My Month In The C(o)untry

Yes, yes. Sorry. My month-long absence has been noted and I’m touched by your concern – but I’ve been busy, see? Thank you for caring. But worry not – I haven’t gone all Kenny Fucking Powers. I may have been Eastbound but I’m definitely not Down. It’s okay out East, it really is. In fact, it’s free entertainment – a big circus fashion freakshow for me to delight in. So, blogstuff is back and so am I. Right - wha'ppenin'? Well, let’s abridge this last month, you mofos, or we’ll be here all day.

The move East - if you have shit to move, use Butlers of Crouch End – the most efficient, wisecracking, music-loving removal men you could ever wish to meet.

Town Hall Hotel: a lovely Saturday meeting here with our dear snapper Colin Lane, over from NY to shoot Karima Francis for Mercury Records. It’s a beautiful old building, retaining so many gorgeous Art Deco features (you know what a sucker I am for that flapper era shit).

Deco lovely.

I have to say that, although the building is completely stunning, it’s frequented by a crowd too hip for my poor eyes, and the brunch (‘brunch’ – fuck off) we ate left me completely fucking starving. When we left Colin and the fashion brigade behind, The Boss, Nat, Dean and I went to a proper pub, drank ale, ate pie and mash, played Scrabble. Now, that’s what I call a Saturday afternoon.

He's better at pictures than words.

Chris Smither show at Cecil Sharp House: this took place in the same week that the Blues turned 100 – (un)Happy Birthday, Blues. Smart lyrics from Mr Smither and wry gravel-voiced wit between songs made this girl glad of a spur-of-the-moment decision to attend (courtesy of the generosity of those nice promoters at 5000 Presents).

Aubin cinema: I have a new place to worship film (actually, there’s another, but more of that later). Beneath a fashionable clothes shop in terribly fashionable Redchurch Street, there’s a little spot where you can stretch your legs out and view those celluloid dreams in comfort. It ain’t cheap, but boy, it’s worth it.

http://www.aubincinema.com/

Savages: I’ve turned into a girl-group groupie. I can’t get enough of these ladies. Hence my attendance at two shows this month (Queen of Hoxton and Hoxton Bar/Grill/Kitchen/Whatever). I happen to know they’re busy recording in sunny Brighton right now – get ready for good times this Summer, ears.

http://popnoire.com/

ATP – like a rock ‘n’ roll Saga holiday. You know you’ve hit a certain age when at least two of your party bring their slippers on the trip. Ate shit food all weekend - HP managed two foot long hotdogs in a day, prompting the comment that there was a very good chance she had a couple of 12" sausages inside her.

The highlights (not the grey hair count – off the Zimmer scale) came from Jon Spencer (Plastic pants? Really? Well, only because it’s you), who rocked us so hard at 2am, I left the vast ballroom having raised more than just a sweat; the appearance of a still very youthful David Yow and his Scratch Acid – watching a man of 52 have more energy than lead singers half his age, launch himself into the audience, not giving a shit if he gets caught by the loving arms of the moshpit, belting song after song out – a punk rock joy to behold; and the inevitable worship of the reclusive Mr Mangum, our host for the weekend – it turned into a huge Sing-A-Long-A-Mangum, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had all gone a bit Waco, I felt like I’d inadvertently stumbled into a cult gathering.

The only downside recently is that Little Mum took a tumble a couple of weeks ago, breaking her ribs and creating a major upset and panic within my head. I took to the booze that evening at a Savages gig – four whole bottles of Blue Moon beer – crazy – and mildly embarrassed myself by waffling on to nice Phil Stoolpigeon (I much admire your funny and well-written newspapaer, I honestly do - http://www.thestoolpigeon.co.uk/), who must think I’m a nutter, thus making The Scot laugh heartily at my verbal idiocy. It almost put me off boozing.

Almost.

But not quite. I’ve finally found a decent local boozer where I can do my teatime pint/crossword/crisps combo in peace. They play CSNY / The Beach Boys / Hendrix / other fine old tunes, sell decent beer, and if I can be out of there by 7.15pm, it’s quiet and not full of fuckwits in red jeans. Result.

http://lookatmyfuckingredtrousers.blogspot.co.uk/

In other news: I've been mad busy at work. Sorting a shoot in Bulgaria for Hamish Brown to photograph a well-known footy player-turned celluloid gangster turned into a logistical nightmare, but all good in the end. Busy I may be, but we're never too busy for art at Blunt - my latest creation utilising the canvas of the Boss's armpit (she hasn't shaved due to shoulder op - she isn't THAT sort of lesbian, thank you very much):

I was aiming for Fu Manchu or Jason King.

