David Cameron hoax calls.

I am told that David Cameron has been making hoax calls to various world leaders claiming to be in charge of the UK.
















The USA and Russia have both flagged the Downing Street number used and state that they will not fall prey to such hoaxes in future.

A spokesperson for Cameron stated that she was too busy playing Candycrush to know what was going on but did say that Cameron was unable to wipe his own arse let alone use a telephone. So the hoax may be a hoax.

At the same time Miss Pretty kukucachoo of Burkino Faso wishes to announce her engagement to David Cameron of London town assuring us it is not a hoax, she will love him long time and guarantee a happy ending.

Not waving but drowning. The Countess Alex Zapak. Genius!

Fired up at Mode. The Lipstick Melodies and others.

UPDATE.  26th April 2015.  Saddened to hear today of the untimely death of Alan Wass of the Lipstick Melodies.  Another one gone.                                            

There is nowhere for kids to go in Notting Hill, by kids I mean the youth and by Notting Hill I mean West London.

I went to Fired Up at Mode tonight. Mode is the recent reincarnation of what was Supper Club and before that Subterrania.

Fired Up is the inspiration of Mickey P!

At first sight it looks interesting, there is a half size spitfire hanging from the ceiling above a stage backed by a steam-punk organ. Sadly the balcony above appears to have been designed by someone thinking it is a 3 star hotel in Swindon complete with William Morris wallpaper and badly framed art.

There were very few young people there apart from the bands and their followers, there were too many middle aged folk, me included, who should have been elsewhere, but in W10 where else is there.

Where were the youth?

I know a lot of the local kids prefer to stab and shoot each other rather than hang out and listen to music but there must be a few who want to hear and see some old fashioned rock n roll.

Because old fashioned rock n roll is what it was.

The first band, the Lipstick Melodies were great, as if the Stones and Led Zep had met as kids and decided to go a different way. I like the Lipstick Melodies, I'm 60 years old, the Lipstick Melodies should be worried about the age of their fan base.

Pink Cigar followed.


I left.

Good luck Mickey with future events but I suggest you get some kids into the audience.

Orphans under the Westway.

Over 50 years ago, in the dark but more enlightened times the powers that be decided that a Motorway link should be pushed into West London in order to better serve the twin gods of Mammon and Motorcar. A whole community was disrupted and displaced by the event without any real care or consideration for that community.

The residents (mostly impoverished and a great number of them immigrants living in slum streets that were unceremoniously bulldozed to make way for the road that didn't even have the courtesy to run at ground level but arrogantly flying overhead) were rehoused without any real thought for community bonds or spirit. Post War planners and Architects were still fooling around with Brutalism, balcony high rise building and the social experiments of Bauhaus and Le Corbusier which have all proved to occupy a rather shabby cul-de-sac in the history of social housing.

The unlucky ones got to be rehoused in poorly considered estates, the even unluckier got to be herded into the abominable Trellick Tower and therefore able to look down on the Westway worm that had eviscerated their community.

But under the belly of that worm something stirred.

'Orphans' documents some of that stirring.

Under the Westway back then kids started occupying the spaces, building their utopian fantasies within the dystopian environment: discarded building materials became the wherewithal for adventure. Times were freer then, sure some kids got hurt but not as many as now where kids carry knives and will stab one another at the mention of a wrong post-code within nanny England's sterile but 'safe' environment.

Once the powers that be saw that there was potential use for the spaces they were taken away from the community under the premise that they would be developed for the benefit of said community. This is of course nonsense.

Apart from a few bays the entire area has been developed for commercial reasons with little thought for what the community really wants or needs.

'Orphans' occupies one of those few remaining bays, alongside the pop-up cinema and a splendidly tatty bar and music venue.

'Orphans' is an Art Installation by Steve Mepsted that plasters the innards of the Westway with enlarged images of how it used to be before the powers that be saw it as a means to profit.

Irony abounds at  'Orphans'.  Next to a enormous photograph of 60's children playing in a self built construct under the west way a bunch of 21st century kids have to make do with a vacant stage in front of images of 60's kids because nanny Britain deems nothing safe for our children and therefore our children have nothing safe to play with except the guns and knives of deprivation that we now give them.

