Lovely present, better future

Allegedly, it's better to give than to receive. Reckon that's all very relative to the circumstances... Must have been a good girl this year, as I've been on the receiving end of some lovely things from some lovely people - thank you all, but especially:

My favourite old china from my favourite old china, Blondie

(this crockery is called Gaytime - makes for

interesting searches on Ebay)

A wonderful tome about disappearing shop frontages in NYC

from Mr Lane - typography heaven

The sweetest (they're very old, not vintage) Japanese salt

and pepper pots from dear Mr Rogers

Library Christmas loan from Les French - suggestion that

it might keep me warm on a cold night whilst they're away

(Taschen The Big Penis Book: trust me, Ladies - once you've seen one,

you really haven't seen them all)

Amidst the piles of chocolates/hankies/bottles of booze, there appeared an unfeasibly kind and daftly extravagant bit of technology kit from Blunt Santa (big gratitude for making my life better in more ways than one, Boss/Friend).

Despite all these treats, the very finest gift of all wasn't something from "fatty with his sack of shit" (best Christmas album ever, after Phil Spector obviously, has to be A John Waters Christmas - thanks to BBH Aine). It didn't come down a chimney either.

No, but it did turn up in a stocking. Two, in fact. Attractive surgical stockings, delivered via a Toyota Yaris sled, courtesy of the kindness of top surgeon-cum-Santa Mr Rhodes of Bradford Royal Infirmary (thank you, HDU and Ward 19). It was beautifully wrapped in M&S pyjamas, and arrived just in time for The Queen's Speech and a Christmas lunch to be cherished for years to come. The most unexpected and perfect present we could have wished for. (Sadly, I fucked it up on the sprouts front, but pulled it all back with my spectacular pickled onion gravy - don't ask.)

Last Night A Pop Star Saved My Life

It's a rare day when I think "halt this shitty rat race rollercoaster, I want to alight", but I've been teetering on that brink for the last week or so. But that's not what you're here for, dear reader - you're here for the fun! fun! fun! - so, next time you're in a murky mindfunk of your own, I can highly recommend a nice hot bath, followed by an early curl-up under the feathers, then laughing your fucking tits / head / assorted other body parts off whilst reading 'Bad Vibes: Britpop And My Part In Its Downfall' by Luke Haines.

I needed distraction. Head just WILL NOT SHUT THE FUCK UP. Started a film. No good. Looked at the huge pile of books I've amassed recently. Montaigne? Too highbrow. Conor McCarthy? Too grim. Lovecraft? Too dark. Magnus Mills? Too freaky. And there, lurking at the bottom of the pile, was a book I'd been lent by a lovely man, who had insisted I would enjoy it and find it highly amusing. Hmmm. Now, I trust this chap, he's clever and has a mutual love of all things musical, but I'd dismissed it, mainly due to the word Britpop in the title. No. No. No.

I dusted it off, opened it up and thought "so, if I read a random bit, right near the front, and it can draw me in, then OK, I'll give it a bash". I opened it up at:

Prologue

Is it ever right to strike a dwarf?

Well, that's that. I'm in. And it was the funniest prologue I've read in a book for ages. Ever, perhaps. Chortles, guffaws - I've given in to the whole chuckle gamut (this must be the thing people call LOL). Superlative swearing, posturing and an obscenely hilarious onstage dwarf incident.

I've had absolutely no urge to write about anything for the last few weeks - so thank you, Luke Haines. Thank you, from the very bottom of my miserable black heart.

http://www.lukehaines.co.uk/

Paris: Encore Une Fois

It all started as just a work trip to Paris. "How do you fancy a trip to Paris Photo?" said The Boss. "Yes, please" said we. Having only just had a birthday visit, fallen a bit in love with the joint, I was well up for a bit of 1st class Eurostar and a fancy boutique hotel. Then, some bright spark (The Boss) conjures up the idea of a Blunt photography competition. This sounded like great fun. Take nice snaps of Paris, choose your top five, submit for judging, prize for the winner.

Then, aforementioned bright spark decides I have to compete using her Leica Digilux. No fun on my new iPhone or Hipstamatic effects for me. Now, don't get me wrong - I admire the Leica greatly, it's a beautiful bit of design and a wonderful camera with a dream lens. The tan leather case alone has me in raptures. Haven't the faintest idea how to use the bloody thing, mind. Fine when it's snap-and-shoot, but manual? One pro snapper I know hasn't worked it out properly yet, so how's Miss Luddite supposed to manage?

"You're quite right, Geoff. Even a monkey could have done a better job than that."