More news: I gave up cake for Lent. This has been a big mistake, coming at a time when eating cake for comfort would have been real handy. I've been getting round this by baking banana bread. It's bread, not cake, right? I didn't even get to taste one of these bad boys:

And then sometimes, I say it with flowers.

And I've been spending my downtime getting cosy with my new beau:

Sadly, not very good with his hands.

Right, that’s about the size of it. Poor memory could turn this into vague prevarication any word now, and besides, I have a precious day off ahead, taking in the delights of Old London Town. I’m off to wash my hair and I might even wear a dress. Perhaps this East lark has addled my brain after all.

Dunn's: Fabulous Baker Boys (And Girls)

It is a truth universally acknowledged - I love cake. Big fan of toast. Love a bit of crumpet. All about the baked goods, me. Living in Crouch End affords ample opportunity for buying this stuff. Over the years, I've whittled down the places that are worthy of my hard-earned for all things cakey and floury, and right at the top of the list is a local institution and treasure - Dunn's bakery.

When I heard an outlet of Gail's (of Hampstead fame) was opening in Crouch End, I was pretty anxious for Dunn's. According to my friend Massimo at The Haberdashery, the opening of Gail's actually caused huge excitement among his clientele. Yup, the Bugaboo Brigade were all hysterical over Gail and her forthcoming goody attractions.

Needless worry. Having done a taste test experiment with the Brummie (test consisted of bread and butter - what else?), it can be confirmed that the spelt and honey loaf from Dunns, weighing in at £1.70, knocks the wheat-free socks off a loaf half the size / almost twice the price (£3.20 for a tiny loaf I could eat at one sitting? Are you off your rocker, Gail?) from Gail's. This loaf from Dunn's is bread nirvana, wheatless ambrosia, bread fit for a Queen. Gail's had just opened when the taste test took place, and The Brummie and I also carried out a cuppa test. The coffee was good, but the staff seemed a bit clueless and the café layout was cramped. I wasn't surprised, only a few weeks later, to see they had closed down while shopfitters rectified what was obviously a bad bit of planning. In the interest of fairness, I know Gail chucks out a lovely pastry - when the NYC massive were over, they brought some back to Disgracelands, and I happily polished one off (ancient proverb: always put a gift cake in the mouth).

I had a lovely Dunn's experience today. Running my errands, I'd popped to buy a puncture repair kit to fix my wellingtons for this coming weekend. I refuse to buy new wellies, I'm a resourceful girl and will be thrilled if my make-do-and-mend capabilites are inventive enough to give my old rubber boots another lease of life. Re-cycling indeed...sorry, I digress. So, I've spent some cash in the bike shop, popped to M&S to buy flowers, and on the way back, I pop into Dunn's for some of that lovely bread. Imagine my dismay when I realise I only have 85p left in my pocket. I'm in a bit of a rush, so I asked, slightly red of face, if I'd be able to pay by card. "Oh, of course, no problem" replied the sweet young thing behind the counter. I laughed, saying I'd thought it a bit ridiculous, and also lazy of me, not to just run to the cashpoint. She assured me she didn't mind. "I had one man ask if he could pay for a bread roll with his card", she confided in a conspiratorial tone, "for 26p. So, really - don't worry", she added.

She took my loaf off to cut (medium sliced, if you're wondering), then came back to pick up another loaf, and cut that too. She put them both on the counter. "I didn't cut that first one very well, you can have them both for the same price". I was overcome with joy at this point, and the rather handsome male staff member standing next to her wanted to know what she'd done to make me so pleased. Not wanting to drop her in any sort of bakery shit, I just said "she's done a very nice thing and she'll probably go to heaven", to which he replied "I doubt it, she's my sister." The customer next to me laughed at this, and it was yet another reason why Dunn's gets my spends - the staff are absolutely lovely. A big thank you to Imogen and Lewis for making my day - I came straight back home and had two slices toasted, heavily spread with slightly salted butter. Perfect.

http://www.dunns-bakery.co.uk/