Flash Disco

I am going to a flash mob today, with a silent disco theme. I am losing two cherries at once.

Only the Lonely Helpline

For some Friday is a day of celebration, marking the start of the weekend and whatever fun or relaxation that it has in store. For others Friday is a day of deep depression, loneliness and despair.

For the past three years, I have been working for a local mental health charity. It’s my final day in my current role tomorrow; my final Friday. It is also the last Friday before Christmas. I wonder what telephone calls will come my way.

Fight Club

Coming to a club night near you. During the weekend I invented two new dances. One involved mock kick boxing and the other parodied the Wii boxing game. Perhaps I should contact one of those wonderful television shows, like 'Strictly Come Dancing', and get my moves on TV.

I also helped a small child who had wet his pants. He was very calm about the whole affair and we wore matching socks.

Northern Lights

I am sure that many of you have read Philip Pullman’s ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy. Perhaps greater numbers have now seen the first book as translated into big screen form.

I am not going to go into great depth about either the novels or the film. I am sure that reviewers the world over are already battling that one out for themselves. What I will say, is that there are four things that made the books quite special for this one insignificant soul:

1. The lead character, Lyra, is an eleven / twelve year old girl who has more spunk than Harry Potter, Luke Skywalker and Frodo Baggins put together. She has no girlie traits whatsoever and displays little of the brainwashed stupidity inherent in most fictional young ladies.


2. Whilst the trilogy is steeped in wild fantastical ideas, it seems to root itself in a wonderfully gritty realism, and the side of good is the side of grit. Water gypsies, an alcoholic bear and a mercenary aeronaut are key figures in the trilogy’s first offering; and the gypsies don’t steal tarmac and rob old ladies.
   
3. His Dark Materials, despite being sold as a children’s trilogy, does not shy away from intellectual or philosophical content. It is extremely damning of organised religion and the corruption of authority.


4. In my edition of the last book in the trilogy, ‘The Amber Spyglass’, Philip Pullman makes the following acknowledgement: “I have stolen ideas from every book I have ever read. My principle in researching for a novel is ‘Read like a butterfly, write like a bee’, and if this story contains any honey, it is entirely because of the quality of the nectar I found in the work of better writers.”

I also have four things to say about the film adaptation of the first book:

1. It is called 'The Golden Compass' and not 'Northern Lights'. This is because most North American’s have never heard of the Northern Lights. In a poll of ten thousand North Americans, 98% of respondents thought that the Northern Lights were the lights of Las Vegas. Note to all North Americans, Nevada isn’t even in the north. The North Pole isn’t a metal rod in a strip club either. You may hear stories that 'The Golden Compass' is a phrase taken from Milton’s Paradise Lost (book 7), a poem that was highly influential on the trilogy:
         "He took the golden compasses, prepared
         In God's eternal store, to circumscribe
         This Universe, and all created things"
   That’s just a happy coincidence; North American’s can’t read, let alone read poems.


2. The child playing the lead is true to form and is by no means a girlie girl. Her accent drifts in and out of a strange breed of mockney, but hey, what middle class child playing at being poor doesn’t sometimes slip into finely spoken English in real life?


3. Whilst the film manages to retain some of the grit of the book, it often feels like it is slipping towards yet another big screen portrayal of 101 Dalmatians; the dogs are played by children and Cruella de Vil is played by Nicole Kidman in true Disney form. It’s certainly no ‘The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe’, a bore bathed in saccharine, but it certainly hasn’t escaped a coating of sickly sugary paste.


4. Perhaps what makes the trilogy truly gritty is its open rejection of religion and its continual criticism of the way that religious institutions provide for an extreme abuse of power, in the name of belief systems that claim to represent all that's good. Of course, it’s not surprising that this wasn’t hugely apparent in the film. That said; it certainly had an anti-authoritarian feel throughout and I enjoyed the spirit of rebellion when it came to the fore.

I hope that the films and books inspire girls to resist becoming stereotypical feminine parodies of themselves, and that they encourage everyone to question our institutions and the powers that be. Talking about a revolution, oh no... Talking about a revolution.

I Love Granny Fabpants

I have been so touched by this conservation, that I am moved to share it, and it's now several days since it took place:

Emily Fabpants
I love you Granny Fabpants.

Granny Fabpants
I love you too my dear. And I treasure your love. I treasure your love.

Sweet, simple and highly evocative. I love Granny Fabpants.

The Trip Part Three

The past is here, so read it first:
The Trip Part One, The Trip Part Two

Tuesday 6th November, 2007

Give me a map and life will follow. From the moment we arrived at Video Bum Stop, I thought north was south and east was west. I was suffering from reversed polarity. For the second time, I headed off in the opposite direction. After passing Barcelona Nord bus terminal, and remaining on foot, I turned to discover that the buildings were back to front. Their crumbling facades and gaping balconies, filled with lost hope and detritus, said nothing to me about my life. I couldn’t imagine anyone spending time on those balconies; except to jump off in a head first dive. An existence, as miserable as those balconies, would warrant self destruction. An abandoned sports ground lay below.

