Yule(b)Log #1

I’m back in Disgracelands. Moved back in last week, after a mental, topsy-turvy year. Thank god that’s all over. Sharing this time. You’d think it’d be weird after having been used to swanning round in my knickers and having the whole huge 2 bedroomed shebang to myself. But no, it’s quite nice and it’s like coming home. My spiritual home.

It’s been a right week since I moved back in. I’m bloody exhausted. It’s hard work, this enjoying-yourself-at-Xmas lark.

Weds: Bob Log III at The Luminaire. We love BLIII. He’s something else. And we were lucky enough to get a ringside seat thanks to the kindness of Andy Luminaire, who let us watch the spectacle from the DJ box. Bob managed to bounce ladies on each knee, but there was no stirring of the scotch. Well, not in the way he likes it stirred anyway (Google it if you’re not in the know – it’s very worth knowing…). Top stuff. (Postscript: The Luminaire finally closed this weekend. I've just heard from a friend that the last two shows had to be cancelled due to the snow. I'm very sad to hear this - that place should definitely have gone out with a big loud bang. Sincere thanks to Andy and all his great staff for the music and memories x)

Thurs: EOTR Xmas party at XOYO. Singing Adams were great as ever, despite Steven Adams being a sickly chap (it’s going round – Bernie felt quite rubbish, and my glands were up – bloody poorliness). Sadly, by the time the superb wizard-outfit-clad Archie Bronson Outfit took to the stage, we were all flagging a bit. So home we went. (I was later baited by Kieran texting me that he and Bernie were eating chips in bed. Bastards.)

Fri: The Local Xmas Bash. We were quite good at the Quiz (didn’t win, but I got an honourable mention for naming the hilarious team of lovely trade unionist types sitting next to us as The Men You’d Want To Hang – they were a bunch of wits). And The Travelling Band were harmony heaven as ever and very funny. I burnt my tongue on a mince pie – am sure some hoped it would shut me up. As if.

Sat: spectacular snowfall. Can’t let snow stop play, mind. It is, after all, just a bit of snow, which bizarrely seems to make London lose its mind. Not me - love it. Was invited into town for sandwich and conversation (sandwich ended up being pie, the mash was disappointing but the conversation wasn't). Felt a bit dreadful later on – got under my blanket and watched Scent Of A Woman (again). The lovely man in Blockbusters, who gives me good tips on film, asked me if I was having a quiet night when he saw my choice. As I turned away, he said “Hoo-Haa!” just like Al Pacino in the film. It made me really laugh, and I chuckled all the way home. Sometimes, people are just brilliant.

Sun: felt like shit. Chest hurt. Sinuses too. Day Nurse is good stuff, though. Head to Wood Green to deliver Mr Carluccio’s choccy panetone to my dear pals Bernie and Kieran (they cracked it straight open – delicious stuff – will make the best bread and butter pudding…hint, hint…). Then Kentish Town for Nad’s birthday lunch. I’ve eaten in The Oxford on Kentish Town Road many times. The food is great. But I’m telling you now – watch out for the ill-mannered, speccy too-cool-for-school prick who works behind the bar. Unfeasibly rude. Thing is, he just didn’t seem to get the concept of customer service – so he shouldn’t be doing that job, surely? And he needed to pull his bloody pants up too. Knob.

And then another gig (really, that’s enough for one week) – Orange Goblin at the O2 Islington. Bit of a gang there, great gig (Firebird were great, Mr Steer handsome as ever), saw the very dear Mr Alan French on the merch stall, sporting cool new spectacles (BTW, I need specs. I can’t read small print easily and am doing that holding-stuff-at-a-distance like the elderly do – bloody hell – but I have found some quite nice Anglo American and Sol Moscot specs that I like, so all is not lost).

Mon: snot central. Like a total knobhead, because my Northern work ethic kicked in, I offered to go in FOR FREE to work this morning. I just can’t help myself. I ought to start being a bit more businesslike about my time and stop doing everything for nothing (few weeks ago, I mucked in for Howard Local, running the door at a gig for the princely sum of a cheese sandwich because I felt sorry for the bands who weren’t making any money. Yup, I'm a saint. If I believed in God, I'd fully expect a trip to Heaven when I pop my clogs).

Day finished on a ridiculous high, as we had the Blunt works do, which consisted of late lunch at Elk In The Woods (lovely Scandinavian style restaurant on Camden Passage, Islington - staff charming, service excellent, food delicious), daft amount of booze (sambucca shots and champagne at 4pm, anyone?), followed by a two hour session at Lucky Voice (which turned into a 4 hour session – I kid you not). And to all those of you who said you’d never sing-a-longa – bollocks. We couldn’t get you off the mic! Any evening which culminates in a mass hug/hokey cokey to Hey Jude, followed by A Fairytale In New York has to be a winner. Performance of the evening – Satoshi Minakawa, Japanese photography genius par excellence, doing the most amazing and unlikely Satchmo (Louis Armstrong to you lot) and It’s A Wonderful World. I had no idea that would happen. Really. None.

Tuesday: built my new bed. Bed will be hilariously known as The Field Of Dreams, for reasons known only to a select few friends (and Kevin Costner buffs).

Wednesday: Drove to Yorkshire with Mr Heneghan in tow. (I asked him to bring a flask in case of weather emergencies. He did. An empty one. I suggested next time I give him a lift, he might want to bring his chocolate teapot - if Armageddon hits, we'll be fully prepared and soon have it licked - Armageddon, that is...not the chocolate teapot.) Have already overeaten rather badly and only been here 3 hours. A sea of beige grub stretches ahead as far as the eye can see (until next Tuesday, at least). Happy Holidays!