But it was fun! I've shot the shit out of Paris. Snapped like a motherfucker. If was out there in Paris this weekend, I've framed it badly and captured it on that fancy camera. Have a sneaky suspicion it may all look a bit shit, though. Despite getting surreptitious text tips sent from Blighty by the lovely Dean Rogers (snapper supremo), my efforts are really nothing to write home/blog about (when I tried to breath on the lens for a dreamy effect as per one suggestion, it just looked like a really terrible fog had fallen over Boulevard St Germain).

Team Blunt at Paris Photo.

Leaving it to the professionals, Paris Photo was superb but a little overwhelming. The concept is that all the finest galleries and publishers of the photography world converge in one space, showing their wares, selling their prints. It's all a bit too much for me, stunning though it is, housed under the beautiful glass-domed roof of the Grand Palais (imagine a big Kew hothouse, but filled with the finest of snaps instead of palms and plants).

A top rooftop.

I did make a wonderful discovery, though - the lovely people at Steidl publishers tell me that Julian Germain's beautiful book 'For Every Minute You Are Angry, You Lose Sixty Seconds Of Happiness' has now been reprinted. This book really touched my heart when I first saw it a few years back. One day, Julian was on his way to a football match, and as he parked on a back street, he noticed a house very different to the others on the street, painted in bright, cheery colours. The occupant was a nice old chap called Charlie, who offered to keep an eye on Julian's camera kit. He invited Julian into his home for a cuppa. Following this chance meeting, Julian befriended Charlie, who was a widower. The house still had post-it notes left by Charlie's wife, little reminders to buy things, do tasks, put the milk bottles out (I'm filling up just writing this - jesus). Anyway - you get the picture. Look here - this book is very special:

http://www.juliangermain.com/projects/foreveryminute.php

Once the work party had departed for England, there was less of the camera stuff for me, more of the hanging out stuff with my old mucker Nads, and a delicious dinner in a restaurant called Amour (oh, l'Amour!) with Les French and their good friend Antoine. The three of them have created Pop Noire, a new music label, and a good enough reason for me to stay in Paris for a few more days, as Pop Noire host a launch for an EP by French artist Lescop.

Loved it here.

Pop Noire kindly arranged a sweet hotel in St Georges area - Arvor St Georges - I'd recommend a stay. The rooms are simple and stylish, a decent breakfast, and it has lovely, friendly (and in one case particularly) attractive staff:

http://www.arvor-hotel-paris.com/en/bienvenue.html

Monday brought the bluest skies - the weather in Paris has been spectacular for the time of year - but why do more sightseeing when I can hunt down a cinema (and sit in the dark at 1pm) to see a film I've wanted to see since I read the rave reviews from this year's Cannes?

The Artist is filmed in black and white, set in the Hollywood of the late 1920s, at the peak of silent cinema. And it is a silent film - yes, they do make 'em like they used to. The story follows George Valentin, an established actor and star, as he battles with the onset of the talkies. There's love interest in the form of an up-and-coming actress called Peppy, who is bright, sparky and utterly gorgeous. It's a little formulaic, but so beautifully and charmingly done that you dont mind the obvious. Great central performances by Jean Dujardin and Berénice Bejo (John Goodman and wee dog Uggy don't do so bad either). When Jean Dujardin smiles, he looks uncannily like Gene Kelly, which is a good thing in my book. A thoroughly pleasurable couple of cinematic hours.

Black and white and not a word in sight - lovely.

Spot of wandering in the sunshine brought us to the Pompidou, a saunter along the Seine and then I think I took leave of what little sense I have remaining - and boarded a horsey carousel. Paris finally fried my overly romantic brain.

Back to the hotel, a quick change, and straight out for our musical soirée. The Pop Noire night was held, aptly enough, at a bar near Rue Oberkampf in the 11 arr called Pop In. A great little dive bar, and owned by another small French label called Pop In (funny that...). An enthusiastic crowd, the place was heaving and sweaty in no time, with Lescop whipping us all into a Pop Noire frenzy. The main track 'La Forêt' went down a storm. Turns out Lescop may be Blighty bound in January, so keep an eye out. His performance is a bit Ian Curtis (top spazz dancing), marginally more fun, great voice, catchy tunes, all coupled with intense dark eyes and great cheekbones. Le sigh.

The finale is a real treat, as John and Jehn take the stage to squeals of "we love you, Jehn!" and some wag shouts as an afterthought " and you too, John!" and everyone is laughing. A truly top finale to my trip.

Popnoiretastique.

So, I'm sitting here writing on the Eurostar heading home, reflecting on the breathtaking architecture I've seen, the interesting people I've encountered (very friendly and very rude), the mad driving (one particularly crazy cab driver beeped anyone who even drove anywhere near our car), the smoking (constant fug of Camel smoke drifting up your nose from the next table at any given café - Roy Castle would be turning in his passive smoker's grave), and the sheer expense (I actually paid over five quid for a tiny beer in one St Germain eatery - merde). Hence, the newly coined phrase:

C'est Paris.