I arrived at La Cuitadella Park and realised my error. I was seeing everything the wrong way up. A line of lonely ping pong tables stood before me; just as they had the day before. I walked past the Cascada. A Cascada isn’t a Cascada when it doesn’t cascade. It wasn’t a Cascada after all. An Emily isn’t an Emily without chocolate milk. I sucked until my straw was empty, became someone else, and faced north instead of south. The politicians in the parliament building were waking up and a large stone mammoth asked me if he might do the same. If the wind changes direction you'll get stuck like that. Sometimes you’re stuck with being exactly what you are.

Carrer Napols took me north. Before long, signs in English and German warned me to be wary. Local ladies clutched at their handbags in fear of fatty food. I did the same. A man in shorts looked oblivious; a prime target for an amateur on the make. I turned a corner and found myself in the tourist hell hole of the Sagrada Familia. It wasn’t so bad; I sat in a portable cabin and enjoyed the facilities. A toilet stole my wee. The sink returned it clean and all was well. Outside, Avinguda de Gaudi beckoned and a young mother begged. I looked back at the Basilica and imagined what Barcelona would look like without scaffolding and cranes. It looked like Hove with the summertime blues. Architects, artists, labour and time; the pipes and boards will ruin you. Symbiotically, world domination is theirs. The gaps that exist within the giant ladders temporary frames are merely holes in your vision, labour and love. You can’t frame art with scaffolding; its ugliness draws in the eye and devours attention.

We can stare into the spaces and try to blot out the metal, wood and bits of crap, and try to envisage the whole. We can pretend to convince ourselves that we can see the beauty. Space can have its place; space can inspire. The empty space where a building once stood, the enchanted space within a narrow street, the communal space that turns a highway into a social causeway; the Avinguda de Gaudi. With a landscape view of the Sagrada Familia and the Hospital de Sant Creu, this could be a brazen street; a brazen space. It could be magnet for all those tat vendors, thieves, second rate artists and idiots the world over. Yet it seems to exist in ignorance of place and slumbers peacefully within the city’s heart. It is a relaxed communal space, and its gentle emptiness is far more inspiring than the monstrosity that sits at its end, with its evil and haunting facade. Do you think I’m being harsh about the Bastardilica? Orwell considered it to be "one of the most hideous buildings in the world", Evelyn Waugh couldn't be fucked to even get out of his cab to look at the work of crud, and Picasso suggested that we "Send Gaudi and the Sagrada Familia to Hell." Yeah, perhaps God doesn’t like it either.

Perhaps God, like me, prefers the road that takes you away. Perhaps God, like me, wonders if he really exists. Avinguda de Gaudi did seem to exist and I wondered if it might be the diminutive cousin of Avinguda Diagonal. Cutting right through the grid, it provides a brief relief from quadrilateral living and a life ruled by rectangles. With a direct route to the emergency ward, and a chance to recover from the religious fervour of Kodak moments, I followed the boulevard to find men in white coats, and women that wash brighter.

A gnarly old gypsy woman sat in mock shame at the corner of Hospital de Sant Creu’s entrance. She rested her begging board between her feet and presented the world with a mouth full of dirty rotten teeth. She had feigned shame so very many times that she looked like an actress going through the motions of a tired old play. She battered not an eyelid as I immortalised her depravity. This was one that I could feel no heart for. As I stole her soul with each click of my picture box, I became an inhumane voyeur. My humanity was soon returned in the form of a sweet angelic child, looking down on me with great sadness from Nostra Senyora de Montserrat.

The hospital, a mere 100 years old, was designed by Domènech i Montaner. A collection of pavilions, adorned with medieval artistry, open into courtyards of communal space. Domènech i Montaner tried to capture an aesthetic harmony which would aid the recovery of the hospital’s visitors. I soon felt fully recovered from the excessive nature of the Sagrada Familia and very much at home. Avinguda de Gaudi takes its heart from Domènech not from the tram splattered Antoni. It is like a child forced to carry the name of a famous, pompous, strict and overbearing father.

Unfortunately, lovely old buildings are not suitable for the demands of modern medicine. Modern life only appreciates beauty in history and not in the now. We have batteries now, and we have Dildos. I walked past a blocky white monstrosity of a building on the north side of the hospital grounds, in part still a construction site. This is where all future medicine will give life and take life away; patients will probably die of cold disharmony. I’ve heard that white coats are unhygienic too. Colour is important in sanitation.

