That post title sounds better if you lazily croon it in the style of mid-90s ganja-toking hip hop legends, Cypress Hill. Which is fitting, as I've been experiencing another mini peak in visits to the blog, once again due to a post about music. Or music festivals, in any case.
Last time it was because of Supajam and their free Feis tickets - something I don't really want to be reminded of for the simple reason that they came good on their offer, I ended up absolutely wasted and don't really have any point of reference for the entire event except a dark stain of shame on my subconscious.
This time, there has been a building crescendo of hits on the site (almost scraping double figures per day!) based around the same 6 words: Rock Stars. Pop Stars. And Divas.
I assume some frantic Googling is taking place in desperation for Bestival fancy dress inspiration, with the fun on the Isle of Wight kicking off in a mere 8 days. For once, I'm sorted. Yes, it's a tenuous costume, and yes, I bought it off Amazon. But it'll be a damn sight comfier (and easier to construct) than my efforts of 2009....
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Bestival - my Mr Spoon outfit
it didn't quite work out how I planned in 2009 - when the theme was "Space". It became known as "Pritstickgate", as the forgetting of the eponymous white stick, combined with the mother of all hangovers after a 5am finish the night before, sank me into parcel-taping misery - much to the amusement of my fellow festival-ers.
Wouldn't half mind the weather to be the same this year as back then though.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance
I've finally got round to putting a new post up on Steppe By Steppe - waxing semi-lyrically (and at length) about our crash course in 'not grinding to a halt somewhere outside Antwerp'. Click on the funky red link to be whisked magically across the ether to my other blog.
Steppe By Steppe: Mike & the art of Kangoo maintenance: Apart from enthusiasm, we didn't have too much in the way of qualifications to suggest it was wise to drive a quarter of the way 'round the ...
Monday, August 22, 2011
Further efforts to deal with the endemic dog poo problem
we didn't see any dog poo on the beach whilst we were there - no doubt due entirely to these genius public health signs
Trouville
This blog has been in existence for about 3 months longer than I have been going out with my girlfriend, whom I refer to affectionately (some may say 'lazily') as J. She turned 30 in July, and - unable to whisk her off to a 5 star hotel in Rome as I wanted to - we ended up in the French seaside resort of Trouville, in Normandy. The "Parisian Riviera", no less. Or at least, right next door to it (the true posh spot being the neighbouring town of Deauville).
We left London early on Friday morning and arrived in Calais at lunchtime; having not realised that toll booths accept debit cards (given we had no Euro), the mighty Clio meandered through the French countryside for several hours before the majesty of the Pont de Normandie loomed into sight.
45 minutes later we were cruising the main promenade of Trouville itself, a bustling seaside harbour and resort dominated by a faded casino at the junction of quay and beach, and famous for the seafood that arrives by the trawlerload on a daily basis. We'd chosen it as our destination for the weekend by that most scientific of methods, Google. When I finally gave up pretending I could afford Rome, I asked J where else she would like to go - "to wherever the best mussels in Northern France are", came the reply.
A swift internet search later, up popped Trouville - round the bay a bit from Le Havre, and a more manageable drive from the ferry than Mont St Michel. Not the most romantic of reasons for choosing it, but the squeals of delight from the passenger seat as we jostled our way along the street convinced me we'd done ok.
Our hotel turned out to be perfect, and the town itself was exactly what we (or more importantly, J) had been hoping for. We managed to exist in a little French bubble for most of the weekend until hearing our first English accent late on Sunday - and for two full days we strolled, sunbathed, drank beer and ate fantastic food without a care in the world. It was my first time in the France beyond Paris as an adult, so imagine my surprise when my GCSE French not only wasn't mocked, but resulted in my getting everything I asked for. Ok, so it was a surprise to find myself eating goats cheese quiche on Sunday morning, but I did ask for it, even if I thought it had bacon in it. Again, it was only on Sunday that the spell broke, when a well-meaning bartender answered my pidgin French enquiry in English. I have to admit though, I was exhausted by that point after a full 48 hours dredging the dark recesses of my brain to uncover some half-remembered 17 year old piece of vocabulary so that I could buy a pen to write a postcard.
Mornings were spent drinking coffee and watching the population of the town stroll past - obligatory baguette under their arm. I'm pretty sure people can't eat that much bread; I assume it's just the done thing to have a baguette under one arm and a cigarette in hand, should anyone doubt the true Gallicism of your nature. Afternoons involved a beer with the elderly locals watching the world go by outside a local bar, a stroll through the market, and a bit of gentle sun-burning on the beach.
