Leonard Street Royal Wedding Party: Regal Kingsize

In honour of the Royal nuptials, Jon and Andy of The Book Club ganged up with The Griffin pub to have a bit of a knees-up. It looked a bit like this:

Wedding Breakfast

Wedding Cakes

She pays my wages, she can wear what the fuck she likes

When Pearly Queen Angela said I should buy those 60s brown snakeskin shoes from the vintage stall, I did. I'm all for taking style advice from a woman decked out in buttons.

I can say without fear of contradiction that most of this lot were here for the beer.

Following a few hours of right regal boozing, suspecting the carnage to follow and to avoid witnessing Shoreditch's finest spewing their Pimms into their trilbys, I headed off for some very fine BBQ hospitality chez Bernie and Kieran (usual excellent spread) and some very fine chat. This included discussions of top 5 one-night-stands of choice. Anyone in the world, just for one night. I won't list the choices made. I mused upon the choice of sleeping with an over-60, thinking Bill Nighy and Sir Paul Smith. When Kieran came back out of the house and was asked who he'd do if he had to sleep with an over-60, he swiftly replied, "me Dad". We laughed a really, really lot. And then Nana revealed her wedding knickers, which I think I framed beautifully in shot, using the assorted nibbles to dress the set:

I'm looking for a one-liner involving either dipping or good crack.

Graveyard: The Band That Time Forgot

Thank you, Saint Bridget, patron saint of Swedishness. Thank you for reliable cars and cheap flatpack furniture. But at the top of that carburetor and MDF heap, let's place hairy gods of all things 70s, Graveyard.

It started off gentle. I meandered into town, bought a Guardian (there's a G2 Entirely Unofficial Royal Wedding Special, illustrated by my faves Modern Toss, with pieces by Charlie Brooker and John Crace - er, how do? I'm thinking they'll be talking my language), and had a wander into a fave drinking hole (The Angel at St. Giles' Circus). Caught up with the heavy fraternity for a pint.

Blondie arrived, looking foxy as ever, followed swiftly by Nads. And so, off to the Borderline. Had a minor skirmish with Ticketweb today - ordering tickets to a gig 9 days in advance seems not long enough for Ticketweb/Royal Mail to deliver. I've been told by some smart Alec that Royal Mail is far too cheap (this came in the same week he posted me a firewire cable which didn't arrive due to insufficient postage payment attached - touché, my friend), but I'm just blaming a general crapness in this instance. But all's well that ends well, etc...

I digress. We arrived just in time to see Mr. Bill Steer's Firebird take the stage. And very good too. Firebird are a bunch of metal/70s blues hybrids with added funk. I love it when Bill plays his harp (I mean blues mouth-harp, not some bloody Joanna Newsome nonsense), and when he shreds his guitar, there's an element of Mr Rory Gallagher, which is always a winner in my 70's book (it's no secret - I have a soft spot for Mr Steer - but I often wonder if he ever brushes his hair).

There's some fat chewing at the back to follow. At one point, the members of Sweden's finest four appear. I vaguely remember saying things along the lines of, "Oh. God. Really?", followed, by "Really. God." and someone else saying, "Gosh." and then another "Wow.". Let's face it - Graveyard render Ladies a tad speechless. It's like every hairy-heavy-handsome-lean-mean-skinny bicep-tight flared jean-70s-esque dream machine come true. And my Lord, they're lean - these boys don't eat chips. Or anything at all, probably.

Heavy, but not due to overeating

As ever, they don't disappoint soundwise. They have it down to a tee and they're tight (a tight tee - with bulging biceps - and tattoos - oh god, I'm off again...). The whole place loves it - top heavy played through Hudd's finest (can't help but be pleased that many of my fave bands play through Orange amps). They are LOUD as ever.