Magnificent Fiends and Old Friends

When I heard that LouLou and Andy were coming over from NYC, I was ecstatic. When it came to light that the visit would coincide with a top gig, even better. To have Wooden Shjips, Howlin Rain and Moon Duo on one bill just seems ridiculous, but they were and we went. It was a lovely night, made even better by the fact that LouLou asked along none other than Mr Michael Cooke. It was a thrill to see a man whose very existence I'd begun to doubt - I haven't seen him for over 10 years. Cookie was the coolest dude around in my youth, DJ/top skateboarder/lead singer/heartthrob. And he's still bloody lovely.

Great gig at The Garage - Nads and I caught the last song by Moon Duo (when will I get to see a full set???). Howlin Rain kicked up a 70s storm (Ethan Miller is tour-de-force as a frontman, carrying off high kicks with aplomb, and fuck me, the pipes on him), playing a few of my fave tracks off Magnificent Fiend (I gave in to merch - sucker for a grey t-shirt, me). Wooden Shjips droned away beautifully (think Keith Hawkwind would be disgusted at the plagiarism, but Mr Brock might take it as the sincerest form of flattery).

Definite highlight - catching up with people I suddenly realised I've known for over 25 years...and we're still doing the same old shit (booze, gigs, laughs). And I wouldn't change it for anything.

Food, Glorious Food: Trullo in Islington, Coogan and Brydon in Yorkshire

I like food, me. I'm not one of those thin girls who can live off coffee and a sniff of a banana. No, me and Blondie used to be known as "Two Dinners" when we had the shop because that's what we frequently ate. I'm from a family of greedy guts too, with plenty of sweet tooth going on (in my Dad's case, it was sweet gums - he had all his teeth whipped out whilst still in his 20s - they did that kind of thing back in the day. Still, being a gummy wonder never stopped him enjoying a Topic chocolate bar - he just used to suck all the caramel and chocolate off, then line the hazelnuts up to see how many were in each bar. Borderline OCD, maybe a bit unusual in a miserable old Northerner, but funny and endearing).

Had a lovely treat this evening. Got taken out by a top agent and friend, Ms Squire, to Trullo in Islington. Apparently, getting a table in there is very difficult, but she's a mover and shaker so it's win-win for us plebs. Milly and Jenny came too and the food, service and company were superb. It's owned by Jordan Frieda (offspring of Lulu and hair supremo King of Frizz-Ease John Frieda. Ms Blunt tells me that she lived with John Frieda in New York when she was a fledgling agent). For once, no picture of my food, but if you can imagine the creamiest butternut squash risotto with taleggio as a starter, followed by spinach, polenta, chanterelle and slowcooked artichoke heart, finishing with smooth caramel panacotta, washed down by prosecco and some delicious velvety Italian red. Food wankfest.

Got in just in time for more food, but this time played for laughs. Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon's The Trip has me pissing my pants laughing every time. The last in the series this week, the pair have been doing a spoof restaurant review tour of the North on behalf of The Observer. The food always looks amazing, but is outshone each week by the stunning countryside (The Lakes and Lancashire - OK if you like that kinda thing, but oh, Yorkshire - you bloody beauty).

The Luminaire: Thanks For The Memories

**Reader, Beware! In paying homage to the writer of The Luminaire's newsletter, this post will contain a substantial amount of swearing.

On my way back from a work promo event last week (Dean Rogers had photographed the film noir-esque campaign for a new top-of-the-range lager called Stella Artois Black - I promptly renamed it 'Premium Wifebeater'), tiny bit on the pissed side (strong stuff, that), when I decided to check my emails. Lurking amidst the work and assorted other guff, I saw a mail from The Luminaire, and the header read "Friends, it is with sadness that we have to announce the closure of The Luminaire..."

I thought it was some sort-of joke. A bit of a piss-take. So I mailed Andy at The Luminaire to ask. It's not a joke. It's all too true.

And so, I'd like to personally thank a couple of people. The people he wrote about in the mailer a few weeks ago. The fucking arsehole who nicked the three mics that it'd cost The Luminaire £200 to replace. The stupid selfish twat who kicked in the Green Room door that meant a doorframe having to be rebuilt. Fuckers like you, selfish idiots who make it all the more difficult in what must be trying financial times for small venues and promoters, you deserve a good kicking (normally completely anti-violence me, but recently, petty criminals have worn my patience thin...more of that below).

More importantly, I'd like to thank The Luminaire, Andy Inglis and his lovely staff for some brilliant evenings. Host to this year's birthday hilarity, but also the place I chose to nearly lose my hearing once and for all. Seeing Sweden's very finest (and most gorgeous) heavy-osity, the very wonderful and unfeasibly loud Graveyard and Witchcraft one evening (couldn't bear to put my head on the pillow for the ringing in my ears that night) to be followed by Oz's superb The Drones two days later (deaf as the proverbial post following that). Luckily, my hearing came back, but it was touch-and-go for a bit. Not big or clever, but definitely brilliant. So, RIP to another fine independent London venue, leaving those of us not up for Spice Girls at The O2 more limited choice than ever. Huge fucking sigh.

(Postscript: petty criminals, you can beware too - few weeks back, a couple of little scallys stalked me on mountain bikes and tried to snatch my handbag. Lucky for me, it was one of my old vintage bits, so the handles broke - nearly broke my shoulder too - and the little shits rode off completely empty-handed, but not without the sound of "You little fucking bastards, I hope you die" ringing in their ears. Now, I know I'm a bit of a potty-mouth, but I'm also pretty good-natured, try and see the humour in the direst of situations. Even surprised myself with that one...and although I wasn't sure where the outburst came from, I was really rather pleased with it. If you could knock someone out with profanity, I think I'd be heavyweight champ.)