C'est très jolie.

C'est bankruptcy.

Moi.

A Rive Gauche Birthday

Sometimes, a girl has to throw caution to the financial wind and sod off somewhere lovely for her birthday. Wanting to avoid any of the usual fuss, a plan was hatched to head over La Manche for a bit of culture and a spot of promenading. With Lady Doc in tow, an early Sunday start found us heading out of St. Pancras via Eurostar, ditching bags at a sweet little hotel on the Left Bank of the Seine, then off for a wander towards the newly revamped Musée d'Orsay (my main reason for the trip). Happened across these chaps round the corner - excellent jazzy start:

The Musée d'Orsay - it's beautiful. Sensory overload. I felt swamped by the wonderful art I saw, housed in the most stunning old railway station, a gorgeous Beaux Arts building (amazingly, it was nearly pulled down in 1970 - travesty narrowly averted):

Favourites (I now know I'm not really arsed for Manet and Cézanne - is this sacrilege?): Camille Pissaro, Alfred Sisley (the light is just dreamy in their landscapes), the wonderful decorative items (gimme anything by Hector Guimard - the most beautiful Art Nouveau creations). And a couple of pieces which actually made me feel...well, sort of...aroused. My lovely friend Howard, upon hearing of my jaunt to the Musée, insisted I looked for a painting by Gustave Caillebotte - Les Raboteurs de Parquet (The Floor Planers). He said he could happily look at it for ages - and, so it seems, can I. The light on the skin of the men as they work, the lines and muscles on their arms - god, I'm nearly off again:

Is it crass to think 'phwoar'?

And an image I can't seem to find anywhere - an 'odalisque' (female harem slave) by Benjamin-Constant - reclined on a sofa, naked, shadowy, with rich red hues, draped with velvet. I had to walk away, it must have been obvious to anyone near I was having a moment.

Later, we wandered along the banks of the Seine as twilight fell, and just as we crossed the bridge back to St Germain, the Eiffel Tower started twinkling like a huge Bonfire Night sparkler. Perfect.

Locks of l'amour on the Pont des Arts.

Altogether now - aaawww.

Crime passionnel, cherchez la femme ou cherchez le chat...

Wonder what scrapes M. Duluc gets involved in?

A very grand petit déjeuner.

The most perfect couple of days - I drank Kir Royale, bought Hemingway at Shakespeare & Co, had breakfast at Ladurée, sipped Cointreau, people-watched from pavement cafés. A happy, happy birthday to remember.

(Postscript: Back in that gorgeous city again this coming weekend. Photography at Paris Photo, music with lovely Pop Noire, and there's even been talk of dancing girls at Moulin Rouge. Sounds dull as fucking dishwater - might stay home and wash me hair...only kidding, Boss.)

Buns

I was recently pleased to find I'm not just good at eating buns, but no slouch at baking them either. And so, last Saturday, following an invitation over the hill for tea by Les French, I could take flapjack and banana bread made with my own fair hand. Don't think they put it in the bin...and chit-chat reveals that I'll be in Paris twice in one week, and then I discover they'll be there at the same time, which is a lovely surprise. This means partying à la Pop Noire ahead, at the launch party for their recent musical collaboration with Lescop: 'La Forêt' (Les French are actually none other than John & Jehn: gorgeous, talented, handsome pair and all-round good oeufs) - superbe - watch here:

Lescop - La Foret (english subtitles) from John & Jehn on Vimeo.

A lovely Sunday spent with The Boss and Dean at Miss J's pied à terre in Marylebone, to discuss all things creative, arty and bookish. No buns here, but I did bring Dean a bit of my bloody brilliant banana bread (alliteration overdrive), and Miss J cracked open the Reese's Peanut Butter Cups (get.in.my.mouth.now). As we're looking at Miss J's vast and beautiful book collection for inspiration, I happen across a lovely thing - 'Avedon: Portraits'. Not a book in the page-turning sense of the word, it comes in concertina-style form, filled with his wonderful portraiture. I read the back page, which consists of a portrait of Avedon's father, taken when his father is old and ill with cancer, and a copy of a letter Avedon wrote to his Dad, after finding his Dad didn't like the portrait. The letter is beautiful. I've struggled to find the page in its entirety to show you, but here's a link to most of it, posted on another blog I've stumbled across:

http://www.robertlpeters.com/news/allnews/richard-avedons-letter-to-his-father…/

Mr Avedon Sr.