When it's over (too soon), there's a lot more chit-chat - I have an excellent 70s cheesecloth conversation with top fella Lee Rise Above (he's just back from a stint in Japan with Cathedral - I'm pleased he went - so many bands have understandably cancelled in the wake of the terrible natural disasters there, but I think the old nihilist in him would never have ducked out). And then the Crobar is mentioned, and I can feel the heavy hangover already.

(Postscript - having been rendered semi-deaf by their last appearance in the UK (Luminaire May 09), I can safely say that the need for earplugs at a Graveyard gig is a must. Forgot earplugs this time again. Now fucked - aurally, at least.)

An Egg-ceptional Easter Sunday

I love banging one out before midnight (blog, that is).

Well, I don't know about you, Jesus, but I'm having a corking Easter.

Following Friday's egg-cellent evening with The Ladies (get used to the egg shit - it's not stopping any time soon), I spent a quiet Saturday with Dr Smith chit-chatting, followed by more of the bunting thing. This was made considerably easier by having a plan. Said plan consisted of me doing fabric prep indoors, followed by a few hours of cutting triangles out in the park, sitting in the lovely sun.

Seriously, bunting has taken over the fucking world. I predicted this about 3 years ago (ask Howard Local) and bless me, if it ain't come back to bite me on the arse. Not only am I making the stuff in my every waking hour, but the word is printed everywhere I read. I'm blaming That Bloody Wedding/The Festival Of Britain/Nostalgia Wankfest.

Spent a lovely afternoon (following a self-disciplined morning of triangle sewing) on the Southbank. Met up with Dr Smith again, replacing yesterday's coffees with cocktails and wine. No idea where three hours went sitting on the terrace in the sun, but it did and it was lovely (suspect chat and setting the world to rights may have had a hand). Suddenly, it's 18.20hrs and I have to scoot. The whole point of me being here is to see Peeping Tom at the BFI. Kiss Dr Smith goodbye and leg it as fast as my tiny heels will carry me.

Arrive breathless at the BFI to discover my film is sold out. What a total knobhead I am. It's a brand new print of the film, there's only two showings and the other is sold out already - why didn't I book??? I am egg-sasperated. The lovely young man behind the desk registers the dismay, but there is no seat to sell me. I walk away. But no, I think (fuelled by a desperation to see this wonderful film on the big screen...and booze), try again, ask again. So, I asked again. And he laughed. "We've even sold the wheelchair seats", he said, with a smile. He read my mind. Very funny. Then, he said, "go ask the girl on front-of-house, someone might not have turned up". So I did - and someone hadn't, bless them, Baby Jesus. And so, film Cinderella went to her Michael Powell ball. For FREEEEEEEE!!! And in an amazing seat. Sometimes, Life can be very serendipitous and kind (not often, but all the sweeter when it is).

Came out of the film (finally seen it on a big screen - knowing this film ruined Powell's career is heartbreaking - were we really so backward back then? Written by Leo Marks - years ago, I bought my Dad his book, Between Silk And Cyanide, about his cryptography work in WWII, not realising he'd written such a groundbreaking fiction/screenplay) and saw the lovely Edilaine (my kind front-of-house fairy godmother) and she waved and did thumbs up. I thumbed up back. Egg-static.

As I meandered back to Charing Cross, I noticed a text off Mr Local inviting me to hook up with him and friends. So, back to Crouch End and The Queens pub for a nightcap. When I get there, I'm thrilled to meet up again with Neil. Neil is a very funny man, and I believe he books the bands for the Reading/Leeds festival. I'm not sure - my experiences with Neil so far involve pub quizzes and football. Tonight, it turns out Neil has a piece of history in his pocket. Back in the mid 80's, Neil (lefty leaning - good bloke) was rather anti-Thatcher but with a sharp sense of humour (it hasn't left him). Following the bombings in Tripoli, Neil wrote to Colonel Gaddafi asking him to send money and tanks to help wipe Mrs Thatch out (he called himself General Neil - I'm almost crying just writing this stuff).