Scorpio Rising

Birthday time for us sting-in-the-tail types. I've had the most lovely weekend. Began with another evening at The Haberdashery with my dear pal Smiff selling our old junk. We like to think of ourselves as Steptoe and Son (I'm Albert, she's the long-suffering Harold). Great fun and a few bob in the pocket:

Soundtrack to our lives

Saturday included pottering around the cafés of Crouch End with The Ex, eating cakes, drinking tea, talking about dildos (don't ask). The Ex is a successful web producer at the BBC. His team had bought him a birthday card (his birthday is the day before mine) which was a really sweet picture of meadow flowers, and they'd drawn a great big cock over the top of it. I found this very touching - they obviously think he's a great boss and have a lot of respect for him:

They spend your licence fee on stuff like this

Was really bloody lucky to get into a completely sold-out Warlocks gig at the Luminaire. Yet again, it's who I know and certainly not what I know. Having been previously introduced to the very witty and charming Andy Inglis who runs the Luminaire by Howard Local at a gig (Dan Mangan if my fading memory serves me right), we were lucky enough to bump into him on the door and get a sneaky pass in. Back of the net! And they were superb, those Warlocks (Bobby Hecksher is top - I saw him afterwards and told him so, to which he replied, "oh, thanks so much for coming down" in a truly humble and enthusiastic way - lovely manners). And then, there seemed to be a lot of booze and things turned a bit soft round the edges, including me...all good, though...:

The perfect combo of psych and good manners

Good, that is, until I had to collect my car next morning after 4 hours sleep...not big, not at all clever. Not entirely sure I should have been driving, actually. But after a shower and a mammoth fry-up, this Lady Lazarus rose again. Back to the pub for my birthday drinks with all my nearest and dearest. Perfect way to spend a Sunday afternoon - pals, few drinks (medicinal, by this point), lots of laughs - big love goes to anyone who turned up and for my goodies too: Mr & Mrs Barton for the choccy cake and fizz; Vik and Tim for my french violet creams; Smiff for my slap; Mr Local for my jazz-metal CD; Liza and Dave for the scary slinky thing and screenprint; Ber & K for the curry when I got in; but topping the lot, me old mucker Blondie who had hunted down a copy of my 70's Hornsea pottery childhood mug which I loved so dearly, until I broke it some years back:

What a mug (it, not me)

(Postscript: Having just read this week's Luminaire mailout, can I suggest that any of my regular readers subscribe here: http://www.theluminaire.co.uk/ Even if you only subscribe, with no intention of going to what can only be described as probably London's best small venue, run by a very witty Scot, staffed by cheerful, competent people, hosting some fine musicians every week, then you will at least be treated to what is one of the funniest mailouts I have the pleasure of reading. This week I feature heavily (see Warlocks paragraph above) as the inebriated 'friend' who suggested he might want to bring the swearing and ranting back into the mailout. We raging potty mouths have to stick together.)

Getting My Oats

At the risk of sounding like a massive bore, I made my first porridge of the Autumn today. Topped with blueberries and organic floral honey. Bloody delicious.

Going Dutch

When the Boss asked me to go to Amsterdam on business for a few days last week, I jumped at the chance. It's quite a few years since I've been, and I've had some top times there in the past. There are a lot of reasons to love Amsterdam - the people are friendly and good-humoured, they speak perfect English (we lazy Englanders love this), there's a quirkiness and creativity I love, the architecture is beautiful, pretty canals (water, water, everywhere), nice and flat (cycles, cycles, EVERYWHERE) and they make decent beer. I could happily live there and who knows - if the Boss really does decide to open that satellite office, my cycling skills might just be put to the test...

(Postscript: actually, not inspired by my Amsterdam jaunt, but I do have a new bike - OK, it's not quite new - it's a 1970's Hercules folding shopper bike. Smiff and Marc found it for me at a car boot sale for the princely sum of a tenner. I'm not known for my cycling skills - 20 years ago, when me and Mr Curran were still an item, he got me a bike. I lasted a week. In that week, I fell into the gutter once, bumped into a lampost on a failed right turn, and the grand finale came when cycling home at 2am without lights, I tried to avoid the oncoming police car and whilst panicking and not really looking where I was going, I crashed headlong into the back of a parked car. Busted my lip, trashed the bike and ended up in a miserable heap. When the said police car pulled up alongside me, and through tears of mirth Plod asked how I was, I decided that me and cycling were NOT a match made in heaven and the bike had to go. Wish me luck and let's hope it's two wheels good this time round).

The Good Life

It's Harvest Festival time of year. Bernie and Kieran have just finished their very own allotment harvest, and boy, there were a LOT of tomatoes. Summer hasn't been great, so some serious ripening has still to happen:

Eventually, green turned rosy, and then the fun begins:

There's been roasting of tray after tray of tomatoes, onions, basil, oregano, rosemary to make delicious passata:

And some of the green tomatoes got to live out their dream of making Mrs Beeton's chutney:

It's starting to feel like I'm living in an episode of The Good Life - Ber & K make a great Tom and Barbara. And I love the idea of me as Margot, swanning around Wood Green in kaftans, being fabulous and posh and a bit useless (although I'm not sure how the outfit will go down next time I nip down Morrisons to buy some bog roll).

Tat For Tits At The Haberdashery

Aren't breasts brilliant? Much nicer to look at than anything the chaps have got going on (actually, I'm generally quite happy when looking at mens bits, if the truth be told). Tons of hilarious names for boobs too: top bollocks, fun bags, knockers and my own personal favourite - dirty pillows. And to think that something so wonderful can be harboring what is now the most common form of cancer in the UK.

My life has been touched by breast cancer twice. Heartbreakingly, I watched as my dear sister Mary died from the disease, and then my very brave and ballsy sister Helen was diagnosed with grade 3 and fought her own battle - 7 years down the line, and she's still winning. Bravo, our kid - you're a bloody star.