We followed Trip Advisor's tips on eating out, which resulted in us tucking into delicious duck and steak on the Saturday evening in "La Bolee Normande", a small family-run restaurant up a steep side street near the quayside. The ambience was great, the service friendly, the food delicious - but it deserves special mention for its unique take on fresh seafood. As we were mid-meal, two middle aged French ladies and what appeared to be a daughter came in, ordering a seafood platter which duly arrived around 10 minutes later. After a moment, shrieks and the sound of chairs flying backwards filled the air; I turned round just in time to see the centrepiece of their meal - a crab - making a break for freedom across the table. The women were shouting (but laughing) as the young waiter came ambling over to try and catch the crab, which had launched itself off the table altogether and was attempting to scuttle across the tiles to safety. The young fella got down on his hands and knees and returned triumphant, crab in hand, just as his dad - the chef - appeared to apologise, explain and grab the plucky crustacean to return it to the kitchen.
Reading between the lines & fluent foreign language, it would appear that the wife / head waitress had scooped up the crab to finish the dish, assuming it cooked. As the husband / chef pointed out - and as was evident when he returned with our hero - still steaming from his hot bath - 5 minutes later, a cooked crab looks completely different to a raw (or indeed, "live") one.
There's something about the atmosphere in the place and the general friendliness and openness we experienced from everyone all weekend that I would use that story as part of a recommendation to visit la Bolee Normande if you're ever in Trouville; the same goes for Le Noirot where I showed my cosmopolitan class by ordering salmon in a restaurant renowned for its seafood, yet was treated like a long lost son by the exuberant old head waiter.
Thanks Trouville - you made a nervous boyfriend and the birthday girl very happy indeed.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Rock stars, pop stars & divas
As usual, the arse end of summer has crept up on me unawares, and tomorrow sees my final payday before heading off to the Isle of Wight for Bestival, which somewhat unbelievably all kicks off 3 weeks tomorrow.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
I am, of course, bereft of ideas for a costume for the fancy dress day on the Saturday, and am currently trawling the internet looking vainly for inspiration, like a desperate boyfriend in Muji at half past four on Christmas Eve.
The theme is "Rock Stars, Pop Stars & Divas" this year - which leaves the scope pretty wide, but it's proving more difficult that I thought. Apart from the truly iconic stars (yer Elvis's, Michael Jackson's et al), it's potentially difficult to dress as a rock god from yesteryear without just looking like a generic 80s hair-rock legend or a country & western singer. Likewise, take the likes of Boy George & Freddy Mercury out of the pop star equation, and you're left with a lot of formulaic nobodies in the main. Of course, there'll be someone wandering about with 3 packets of Birds Eye burgers defrosting on their person as they 'do' Lady Gaga, but I was hoping for something not immediately obvious (but recognisable) that hopefully half the other festival goers haven't emulated but bettered.
I've settled on two themes of investigation - abstract band references (e.g. putting a palm tree on my head and going as Oasis), or just dressing up as one of my favourite artists from the early-mid 90s, when my consumption of music was at its height.
If nothing else, the last two evenings have been an orgy of nostalgia, with everything from Snow to the Bluetones blasting out to the neighbourhood. At the risk of sounding like an old codger already, we really were spoiled back then in terms of the sheer depth of good tunes. Helped if you were into cheesy dance music followed by Britpop, obviously, which my age ensured I aligned with perfectly.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Taking it back to the old school
The ongoing rioting reminds me of being in Northern Ireland back in the mid-late nineties, when each summer would bring with it the familiar spectre of "Drumcree" and the associated civil disobedience that went with it.
Each year we would be subjected to around a week of riots, with local people rising up against the police in protest at being banned from marching down the Garvaghy Road in Portadown. Unlike London - where the main focus has been on looting shops - the goal was to lock down entrance to, and exit from, key strategic points in the country - be that towns, motorways, ports or airports. The weapon of choice was the petrol bomb & vehicle hijack, allied to the fact that in the majority of cases you didn't have the anonymity afforded to you by the big city - rebel against these people at your peril; hell, you probably recognised them (and they you) even with their faces masked. It had, of course, added significance attached in that it was perceived as being a religious & cultural issue - and woe betide you if you suggested you weren't supporting whoever it was that was taking affirmative action. In Ballymena, they were well served on the main dual carriageway into town, a massive Ford dealership on a hill above the road proving a perfect source for vehicles to roll down to the tarmac and torch.
When I was 17, I helped my sister move back home from university in Warwickshire. My first ever road trip involved a trundle up the M6 in her 12 year old Vauxhall Nova. There was nothing remarkable about the journey up to Stranraer, but the radio was keeping us abreast of developments back home. When we got to the ferry they confirmed that the road to the port of Larne - our destination - had been barricaded by Loyalists, and no one was getting in or out.
When we docked, imagine our surprise therefore to see our parents waiting for us. Somehow my dad had talked his way through the barricade, where the local "commander" had allegedly not only allowed him to pass through, but had also guaranteed he could get back out once he had collected us. Quite how he'd come to this arrangement, I don't know and if I'm honest don't want to, although I do retain a degree of intrigue and respect for the fact he plied his trade across the rural wilds of Northern Ireland as a salesman throughout some of the darkest periods of the troubles.