It's a long story. It involves Billy Bragg, who's a good friend of his. Neil's a funny man and he tells it very well. I can't do it justice here (in fact, If I'm not careful I may bore myself to death, and you too, dear Reader). But here's where it gets good. Neil got a reply to the letter. The letter that he posted in Crouch End Post Office in the mid 80's. A letter he addressed by watching the BBC news on the bombing, seeing the Jon Snow-esque map drawn on the screen to show where the BBC thought Gaddafi lived. Neil re-drew this map on the back of the envelope, so Postie would find the Colonel. The front of the envelope simply said "Colonel Gaddafi, Tripoli, Libya", a bit like a wee kiddie would send a letter to Santa.

The reply arrived and is addressed to General Neil. When he told me about this letter a few weeks ago, I thought he was making it up (we were rather drunk). But I've seen it now. And it's fo' real. It has been the icing on my Easter Egg cake (that's not actually a thing, but it should be - imagine cake/Easter Eggs mashing it up!).

It's been an egg-cellent weekend. If Easter Monday brings any more enjoyment, I might fucking pop. Or eggs-plode.

Not Just A Good Friday, A Great Friday

It's been a funny few weeks - bit full on, busy busy, lot on the mind - you know the Life score. Easter's here and now work's aside, I get to kick back in this baking sun. Or not, as bunting season is upon us, and I can't chuck that triangular shit out fast enough. So, although I should be sat in the park with my newspaper, I had to stay inside and sew. Sew a lot. I'm even getting grief from pals, suggesting I should stop "dicking about" and get on with the bunting. "Dicking about" is now the phrase du jour - a couple of us should know, we're masters of it.

I popped into POP to see Blondie today - it was lovely to see her, and we had a good old chinwag. Not seen much of my top woman recently, so we're bringing on the heavy with Sweden's finest this coming Wednesday, Graveyard are in town. Thank you, Lord in Heaven, for handsome heavy mercies (but please don't fuck my hearing up, boys).

Met up with a couple of The Ladies at The National Portrait Gallery this evening. Everyone knows this is my favourite gallery in London. My love of portraiture goes way back, but one of my perfect moments in this building has to be when my beloved boss and friend, James Day, won the final John Kobal prize. I was thrilled to hear that Lucy Local has moved on to curating the music for the Friday Late Shift evenings at NPG. She's a clever gal, Lucy, and fresh from her stint at the Barbican (and secondment to the Sydney Festival), she's now treating us to a host of superb musicians at the NPG, set amidst some great art.

I was a tiny bit late after my rendezvous with Blondie. A delicious glass of rosé awaited me in the lovely surroundings of the NPG Portrait Restaurant bar - what a view:

Sit with friends, drink booze, look at this. Yes, please.

Then, we popped downstairs to take in a bit of Olivia Chaney. She has a really beautiful voice and when she's joined by one of her gentlemen friends, I hear some truly stunning harmonising. A talented girl, Olivia - you can get the idea here:

http://www.themagpiesnest.co.uk/artists/olivia-chaney

As Olivia played her encore, we sneaked away, so we could enjoy a peaceful last hour or so taking in the Hoppé / Ida Kar exhibitions. This was a no brainer for me - portrait photography rules all, particularly when it captures the spirit of real people going about their everyday lives. My own entry into the professional photography world was in the realm of reportage, and like any first love, it stays dear to my heart.

Both exhibitions thrilled me - Hoppé, for his beautiful lighting, his choice of subject (not the celebrity portraiture - the real folks), and that he wrapped a Kodak Brownie in brown paper (you know I LOVE that) to keep his reportage low-key. Ida Kar for the simple portraits, framed in a timeless way, which really could have been taken merely weeks ago. I suddenly noticed how the bohemian art set of the 40's/50's wore fucking great spectacles. Man Ray, Bertrand Russell, Le Corbusier, Sartre - top frames, fellas.