A few years back, I decided to try to raise money for Breakthrough Breast Cancer, as they launched their 40 mile overnight fundraising walk round the sights and streets of London. Roping in my nearest and dearest ladyfriends, we were given a target of £6000. Apart from begging literally everyone we knew for their hard-earned, we also ran a charity stall in the centre of Crouch End (at this point I coined the phrase "Tat For Tits", but we weren't sure if Crouch End was ready for my wit). We had items donated from local people, Harvey Nichols gave us pink champagne to raffle, so we set up by Barclays bank one fine Saturday and peddled our wares. Really good fun and we raised £400 that day. The four of us ended up raising over £7000 by the time the walk came around - we even managed the walk without a blister or bit of chafing (I'll never forget the sight of the very large lady walker dressed in a bright pink tutu, whose thighs had rubbed together so badly at the top that she ended up walking like Yosemite Sam...)

So I was more than happy to oblige when the lovely Massimo and Greg of The Haberdashery in Crouch End called me to ask if I'd run the charity stall at their next bar boot sale in aid of Breast Cancer Awareness month. It was a top night - the boys had the usual array of sellers bringing along their vintage bits and bobs/craft/housey stuff. My stall was filled with donations from local businesses and customers, and the boys had donated a cakestand filled with pink cupcakes to sell. My own donation was candy pink polka dot bunting (of course):

None More Black Meets None More Pink

The fellas had lots of lovely snacks to sell, and they were knocking up some unfeasibly good cocktails - I managed to neck the most delicious strawberry caipiriha. And the entertainment was top stuff too - The Marjorie Belles sang some sweet swing numbers perfectly fitting the evening - space was so limited, they performed perched on top of bistro chairs:

"From The Top, Ladies"

Toot Toot Tootsies

Find out more about them here: http://www.themarjoriebelles.com/

It was a huge success - Massimo tells me the stall raised over £150 on the night, and that a couple of thousand pounds were raised throughout Crouch End (The Haberdashery also held a masked tea party as part of the week-long events). All for a truly good cause, I had a ball and I think the chaps did too:

The Cream Of Café Society

This Is England 86

I've been working as a photographer's agent a couple of days a week this year. Old habits die hard, and if it's ever a bit quiet on the styling front, it's always good to know that there's a bit of spends coming in. I was lucky enough to be approached by the sharp wit and all-round good woman Tanya of Blunt London to lend a hand when the lovely Ailsa left to have her sprog. Maternity leave has turned into something a bit more permanent and I'm pretty thrilled. Having said I never really wanted to go back to agenting, it's a joy to work with this lot and I actually look forward to going to work at a desk in an office (it's a very nice office, the teamaking skills are exemplary, and there's quality swearing which suits me rather well).

Tanya represents Dean Rogers, a rather brilliant photographer, who is the chronicler in stills of all Shane Meadows' film work. I bloody love Shane Meadows' work. Shane and Dean are old friends and Dean has recently shot the promotional posters for the Channel 4 serial, "This Is England '86":

Watched the 3rd episode of TIE 86. Dean had told me that Shane hadn't directed the first two, which seemed to be played a bit more for laughs. Episode 3 started off like a barrel of laughs too (Gadgy as Clark Gable in THAT arran jumper and pencil moustache), but ended up like a barrel of misery (a truly horrific rape scene), only completed by the reappearance of Combo. Now, why do I think that Lol's daddy-o will be getting his comeuppance in next week's final part? Superb acting, funny, dark, excellent soundtrack. Unmissable.

End Of The Road 5: Small And Perfectly Formed

Leaves on the ground, chill in the air, Nick Drake in my ears: Autumn's here. Hooray! I love to bask in the sun as much as the next girl, but there's something a bit special about this season for me. So surely it's a good idea to go up the country and listen to lots of lovely tunes played by brilliant musicians, whilst swigging booze and knocking about with your mates? This year, there were doubts about my attendance at End Of The Road festival. Ever since first winning a pair of tickets to the festival back in 2007 (I reckon We Got Tickets felt obliged to let me win, I spend so much of my hard-earned on their site), it's become a feature of my Autumn entertainment season. But with distractions from Down Under swept away, the deal was done (acres of bunting changed hands for two tickets) and the tent and wellies were chucked in Betty Ford.

Picked Nads up from work (her final day - the Prosecco I bought her as a treat to start her new life went down a treat - Motorhead's Ace Of Spades blasting out in the car park - the ONLY way to start your new life as dole scum):

Cigarettes And Alcohol

There'd been a leak about Mark Lanegan doing a short set with Isobel Campbell at 7.15pm on the Thursday. No matter that this girl racer put the pedal to the metal, we still couldn't get there in time. Drat and double drat. Got to the box office to get our guest passes - "names not down, you're not coming in"!!! Had to call Howard, who swiftly sorted it for us with Queen Of Guestlist, the fierce but funny Wendy, and the wristbands were issued. And then Kieran and Bernie appeared behind us. And then we found Steve as we watched a bit of Allo Darling. Perfect - the troops are assembled. And then, the envy of all who surveyed it: the carefully designed and much discussed fit-in-your-pocket timings for the entire weekend were dished out - bravo, Mr McG:

A Thing Of Beauty And Genius (the schedule, that is)

Putting tents up in the dark isn't so easy for some as it is for me. I have a 3 man pop-up tent - one flick of my wrist and there you have it, home for the weekend. Nads managed to get her tent up, but not in any way the manufacturers would have intended. This didn't really become evident until the next day - poles in all the wrong holes (that's not the start of the double entendres, folks). Soon fixed, Friday was a lovely day. Countryfile (BBC programme, all about nature and...erm, well, the country) had suggested on the longterm weather forecast that the weather would be SHITE. The word 'torrential' was mentioned several times. Wrong again, Auntie Beeb.

