Tuesday, 29 December 2009

I miss this guy....

ALOT. Seriously take some time out to listen to David Foster Wallace read his own work; it's magical.

Tuesday, 8 December 2009


The greatest story ever told

Monday, 30 November 2009

Wednesday, 25 November 2009


Like the oppressive forces of dictatorships in far away countries that are impossible to relate to, men's deodorant overpowers the male armpit gland with as much subtlety as a tank in Tienanmen Square.

I just can't relate to the overpowering smell that overdress' many a underarm male hair follicle. They are the smells of competitive sport, the aggressive whiffs of predatory pursuit and confidence that I, obviously, am never really going to be atune to.

Memories of sitting in the changing room after being picked last, having been stuck in goal with mud encrusted up to my hairless ball sack while my physically superior classmates sprayed thick litres of this juice on their genitalia instead of showering - because 'they weren't a poofter!' - are obviously ones that I cherish highly (Lynx was the choice then - having a new flavour of Lynx, say Africa, was like having Nike's or something).

So a few years ago, to appease my inferior masculine frame, I decided women's deodorant was the way forward (using men's deodorant now would be like using a whole can of weedkiller on a single blade of grass).

I'm a comforting smell, a bit like laundry.

Thursday, 5 November 2009

So I went to New York for Halloween. It was good and hectic. Lots of food was eaten, lots of crap, weak American beer drunk. Saw Pissed Jeans and nearly did the same to my denims once or twice.

Seriously though, the food is so much better than it is over here if you're a veggie like me. It's embarrassing.

Gutted I didn't make it to Coney Island though.

Here are some pictures taken by Mr J Kontos.

Friday, 16 October 2009

The Single Launch


I know no-one reads this, but ya know, I made the poster....x

Monday, 5 October 2009

The Decline of The Ploughmans

During various trips to cold and sexless seaside towns with my grandparents as a young child, highlights were of occasion, but normally few and far between. Obviously the trip to the miniature village was one such highlight but the other was always, always, pulling up at some crusty looking country pub, having a pint of the regions sugary coke and enjoying it's take on the English ageless and cultural divider The Ploughmans.

Normally there was a lump of Cheddar (in the Early 90's I'm pretty sure Brie was seen as a negative, foreign influence)accompanied by a bit of salad (ignored), a variety of pickle, half a loaf of crusty bread and eye-stinging, nervous system destabilising pickled onions.

Typically English in its arrangement(basically cobbled together with left over bits from the kitchen)it provoked a creative side in these sleepy country pub chefs too often used to microwaving the local supermarkets cottage pies. I've seen some come out on a plate, I've seen some served on a chopping board, I've seen some with homemade chutney, I've seen some with tomato ketchup(?)....I've even seen some with (whisper it) three types of cheese (http://www.pubs.com/pub_details.cfm?ID=216)!

Alas. Trying to get a ploughman's nowadays is, pretty much, impossible. Big cities just don't cater for such culinary subversion. Even if I was driving around a windy country lane I'm not sure a ploughmans would adorn a gastro pubs menu. They're just not in vogue.

Me and a friend, when searching for a ploughmans in London's East End, discovered the bizarre cross gendered food politics of our local pubs. As they are trying to cater for a variety of different culinary needs and cultures, many pubs neglect the homemade principles of good food and well, have a section that serves badly made Thai food.

To me that's bizarre, especially when there are so many good Asian Restaurants that I'd rather eat in in East London, for probably a similar price, cooked by someone who will probably be Asian and therefore have a clue about said food,... but then again I wouldn't have a gigantic football screen enhancing my culinary experience.

So we trudged on, disheartened, thinking we'd have to work up an appetite for the Pad Thai noodles when finally, after an hour looking we chanced upon the sacred ploughmans....yet it was found not in a pub but um, a rather large coffee shop...


Worth the wait though it was.... a Stilton ploughmans! Homemade chutney and homemade bread....

On a Sunday it was perfection....

P.S. By the way, this place charges nearly £20 for a vegetarian roast....£3 more than a normal roast. Why??


Random x

Monday, 21 September 2009




Wednesday, 26 August 2009



FROM farm3.static.flickr.com/2474/3633710452_62c88a1bc5.jpg?v=0

Saturday, 22 August 2009

My Fav Video

Not only are Pavement my favourite ever band and Malkmus my fav intelligent homosapien, this is also my favourite ever music video.

Father to a Sister of Thought is a mellow tune and the super 8 footage really gives it a hazy quality that compliments the laziness and lounge like slide guitar of the song. It also gives off a heat, a mid-western heat in the super-8 footage and an underground club heat that is shown in the sweltering red/orange performance footage.

