvic and Britvic successfully package many other soft drink products in bottles with hand friendly lids.
Please can someone at Britvic inform me why this soft drink must come with a saw blade as standard?
A reason to live.
It has been said that living to an old age is just dying very slowly and painfully.
Good health is of course in its own way a terminal illness.
A chronic condition is a sure cure for that terminal illness.
Complications can set in of course - Add a new born child late in a mans life to the mix and you suddenly add a will to live (beat the illness and its cure) well beyond life expectancy.
I used to think that when time came to pass I would be content to go having done those things I felt essential. Not any longer though... Witnessing my new daughter achieve adulthood has now become essential which complicates things somewhat.
With chronic lung disease in late middle age my new daughters spring coincides with my autumn and in real terms the looming winter becomes an obstacle course. Colds and flu kill thousands like me each year (my mother died this way earlier this year). I carry a rescue pack of steroids and antibiotics in case I should pick up a cold or flu. The steroids themselves bring a lowered immune system and acute depression. The withdrawal process at the end of the course brings its own special misery.
I am writing this while suffering my second cold in as many weeks - Bunged up with snot, steroids, antibiotics, inhaler to open my pipes, inhaler to get rid of mucus and another inhaler to introduce yet more steroids. My daily cocktail is topped up with regular pain killers.
But by far the most effective relief is provided by a four month old child.
At the moment I hardly have the strength to pick her up yet she weighs no more than a bag of potatoes. My coughing alarms her, not because she knows what it is but because it is loud and raucous.
Sleep is becoming more difficult. I am constantly being visited by images of unbearable sadness and attempt to counteract this by drinking far too much in the hope of facilitating immediate unconsciousness in bed rather than a nightly marathon of horror.
But how do I explain to the people I love that every time I close my eyes I do not count sheep but count the number of steps to the top of a multi storey car park and then consider whether I would have the strength to climb the parapet.
Waking from my hard earned sleep is somehow worse; a painful regime of inhalers and then waiting for something to kick in. This is accompanied by an extreme, unprovoked, bad temper which I know is both unacceptable and offensive. I am sorry but suspect that sorry ain't going to be good enough in the long run.
I am not proud of any of this.
I am however determined to see my daughter into her adulthood.
A reason to live.
Good health is of course in its own way a terminal illness.
A chronic condition is a sure cure for that terminal illness.
Complications can set in of course - Add a new born child late in a mans life to the mix and you suddenly add a will to live (beat the illness and its cure) well beyond life expectancy.
I used to think that when time came to pass I would be content to go having done those things I felt essential. Not any longer though... Witnessing my new daughter achieve adulthood has now become essential which complicates things somewhat.
With chronic lung disease in late middle age my new daughters spring coincides with my autumn and in real terms the looming winter becomes an obstacle course. Colds and flu kill thousands like me each year (my mother died this way earlier this year). I carry a rescue pack of steroids and antibiotics in case I should pick up a cold or flu. The steroids themselves bring a lowered immune system and acute depression. The withdrawal process at the end of the course brings its own special misery.
I am writing this while suffering my second cold in as many weeks - Bunged up with snot, steroids, antibiotics, inhaler to open my pipes, inhaler to get rid of mucus and another inhaler to introduce yet more steroids. My daily cocktail is topped up with regular pain killers.
But by far the most effective relief is provided by a four month old child.
At the moment I hardly have the strength to pick her up yet she weighs no more than a bag of potatoes. My coughing alarms her, not because she knows what it is but because it is loud and raucous.
Sleep is becoming more difficult. I am constantly being visited by images of unbearable sadness and attempt to counteract this by drinking far too much in the hope of facilitating immediate unconsciousness in bed rather than a nightly marathon of horror.
But how do I explain to the people I love that every time I close my eyes I do not count sheep but count the number of steps to the top of a multi storey car park and then consider whether I would have the strength to climb the parapet.
Waking from my hard earned sleep is somehow worse; a painful regime of inhalers and then waiting for something to kick in. This is accompanied by an extreme, unprovoked, bad temper which I know is both unacceptable and offensive. I am sorry but suspect that sorry ain't going to be good enough in the long run.
I am not proud of any of this.
I am however determined to see my daughter into her adulthood.
A reason to live.
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