I decided to have a massage. Now, this isn't the norm for me at a festival. I'm there for the tunes and the tunes alone, but it had been a pretty shitty week and I felt the need for a bit of relaxation. Had a wander with Nads in the Healing Garden (it all sounds a bit wanky but it's lovely) and got chatting to this fella called Adam, who did healing Thai yoga massage. I wasn't sure what this would entail but I decided to give it a go, as I reckoned a bit of healing wouldn't go amiss. Booked a session for 4pm, Nads booked one for 5pm. Wandered off and took in a bit of CW Stoneking (very 1920 New Orleans, hilarious banter inbetween songs), and then the very brilliant fingerpicking blues of Charlie Parr. First saw Charlie in a record shop in Sydney and was pretty much blown away by him. Even in this huge natural theatre, he held the crowd captive. Good stuff:

Superlative Mr Parr

When I arrived for my massage, Adam was waiting outside his tipi. He lay me down on a furry rug (it could have all gone a bit Barbarella, but I had my jeans and shirt on...) and I closed my eyes. And then he proceeded to do all sorts of stuff to me. And I mean ALL sorts...this sort of massage isn't just hands on - it's BODY on stuff. At one point, he was sort-of bumming me (can I say that???) with my legs over his. Reminiscent of a position I have assumed in the past...but I digress. Bit by bit, I really did relax and float away. An hour slipped by in what seemed like moments...and then it was over. I honestly felt pretty spaced out and very relaxed. When I eventually got up, Adam said I was a natural (what at? being bummed?) and had really gone with his moves. I waited for Nads to appear, then wandered off in my euphoric daze.

Caught up with Howard Local at his fancy new Big Top stage (red and blue stripes, soon to be adorned with the finest bunting money or ticket-swap can get). Howard introduced me to his very charming and funny Dad (now I know where he gets it from) and his best friend Paul, who's a bit of a dry wit. Have a laugh with the lads and watch a bit of Trembling Bells (great in parts, but occassionally a bit too 'hey nonny' for me). And then a real find - Walsh & Pound. Banjo and harmonica. Harmonica dude looked like a little scally, played his harp like a demon, and even made it sound like a sitar at one point. Superb.

Wolf People were one of my must-see bands of the weekend. When their flute player left the band a while back, I thought they'd lose it too, but oh no. They're just getting better and better. They played a blinding set to a packed tent, and they were even allowed to play an encore - bravo, Howard. Bit of aimless wandering ensued, goan fish curry (yuuuummmmm), bit of Plants and Animals, an incident with a pissed bloke who shall be known from here on as Pissed Bloke.

I first clocked Pissed Bloke as he staggered about near the Garden Stage, barely able to stand up, managing to fall on unsuspecting girls as they tried to steer clear. Pissed Bloke resurfaced for a quick lie down next to us while we had a sit down. And then the paramedics and site nurse appeared...and took Pissed Bloke away, because he was...well, just VERY pissed. After hooking up with Kieran, Bernie and Steve, we encountered Pissed Bloke again. He'd obviously shaken off his nursey shackles and was having a bit of a lie-down at his new home of the floor outside the Rough Trade tent. At one point, Pissed Bloke had a bit of a dancing head on and tried to dance with Nads and Steve (Steve is a bit of a dancer - the only event I regret not seeing all weekend was a pissed Steve on the Studio 54 lit-up dancefloor, and then threatening to do more moves dressed only in his underpants - it's the stuff of dreams, girls...). Pissed Bloke's moves with Steve ended up with Pissed Bloke being flung to the floor - all completely hilarious, I may have let a little bit of wee come out by accident...

Pissed Bloke 10pm

Pissed Bloke 11pm

We had a quick look at the open mic stage (the MC was an unfeasibly well-endowed lady in a basque - this prompted Steve to coin the catchphrase of the weekend "huuuuge KNOCKERS'). Socialising took over - time for the Tipi. Spent the rest of the night with the gang, The Local, the very funny Singing Adams Steve and Michael (Michael and I talked for about 2 hours but can't remember what about, but agreed the next day that it was a good chat) and I met a lovely artist called Leif Vollebekk. More chat, can't remember, possibly about Iceland (the place, not cheap frozen food shop)...and I saw Colin Heavy Load too! Great night, good company. Finished with me and Nads up talking until 5.30am...perfect first day.

The hangover that followed was NOT the highlight of the weekend. Thank fuck for beans, veggie sausages and the brilliant organisational skills of Bernie, that's all I can say. At a time like this, to have a mate who, even though she's probably in a world of pain all of her own, just gets on with cooking the grub and making sure everyone eats and drinks and gets better makes us some very lucky people. Bernie, I salute you.

I also salute her man of many years, the unfeasibly funny Kieran McG. I salute him for keeping us all well informed about his toilet habits throughout the weekend. To be told that he's just produced something "a bit like Ayers Rock" has to be one of the funniest things I heard all weekend. This was only bettered when he informed us all that he'd just given rectal birth to something that "looked a bit like a wet labrador, or one of those piebald patchy horses". Years back, when Kieran was taking a bit of time out from employment within advertising hell, his Friday PooBlog was a thing of marvel. The mail that went out telling us of the "small brown fish" he'd just set free in the toilet bowl squeezed tears of mirth from all who read it. Almost as many tears as the revelation that after one trip to the porcelain throne, he discovered an aftermath that looked like " the papery wings of moths". Spends too much time looking far too closely, that lad...

Sun shining down hot, a lot of laying about in the Garden Stage was in order. Having thought we'd all spend the entire weekend pissed wet through, this was proof that the festival gods love EOTR - it was cracking t'flags, as they say in my neck of the woods.

