Tag Archives: moody

They stole bike, they stole my shoes.


I come to you with extremely sad news.  My bike, my lovely shiny new bike has been stolen.  It happened a couple of weeks ago but I’ve been too upset to tell you about it.  I popped for a couple Whiskey Sours with Gem Dog and Jimbo, came out and it’d gone.  Just wandered up and down for a bit on Mare St.  Not quite sure why.   I wasn’t sure what you’re supposed to do when someone nicks your stuff.

I’ve only ever had one other meaningful possession stolen from me before this.  They were a pair of black suede Air Jordan high tops when I was about 12.  I had them at the back end of my spiffy jeans phase in about 1995, I loved them.  They made me look like a right cool mother.

They were the one of the things that in hindsight I feel quite guilty about even having owned; no not because they’re absolute rascals!  My folks never had much money when we were growing up and I pestered my Mum for weeks to get them, probably making her feel really guilty and generally being prepubescent little shit to get my way.  Mum told me that if my Dad asked how much they cost I had to tell him they were on sale and were £30.  He did ask, I told him they were £30, he wasn’t happy, he argued with my Mum.  They were actually £60.

I’ve been thinking about stuff like that alot recently.  I’m sure I was no worse than any other teenager wanting what the other kids had, but now when I really understand the value of money it makes me cringe thinking about what a strain I must’ve put on my parents.

My Dad worked 12 hour shifts as a mechanic and would get up to do private work after 5 hours sleep pretty much everyday.  Mum worked as a dinner lady and done some cleaning when we were young for the extra cash.  £60 was probably a weeks food shopping for the five of us.

I never realised what a big deal a pair of £60 trainers would be for us back then.  I remember her craftily colouring in the scuff marks on the toes with a black marker pen when I came in from playing football in them one day.  She’d always give them a once over with the suede brush when I took them off and they must’ve had about 4 cans of suede proofer used on them in their short life.  All delaying tactics for the next instalment of bitching and whining and another £60 we couldn’t really afford.

Then one day on the way home from school some bigger boys from one of the rough estates stopped me and my mate and demanded our shoes.  We’d heard about some kids from the other secondary school having their shoes nicked but just thought it was one of those bullshit stories like getting your head flushed down the toilet or that film where the woman gets shagged by a horse and licked out by a cow.

So yeah.  They gave me a punch in the side of the head (made my ear bleed) and took my trainers.  It had been raining and I remember people in cars slowing down to look at the chubby ginger kid crying and pulling his soggy socks up at the side of the road.  All I could think about was my Mum meticulously colouring in the scuff marks and how up-set she would be if she found out I they had been stolen.

I recall walking in the back door of the house, my wet socks slapping against the vinyl flooring.  I walked straight up to my room, lay face down on my bed and cried for about an hour.

I never told my Mum about what happened to those trainers.  I told her that I left them somewhere.  She shouted at me, probably thinking I had chucked them as I didn’t want them any-more.  I cried again.

When I told Mum about my bike she offered to give me some money for a new one.  I am 27 and have a vaguely professional career.  I’m still her little soldier.  When I put the phone down I thought about my Mum and my Nike Air Jordan’s.

I love my Mum.

I did a similar thing after walking home from having my bike stolen, walked through the front door, lay face down on my bed and cried.

HA!  I didn’t really!  Me!? Cry!? Don’t be a prick.  I drank half a bottle of brandy and watched Babestation.

RnR.

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There’s always one dickhead that forgets it’s non-school uniform day!


A page from my leavers book

Saw a boy on the bus today who had forgotten it was last day of term at school and was wearing his uniform.  All his mates were in their jeans giving him grief.  There’s always one dickhead!

I was pretty close to jumping into the argument and fighting his corner though to be honest.  I’d rather be in uniform, save the quid and not have to wear an Ed Hardy t-shirt.   You can imagine them in lessons today getting fuck all done, just whispering about what girl’s looking the best in their tightest casual clobber.  Lucky boys!

It’s a great day to check out how the birds are filling out, and if you played your cards right you could secure yourself a nice little toss off.  Them were the days.

I always used to raid my brothers wardrobe on non-uniform days.  A fine selection of Ben Sherman’s and denim jackets, had to race home and get them off before he got back from work and I got the old “who’s the king….say I’m the king” treatment though.

I was the da main man 3 times a year.  Well, I thought I was anyway.  I didn’t get much action though.  Probably a bit too unapproachable I reckon.  Yeah, that must’ve been it.  I know the girls loved my highlights.  Knocked ’em bandy they did.

I remember being in my final year and a 1st year rocked up on the last day of term with a carrier bag full of games.  I used to love that in Primary.  A day of eating party rings and playing top trumps.