We travelled in convoy back up the deserted road from the port, hazard lights flashing as instructed to announce our arrival, only to reach the blockade (a hijacked articulated lorry turned sideways across the dual carriageway) and discover "our man" was no longer there. His replacement knew of no arrangement to let us through, and we were forced to return sheepishly to the port and spend an uncomfortable night with the rest of the ferry passengers, trying to sleep in the food court on plastic moulded seats.
Around 5am, word reached the terminal that a route may be open up the coast road towards Glenarm. Some discussion and decision amongst a discrete group of passengers later and we were slipping into our cars in the early morning sunlight. My dad somehow emerged as the ringleader once again, and he and mum headed up the convoy as we quietly eased out of the port and turned towards the back roads along the shoreline. My sister and I followed in the Nova, followed by a couple of other cars who were willing to take the risk to get back home.
It was an incredibly surreal experience - the watery daylight, the early hour, picking our way round and through still-smouldering car shells in the middle of the road. At any moment, I expected to round a corner and be confronted by a group of men in balaclavas - but it never happened. It seems that, wherever the intelligence came from, we had timed it perfectly to coincide with the night shift heading home to get a few hours kip. Eventually, after around 30 minutes, we turned left, tooted the horn in solidarity with the cars heading further north, and rose into the hills to head back towards home.
A few years later I was working for Belfast International Airport during my summer holidays from uni. My shifts started at 6am, and I remember plotting my route to avoid the roadblocks based on the information available at the time (as a rule of thumb, "take the most remote roads you can find"). I found myself high on the side of a hill overlooking the plain on which Antrim & Ballymena nestle, and remember just looking down through the mist at fires burning across the countryside - I could spot at least ten spots where burning barricades were clearly blocking access on the main roads.
Its weird - at the time it was just something you dealt with and were used to. Guys I knew at the airport had tales of previous years where they'd had to stay overnight at work because there was no way in or out. They ended up at the airport hotel having a by-all-accounts raucous party with some stranded air hostesses. Every cloud, and all that.
Monday, August 08, 2011
Riots in London
I was planning on posting something about our trip to France for J's birthday. Instead, I've got BBC News 24 playing in the background as pictures of Lewisham, Peckham, Hackney & Croydon ablaze fill the screen and news of trouble spreading to Birmingham filters through.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
Tonight's rioting has even overshadowed what the shitty state of affairs bestowed on my adopted home town of Brixton last night. That it has spilled over into a 3rd successive night of violence ensures the whole thing is taking on a somewhat surreal quality. The news earlier reminded me of that bit in Shaun of the Dead where Huw Edwards is giving out official advice on how to cope with zombie attacks.
As I speak, Clapham Junction is overrun with jumped-up little vandals grabbing as much loot as they can from destroyed shop fronts - it tells you all you need to know that Currys & JD Sports are emptied whilst Waterstones remains unscathed.
This is my home. I've lived in Brixton for 8 years. That's a quarter of my life. The only place I've lived in longer is my childhood house. Apart from travelling across the river to work each day, my entire life is strung out in a roughly straight line across South London. Brixton in particular is that rare beast - a real community within central London, a fact borne out by the wealth of responses to last night's events on social networking sights and traditional news channels. All had the same message - that this is a vibrant community and a great place to live, and we're not going to let a few hooligans destroy that.
The people that looted our hood last night were not doing so to protest against anything. It wasn't a demonstration. It was just a focussed attempt to rob as much free shit as possible from the companies that have put their faith and money behind the regeneration of Brixton over the last few years. In 2009 the place was wobbling - Woolies was lying empty as were numerous other prime shop units, and the only businesses that seemed to want to come down to SW9 were Poundland and its imitators.
But then something changed. Windrush Square was redeveloped. H&M and T Mobile took over the old Woolworths building. Brixton's heart had a new look and was a genuinely pleasant place to inhabit. What will the little looting pricks have achieved if they drive those businesses out? There's a difference between gentrification and regeneration - naturally the former will leave the 'real residents' of Brixton feeling alienated and pushed out, and it will rob the place of its unique character. The squat evictions from Clifton Mansions on Coldharbour Lane were a case in point the other week, and it may well be the death knell for the community and atmosphere if the focal point of that most Brixton of streets becomes some yuppie apartment complex.
But regeneration is different. It gives an area a new focus & pride, attracts investment, makes people happy to live where they do. That's what Brixton has got in the last couple of years and that is what a crowd of 200 teenagers may have sacrificed in return for a free iPad and a pair of Nike Air Max last night. It's like they actually want to drive these businesses out so they can live in a ghetto and have something to justify their outlook on life.
The fact that I, and so many 'non-Brixtonites' like me feel so upset at the sights that greeted us in central Brixton this morning, means that we may just be able to stop them achieving their aim. I've been here 8 years. I am a Brixtonite. And apparently I care a damn sight more about it than a hell of a lot of people born and raised within swaggering distance.
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