If you've read the letter link, you should also know that when his father died, Avedon discovered the letter, carefully folded and tucked away in the pocket of his Dad's best suit. Obviously, this made me have a little blub (it's a Dad thing), and my kind colleagues didn't take the piss in the slightest, for which I was very grateful.

Monday brought a houseguest to Disgracelands. Colin Lane is, without question, a great rock 'n' roll photographer. The man who gave The Strokes and Kings Of Leon their pictorial cool is also a laid-back, good-humoured joy to have around. You may be familiar with Colin's work - or at least familiar with the arse of his ex-girlfriend:

Nice buns.

The NME are quite keen on that arse too:

http://www.nme.com/blog/index.php?blog=10&p=11295&more=1&c=1&tb=1&pb=1#more11295

Over from NYC for a press and PR shoot with a new band (the label clearly hoping that Colin will work his trademark narrative magic on these fresh-faced youngsters), I get to have dinner 3 nights in a row with a man who knows his onions on the music front (he lived in Austin in the late 80s, saw the birth of SXSW - nuff said). Some of the best over-the-table conversations I've had for ages (who else can wank on about Bill Callahan like me? Well, it tranpsires Mr Lane can).

Once my lovely snapper has flown off to Warsaw to see more life through his lens, I'm back at the Blunt grindstone. My Paris jaunt means I'll be away from the office on the big day, so I get to enjoy an early birthday cake treat. My lovely workmates know how to treat a girl. As I'm so keen on all things fancy cakewise (Patisserie Valerie / afternoon tea at The Wolseley / Ladurée - that's me), they really pushed the boat out - 3 buns from Greggs. With Santas and reindeers on (?). And trick candles which will not be blown out. There is footage of this, which I'd be more than happy to upload and reveal myself to be the least cool person on the face of this earth, and possibly the most out of breath. Unless I can work out Blogger's little foibles, you'll just have to use your imagination. While you wait, feast your eyes on the envelope my card came in:

Yes, it's a drawing of a big, veiny penis by a lesbian artsist who has a surprising...ahem...'grasp' of the subject matter. And some Xmas buns - in November.

(Postscript: on my recent trip up North, I was doing a spot of charity shop trawling, when I heard an unmistakeable voice. I turned around to discover my old friend Nick Sykes, who I haven't seen for years. This is the man who bought me a ticket to my first ever out-of-town gig, The Jesus And Mary Chain at Leeds University. He also nicknamed me 'Bunman', because I always had a bun or bit of cake wrapped up in foil or paper in my handbag. Almost 30 years have past...some things never change.)

Eilen Jewell: Gem In A Precious Setting

Ooh, I love a quiz, me. This week, I had my thinking (flat)cap on when answering a potentially ticket-prize-winning question posed by the fiendishly smart quizmeisters at 5000 Presents:

Q: How many wheels does a standard wheelbarrow have?

I confess - I had to have a little think. They can be a bit tricksy, those 5000 chaps, and I thought it may be a cunning plan to confuse us simple folks. No need to have worried. I stuck with my gut instinct of:

A: One

Lo and behold, I was the lucky winner of two tickets to a show of my choosing (look, okay, so maybe I am friends with the quizmaster - but I maintain I won those tickets fair and square, with a correct answer, in the time-honoured fashion. I'm also reliably informed by an official adjudicator that answers of 'two', 'three' and 'four' were submitted - seriously). And my choice of prize? The rather excellent blues-meets-country sultry sounds of an Eilen Jewell show at Cecil Sharp House.

Taking along McG as my guest (his lady Bernie to join us later), we were treated to yet another excellent show here in this lovely venue. I seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time at CSH these days, but it's most definitely a good spot to hang out. Playing to a packed-out room, the atmosphere still feels cosy and intimate. Right from the off, the joint was jumpin', courtesy of sassy Ms Jewell and her excellent band (top drumming, thumping double bass and some fine electric guitar). People danced in the aisles - yup, they got out of their comfy seats and jigged about.

We were treated to new songs from her latest album "Queen Of The Minor Key", some old songs from "Sea Of Tears", a couple from her tribute album to Loretta Lynn (a cracking "Fist City"), all topped off with a much requested and shrieked-for title song from her first album "Boundary County". She can crank it right up when she wants your toes tapping, take it right back down when she wants your heart to ache. And she's a charmer - clever off-the-cuff wit between songs have a smitten audience curled up in the palm of her hand. Anyone not smart enough to know that a wheelbarrow only has one wheel was more than happy to part with their hard-earned for the privilege of being there.

http://www.eilenjewell.com/bio.cfm

(Oh, bog off. I know the post title's a bit wanky but I couldn't resist.)

The Life Of Riley

Prepare yourselves...

That's right. It's me. Holding a baby.