I discussed this with the Ladies, as I've just taken receipt of my Tatum (Art - jazz dude, y'know) specs from Robert Roope. Robert is a lovely big old teddy of a man, he's an optician in St Albans - completely charming, I met him when, after research on getting specs, I discovered a man who loved jazz so much he'd designed a whole range based on the jazz greats of the 40's / 50's. He sells vintage too - lovely stuff:

http://www.roopevintage.com/

After discovering this, Specsavers just couldn't cut my mustard:

Not Eric Morecambe or Ronnie Corbett

Leaving the NPG, Vik went home to tend to Dr Green, so I introduced Nads to the only place we should head after a skinful of Soho 50's bohemian pics: The French House. I love this place (Dean St, if you're wondering) - the very first place ex-Boss Mr G brought me well over a decade ago, I fell in love with Soho right here (champagne may have had a hand/glass in it). Superb staff, and DO NOT use your mobile phone in here - you'll get chucked out (good rule, this). We had a few wee drinkies and some salty snacks - Leffe rules:

Le Subsist

Ended up on a continental roll on Hanway Street - Hola! On that very same day years ago when Mr G took me to The French House, he later introduced me to a bar with the finest vinyl jukebox, Bradley's Spanish Bar. Where else can you listen to 7" crackly vinyl of Eddie Cochran, Mamas and Papas, Howlin' Wolf, Joy Division and everything brilliant before/after? Whilst sitting on red dralon? With the smell of incense and ammonia from the men's bogs wafting up your nose? And some top ornaments?:

Spanish Cock Y Shire Horse

Heaven. Tonight, we were treated to some superb impromptu spanish guitar. All enhanced by a little San Miguel. We agreed - not just a Good Friday, but a Truly Great Friday.

The Boss: In Da 40 Club

Go, shorty - it's yo' birthday. We gon' party like it's your birthday. She 40.

Right, that's enough of that. I'm clearly not black, and the closest I've been to the projects was some fancy art installation at The Wapping Project (possibly not 50 Cent or Snoop's cup of tea).

What I'm trying to say is - The Boss from Blunt has joined the finest of clubs, the F-Word Club.

Spent Saturday evening celebrating the event in some mad little Japanese cellar bar in Clerkenwell. Packed with top cliterati and her nearest and dearest, The Boss partied like it was 1999, and pretty much every year before/since rolled into one. She was off her tits. The lovely Nat put up a gallery of pictures, showing The Boss at every stage of her 40 years. Hilarious stuff - who knew she'd had hair that big in the 80s? And a projector slideshow of the same kinda thing, all in glorious Technicolor.

During the course of the evening, I was offered some illegal indulgence which I politely declined; a hand in marriage which I politely declined; a lesbian affair which I politely declined; and a spitroasting by one top photographer and one top illustrator which I politely declined. You know who you are. If I'm even remotely at a loose end in the next few weeks, I may take one/all of you up on your kind offers.

There was a large, empty drinks fridge in the spill-over area, which became a feature of the celebrations as, one by one, the revellers took turns to cram inside it, Houdini-style, and have their pictures taken by the cream of London's photography world:

Two people in this photograph may, or may not, have offered to spitroast me

Some quite special dancing occurred. Pogoed to Blondie and Kim Wilde, jigged about to Sylvestre and Grace Jones (could it be any more camp?) - and oh boy, how I funked to Cheryl Lynn. I drew the line at Phil Collins, declaiming loudly (apparently) "I'm not dancing to that fucking baldy Tory drummer twat". NIce.

There was sambucca too. A lot of it. I never, ever learn.

It was the most sterling night - sushi, booze, disco, the biggest red velvet cake from Hummingbird Bakery - truly, a birthday fit for an old Queen.

But Is It Art?

Spring has brought some superb weather. I spent a lovely Sunday afternoon in the park - sunshine, blossom trees, tweety birds...dogshit, screaming kids, middle-class pricks - on average, good outweighing bad. Miss Brightside, me.