Westway Trust is somehow sponsoring this. Westway Trust should be thinking long and hard about how it can ensure that the spaces under the flyover can remain of use to the community and benefit the people who need it most.

Westway Trust is one of those quasi-charitable organisations who like to be seen to be doing the right thing while they sell the birthright of the people they claim to represent to the highest bidder.

I spoke to Steve today. I said: I'm not going to review your show, I'll leave that to the professionals but I surely will moan about Westway Trust and RBKC and their desire to eradicate the indigenous population in favour of wealthy incomers.

'Orphans' is under the Westway for the foreseeable future, go and have a look.

And while you are there, grab someone from Westway Trust and ask:

Ask why the pop up cinema doesn't have proper funding, ask why all three bays will probably go to a supermarket, ask why Those 3 bays should not remain in perpetuity the domain of the community that the Westway Trust is supposed to serve.

Oops. I forgot. The Westway Trust only serves itself.

Let mummy sing in the garden.

Mummy is crying in the garden

because

I am growing up too quickly she says
and as she weeps
she lets me watch the stuff she thinks I want to watch

you know
the gratuitous sex
the violence
that she thinks I think I want to watch.

I am seven for fucks sake
and I shouldn't know the meaning of innuendo
let alone learn that
women are tools
to be fucked and then killed horribly
by James Bond (my hero).

What I really want
is a parent who allows me to watch
what I really enjoy watching
not the things that peer pressure (my 11 year old brother)
makes me think I want to watch.

Let me cry over the death of Bambi's mum
before I lose the ability to cry over anything.


I want mummy to say NO!

And sing in the garden.

Mayor of Sorrento sues Vesuvius for vandalism of early Banksy.

The mayor of Sorrento has started legal proceedings against the volcano for what he considers to be wilful criminal damage to valuable graffiti.

The graffiti, considered to be the earliest known example of Banksy's work, had been obliterated by ash and pumice for nearly 2 centuries, depriving the community of a priceless work of art valued at lots of money.

The mayor is quoted to have said: 'We are talking lots of money we have lost over two centuries, fuck whether it is art, it is money that could have been lining our pockets".

Neither Banksy, his ancestors nor the thousands of 'Banksy' pretenders would step from behind their mask to comment.

Le Peuple de L'herbe - Soya Green.

We like this.

The gargling Harpist.

            Harp and spittoon: Horngacher Empire Meisterharfe. Ikea Socker bucket.


She was an harpist of little promise until one day in rehearsals the composer heard her gargling in the wings.

He was mesmerised by the fact that she was gargling Mahler 5.

He sat down there and then to write his masterwork: 'Composition for harp and gargle'.

She became an overnight sensation along with the composer and the piece.

She suffered from stage-fright and in order to cope with the fame, started gargling with gin during her warm up.

Soon she was gargling with vodka during performances.

Sadly the Orchesra did not provide a spittoon… She swallowed.

Her playing suffered as a result and very soon she was replaced by a more reliable musician (there were suddenly many aspiring harp garblers up for it) and soon forgotten.

She now spends her days gargling for the residents of a run down hotel  and her nights drinking herself senseless whilst blaming everybody.

And her harp?     She sold that long ago to pay for her booze.

Mooning.

The Earth is a disco ball

The Earth is a glitter ball suspended within a spherical table 500 thousand miles in diameter

The Earth is a disco ball upon which the continents and oceans are projected
all life is part of that projection

Upon that table sits a glass of beer 240,000 miles away.

Or thereabouts

We all sit on our disco ball looking down upon a beer

Our disco ball rotates at a speed according to the nature of the engine
the table (along with it the beer) rotates at its own speed
the beer moves in and out of our line of sight

Wains and waxes

Reminding us that a glass is filled with optimism and hopelessly empty.

We all sit on our disco ball looking down on a beer.

Mooning.

We are too busy.

We are too busy
fighting other peoples wars
solving others problems
carrying their weight
curing their ills
salving their bruises
taking their pain
filling their voids

We are too busy to notice

each other

anymore.