Poor little bastard, what a massive fail.  Probably went through 5 years of senior school always being known as the fuckwit who bought in Pop up Pirate.  He got massive beats for that, and relieved of his games.  Best day in the common room that day playing Buckaroo…well….apart from when the proper nuaghty lad shut our head of year’s fingers in the door.  That was pretty cool.

I hated school but I loved that all that playground shit.  Dead legs, camel bites, peanuts and cupping farts in you mates face while all the girls sit around reading Smash Hits and bemoaning the fact that we were “SO immature!”.  Cars don’t make the man you know.  Being able to wipe bogey’s on your teacher without them noticing is pretty fucking hot as well.   Stupid cows.

Ummmmmm.  I’ve kind of of lost the point of what I was going to write about now.

Oh yeah.  Our unscrupulous landlords are kicking us out of our Hackney Palace so I’m moving in with the bit of fluff this weekend.  Got ourselves a nice little gaff just around the corner in Hackney proper. The bird’s obviously well chuffed getting to have me to herself.

What a way to spend a 4 day weekend.  Moving shit and trips to Wilko’s for toilet brushes and bath mats.  Right laugh!

I’ve got a stag do, a house move and the breaking-up of me and Harry Malteaster to fill you in on, but I guess I’ll do all that next week.

Have a wonderful Easter.  If I were you girls I’d steer clear of the eggs.  Summer’s just round the corner and most of you could probably do with shifting some timber, not putting it on.

Bye de byeeee.

RnR!

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Chris Cairns/Beardyman >> Holographic Performance


Saw this about a month ago but I couldn’t quite figure out how to lift it.   Not even the geekiest of my super geek friends could work it out.   What’s the point of wasting your time with dweebs if they can’t even help you out with the stuff you’re too cool to learn yourself.

Sort yourselves out lads or I’ll trade you in!

Anyway, I got there in the end.

It’s another instalment from the boy Cairns after this sensational Scratch Perverts stuff I bought you a while back.

Vodpod videos no longer available.

It’s pretty mind blowing.  He’s a clever boy inhe.  Yes he is

Harsh!

RnR!

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Bare Bones – issue 3


“LAST NIGHT’S TAXI DRIVER, TOMORROW’S LOVER”

Coming to you from the cleverest, most handsomest, most loveliest and most bestest scribbler in all of the land (that’s my buddy Harry Malt for those of you too bloody stupid to not know already) is the imminent release of Bare Bones issue 3.

Now I’ve told you about this loads before but it’s getting better and better and bigger and bigger.  They’ll again be knocking out 90 A5 prints from the 30 featured artists, all for the meagre sum of twenty squids…….I’ll be looking to replace the two that bird of mine seems to have lost since the issue 2 run.

To launch they’ll again be exhibiting at the Nue Gallery near Brick Lane from 1st April and running until….I don’t know…..a bit after that…..a couple of weeks….a month….fuck knows.  It’s really worth getting yourselves along at some point though.

The paper will be available to download sometime after the 1st.  Probably when Malt recovers from the his inevitable fools hangover.  Should anyone out of London (or the local lazy’s) want a physical copy, I’ll grab you one and send it on….fuck it….I’ll even pick up the postage.  Nice guy I am.

You can download Bare Bones issue 2 here – after felching and Gerbilling vids, it’s probably the best thing you could get from the interweb…..and it won’t get you in trouble with the missus…unless she loves Maggie Thatcher and deplores banana mutilation….in which case you should probably fuck her off anyway.  Silly cow.

Perhaps I’ll see you there.  Perhaps I’ll talk to you…..but probably not.

Now piss off.

RnR.

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Foals – Total Life Forever


I like Foals.  Have done since I, along with the rest of the world, got hold of their demo’s.  There was a bit of a wait for the debut album, unfortunately in that time they were so hyped they were never going to meet expectations.  Poor bastards.  I liked Antidotes.  Really liked it in-fact.  Even if the production left a little to be desired.

This new album is brave.  Moving away from the fast paced punchyness that got them so many fans, they’ve gone for a much more downbeat approach in Total Life Forever.  What I’ve heard I’ve really liked.  The first single Spanish Sahara is just starting to hit the play-lists….well….on 6music anyway.  It’ll probably be on Radio 1 in about August (we really don’t need 6 Music anymore do we!).  It’s ace.  Really fucking ace.

Ok, so the atmospheric spaceyness vibe seems a bit on trend what with The XX & Animal Collective albums doing so well last year, but so what.  It’s complicated, it’s layered, it’s intelligent and it’ll take time to really appreciate.  All good things in my eyes.

It’ll be keeping the lovers of immediate Kasabian type dross at bay……hopefully.  A gain in popularity whilst retaining credibility isn’t an easy thing to do.  I think they’ll manage it.  The average Joe wants more than a tub thumper now days.  Don’t they?

If they can follow up the album with good live performances, I think they’ve got the potential to make some pretty big strides in 2010.  I’m right behind them

Check it!