Nicer than a pic of dogshit

The Scot came to meet me. After a little lolling around, we popped back to Disgracelands to drop off my things before heading out for an evening of merrymaking. The Scot often has his camera to hand, keen to chronicle the varied and fascinating sights he encounters on his travels. Words can't begin to describe his delight when he came across this:

Once seen, burnt into your psyche forever. Trust me.

I've lived near this mural on Weston Park for the best part of 5 years. I've never really noticed it. I've certainly never noticed the fact that the blonde white baby appears to be carrying out an anal invasion on the black baby, while the ginger baby on the left points and looks on aghast. Minor Buggery. Right on my doorstep.

Here are the facts:

a) I am a total innocent, oblivious to filth and depravity, particularly when it comes cleverly disguised as art on a community centre wall.

b) The Scot is a sick and disturbed individual, intent on seeking out filth and depravity through his camera lens wherever he can find it.

c) This mural is comedy gold.

(Postscript: I pointed out the mural to the Brummie after our daily walk with Ralph the dog. She completely laughed her tits off. She's lived near the mural for longer than me and never noticed it either. She thinks The Scot is sick too. But in a good way.)

Spring: Gettin' Busy With It

Sometimes, I wonder where time goes. Well, I can tell you. It flies. When you’re having fun (and other stuff), that is. It’s been a busy start to Spring.

Popping into my favourite café one day for bunting chat, it turned out that Massimo was a little short-staffed. And so, my new temporary employ as waitress began. I managed to get through a whole Saturday and Sunday without major incident (apart from a little spilt milk, which I didn’t bother crying over). According to my new boss, I acquitted myself very well, and there’s a job for me if I decide to change career direction:

Small Helping

Lucky me, I was invited along to The Borderline to see Arbouretum play (by Anthea at Thrill Jockey records). I’d wanted to see them for a while, but the last time they played, I was away Down Under. So, I rocked up at The Borderline for an evening of heavy noodling. It’s a small world, this. I bumped into Michael Singing Adams, whose girlfriend Lucy also works at Thrill Jockey. I had no idea. I see them at so many gigs, but never knew what she did for her spending money. Thoroughly enjoyable evening - Arbouretum were well worth waiting for. I haven't seen a band look so pleased to be applauded in ages. They kept putting their thumbs up. I love this.

Somerset House was holding the second Pick Me Up, this year curated by a friend and graphic design favourite of mine, Anthony Burrill. Anthony is a clever man – his work is so simple, and often plagiarised. It’s a standing joke that my home is like a little museum of his work. Anthony very kindly gave me a really nice goody bag of his stuff and I bought a print by Linus Kraemer, depicting 360˚ of cake. I like cake, me.

Met Up with Helen P, Lou W and Scooter Steve (he wants to be known as this on my blog – just passed his bike test, he thinks Biker Boy sounds a bit on the camp side, and that pointing out he has a scooter is a little bit cooler, in an espresso-sipping/Dolce Vita kinda way. I've explained carefully that he won't get a new girlfriend by having a snappy moniker on my blog - getting a decent personality would work better). Saw The Boss from Blunt too. She was slightly worse for wear, having been up until 3am at a friend’s surprise birthday party. I think the only reason she came along was because Ian Stevenson, one of the very fine graphic artists Blunt represents, was part of the exhibition and doing a spot of DJing at the event. It was good to see Ian and his luxurious beard, whose work (his work, not the beard – the beard is brilliant, but its talent for art has yet to be discovered) is superb, funny and with a dark side that appeals to me greatly:

The Beard can't draw...yet

All this fun culminated in a massive piss-up at Aces and Eights. This is a relatively new bar by Tufnell Park tube station – painted black with diner-style booths, bit American dive bar, with a selection of decent whiskey and beer (LouLou - come back from NY soon - it's like Dick Manitoba's lite). There are a row of bras hung above the bar – I think the premise goes that if you hang up your bra, you drink for free. This was very tempting, as the imported ale I was necking was over £4 a bottle. Wisdom, however, decreed The Lads should stay in their lacy confines. It was a good night. Lots of old friends, some not so old, all good company. DJ played some top tunes, which culminated in me acting out, in bastardised sign language, the entire lyrics of Bat Out Of Hell. There was also a picking-up competition. Newly named Scooter Steve won this by trumping me, picking up both me AND Lou W at the same time. Like some mental Scales Of Justice. Hilarious.