The Golden Cross reappears on Portobello Road.

Like some primeval petrified forest exposed by an exceptionally low tide the Golden cross has re-emerged on Portobello Road.

Immortalised by Martin Amis in his novel 'London Fields' This will for the time being surely become a shrine for literary tourists.

It is good to see it again and be reminded of a very good book.

Is Keith Talent going to perform the opening dart throwing?

Olive Ants of Umbria. How olive oil is really made.

A guest blog by our foodie/travel writer Rusty McGlint. He ain't got a camera so there ain't no pictures.



Foodie vegetarians or Vegetarian foodies (if that is not an oxymoron) look away.

I have just spent three weeks high in the sun burnt Umbrian hills following the most noble of oils from its source on the branch to the drizzle on an artichokes heart.

My hosts, Pietro and Enid (her father was a Blyton fan) manage 15,000 olive trees on a hillside which runs down to hillside lower down the hill but not as steep and eventually to a level bit where Top Gear presenters race each other in flash cars and then it goes up again to another hill. Pietro's family has owned the land for generations and milked its trees for oil for longer still. 'Oil is in our blood'. He says. 'And our blood is in the oil'.

I spent my days on the hillside witnessing the virgin birth of oil and my evenings getting ratarsed on the Bulgarian 'Chianti' that the family buy in bulk and then re-label for the British market.

The food, provided by Pizza Hut, down in the village, was classical Umbrian fare.

But the oil. The oil.

As I mentioned before, Pietro has 15,000 olive trees. Each tree is the 'factory' for the ants nest which lies below.  The Umbrian olive tree is the life giving umbrella to the Olive ants of Italy and indeed gives its name to the region.

Olive ants (not to be confused with the Eleph ants of ancient Israel which have slightly larger bodies, thicker skins and trunks) build vast nests containing up to one million insects, each nest grows an olive tree from which oil, the life blood of the ants, can be harvested.  They say there are a Million olive trees in Umbria which means there are a million million olive ants. An old Umbrian saying has it that there are more olive ants in Umbria than there are stars in the heavens.

Anyway.

The ants build a nest and plant an olive tree. The ants then nurture the tree until it reaches fruition whereupon they, during the olive season, collect the oil from the fruit and take it down into their nest to provide succour for the embryonic olive ants through to maturity. They do say that over the millennia enough oil was spilled during this process to create reservoirs big enough to embarrass Saudi Arabia.

What Pietro, his forebears and his countrymen do is to catch the ants on their way down the tree- belly full of oil- throw them into a press whereby the oil is squeezed out of them. Using modern day techniques most of the ants die in this process which is causing disquiet among conservationists. Pietro insists that the ants reproduce at such a rate that this is not an issue.

In days past the ants were gently squeezed by pre-pubescent girls to extract the oil, allowing the ants to return to the trees. This oil was traditionally known as Virgin olive oil. The later, gentle but resented squeeze by a raddled old hag forced into going back to work in old age was known as the second pressing.

I'm geting bored with this. Can I just say you might not have ants in your pants but you certainly have ants in your pantry.

Bonkers Bankers Bunker in Ladbroke Grove.

This hole is being dug out on Ladbroke Grove on the corner with Elgin Crescent.

It is on a tiny site which once contained a small single storey building. The developer could not get planning permission to build up, so has gone down, and down and down. 3 floors down to be precise.

The refusal of planning permission for anything taller is laudable, the spaces between and adjacent to the large victorian houses of the area are necessary for a number of reasons and must remain.

But to burrow into the ground like this is ridiculous. whoever buys this place (no doubt for Millions of pounds) will become the owner of nothing more than a dungeon, lit naturally only through light-wells and no doubt requiring sumps and pumps to keep it dry. If the new owner is not already depressed by the price of this thing, he and his family will need psychotherapy shortly after moving in.

It is not in Notting Hill, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts will not be strolling past hand in hand, snow will rarely shroud the road in pristine white and Junkies and drunks WILL most certainly piss through the letterbox.

Mad. Mad. Mad.