The first thing to register was Mr Matthew Houck (or maybe it was his arms in that black tshirt...). Phosphorescent first came onto my radar as support to Black Mountain at the Scala a couple of years ago. He was all on his lonesome back then, pared down sound and lovely lyrics, but now he has a great band and they ROCKED. Did plenty of the tunes off the 'For Willie' album too. Deer Tick had a quick jaunt on stage (more of therm later). Blew my cobwebs clean away. And those arms... (Sorry - I know it's such a girl thing to say, like "oooh, that Gary Lineker's got lovely legs" when watching the footy - BTW, I would NEVER say anything so ridiculous whilst watching the footy...but Nads and I agreed that the massage with Adam had definitely awakened the beast within):

Ok, so it's not strictly from EOTR,

but it sure is a purdy picture, yessir...

Caught a little bit of Moddi (flaxen haired angel boy, tiny bit odd, away with the fairies) - I missed the start of his set, which apparently had an audience round of applause for my bunting, which was now adorning The Local tent. Saw a bit of Citay (sunshine psych, great twiddly beeps and odd noises), but then I had a massive whitey and had to sit in the sun and just BREATHE. By the time I came round, Rick Tomlinson (Mr Seven Thunders) was playing in the Big Top. I was pleased to see the Black Mountain boys watching his set. He was quite pissed (his brother Paul told me) and pretty funny. Back to The Local for a bit of Oh Ruin. He really is growing on me very time I see him. Eoin has a gorgeous cracked Irish husky voice, plays his guitar in a loose, raw style, is funny and charming (and handsome too - and has an equally gorgeous talented girlfriend, both of whom it was a pleasure to have a drunken chat with on Friday - can't remember what about...I see a pattern forming here...)

More ligging about - who knew that Pot Noodle and a banana would be such a great hangover cure? And then in the magical twilight, we head to the Garden Stage for Iron and Wine. Nads didn't know his work, so I'd described him as "just beautiful music". And that's exactly what we saw. I take my hat off to his sound guy (or gal) - truly perfect:

Just Beautiful

I didn't really think my adoration of Black Mountain could grow any bigger, But blow me, it can. Got there 20 minutes early (überfan) and we were right up front. I honestly can't remember the last time I had the urge to do this at a gig. I'm more of a loiter-about-near-the-back kinda girl. Noticed a bloke standing next to me sporting 70s denim, great specs and an afro. So I introduce myself to Mr Will Hodgkinson, music journo and writer of Guitar Man, the story of one man's mission to master a lump of wood with 6 strings, and him meeting his heroes along the way - Johnny Marr (indie, jangly god), Bert Jansch (guitar plucking god, Pentangle genius and top bloke) and Davy Graham (RIP - I was lucky enough to see Davy play not long before he died, 'Folk Blues and Beyond' is a classic). We have a good chat, discovering a shared love of Black Mountain. But it's when I mention Dead Meadow, his little face lights up and he exclaims "now you're talking my language!"

I'm not going into one about Black Mountain's set here (what? why???). I've said it all before (apart from the sound wasn't so great but let's not split hairs). Let's just say this: THEY. ARE. FUCKING. AMAZING. (pardon my potty mouth, Mum).

Following that overexcitement, back to the Tipi tent, to hook up with Massimo from The Haberdashery (Massimo is hilarious - a tall, red-haired, brown-eyed charming Italian with a potty mouth to match my own, runs the best little café in Crouch End). End up sitting on a hay bale with Massimo and Howard's dad, discussing haberdashery, sewing and the whole make-do-and-mend phenemenon. Big fan of make-do-and-mend, me. Such a big fan that I manage to spread both my legs in the air to show them the make-do-and-mend that's gone on between my thighs (the patches on my jeans, I mean) with the exclamation "have a look at this". I honestly thought the lads were going to die laughing, and I think I may have blushed...and then, more hysterics as Mr Local was knocked off his hay high horse:

The Mighty Are Fallen

I also get to meet the very lovely Mia, partner to Lucy Local (a dead ringer for Joni Mitchell and no slouch with a tennis raquet, by all accounts). Sadly, Lucy isn't here to enjoy the fruits of The Local labours, as her other job at the Barbican has taken her Down Under to work on the Sydney festival. Our loss is definitely Sydney's gain...more booze followed and more waffle. And the company was lovely, the stars were twinkly outside in the darkness, and everything was just perfect.

Another day, another fuzzy head situation. Vague recollections of the previous night came back bit-by-bit, all good. Sunday is never going to be a day for dynamism. Steve and I head off in his car on a Tesco run (more booze? WHYYYYYYYY???????) and when we get back, Bernie has brekkie well in hand (let's hear it one more time for Bernie - hooray!). We don't really get to see much before Kath Bloom at 3pm. Kath is one of those artists from yesteryear revered by so many current favourites, and has been covered by my darling Bill Callahan with one of the most beautiful songs, you can watch him play it here from a Union Chapel show last year (this song just kills me every single time I hear it, and I think of my dear Dad):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=giQrQgXyweQ&feature=related

Anyway, enough of all that soppy stuff - Kath Bloom is mental. Lovely songs, but she is just hilarious and shambolic and keeps stopping and saying stuff like "oh, I make lots of mistakes, me" and then saying "oh, that's not right" and having to start again. But completely lovely and she definitely has winning ways, and the tunes show she has a winning way with words too.

But now, I need waking up, so we all head off to partake of The Singing Adams. I'm forever waxing lyrical about the lyrical brilliance of Steven Adams. And as ever, he doesn't disappoint, and there's even a sing-a-long I approve of (and you know my usual feelings on that festival subject - it ranks up there with clap-a-longs, bongos, glowsticks and children still up after 8pm). A bit of a liedown in the field with a cup of coffee and strains of a really beautiful guitar tuning up and practising are coming from The Local tent. It's Leif Vollebekk, who I was lucky enough to meet on Friday. He has such a sweet voice, and he loops his violin and guitar on one tune so beautifully it gives me goosebumps. And he's borrowed the guitar from another artist (I think it was a Gibson ES-335 - I heard a man playing swing jazz on one once and the sound was so gorgeous, I had to ask him what guitar he was playing), and when as his final song he plays a Ray Charles song, I have a little tear in my eye (it could have been the pain of the hangover, but it wasn't...):

Lovely Leif (what is that guitar?)

