ATP I'll Be Your Mirror 2012: Orc 'n' Roll

The hottest day of 2012 so far brought an army of Orcs marching up the hill from the little rail station to its Mordor for the evening (Alexandra Palace - Day 1 of ATP's I'll Be Your Mirror). Oh, if only Mr Tolkien had thought of dressing Sauron's grotesque footsoldiers in Slayer t-shirts. It was a spectacular sight, and the two old blokes having a quiet game of pitch-and-putt obviously thought the same - they put their clubs down to watch the grim procession go by.

Napalm Death - on a bumbag. Honestly.

You can't really argue with Slayer. They do what they say on their thrash tin - loud, relentless, juggernaut metal. I've not seen hair windmilling at a gig for years. The last time was the Metalhammer Awards - we were invited guests on a pirate ship down the Thames (true), had to wear an eye patch to gain access to editor Alex Milas's private party (scary but true), where the lovely viking rockers Amon Amarth gave the best display of hair windmilling I've ever seen (completely true). I think this was the night that my pal Blondie patted Kerry King on his head. She patted King Slayer on his bald head. Blondie got balls.

King of The Orcs.

(I qualify windmilling as 'hair windmilling' because windmilling has many connotations, and only some of them relate to Mick Channon's famous football celebrations of the 1970s. Some of my other faves are right here: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=windmilling)

The second day of ATP became hijacked by football, with Huddersfield Town's visit to Wembley for the League 1 play-off final. A valiant attempt to heighten our home town's footballing achievements, gaining us access to playing teams in the Championship (bring on Millwall). In true HTFC fashion, it went to extra time, penalties, sudden death, then their goalie missed, ours scored. Triumph. Apparently, New Wembley has no pies but you can get a pizza with rocket on it, which Washy suggested was all "a bit bent".

Leaving the footy euphoria behind, my Day Two highlight was seeing Aidan Moffat and Bill Wells. Aidan Moffat is a wordsmith. He has a truly excellent beard. And he introduced one of his songs thus: "This song's about children. Cunts that they are." Aidan - marry me. (I saw him in the crowd later on. I think I may have told him I loved him, but I'm not really sure. Perhaps I just said "you were really great earlier".)

Oh, Aidan. You shouldn't have.

Following a large dose of Mogwai's wall of sound antics, my aching feet and I were heading off for sleepytime when I bumped into lovely John Doran of Quietus. He tells me his children (who I'm sure Mr Moffatt doesn't include in his aforementioned description of small folks) listened to a lot of Mogwai whilst in the womb and he thinks that's why they're so calm. Nothing to do with having a big, gentle Treebeard for a Dad at all, I'm sure.

When Day Three dawns, the scorching weather is clearly here to stay, and none of us have the oomph to be inside when there's lazing around to be done. What started as a party of six has dwindled to two, and the two are struggling to do anything other than lie on the grass, and look up at a stunning blue sky and the majesty of Ally Pally.

We manage a spot of Tall Firs (good) and Sleepy Sun (also good). And then there was one.

Being the last (wo)man standing came as a surprise. But I rose to the challenge by taking in a bit of The Make-up - WTF?!? Quite honestly, I wasn't really aware of The Make-up in the 90s, so definitely wasn't prepared for the preacher-man-Billy-Graham-meets-James-Brown antics of Ian Svenonius. He's fascinating to watch - I half-expected a spot of speaking in tongues.

Quite some finale followed - red velvet drapes are hoisted, an enormous mirror ball is positioned centre-rig, and The Afghan Whigs take the stage in a blaze of soulful rock glory. Greg Dulli is a superb frontman - a louche man-in-black, and the fella has some belting pipes on him. It's a Greatest Hits set, and when they finish with a rendition of 'Faded' which segues into Prince's 'Purple Rain', I find myself singing along with a high-pitched 'whoo-hooo-hooo-hooo".

It's a superb ending, and I know I've witnessed something pretty special, and I'm pleased and proud to still have the prerequisite staying power at my ripe old age.

Then, I went home for my Ovaltine.

LifeCycle

As I tip-tap away this evening, my dearest male pal, Mister Doc, will be furiously pedalling from the dark satanic mills of Huddersfield, speeding through England's green and pleasant land for a day or so, culminating in his triumphant return to his adopted home of Old London Town in time for Saturday afternoon tea. He's doing this shit for fun. And dragging some of his oldest mates along. I imagine this'll be a right laugh, coupled with a few sore muscles and arses along the way. Middle-aged men suddenly doing physically challenging stuff - it's not a crisis - really, it's not.