I had a photoshoot for The Times at The Royal Albert Hall with Hamish. Hamish Brown is a well-known portrait photographer – he’s snapped pretty much every famous modern footballer you can imagine, and a whole heap of top musicians (his shots of Iggy and Dave Grohl are two of my favourites). It was a pretty straightforward shoot, but this didn’t stop me from having a bit of a sleepless night (will pre-shoot nerves ever go away?). It was a nice team on the shoot, all was going well. Until the schoolkids turned up. 200 of ‘em. With bongos:

Little bongo-bashing fuckers

My views on bongos are well documented. Bongos are fine when placed within musical arrangements, preferably as part of a combo, kept within a properly constructed tune. Not just fucking getting banged on randomly by some crystal-toting trustafarian outside his tent at a festival at 7am. Or, by some idiot standing right next to me on a train platform while I was trying to get to work in peace (fo' real - picture my indignation – if he hadn’t been so handsome, I’d have decked him). Needless to say, the acoustics in the RAH are excellent. So, try and imagine the aural hell for me as 200 little shits knock their skins about while I’m trying to work. Aaw, bless ‘em.

Luckily, I got out at a reasonable time, meaning that I could catch up with pals to see Pål. Pål being the Norwegian phenomenon that is Moddi. Met up with Kieran, Bernie, Nads and Scooter Steve (how long can I keep calling him that? It may get shortened to SS, but the worry there is if I put him in a black leather trenchcoat, he actually might look a bit Herr Flick). Benjamin Folke Thomas on first. He had a good voice, decent fingerpicking, and quite a good line in chat between songs. Moddi up next. He has a new cellist this time (I hear from The Scot this is a regular occurrence – ten a penny, these pretty and talented cellists in Norway, it would seem). His performance was excellent, but I think because I’d seen him do such an amazing set quite recently, it didn’t blow me away quite so much. Maybe it’s because I was so tired from my 5am start. Briefly saw The Scot and Ken, his music PR friend. Ken seemed quite pissed, The Scot didn’t. Hence, Ken was very funny and making some truly terrible jokes, which were rendered brilliant by their sheer crapness. Saw some of Ed Laurie, but by now I was flagging badly – I think I may have started to nod off…sorry, Ed.

Next night, we were very kindly invited by Elbow’s management to see them play at The O2 arena. I’m no fan of big gigs. I struggle with anything bigger than The Forum, it’s just not my cup of tea and most of the acts I want to see wouldn’t be playing somewhere like that anyway. And I've been listening to a lot of Bad Brains, not Elbow. But thanks to Hamish doing a sterling job on their recent PR shots, we were being treated and actually, a treat was in store.

Despite my reservations, it was a lovely experience. We travelled to the venue by riverboat; collected our treat tickets; sat in front row seats; watched a great band do some top songs; saw a witty, charming front man have an audience in his Northern palm; had a thoroughly good evening. I even shed a tear at one point (bloody pathetic – must get a grip, and also a bit more sleep).

All this fun has to have a downside – it came in the form of a two-day stomach bug with added flu symptoms. And so, as Spring has now officially sprung, I’ll be doing a little personal Spring cleaning. Which means nothing more racy or exciting than taking better care of my poor, fragile old body, getting fit (I'm in the market for new trainers and a tennis racket tomorrow) and maybe painting my toenails. Cos that’s how I Spring roll.