Last time I tried this, I'm told by the parents of the little girl baby I had a hold of that she'd never cried quite as much before. Absolutely bawled her eyes out. Gained me the nickname Wicked Witch Of The North (could have been the pin I stuck in her from under my velvet cloak *laughs in manner of evil pantomime villain*).

When my dear pal Smiff told me she'd managed to get herself up the duff, I was utterly thrilled. My little mate had a wonderful man, a sweet little house, wanted for nothing. Except the patter of those tiny plates of meat. Then, along came Riley to make their life complete.

I warned my old pal well in advance. Honesty being far too important to me, I'd have a job on pretending if the cruel hand of Fate dealt her an ugly mite. What a bloody relief. He appeared and he wasn't a gargoyle in the slightest, but rather cute, right from the off, not remotely Winston Churchill at all. I didn't even have to lie.

Daft amount of cute in one human.

He's going to have a lovely life, wee Riley. The lucky little blighter, he's been born into a happy house, with two of the kindest, most warm-hearted people I know for parents. He'll be talked to properly, know his place, not get ideas above his station, and certainly not think the world revolves round him (ok, well maybe a bit). What's even better is, that although they're a right pair of softies, they won't put up with any nonsense and he'll have a strict upbringing (when discussing what Riley will be calling grandparents "nana", "granny" etc, Marc said he expected to be called "Sir" by his son - he was only half-joking).

"Don't bloody drop me, Sir."

And my life advice for the wee fella? I'd probably tell him "well, mate, some shit stuff will happen, but loads of good stuff too. Don't act like a knob, or you'll have me to answer to. Be nice to your Mum and Dad - you only get one actual set, and yours are a pair of gems", and many other excellent pearls of wisdom. But I might save my words for a few years yet. He's too busy thinking about breasts at the moment (one thing unlikely to change with the coming years).

Sam Amidon & Magic, Our Morris

Those lovely people at Pull Up The Roots teamed up with the equally smashing folks at 5000 Presents last night, treating those smart enough to have a ticket to a packed show at London Town's folk mecca, Cecil Sharp House.

Arriving a little early, and with it being a bit on the parky side, me and Nads headed straight downstairs for a steaming cup of tea and the most enormous bit of sponge cake from The Nice Green Café. There's been a definite improvement at the CSH café in the last few years - it used to look a bit on the glum side, but nothing a lick of paint and a bit of cheery bunting couldn't fix (and I should know - I am, after all, expert on triangular-shaped-stuff-on-a-string).

Mmmmm. And a nice bit of Anthony Burrill too.

Two acts on the bill - first onstage, Rachel Dadd. I've heard Rachel before, but I've not had the pleasure of seeing her live. She's an odd little creature and at first I couldn't quite work her accent out. It seems this may be because she spends much time living in Japan, so maybe she picked up an inflection. Bristolian mixed with Japanese - not a combo you hear every day. She has a sweet voice, clear and pure - I like it when she's accompanied by a clarinetist, it works well. I've quite a fondness for fairylike creatures sporting odd knitwear too, me.

Just before the main attraction, I catch Howard Local in the foyer. There is a slight altercation, when he threatens to twat me with his iPhone - but it's just high jinks and I live to tell the tale. The Local are Sam Amidon's booker for UK shows and I'm very glad they are. Thanks to them, I've seen Sam three times in the past six weeks. The first time I ever saw Sam play was at a sold-out Bush Hall a few years ago - a dream bill of Thomas Bartlett, David Thomas Broughton and Sam Amidon (and a spot of Nico Muhly). They were spectacular, particularly when they collaborated on one song, with DTB wandering round the audience to sing, creeping up behind me, making me jump by hitting a high note right in my ear. Top.

Fond memories.

Aside from EOTR this year, I also saw Sam perform at a special Sunday screening of Tim Plester's documentary 'The Way Of The Morris' at The Phoenix cinema in Finchley a couple of weeks ago. If you get chance, and are even remotely interested in the rich heritage of folk music in our country and the traditions surrounding it that deserve celebration and keeping alive, then watch this beautifully and lovingly crafted film. Tim Plester is a funny, smart cookie - he's created a lovely paean to the country tradition of Morris dancing, telling a poignant tale of his own family's Morris involvement in the Oxfordshire village of his birth. It's charming, funny, human and not remotely dry or dull. Had me welling up at one point (and I know I wasn't alone). Sam played a live set after the film - think a few of the old folkers in the audience didn't quite see the fun in Sam going a bit Les Dawson on his fiddle at one point, but it tickled me.

http://www.wayofthemorris.com/

Sam's set last night at CSH was the best I've seen him play. He holds me spellbound from the second he takes to the stage. Not just because he's obscenely talented (he plays guitar, fiddle and banjo - all of them superlatively well), but because I know there's a fiercely super-bright mind in that head, and he has a verbal performance to match his musical virtuosity. He goes off on a lengthy monologue about being in the woods late at night, searching for inspiration for writing a book - this tale just builds and builds, and seems a little unhinged, but then he brings it back to earth, it's all so cleverly done and I can't take my eyes off him, compelled to watch, wondering what he'll do or say next.