Once he's finished, there's a bit of sitting around outside the tent, and I catch up with Michael Singing Adams after his set. They'd had a ball, and it was good to see him so relaxed, reckon he'd been a bit nervous beforehand. Caught a bit of the Felice Brothers, bit of Olof Arnalds - sweet looking, blonde ringlets, Björkish, and as Kieran said " a hint of the serial killer about her" - little bit Red Riding Hood, little bit Singing Ringing Tree, quite enchanting.

One of the events of the weekend happened entirely by accident. Gone to the Tipi to see Deer Tick. So far, so good. They started playing - whisky soaked, rocking blues. All still good. Then about 4 songs in, all the power goes off. ALL the power. Lights, sound, the lot. And here's where talent shows. A packed Tipi in complete darkness, Deer Tick managed to totally hold the attention of the entire crowd, as they continued to play, beautiful harmonies, acoustic guitar, did a walkabout whilst playing to us, all lit only by lighters and a few torches. Impromptu brilliance and another sing-a-long which incorporated a round of Silent Night - Christmas carols in September? Top stuff:

Flashlight Procession

Racked up at The Local to see the tail end of The London Snorkelling Team. It's as if The League Of Gentlemen has a house band, and they seem to be holding a seance on stage. Very funny, they have men who play 'projector', which brings us the "Boob Or Nose?" challenge, where to the strange and wonderful electronica they create, you get to shout "boob" or "nose" at hand-drawn illustrations projected on screen:

I'm no expert, but I think they're tits

Things go a bit wrong here - reckon it's a definite case of festival fatigue. I completely miss out on seeing Horse Feathers, one of my choices of the weekend. Fuckwit. But everything is saved by the loud metal mayhem of Pulled Apart by Horses. Leeds lads, cocky, swaggering, just how youth in a rock band should be. There's even a moshpit. And then, completely brilliant - lead singer jumps up and hangs off my bunting. My bunting is ROCK! All this heavy ends with a stage invasion, which makes us all laugh our heads off. Top high to end the night:

Invaders (and some hardcore bunting)

The finale is us, Tipi tent, sharing a bottle of champagne, bit more banter, hooking up with the Adams family again, couple of Travelling Band boys, and promising Howard Local that I'll try to find a way to get him back to London (how a man who has the savvy to organise a weekend full of brilliant bands and get them all on stage on time can end up without a bed to sleep in or a lift home is beyond me...). Suddenly, Nads and I decide bed seems like a great idea, before a pint of that hot cider/brandy combo gets necked...

Wise move. Next morning, the hangover was manageable, so I gathered up Mr Monk and his sound man Joe for the promised lift. Bernie sorted yet another top brekkie, there was much League Of Gentleman chat (Pam Doove's orange juice never fails to amuse), then we packed up our troubles in our old kitbags and we were away. The weather held out all weekend, the beauty of Dorset did its bit, and I reckon Simon and Sofia can be very proud of their fledgling festival. A little festival for people who care about the music, not just limited edition Hunter wellies and the latest hairdo. Every musician seems thrilled to be playing, and the folks out there are just as thrilled to be listening to the most eclectic choice of acts around. Happy 5th Birthday, End Of The Road. You can betcha bottom dollar we'll be tuning in next year for episode 6.

Bank Holiday Bunting Bonanza

August Bank Holiday - the gateway to lovely Autumn. Spent a really good Saturday evening with my two oldest girlfriends and their menfolk, beers and chit-chat and laughs. Pretty much the rest of the weekend has been me, Wilf the dog and the sewing machine.

My bunting appeared in The Sunday Times Style magazine last week (whooooo!). Some 'cool camping' article - my bunting adorned the opening to the tent. Funnily enough, I'd read the article and not even noticed it was my bunting...! Just thought "oh, that looks sweet". A mate rang me up to point it out - quite exciting, really.

More bunting news - my handiwork will be tarting up The Local tent at the End Of The Road Festival soon. This nearly happened a couple of years ago, when I predicted to Howard Local that bunting was about to rule the world. He's finally come round to my way of thinking, and he's paying me in kind for the pleasure of my bunting (stop with the double entendres) - two tickets to the festival. Result! Top bit of negotiation on my part - it still entailed a whole heap of stitching, but I reckon it'll be worth it to see Black Mountain, Iron & Wine, Felice Brothers, Charlie Parr, Frank Fairfield, Forest Fire, Oh Ruin, Phosphorescent, Singing Adams, Voice Of The Seven Thunders, Wolf People etc etc - hell, I should be paying him.

Black Angels: Heavenly

Sometimes, you have to wait a long time to see a band. Maybe their gigs clash with something else (EOTR Xmas Party 2008). Or you're off on a jaunt to another hemisphere (Oz - Oct 2009). And then it finally happens and you can only hope that it's worth the anticipation and isn't some massive disappointment.

Kieran and Bernie bought the tickets to see The Black Angels donkeys ago, so I'd almost forgotten about it, what with the stupidly busy work schedule, dogsitting for Wilf and the fancy housesit.

Gig was at the slightly revamped Borderline (lick of paint, toilets that finally work). Dark Horses were supporting (waxed lyrical about this lot in my Black Mountain post recently - the girl singer really is good, great voice, charismatic, lot of stage presence). But when the main attraction took the stage, I was just blown away. They were well worth the wait. (In fact, as they took the stage, I actually said "grrrrr" out loud, like some randy old Leslie Phillips in female form). Then the lightshow kicked in (Keith Hawkwind would have been proud of 'em) and it all got a bit Keith And Anita Do Morocco. Perfect. There was the added bonus of Blondie and The Old Punk turning up unannounced, freshly back from a couple of days in Glastonbury (verdict? "bloody awful tourist trap now - ruined"). A great night, which ended up in The Crobar and far too much booze for a school night...

