Love Savages (not freeloaders)

The It Girls of the mo were flying high again at The Shacklewell Arms this week. Savages are going from strength to strength, and a sold-out show arranged by those chaps of 5000, The Quietus and The Stool Pigeon (dream team) saw them on top form. I say 'saw' - couldn't see a bloody thing. That stage is too low, and most men are too tall. Fact.

They did sound amazing, though, no small thanks to them being brilliant, with a helping hand from their clever sound man, Matt (who has very big hands - good for twiddling knobs, suggested one ladyfriend). They have a new single out too - écoutez-vous!:

http://popnoire.com/2012/05/23/savages-debut-single-husbands/

I was alerted to a piece written by Mr 5000 himself, Andy Inglis, about the problems involved in keeping the small, grassroots venues of this music-loving country alive and kicking. Prompted by an article he'd read in The Guardian, you can get yourself into a furious frenzy about it all by reading his thoughts here:

http://fivethousand.co.uk/2012/05/beat-surrender-the-grass-roots-live-music-industry-is-self-harming/#more-1805

I'm good friends with Savages. Yet I'm proud to say that I bought my ticket for Tuesday's gig. How will bands / low capacity venues / small promoters ever make any money if we all end up sponging? I've accepted guest list places in the past - but as suggested in the article, it's generally been to repay some kindness or favour I've previously offered a musician / band / promoter. My good friend Mr Monk of The Local told me only recently that I'm his most-tickets-paid-for customer of all-time. My bosom swelled with pride. And the last time I accepted a guest list place off Mr Inglis, I repaid him with my homemade banana bread. And that's cake gold-dust, my friend.

London Festival Of Photography 2012

Like a gang of three proud Mums, we Blunt ladies set off on Thursday evening for the private view of the London Festival Of Photography "The Great British Public". Our photographer Arnhel has a series of his wonderful work in the exhibit, so we went along to represent our boy, who's currently busy snapping away in China.

It's a lovely exhibition, and apart from Arnhel's beautifully observed work, chronicling the events taking place at Britain's summer country fairs and fetes over the last few years, I was particularly taken with a series of work entitled "Centenarians" by Chris Steele-Perkins. Simple portraits of his elderly subjects were offset by a written piece accompanying each image. The spriteliness and humour in the mindset of each captured in prose belied the age they had actually attained. A couple of these lovely characters didn't look much over 70 either. Gives you hope for the future, and I found my spirits lifted by it.

http://chrissteeleperkins.com/about.php

There are various exhibitions dotted all over the King's Cross area - an exhibition in both King's Cross and St Pancras stations too. Have a look here - it's definitely worth a nosy:

http://www.lfph.org/

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.)

Eye O' The Dug: Top O' The Class

He's a persuasive type, my friend McG. When he suggested back in January that we head north o' the border for a FenceFest called Eye O' The Dug, I said no (for purely financial reasons). He ignored me and bought me a ticket anyway.

Thank Christ for that.

It's like having an extra Mum and Dad, being mates with McG and Ber. But parents who can drink you under the table and have excellent knowledge of american hardcore, 90s indie and shoegaze. I feel like their errant teenage daughter, as we head off for a 6 hour rail marathon to Leuchars. They've made egg sandwiches for the journey, and have control of the train tickets. I love these people.

Arrival at the B&B in St Andrews provides some laughs - we're in a family room. It gets better. The owner Brian loves my accent and when I say I'm originally from Huddersfield, he replies "ach aye, so's the wife!". Honestly. Then he asks if we're here for the golf. We look at each other - three less likely golfers you could wish to meet. Then he points out the shower is large. He clearly thinks we're swinging golfers (not 5 iron swinging - no, sexy swinging with lingerie and optional dildos). Time to get out of there sharpish and head off for TUNES.

St Andrews student union is home to Day One of EOTD. And it's a fancy student union - it has Orla Kiely wallpaper (adorned with some very lovely posters from the Fence chappies):

Booze in hand, we head for Francois and his Atlas Mountains. They're a rayon de soleil (that's ray of sunshine, in case you're not au fait with the lingo). Great to watch, bright, sparky, and Francois is absurdly pretty, so it's a good start. More beer appears, then a pie, then the fire alarm goes off and we all stand pissing about in the freezing cold, then I seem to be drunker than I thought I would be at this point. I blame the whisky token presented on arrival, which secured a pint (PINT) of whisky and ginger cocktail, dutifully necked at a silly pace. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I think the Djangos happened at this juncture and I loved them. For my swan song, those nice Hot Chip boys took to the decks, and I busted my moves to Prince's 'I Wanna Be You Lover' which is surely one of the finest foot-tappin' tunes ever created by a man in high heels wielding a Stratocaster. 

Zebedee said time for bed (before you make a tit of yourself).