It's pretty basic, it's just someone following the cowboy dressed band around a ranch while interchanging it with some sweaty performance stock. But to me that's what a music video should do and especially with such a playful band like Pavement, a band of personalities.

Friday, 21 August 2009

I Apologise For My Youth

It's not even a renaissance really. Even before John Hughes died people were going on at me about these supposed early teen films I'd never seen. Shocked expressions quickly turned to disgust as I told them I'd never seen The Breakfast Club. I have also never seen Weird Science, Pretty in Pink or Ferris Buellers Day Off. I've also never seen Lost Boys.

I remember watching a couple of pre-teen movies, like the Goonies and Back to the Future as a pubeless geek, but I've just never really been into these sort of slacker teen things. I'd probably watch them if they were on, but I dunno, I don't really want to seek them out and never did.


It's not like I'm not a big movie fan either. I've seen other Hughes stuff, like Planes, Trains and Automobiles and Uncle Buck but there's something about the teen comedy that has never appealed to me. But maybe I just liked John Candy.

The more people go on about them the more it makes me not want to watch them. Not that I'm a rogue loner or an intriguing outsider myself who's against the tide but I certainly won't get them ten years after I was supposed to be introduced to them.

Then again, maybe that's why I'm such a loser.

Wednesday, 22 July 2009

Not Cool [3]

Not Cool [3], originally uploaded by Phil Sharp..

My Band by Phil Sharp for Loud and Quiet

Tuesday, 21 July 2009

Curb It

I can't stop watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. Where was I when it was on?

Thursday, 25 June 2009

'' ....blame it on the boogie. ''

''.... But life isn’t that banal or that stupid. Life isn’t about grit and grime and squalor. Life is getting angry at destroyed cat jigsaws. Life is the amazement at seeing the Vanity Fair title erupt as a scarlet mohawk-cum-quiff across a dainty Johnny Depp’s forehead, and the drooling anticipation of watching a Brian McManus-recommended terror-comedy on my computer later tonight. And of course the sight of tireless, tie-less and tire-burning liberal rioters taking to the streets of Tehran.

I speak as someone whose greatest craving at this exact moment is not world peace and universal democracy or a rational and global redistribution of wealth, but a can of ice cold ginger ale.

And of course all this bollocks is written by an idiot who has polished his image as an existentialist, atheist hard-man and anti-mope, forever sneering at the tribes who wallow in self-pity -- the gothers, the emo kids, the Smiths fans -- the whole 900-block-wide marching band composed entirely of the white male urban middle classes who are convinced that (as the most affluent and pampered human beings who have ever walked the planet) theirs is a story worth hearing. Blissfully unaware that they are but a few generations away from regular visits to the doctor who would wind parasitic worms from their beer bloated assholes using sticks. (Check out the AMA logos, those smiling beasts are not snakes).

You could blame this fallacy on poor education, cultural deterioration, or simple moral decline.

Me? I blame it on sunshine. I blame it on the moonlight. I blame it on the boogie. ''

Steven Wells.



Tuesday, 23 June 2009

The Undeniable Line of Music and Sport

In physique, sportsmen and women are incomparable to their musician counterparts. It’s not just the differing amounts of fluid, food and banned substances that craft these opposing isomorphs so differently; it’s their conflicting natures of dedication through perfection and creativity through crash-bang fun times that set them apart.

Rarely, very rarely indeed do sportspeople have an ear for good music. In the Guardian they ask sportspeople, occasionally, their top ten songs that get them ‘up’ for their athletic performance. 90% of the time it’ll be a big tune from said sportspersons youth, or a recent number one ‘big’un’ that you’ll here if you past any Yates’ at around 9pm on a Saturday night. To prove my point England spinner Monty Panesar recently stated Phil Collins was a …’big-time legend’ and that “I don't like hardcore rock. You know, really hardcore. Like... erm, Guns 'N Roses - that's too much for me. It's too heavy for me to listen to. Too many drums, too much guitar... too much..." Hardcore, eh?

It’s a similar way round from a musical point of view. It’s almost unheard of that popular musicians, especially in this country, should trump or be associated with any other sport apart from football. Forever in my head will be the celebrity football matches of the nineties, with such amazing talented musicians as Robbie Williams, Rod Stewart in his fucking Celtic/Scotland Shirt and a Gallacher brother (Damon’s excused). Also, remember the unforgettable fact that in 1996 football and lad rock merged - Yes, ‘3 Lions.’

For me, Britpop killed my love of football.

I, like many other musical people feel slightly tarred by the lad pop brush when mentioning a penchant for sport, especially in a nationalistic sense. I’m going to lay the marker down now and say it…. I’m a big sports fan. Pretty big, as long as it isn’t football. I have a strange sense of not really wanting to be English, yet wanting most English teams in many sports to tonk the invariably financially weaker country.