**NEWSFLASH - WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST WITH A 'WHAT THE FUCK?'**

I was just doing a bit of a nosy round for a nice pic of Sam, or bit of footage of him being brilliant on some instrument or another, when I saw a headline on The Quietus telling me the Jeff Mangum ATP in December has been moved to March next year. I'm most displeased, but will restrain my ire in case someone (Jeff or his family) is in the midst of some awful crisis. I sincerely hope that's not the case.

If, on the other hand, I find out it's cancelled because Mr Mangum has forgotten the chords to 'Two-Headed Boy' and is suffering a spot of stagefright, I'm posting him a mousetrap in a jiffy bag. Or much worse.

**NORMAL SERVICE WILL RESUME SHORTLY**

Sorry, where was I? Oh yes, a big wordwank about Sam Amidon.

His performance is aided by appearances from Chris Vatalaro on drums (very good, nice use of hands and brushes), then some dude who Sam reckons played the organ at Will & Kate's Big Fat Royal Wedding this year (not sure this was true - but the chap could certainly play his tiny keyboard beautifully), and then some bird who turned up at the hall at about 9pm pushing a baby in a pram. Turned out to be bloody voice-of-an-angel Beth Orton (confession time - I frowned severely at pram and child appearing in the hall, thinking "who brings a baby out at this time? Idiots."). I'm treated to two of my favourite songs, 'Wedding Dress' and 'Saro', and my evening is at a perfect end.

Just beautiful.

Leaving the venue, I bump into the very charming Will Pull Up The Roots. The last time I saw him was at Luminaire's funeral and I was much the worse for wear (and booze). This clearly hasn't ruined our friendship, as he gifts me a bit of forthcoming secret gig info which almost has me skipping all the way home. I'm a lucky girl and it was a very lovely evening.

http://www.pulluptheroots.co.uk/

(Postscript: whilst scoffing that cake and drinking the tea, I was pleased to see that Morris dancing classes were taking place in one of the small halls by the café. And as I peeked through the glass door, I see my dear pal Northern Tim with hankies in hand, strutting his Morris stuff. This only made my evening more complete. Having watched the 'Way Of The Morris' documentary so recently, then to see the tradition of Morris dancing being kept alive by a thoroughly good bloke (with the most excellent taste in original 70s denim and suede) made me really happy. Keep up the good Morris work, our Tim - I promise I won't pull your leg about it ever again...because it might have bells on.)

http://www.efdss.org/

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cecil_Sharp

Head Cat: Röcking From Cover To Cover

Mr Ian Kilmister has teamed up with his old mate Slim Jim Phantom of The Stray Cats, and Danny B. Harvey of The Rockats. This cocktail of bootlace ties, Levis and quiffs make up The Head Cat.

It's late on Sunday evening and I've just watched the best covers band I'll ever see. Eddie Cochran, Gene Vincent, Johhny Cash, Robert Johnson, Buddy Holly, Dale Hawkins, Carl Perkins - Lemmy and the lads played the lot. Even a sweet cover of my Little Walter fave, My Babe. At one point, Lemmy rasps "tonight, Slim Jim, for you - Opportunity Knocks!" and we get a corking Stray Cats 'Rock This Town'. There's a few bits of off-timing, but as the man from Motörhead so charmingly puts it "we haven't practiced this one too much, so if we fuck it up, sorry", and frankly, it's Lemmy, so no-one really gives a stuff whether they fuck it up or not.

If there is such a thing as a working men's club in the Hollywood Hills, then I think I've witnessed their house band. And Head Cat would be one turn definitely worth paying your subs for.

My F*cking Blog by Miss Tourette

A very nice man I know (I admire him, and also his work) tells me he enjoys reading my blog. He likes how I write. I'm very flattered, because he's rather a clever chap and busy, busy, making it all the more rewarding that he finds the time to take a look. He did, however, mention the amount of swearing. Not in an admonishing way. No, he merely commented.

And so, I think I'm going to try to give up the swearing. I mean, it's not like I'm ever stuck for words, and I seem to manage without resorting to profanity when speaking to parents/policemen/the vicar. Seriously, I think I can do this thing. Provided I don't have to travel by tube, be near any screaming kids or babies, and hopefully none of you lot piss me off.