Sunday dawned and I seemed to have caught a headache. Nothing the bracing winds of St Andrews beach couldn't blow away (aided by paracetamol and cake). Bit of wandering reveals that St Andrews is inhabited by some Scottish people and an awful lot of Americans. Why? Is it the golf? The University? Or, perhaps, because, "Scotchland is, like, totally awesome, dude!"

She likes a hat, our Ber.

Our home for Day Two of EOTD would be Younger Hall. A large impressive room with a huge organ (leave it), coupled with a second, much more intimate, room downstairs. We headed downstairs to kick the day off with Barbarossa. It gets pretty packed in this smaller room, and luckily, Johnny Lynch (aka The Pictish Trail / main Fence man) appears, to encourage the lazy arses sitting on the floor to stand up so more folks can get in. Bravo. Barbarossa consists mainly of James Mathé, who I saw support Junip a year or two back. It's the perfect start. He has a gorgeous voice and Rozi Plain joins him at one point to create some truly lovely harmonies.

My crush on Mr Pictish Trail continues unchecked and unabashed. Listen to 'Secret Soundz Vol. 1' and you'll get it. Marrying the perfect amount of guitar picking, loops, beeps, plinky plonk, and THAT voice, it's a mixture that makes me giddy. And he can whistle. When he sings 'All I Own', I almost dissolve into a heart-shaped puddle. Channelling Elvis at the end of his set ensures he has a lifelong hunk of my burnin' love.

Hangover took over for a minute after the thrill of Mr Trail, so I had to have a sit in the sunshine with a cuppa and a nice oatcake. Bluebells flowering, it was a sweet quarter-hour. RM Hubbert wandered past with what looked like a can of Irn Bru. Then, I saw some bloke sporting a kilt at the merch stall, buying a CD then stashing it in his sporran-cum-penis-warmer-bag. None More Scottish.

I bought my only merch of the weekend - 'Thirteen Lost & Found' by RM Hubbert. This man is a sweetheart, I could watch him strum / drum / flick / scrape his guitar all day. He played 'A False Bride', a song so sparse and sad, sung with his clear voice, and I'm fairly sure some smoke / an eyelash / CS gas must have sneaked in my eye, because they got a bit watery. 

James Yorkston is a local boy done good. He was his ever-witty, self-deprecating brilliant self, and told (via song and guitar) a hilarious story about blowing up the 18th hole on THAT famous golf course (despite his Dad being in the audience, and his fear of a thick ear).

I interrupt this broadcast with a short break for fried food, beer, and a bit of a wander. Those Fence boys must like their pies, because they actually scheduled a "Dinner Break" into the running order. Genius.

Wandering the streets of St Andrews, I discovered what may well be the best road name of all time:

I know, I know. I'm pathetic.

The rest of the evening was a bit of a riot. Kid Canaveral - why have I never seen them before? Withered Hand - why have I seen him so many times? Because he's fucking brilliant, that's why, dear. Dan Willson is a king among troubadours, he played with his full band, the audience finished his lyrics when he couldn't remember, the room was packed out with superfans - this fella is adored, not least by McG, who is probably in the running for NumeroUnoFan. To top it all, Mr WH was wearing some fetching eyeliner (but no spectacles), which we all found not the least bit odd, but rather cute.

Last up, and the most perfect finale was a helping of Head Fence Boy himself, King Creosote, aided by the wonderful Jon Hopkins, superb KT Tunstall and The Geese fiddlers (hooray for the Geese, who played along with more than one act during EOTD - good stuff). Playing the songs from 'Diamond Mine', KC and his sunshine band held that huge hall completely captive. Of all the songs on the album (if you haven't heard it - who are you, Rip Van Fucking Winkle???), 'Bubble' is my favourite, and when they play it, god, it's sublime. There's a lovely bit where KC and Johnny Pictish have a bit of a hug and do their EOTD thank you's to their helpers and pals. 

The final song of the night comes as a bit of a shock.  'Song To The Siren' is a piece I've loved for many years, thanks to the superb 1983 This Mortal Coil cover. On this night, I'm knocked sideways by the beauty of the sound, as Kenny sings so plaintively, and I have a wee moment where I think of my Dad, and next thing I know, tears are absolutely bucketing down my face. Bloody hell. Then, it's all over, everyone is cheering and McG turns round to discover me with mascara all over the place and a snotty nose. 

My surrogate parents wipe my face with a bit of spit on a hanky, then take me off for the aftershow (Mr Pictish has invited the ENTIRE audience up the road to a tiny club that holds about 100 people max). We drink, listen to a mad mix of tunes, and I see lovely Withered Hand, who hails me as "the girl I speak to about spectacles" (I like this).