Maybe it’s the fact that I was literally rubbish at sport at school. I mean literally dogshit. I wasn’t even so bad that I got picked last. I was sort of a floating phantom of nothing, a physically weak runner who could pass the ball sideways or play a half balanced defensive stroke back to the bowler in my garden, who when attempting a flamboyant stroke was invariably bowled. I was weak and shit and seeing England or Great Britain destroying (or not) some small nation makes up for those years of falling over. It’s individual imperialism.

The fact that I knew what a ‘silly-mid-off’ a ‘cover drive’ and a ‘third-slip’ were, was held in deep secret as I went to one of the worst schools in South East London. A mention of cricket would mean you were without doubt homosexual. Football was our forced religion. I think I played cricket once before the bats were all ‘lost’ i.e. my fellow gym friends stole them to administer some sort of beating. Possibly to the PE teacher.

The line between the macho posturing of sport and the quite aesthetic and vulnerable side of music is a strange mix, especially considering the fact I absolutely abhor macho bands (I mean, don’t kick footballs into the crowd! What’s that about?) My penchant for slightly camp, weird, wonderful and whiny (see Mi Ami etc) music only adds to the bait.

I believe I’m a sports fan only because I appreciate its creativity; the special movement in a line break, the dedication in place kicking, the elegance in a backward cut. But I also like the violence of a spear tackle or a slog sweep for six. That’s why I also like a loud four chord punk scream-a-thon I guess.

Pavement, the masters on intelligent rock, were one of my musical heroes and were also huge sports fans. Bob Nastanovich is a huge fan of horse racing. Stephen Malkmus is a huge baseball and basketball fan! Read Here!

I don’t know shit about baseball, but I’ve played a fantasy cricket league and me and my dad used to always look up to see how many runs Graeme Hick had scored for Worchester on the weekend. Great England discard Ramps is still plodding along nicely though.

I don’t know. I’m not going to turn up at my next gig wearing a British and Irish Lions Rugby shirt, but I’m pretty much looking forward to the next Test against SA. I’m also looking forward to watching the Ashes but then I’ll be going to see Marnie Stern or whoever in the evening.

This stuff can mix.


Wednesday, 17 June 2009

More Ideas....


Dina Goldstein



Monday, 15 June 2009

Gutter Funk

I knew this would happen.

13 years ago I frolicked in this very playground, my hair combed back and blow dried in some early nineties white boy high top, my Mickey Mouse tracksuit soiled and sweaty from an afternoon of 20-a-side football.

I get pangs of panic even now just thinking of how much a loser I was, invariably lost in my severely round head, which incidentally made me look even younger than the 12 year old I was.

Anyway, I’m writing this from my old primary school, looking out over the playground where nothing, apart form the ICT room I now work in, has changed one iota. The gloss in the assembly halls, the crap wooden benches, the arse numbing wooden chairs, the coat pegs, the tiny toilets, the tarmac, the smell of cakes wafting down the hall …. I’m regressing like the Karate Kid.

A job is a job apparently, but seeing the relics of my youth evoke mixed memories has been a weird experience so far.

I said I’d never go back to Downham. But here I am again.

SE London 4 life>? Eh.

Thursday, 14 May 2009


It's hardly surprising that young people and politics mix like talent and Britain's Got Talent when politicians have their own moats.


Being made redundant recently and struggling to pay the rent when politicians claim 'allowances' for the cleaning of their moats or having a chandelier fitted in some far away mansion, kind of, ya know, leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

When on top of a £70,000 a year salary with no mortgage to pay on their 2 - 3 homes they are allowed thousands of pounds to claim on fruit and veg when the third sector is struggling to stay afloat with no government help....

I tell you what, I can't be bothered to keep typing, because there is a hideous gap between these people, my life and general reality that makes it inconceivable that they are allowed to make decisions on how I'm supposed to live my life. It's a waste of anger.

They are defining peoples lives while some slave cleans their moats on our money.

Seriously, we all need to wake up.



Sunday, 10 May 2009

Animal Man/Man Animal


I really want to do a photoshoot dressed as an animal.

Can this be arranged?

Will buy chocolate.

Monday, 27 April 2009

'....we're responsible for our own happiness'


Natascha McElhone on her lovers death.

Now, I never read the Mail but here is her obituary for her husband, written days after he died. It's moving, raw and ultimately beautiful.



Friday, 17 April 2009

Credit Munch

April 17th 2009.


Today I will join the other 2 million or so unfortunate/lazy/scrounging/incapacitated individuals and become unemployed.