Oh, bollocks.

FUCK!

*sigh*

Seems it's not going to be so easy after all. Perhaps he'll have to admire me for my other written skills, such as spelling proficiency, excellent punctuation and correct use of the word myriad.

"She had myriad swearwords in her huge verbal arsenal, and used them all with verve and fucking panache."

http://people.howstuffworks.com/swearing.htm

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Profanity

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roger's_Profanisaurus

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modern_Toss

(Postscript: Roger's Profanisaurus / Modern Toss - swearing and profanity taken to another level. Check them out and be prepared to laugh like a drain - unless you're not amused by puerile, childish potty humour. If that's the case, you're reading the wrong blog, love.)

Calm After The Daily Storm: Viking Moses

A stormy Friday, mentally speaking. But, as ever with a storm, the calm followed, and I was lucky enough to find myself this evening, beer in hand, sighing sighs at one of the nicest gatherings I think The Local has put on for ages.

Arrived at King's Place - this bright, modern venue isn't to my usual dark and dingy taste, but tonight, I find the vast, cavernous, airy space instantly soothing. Going back to their early acoustic/folk roots, The Local has put on a trio of artists that had me overexcited and booking tickets weeks ago. Fortunately, the anticipation didn't kill me and it was well worth the wait.

Rob St John took the stage and picked his guitar beautifully. He has an unusual voice, maybe somewhere between the lovely Ginger Angel, David Thomas Broughton, with perhaps a slight hint of the Karen Daltons about him (if that doesn't seem too odd). He's joined on stage for a couple of songs by Mr Viking Moses himself on piano. Just lovely.

Plays guitar like a dream, likes cats. All good.

This was followed by the usual stunning performance by Birdengine. He has the most amazing range vocally, and a clarity and depth on high notes that I don't hear often enough. And the fella's witty. I mean really funny. The most dry, droll sense of humour. I'm not entirely sure some of the audience get him, but his oddball musings have me struggling to suppress the giggles between songs.

Am hoping the 'cutting heads off dogs' lyric isn't based on fact.

How to better that? Well, let's try a finale that I've been looking forward to for ages. Brendon Massei is Viking Moses, with melodies that tug right at your heart, a voice that melts it, and lyrics that break it. It took an emotional battering by Mr Moses, my poor, little, easy-to-bruise heart - but it was worth the bittersweet pain. Wonderful piano-playing, some charming stories and a winning smile made the most sublime end to the evening - and a truly special rendition of Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" to finish, which brought a wee lump to my throat.

Sublime.

And the audience were utterly silent during each performance. Not a fucking peep. It was a joy. Perfect.

After the gig, there's a wander down the road towards King's Cross, chatting with Mr Moses on the way (he's a real sweetheart), discussing his previous trouble getting into the country to play (Customs wouldn't let him in - the idiots - and we were gutted, particularly McG, who couldn't come tonight either - he's double gutted, my poor pal), then into some pub on York Way for a quick nightcap. Saying goodbye, I realised that Rob St. John plays with Meursault! It's a tiny music biz world, it transpires. And then Mr Moses kissed my hand as farewell - creating the swoonlike effect I seem prone to - I'm such a massive sucker for that old-fashioned gentlemanly stuff. Lovely end to a very special evening.

(Postscript: that wasn't the actual end. Oh no, there was more - a bitter end, if you will. Receiving a text from Mr Local whilst on my bus back, I veered from my safe path home to a rendezvous in a Crouch End bar, where my evening nosedived in the most hilarious way. By now, it's about half past midnight. Perched on a couple of bar stools, chinwagging and having a nice quiet beer, we watched agog as some Craig David-ish chap appeared out of nowhere (bit like Mr Benn's shopkeeper) brandishing an acoustic guitar, and then proceeded to play / murder "Wonderwall" R 'n' B stylee. And the whole bar sang along. All, that is, apart from two stunned Northerners, who nearly fell off their bar perches in astonishment. From the truly sublime to the utterly ridiculous in under two hours. Must be some sort of record.)

They agree. It's going in The Guinness Book,

followed by a quick blast of Roy Castle on his trumpet.

Paddy, Bert and Anji

I had to partake of the London transport system at rush hour this morning. To describe my feelings at approximately 09.15 would involve a level of swearing not even I can condone (abridged: "shit", "shite", "arseholes", "bastards" - it got worse after that). I am, however, from up North, and made of stern stuff. Can't be letting the Tube / general public get the better of me. All my pent-up grrrrr was swept away on arrival for a portfolio show at Mercury Music with their creative director, the very wonderful Tom Bird. I'm stating here that I've nicknamed Mr Bird the Grace Coddington of Mercury - charming and stylish, they're lucky to have someone like that at the helm. Lovely man. Nicest meeting I've had for ages.