RnR

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Jewels & Muffs. How it went down!


It’s been a while. Sorry sorry sorry.  I’ve been busy dealing with shit in the real world. Fucking real world!  I’ll get to it.

The arts and crafts for that party of ours consumed me for the best part of two weeks.  Cutting out stencils, making signs and pimping up a hoody takes time you know.  So does liberating an industrial sized sub woofer from a City gym and typing up a 380 strong guestlist for a party meant for 180.  I shit myself a few times I can tell thee.

It went off alright anyway.  We had a few teething problems.  Lewy Pooey and me don’t know our arse’s from our cocks from our elbows with anything technical electrical, but we somehow got the PA going. Luck more than judgement.  Took a few tweeks from the people who actually knew what the fuck they were doing but all in all it didn’t sound half bad.

The lightswords came out too early.  The sweets and bubbles didn’t come out at all, and people generally thought I was peddling poppers when I went round with the glow sticks……me!…..poppers!….my arsehole is wide enough mate.  Minor problems.

Being a warehouse, being 4th floor and being only one toilet…..that’s more of a problem.  Alot of piss flowing down 60 feet of stairs apparently.  I didn’t see it, but I imagine it looked quite beautiful.

I played first and busted out my now standard reggae/soul set.  It was early.  No-one cared.  Gilbey rolled into town and smashed it to pieces, the two Scotsman were visibly shaken at the prospect of having to follow what he put down, but true to their word they played the hits.  Plenty of sing-a-longs and hands in the air.  It was an over-sized house party and that’s what we wanted.

A sign and hoody crafted by my own fair hand

A right pair of lovelies

I think they're both dead. Worth it though.

Gilbey and his Deejaaaaay stance

They were a quid. The pound shop is ace for shit partys!

Some nice people.

Chop her fucking head off! Go on!

These two thought I wanted to be Calvin Harris. Plums.

Unfortunately just as we were getting going the police rolled into town and gave us the heads up on an imminent raid (needless to say alot of people would have been in a bit of trouble) and closed us down.  Bloody bastards!  We mooched on for another half hour but had the plug pulled at 3 a.m.  It could’ve been worse….it could’ve been much much better!

It was great crowd.  Brilliant to see some old faces, meet some new ones and have a laugh.  Apologies if I didn’t get the chance to speak to everyone.  There was a lot going on.

I think we’ll do something again.  Somewhere licensed.  Somewhere with more toilets.  Somewhere we don’t have to worry so much.

That was that.

Big love to Hannah for the sub and glow sticks.  Harry Malt for the flyer.  Gilbey, Paul and Alan for the tunes and you ‘orrible lot for coming along and getting involved!

Until next time!

RnR.

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Richard Hawley makes grown men cry. Over and over.


Before I moved to London my route to work involved an hour on a too hot/too cold train.  For the most part it was a massive pain in the arse.  Early mornings spent avoiding the gaze of people on the platform you knew, but certainly didn’t have an hours worth of conversation for.

They’d see you.   You’d see them.  Neither of you wanted to talk to each other, but what do you do?  Just once I would’ve loved to have said:  “look, I tried to avoid your gaze, I could see you were trying to avoid mine, unfortunately we both looked up at the same time and caught each others eye.  To be honest, it’s early, and I really can’t be bothered to make the effort to talk to you.  Nothing against you, I think you’re alright when we’re in a group of people, but to be frank, a one on one is just going to be a bit awkward.  I’d rather just sit, read my book and listen to some tunes.  Either we sit together and have a comfortable silence or, and this is my preference, I can walk up the other end of the platform and we can just pretend we didn’t see each other?

Monday and Tuesday you can discuss the weekend just gone.  Thursday and Friday you can discuss the approaching weekend.  Catch them on a Wednesday and you’re really fucked.  It’s an hour of hairdresser conversations about weather and holidays.

This was back in my pre-Ipod days, so I used to grab a few CD’s for the old discman on my way out the door in the morning.  Settle in next to the window and listen to an album in it’s entirety.  Imagine that!  A whole album!

Very occasionally you’d have a day when your mood would be 100% in tune with what CD you had grabbed.  And rather than your journey be a chore, it was actually rather enjoyable.  One such day that sticks in my mind is the day I first listened to Richard Hawley.

We went to see him on Saturday.  My first time at The Royal Festival Hall.  The place is truly amazing.  No more perfect setting for someone such as Hawley.

I’m tempted to wax lyrical.  About his voice, about his amazing band, about his lyrics, and about how on a clear bright cold winters morning on a train from Essex, and again on Saturday, the fucker almost made me (a double hard bastard) ball my eyes out about a dozen times.

Please listen to this tune. Please check him out if you don’t know him.  I promise you it’ll be worth it.

Beautiful!

RnR!

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