Redundancy has its perks. Namely a large pay off for the life stealing service you’ve given. But because I've been strung along like a dumb carrot drugged donkey for the past 14 months on measly monthly contracts, I will receive zero dolla’.

Thankfully, I'm a fairly laid back individual, but when every single day I hear that this 'recession' is only akin to one last seen when Hitler and his crew were bombing the existence out of ‘good ol’Landaan's apple and pear’ racketing businesses, I slightly sigh.

'My god,' I think. 'Am I really going to have to get a job picking up glasses at the Hawley Arms?' (This is what a friend had to do. After numerous unpaid overtime lock-ins listening to toothless indie cunts in straw hats, he became an IT consultant).


Although I'm generally deficient of plans in my life, I feel I need to come up with some. Not plans that involve emailing wide, young professionals in some parallel recruitment centre hell, but budgeting for my unemployed, bum like existence.


Everybody likes food. Even homeless people like food. Even though they look like Skeletor and spend the change they magnet on smack, they sometimes eat. So, on a budget that may consist of a few coppers and one big shiny gold coin, what can you get? Well, the Great Irish Famine might have been over 270 years ago but it doesn't stop my mate dishing out suitably impoverished meals for the sake of breaking a fiver. Soup and potatoes might sound like something Heston Blumenthal might only come up with in his dreams, right next to his bacon flavoured ice-cream, but it does exactly what it says on the tin. Literally.

It's a tin of soup, with some (tinned!!) new potatoes plopped in it like drowning bald heart attack victims.


That guy on the bus hiding a can of alcohol in a blue plastic bag at 8.30am as you go to work might be slightly ashamed that he has to get lashed before he inputs data into his giant spreadsheet, but I don't have to be. I now don't have a job. True he's probably drinking lager that could rip the fur off a cat, but he is no mug. It only cosy him 10p.


Coke is too expensive. So go to the forest and pick some mushrooms. They might give you diarrhoea and might not be halluciagenic in the slightest, but if you become ill it means less money on food. Win win.

Or just stop doing them.


Add boy to the end of this word and you might not have to pay any at all. Works even better if you know your landlord is susceptible to you cupping his balls instead of receiving your standing orders.

Mine isn’t.

Thursday, 16 April 2009

One Sonic Ritual



Friday, 27 March 2009






Thursday, 19 March 2009

More ideas....






Not Cool






Sunday, 8 March 2009



Stuff I've been thinking about lately >

> How Jade Goody's rehab in the public forum from racist chav to valiant mother has only come about in her death. The most extreme case of celebrity martydom? The only possible conclusion?

> How the above photo reminds me of Rivington and Orchard.

> How I find real short crop hair on girls too attractive.

> How I'm going to cope when I'm made unemployed on the 17th of April.

> How I'm finding music more boring every time I use my Ipod.

> How I play music live quite a lot, but actually hate going to gigs.

> How I feel slightly agrophobic everywhere when I'm not with someone I find interesting.

> How people are putting S's at the end of normal words to induce some humour(s).

> How, in general, it is difficult to start again.

> How my hangovers haven't been so bad lately.

> How expensive nice food is.

> How much I hate my flat.

> How much a haircut helps.

> How being 25 has made me feel tired.

> How much I like getting up early.

> How much I like girls deoderant to mens. It's just too sport.

> How much I like the 172 bus route.

Sunday, 8 February 2009

Vatican of Evil


Monday, 19 January 2009

Tony Hart

This made me cry a little. It's so amazing. Reminds me of waking up at 6am at my Nan and Grandads.

Sunday, 18 January 2009

'It Was Lovely....'

Sitting at a restaurant with my family is generally an enjoyable experience, more so now because of their new middle class surroundings, which means I rarely venture out of my poverty shack to see them as often.

Being English is certainly a condition that should be added to a vocabulary somewhere, because it's a queer disposition that means you cannot question the validity of the meal you have paid money for, even if it looks like a shit.

I know what beef wellington is right. So I know what a vegetable wellington should look like. It should look like a beef wellington without the beef in it. Don't serve me a pile of diarrhea and sprinkle some rocket all over it because you made a massive cock up.

I've seen Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmare's enough times to know the chef deserved it over his face, but where did the balls go? The big fat balls? I forgot, I'm English, I don't have any.

Well, my nan has. Served a lamb roast that nearly removed her dentures with every bite, the waitress made the eternal error of asking if it was 'ok?'


We fear she may not be English after all.


Words I pretend to know the meaning of but don't really and can't be bothered to look up even though I have a 1st in English which obviously means nothing to anybody anywhere because I suck >



There are more, probably in the dictionary.