(I mention Grace Coddington because Tom and I discussed the documentary about US Vogue editor Anna Wintour, 'The September Issue'. Grace is definitely the beauty behind Wintour's business-head beast. I own a book called 'Grace - 30 Years At Vogue'. It was an extravagant gift from a lovely man for my birthday years ago (he spazzed £75 on it). I was astonished to be informed a few weeks back, by a clever lady-in-the-know about fancy books / publishing, that this book is now selling for over £1000. Yes, you read that right. A THOUSAND BLOODY ENGLISH POUNDS. Almost passed out. Not for sale, mind - it's a beautiful and precious-to-my-heart tome.)

I could buy 100,000 Black Jack chews if I sold it.

Tempting.

Rush back to the office to arrange for my setbuilders to lay Olympic running track in a cavernous venue in glamorous Slough for a shoot on Friday. The subject will be Oscar Pistorius, the South African man who runs on carbon fibre blades, after a congenital disease he had as a kid made amputation of both legs necessary. I wish I could attend - I'd love to see the man nicknamed 'Blade Runner' and "The Fastest Man On No Legs' doing his stuff.

Blade Runner - bet he could thrash Rutger Hauer.

Evening falls - a special screening of Paddy Considine's Tyrannosaur at The Phoenix, with a director's Q&A treat. Arrived in plenty of time, wolfed down some chocolate, settled into my perfect centre back-row seat. Perfect, that is, until a giant, with a head the size of a frigging pumpkin, sat in the seat in front of me. Watch out come Hallowe'en, mate. Some kid might scoop your brain out and pop a candle inside. I have to get up and sit on the wooden bench right at the back. What an unexpected result. I can see everything and don't have to hear the popcorn eaters. There is a cinema god.

I'm not doing a spoiler. The film is on general release from Friday - go and see it. Perhaps you can hazard a guess - Paddy directed it and the main character is played by Peter Mullan. Correct - it's a musical comedy with dancing girls and bunny rabbits.

Bit like this, but with cheap vodka, council houses and a pitbull terrier.

The Q&A that followed was entertaining and exhilarating. If you've seen Paddy act in anything (most likely in one of his many collaborations with director and old college friend, Shane Meadows), you'll probably grasp that here is a man who feels passionate about anything he undertakes. Not one for half measures, never half-hearted, you truly get a sense of this when he talks about the process of making this film. What I like most about Paddy Considine is how uncompromising he is. You just know he has an honesty and integrity perhaps not always prevalent in the world of film-making. The word 'bullshit' pops up a lot. I don't think it's something he talks himself, and you can safely say he won't put up with it from anyone else.

He also has Olivia Colman and Eddie Marsan on stage with him (no Peter Mullan, which is a shame, because his performance is extraordinarily good). Olivia Colman plays the long-suffering Sophie in Peep Show, a fine comedy actress. She's a revelation in Tyrannosaur. Reckon it's pretty safe to say viewers of the film are in for a bit of a surprise as they watch her character unravel. You may know Eddie Marsan as Lestrade in the latest Sherlock Holmes, but perhaps it's better that I reference him as the nutter of a driving instructor from Mike Leigh's Happy-Go-Lucky with Sally Hawkins. Expect something along those lines in Tyrannosaur, but he's definitely upped the nasty ante this time...

When I leave the cinema, I plan to come straight home to write this blog, I'm so bowled over by the entire evening. I'd had a previous offer to go to see Meursault in Hoxton after the cinema, they're a band I've been trying to see for ages (and are good enough to have wangled their way onto McG's The Funeral Playlist™). But I thought "no, get yourself home for a bit of writing and a nice, early night". Then, I saw the text from my old friend K. He tells me Bert Jansch is dead. I find this news a shock to read and so sad-making. I saw Bert perform at The Spitz some years back with Beth Orton and it was sublime. So now, I'm thinking "fuck it - go to Hoxton", and I do.

And I'm so glad I do. I arrive breathless at 10pm (well done, Northern Line), with 10 mins to spare, meet up with some great people, finally get to see Meursault, who, as a finale, say "it might be a bit cheesy, but we'd like to dedicate this one to Bert Jansch", but it isn't cheesy and it makes me well up a bit (cos I'm daft like that). And they start with strains of 'Anji' which was a signature tune for Bert, then it segues into a quiet then thunderous crescendo of their own, which is superb.

Then, I really did come home to write this blog. And, writing it, I listened to a favourite album of many years, 'Bert and John' created in the year of my birth by two greats of the guitar. What a pairing, what an album.

RIP, the quite wonderful Mr Jansch.