Yes, it's official - it's hip to bike.


Those nice folks at Rapha know what they're doing on the bike front - this lovely bit of film shows just that:

And it might not be the most up-to-date, but while we're on a Rapha tip, might as well have a quick gander at this - one of my dream older men, dapper PS himself, lover of all things two-wheeled (I had a moment with him once, about 20 years ago, as he walked past a Notting Hill restaurant I was having dinner in - lifetime crush ensued):

I'd let him win too.

A few years ago, when I was in-house stylist for the lovely James Day, we were asked to photograph PS's bike. I almost did a mess in my pants, because I foolishly thought that Sir Paul Smith would ride up, glistening in a nice single-breasted worsted, and I'd get to spend the day with him. Numbskull. The bike came by courier, lovingly covered in bubblewrap and brown paper (PS knows it's the ONLY paper to wrap in, daaahling). It sure was a pretty bike, though - I'd expect nothing less from Mr Style:

When I showed the bit of Team Rapha footage to our Mr Rogers, he suggested I ferret out what he called "the Daddy of all cycling films". It shows a long-distance road race in Quebec from 1965, 2400km covered in 12 days, a phenomenal feat - watch all of it - nice bit of swampy surf rock too:

He's a cycling fiend, Mr Rogers. Despite having suffered the most terrible injuries in a cycling accident himself last year, as soon as he was up on his feet, he worked on the short film that follows. I only found out about this the other day - it features a great character actor, Timothy Spall, who can easily reduce me to tears with his performance. Watching Mr Spall in this was no exception - had a right blub - and it only grows my admiration for a photographer who hasn't let his injuries hold him back:

Right, that's enough of the soppy stuff.


The chaps at Blunt have been busy snapping anyone who's anyone on a bike. Turns out Mark Cavendish is a sweetheart (bravo on today's Giro, sir), Sir Chris Hoy is enormous and Victoria Pendleton has buns of steel (official):

Top wheel shots by Satoshi

The Boss has a new bike. It's a lovely old Jack Taylor:

Next year, she's buying some wheels.

Of all the films I've posted here, this film about Jack Taylor and his brothers is the sweetest. A lovely 1970s period piece, the film follows this tiny family firm round their shabby Stockton-On-Tees workshop, with comparisons to a hi-tech Italian handbuild, or the mass production of the Raleigh factory. I know what I'd rather own:

6m 41s: "Norman Taylor checks frame alignment by eye and string." 

Brilliant.

And me? Me + bikes = trouble. A late adopter, never having cycled as a kid, it was my late teens before my then flame Mr C encouraged me in the pedal arts. He bought me an old bike, and suggested I give it a go. Ever open to suggestion, I did. Total shambles that turned out to be. It lasted one week. I managed the following:


Day 1: clipped curb with wheel, fell in heap on path.


Day 3: tried to turn right at junction, panicked at sight of oncoming car, swerved off road, crashed into welcoming tree.


Day 7 (my pièce de résistance): following an evening at a friend's house, Mr C and I set off, about 2am, to cycle home. I'd like to point out right now - I was most certainly NOT drunk. I didn't, however, have any lights on my bike. Mr C ventured that we try and get off the main road as soon as possible. Just as we were approaching the safety of our chosen diversion, I spotted a police car heading straight for us down the main road. "Quick, follow me!" called Mr C, as he whizzed off down the side road. I made a valiant attempt to follow as bid, but was shitting myself so much, fear of a night in the cells for being in possession of a light-less Raleigh Shopper, that I looked behind me to see if Plod was chasing me...and rode really bloody fast straight into the back of a parked car. Smashed my face on the back windscreen, bust my lip, crumpled into a snivelling mess in the middle of the road. Police car pulls up, them absolutely pissing themselves, "Well, what happened there?" they guffawed. I could only blub that I thought I might get into trouble, sobbing, blood running down my cheek. "Only trouble of your own making, love. Now, keep off that thing before you do yourself a serious mischief." Wise words, officer. And I've stuck with that advice ever since.


(Postscript: as my oldest friend is hurtling towards London on his bike, he'll be celebrating his birthday. A couple more birthdays deserve a mention - two other wonderful Taureans I've known and loved, sadly no longer here. My dear friend Tabby - we should be getting smashed with you, 40 today, having a ball. And, for tomorrow, my Dad - I miss you every single day.)