All good things must come to an end, so we head off for a good night's kip, up bright and relatively breezy, just in time to watch McG devour a ten-piece breakfast (when asked what he'd like for the cooked breakfast, I think the nice lady at the B&B expected him to choose some things from the 10 possible choices. He just gestured at the whole list and said "I'd like that". Greedy fucker.).

To conclude, a shit weekend, dump of a town, crap music, organised by a bunch of total cocks.

*congratulates self on clever reverse psychology to keep hipster idiot crowds at bay next year*

http://www.fencerecords.com/

(Postscript: Fence Records are holding a showcase at the 2012 Camden Crawl. If you've a sane bone in your body, you'll go along and enjoy a truly spectacular Sunday afternoon. And if you get bored there (you're a freak), you can always head off and find yourself at the very excellent Local offerings - details if you press right here, dear.)

A Tale Of Two Film Nights

Once upon a time, when shirt collars were impressively long and men wore platform shoes fo' real, my folks would head out for Sunday lunch to the local cricket and bowling club. I'd beg to be left at home. Not because I didn't like my parents (the best), but because if they were out, I'd have the house to myself and could indulge in my guilty pleasure. As soon as the door closed behind them, I'd draw the curtains, and settle down to give myself the near-orgasmic prepubescent thrill of watching black and white films, alone, in a darkened room.

Nothing has changed. I still like to watch lovely old films alone, but on occasion, I hook up with pals to share the pleasure. When Miss P recently forwarded an e-flyer for a cinema night showing Eighties classic 'Rita, Sue and Bob Too', I couldn't resist. It's a brilliant piece of observational film-making, set not far from my home town, and riotously funny to boot. So, it seemed natural to think that an evening spent watching a film I know very well and love dearly, in the beautiful surroundings of the Town Hall Hotel in Bethnal Green, would be a joy.

They can't muck this stuff up, can they?

Well, just shows how wrong a girl can be. The best part about the evening was the short introduction by designer Peter Jensen, who'd been invited by Test (it's Fashion, darling) to select his favourite film. He was very charming and I found it funny to think that this Danish creative type had seen it back in his teens and found it so hilarious too. A great shame, then, that the Test fashion pack were clearly too busy thinking about their outfits to get the viewing basics right (I saw some sartorial crimes against humanity in that room - surprised I got any sleep at all that night). Choosing to project a bog-standard DVD in the wrong aspect ratio was a shocking mistake - it made Rita, Sue and poor bloody Bob's Rover SD1 look weird and squashed. The sound was terrible. And those surroundings, lovely though they may be, don't lend themselves to film viewing at all. Massive disappointment.

Fast-forward this picture - and what a difference a week makes. I'd almost passed up on the chance to go to yet another film night, but the cinema gods must have given me a subliminal nudge. Lucky stars to be thanked, I popped along with the Boss, Nat, Horton and Lucie Love to Ciné-Real. A small industrial space in East London, made comfy with ramshackle seating and soft-lit standard lamps (managed to corner myself a high-backed Chesterfield wing chair - fuck, yeah!), old swing tunes played on a scratchy turntable, small bar with reasonably priced drinks, and the pièce de résistance - an original 16mm print of Alfred Hitchcock's 'Notorious', projected lovingly by Umit, a gentleman who knows his celluloid from his Betamax. Gold standard for the silver-screen - that's what I call a film night.

The Master would approve.

Ciné-Real was conceived by Liam St Pierre, cinéphile and all-round good egg (he's the top physiotherapist who's had a clever hand getting our Mr Rogers back on his feet - and got The Boss's manky arm on the move too). Lovely things like this are to be encouraged - so here's a link to the next night - but beware and I'm asking you nicely - by all means, come along to my celluloid heaven, but don't sit in my Chesterfield throne or there'll be murders.

http://cine-real.com/

(Postscript: I've done myself a small mischief. In an effort to be less of a slouch, I made my first trip to the lido at London Fields. Good place, that. Swimming outside is very enjoyable. Cleverly, I chose the coldest day for weeks, making the place empty enough to enjoy a lane almost to myself. Almost, except for some big pillock thinking he was The Man From Atlantis, who decided to have a stab at butterfly stroke right next to me, causing a tidal wave to batter its way into my ear drum causing 3-day-deafness. I managed to swim 20 lengths of an Olympic size pool despite him (that's a frickin' KILOMETRE!). Was very pleased. Until I woke up with a crick in my neck. Some painkillers later, I asked The Boss to ask lovely Liam (see Ciné-Real above) what I should do. I should have sniffed the bullshit immediately, as she proceeded to tell me, completely deadpan, that Liam had said "because Dawn is now a certain age, her bottom will have become much heavier and sagged, causing the nerves in her neck to get dragged violently downwards, causing this severe pain." Full marks for trying, Boss. Laughed my head off. The cow.)

The true cause of my pain. Not my heavy, saggy arse.

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.