(Postscript: Aforementioned busy schedule means I haven't blogged about seeing Sleepy Sun last week. Contenders for the crown of "Best Make-Out Music On The Planet", currently shared by Dead Meadow and Mr Lanegan. Flavours of Black Mountain, if the members of Black Mountain suddenly lost the plot and got off their tits on happy pills. Sleepy Sun - a band that look like they're having a psychedelic ball on stage. And all played through Huddersfield's finest:

We gave the world Last Of The Summer Wine and Stoner Amplification

Eliza Doolittle

In my capacity as The Littlest Hobo, I've been getting offered flatsits all summer - folks are having holidays, and I get to play caretaker. This week, I'll be mostly living in a bloody huge Georgian villa in Islington. It's packed with beautiful things, design classics, a hob I had to actually ring for advice to learn how to work (a shiny dial with no markings moves around like a Ouija board thingy to set it off, and then "no pan, no heat" - mental), a shower that took me and a friend to work it out, the cream of BritArt adorning the walls (Damien Hirst, Gary Hume, Tracy Emin, Gavin Turk, more early limited edition Banksys than I can shake my rhythm stick at...).

You get the idea - all very fabulous. Yet I've never been less relaxed about staying somewhere in all my life. I got in from a gig the other night, and I managed to set the alarm off (I wasn't drunk - I WASN'T!), so had to call ADT Alarms sharpish before the rozzers turned up and hauled me off to chokey. I'm in constant fear of breaking something, using the wrong cloth to clean the handmade rosewood kitchen, knocking over some priceless heirloom.

So, all this has served to make me realise is, that not unlike the cheeky Cockney Eliza conjured up by the brilliant GBS so many years ago, all I want is a room somewhere. It doesn't have to be fancy, full of luxuries or even very big. It just has to have room for me, my thrift shop bits and bobs, a peaceful haven from the world outside. It's time to think about making a home again. Oooh, wouldn't that be luverly.

Lanegan: All Killer, No Filler

The Union Chapel - I've seen all my favourite men perform under its hallowed roof and tonight, I saw my favourite of all (yes, I went to see him AGAIN), Mr Lanegan. Suits my latest fave phrase down to the ground: all killer, no filler. And he sang "I'll Take Care Of You" which I've never seen him perform live before. Just him and Dave Rosser on guitar. Goosebumps and a lump in my throat...a perfect song sung by my perfect singer.

Whitstable Weekend

I'd been thinking for a few weeks that I needed a trip to the sea, to paddle in the beautiful briny and have a bit of a relax and think about life in general (it's a water sign thing, man). And then as if by magic (well, not quite magic - I was invited, I said 'yes, please'), I'm heading off for a weekend in the lovely Kent countryside.

We arrived Chez Cockroft about 9.30pm, welcomed by Mr C and Nads' mum. Fish and chips arrived shortly after, kindly collected by Nad's dad and the lovely Mrs C, who is VERY pregnant indeed. Polished that off, and spent a couple of hours sitting round the table talking, drinking wine, having a laugh.

Saturday dawned, grey and windy. Nothing was going to stop me having that walk on the beach, so hats were pulled on (mine was a borrowed floppy black hat, just like the hippy hats I used to make for Purple Haze) and I set off with Nads and Mr C for a spot of aimless wandering. Many charity shops later, we gathered some coffees and headed for the seafront. Whitstable has a really pretty seafront, wooden clad cottages in pastel colours, gently sloping pebble beach. And then the sun came out. Lovely:

Then back for a nice relaxing film about a serial killer (!). We all got under the quilt on the sofa (very funny) and watched Tony, London Serial Killer. Grim. Then Mr C cooked a cracking mushroom risotto, drowned in parmesan - yummmmm...

Ended up in the pub, as Mr C mentioned that some cool old dude who owned a local guitar shop was playing a gig. Not sure what to expect, I was completely blown away to be hearing a setlist that comprised of Hendrix, ZZ Top, Small Faces, Focus (top marks for me knowing it was Focus) and a potted history of 70s rock. Mac is a lovely fella too - he has difficulty standing due to polio, but it can never diminish such amazing talent on the guitar. Honestly, he was just ridiculously GOOD. You just know that half the bands making it today will never be able to play like this man, and he really feels the blues. Completely brilliant, his fingers were a blur (not unlike my shit photography):

Mac's Diner

Next day, cobwebs needed blowing away, so more wandering on the beach, but not until after an eggy breakfast (not big on the App thing, but Nads told me about Hipstamatic, a retro camera for the iPhone - I couldn't resist):

Retro Cat Like Egg Too

More wandering brought us to a sweet little toyshop, and it actually is the very shop window that Bagpuss lived in. I forgot that the very wonderful Oliver Postgate lived not far from here - brilliant man, I wrote about him in my blog when he sadly passed away a few years ago:

http://missbettenoir.blogspot.com/2008/12/in-memoriam.html

One last film before we headed back to London. I'd wanted to watch Crazy Heart for a while, I love Jeff Bridges and as he won an Oscar for his portrayal of a drunken country singer down on his luck, I thought 'what's not to like???' And it was great. All wrapped up a little too neatly at the end, but hell, the soundtrack was good and it had Jeff Bloody Bridges and that's good enough for me (managed not to blub with great difficulty, as I was sitting next to Mr C, so sat with large lump in throat for a couple of scenes). Bizarrely, I found myself fancying Colin Farrell - amazing what long brown hair, stubble and a western shirt can do for a boy.

And then it was time to head back. Lovely drive in Nads' little Figaro - sun shining, listened to the soundtrack of O, Brother Where Art Thou? and some Ry Cooder (Paris Texas - dreamy stuff). And the trip had worked its therapeutic wonders on my messy head - clever old seaside...