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...

Space Nuptial

Because I'm a huge romantic, I hardly batted an eyelid when upon my return from Oz, I hear that my old mate Barto has finally met a girl and fallen in love. Maybe I may have batted a tiny bit of an eyelid when, only a few weeks later, he tells me he's getting married. And as the stories of his wild woman Charlie surface, I think some eyebrows were raised and eyelids batted considerably more than mine were.

Ours is not to reason why, I reckon. Judgemental ain't my thing...Life really is too short, as the saying goes, and I'm all too aware of that. I'm staying in his flat at this point, whilst he is shacked up in a Chiswick love-nest with his lady. And then they move back over to Crouch End, and I witness first hand how truly in love my friend is and how charming his lady friend is (I also get to hear how much in love they are - a vocal and very verbal testament to their passion can be heard nightly, and I take to wearing industrial strength earplugs).

And after much planning, lots of ups, maybe a few downs, and a whole heap of invitations later, we're all racking up in Dorset for a rock 'n' roll wedding to remember. Guests included family, old friends, the assembled cast of the Crobar, famous rock journalists and musicians and...fanfares and drumrolls...The Mighty Hawkwind.

No need to waffle on, I'll tell this one in pictures:

Laurel and Hardy

Charlie & Grandpa Colin

Mr & Mrs B

Confetti, not dandruff

Doctor, Doctor

Never The Bride

None More Heavy

One thorn, two roses (he's going to be a DAD!!!)

Napalm Death's finest (he's going to be a DAD too!!!)

Wedding Crasher

The 'Wind Cries Hairy (ouch)

Space Cake

Him, Her, Hawkwind

None More Bunting

A few year's back, in the manner of some sort-of nostalgia Mystic Mug, I made a prediction. Bunting would take over the world. You know, small bits of ordinarily triangular fabric attached on a long length of string. Think " war-is-over-we-are-English-let's-have-a-street-party-get-out-the-best-china" type of stuff. I just KNEW.

Fast forward a couple of years. I'd been harping on a bit about this for some time, maybe starting to get some odd looks. But now, it formed my main plan, one of my many get-rich-quick schemes to get back to Oz as soon as poss. And I thought I could corner the market -but then, suddenly, it was everywhere. Onimpresent, like a very triangular tipping point explosion only Malcolm Gladwell would understand. I had to move fast, and think of an angle. So, I reckoned - what is an English Summer? And I didn't think strawberries, teadresses and the thwack of leather on willow...no, I thought, folks want to be having a lovely time in the garden but it's always pissing it down. Let's face it, the weather's shite here in Summer. So, if you're a bunting fancier, you can't be arsed constantly taking it down every downpour. Here lies my stroke of genius.

I made waterproof bunting. But not tacky shit, like the polyester stuff adorning every dodgy Wetherspoons throughout the World Cup. No, it was a thing of kitsch beauty, candy coloured, bunting Cath Kidston would give her antique floral tits for. And the shiny yummy mummies of Crouch End love it. And the glitterati too (celeb count so far: Kirstie "Queen Of Property and Poshness" Allsop, and Emma "that fit bird off Big Brother thing married to Busted fella" Griffiths...male friend description). I'm sure they all think it's being made by some domestic goddess, bit of a Nigella in a polka dot apron, on a huge scrubbed pine kitchen table, homemade jam bubbling away on the Aga, ringlet-haired kids skipping round...but no. It's being made by me, sporting worn out denim and extra eyeliner, on a 25 year old sewing machine, cutting out on any space I can find as hop from one friend's spare room to another like the Littlest Hobo I am.

And now the boys at The Haberdashery (lovely Crouch End cafe where they sell my wares - more of them later) tell me that Vogue want to do a photoshoot in the tea garden, where my bunting takes pride of place, which could potentially send me into bunting overdrive...now if only Her Madge would make an order for THE garden party...