I walked west. A long line of elderly chatter women spread across the benches of Ronda del Guinardo. Did they speak English, I wondered as I read an instruction to ‘Kill the Mrs and have some fun’? Do they scorn or laugh at such mischief as they pass away another day? I laughed, and wondered if I was living in a cartoon. English is often the language of the street artist and the vandal. The area seemed to be an odd mix of suburban living and urban deprivation. This was the hour of the elderly. When they have served their time in hell, the old will walk the earth.

At the Placa del Nen de la Putila, Parc del Guinardo begins. On a wall, opposite the park, all of the questions that we bypass are answered in the spray paint of a single person’s soul. The short road of petty complaint fulfils our misery, but sometimes, someone, somewhere is filled with inspiration.
I stared at the African lady holding her baby; the face of acceptance, the fate of disparity; tears rolled down her hardened cheeks. Peace and equality; wasn’t that always the dream? The belief, that even though it’s an insurmountable ambition, and, even though it’s less likely than self implosion or an alien invasion that ends us all, it should always be the goal, the aim, the guide and the vision. A beautifully coloured CND symbol completed my thoughts.

Meanwhile, a group of eight year olds were letting fists fly. They didn’t stop the dream; they just validated it. Intervention came, but only after I had pointed my picture box more times than once too often. It was brief; the mothers were in preparation for an eternity of dialogue on public seating. A child lay on the ground clutching his stomach. The fight will go on; may be today, may be tomorrow, and may be into old age. The child who dreamt of peace will carry a small pocket of sadness forever. The punches will become more powerful, and power will ultimately get to rule. Power always gets to rule; it also has many guises.

Parc del Guinardo hosted few during my visit. It is a park for locals with a vista and Mediterranean foliage. On my way up, I gazed over the south and I could see the Dildo standing tall above the sprawl. Blocks of high rise buildings, interspersed by gaping avenues, filled both the gently sloping land and my slightly squinting eyes. I climbed higher, and then right at the very top, an old man began what appeared to be a walk of daily ritual. We played an unprompted game of follow my leader, but neither of us felt very much like that person, so we took it in turns. I took photos and he took time. Time was his to cherish, and the view was mine to catch; we shared our assets well. If it hadn’t been for him, I might have missed that private world hidden behind a chained off route; and the chance to capture memories that almost seem like a dream. We shared a smile, a gesture and then we swapped places and did it all over again. A bridge over the valley, in the secret route of my unexpected guide, showed the street art below and the Sagrada Familia standing piously over the city. I was closer to something beautiful here; an old man taking a slow walk along his favourite hill-top path; King of the City, King of Nothing and King of Everything.

A short walk along the Carrer de Muhlberg led me into Parc del Carmel and past more gangs of the ever-loitering elderly. This time old men lined the benches and chatted like women. Some stared at me; a stranger in their midst, unwrinkled and a woman at that. I enjoyed the mismatched nature of the men; the well-dressed and ill-clad sat together, enjoying the slowness of time and the joy of expression. There was something slightly wicked in their manner; like aged scallywags. I felt like I should be offering japes, jokes, stolen churros and tales of innocent wickedness. I felt like an intruder in a mock-covert world.

I looked up, as I pretended not to stare. Further up the hill, a long strip of fencing cut across the greenery, providing a place for spray cans and tags - in unskilled hands - to deface the view. I carried on westwards and at a high point, in an area all of their own, a series of stones said something that I could not understand. The last two words, the last two stones, pronounced ‘Sant Just’. Just, justice, dark grey stones in a desolate place. I felt like I was being told something wise, profound and meaningful

For some time, I have been confused about these stones. Was there a Saint Just in Catalonia or Spain? Or was this a reference to Saint Just of the French Revolution; someone not associated with the direct history of the Catalan people? After some investigation, I may have found my answers. “The order of today is the disorder of tomorrow”. Or perhaps the ignorance of today is the propaganda of tomorrow. Or perhaps I have discovered truth. All alone in the Carmel hills they have sat for eight not so very long years. They repeat the words of Louis Antoine Saint-Just, who, with an anti-royalist poem, took to the French Revolution from its outbreak in 1789. He died just five years later - at a mere 27 - for his cause and for his beliefs. What relevance do his words have to the people of Barcelona? Or do they weigh heavy on humankind the world over?

Perhaps the Scotsman, Ian Hamilton Finlay, can help. Finlay has never seen the stones in place; he hasn’t left his home in Stonypath, Dunsyre, for more than thirty years. A man that doesn’t move, a man that remains in situ; this is the kind of man has time to ponder the questions that you and I will endlessly fail to answer. This is the kind of man that inspires. The Carmel hill stones are based on a sculpture in his garden after all. The man that never goes out can have great influence on this unimaginative world. The art of art is regurgitating old ideas; and who better to regurgitate than an inert man, in a remote location, with time on his hands to steal. The art of art is replication; who better to replicate than a man who hasn’t seen anything new or inspirational since the day he feared life itself.

Are you reading this as a housebound hermit? Would you like to make the same piece of art a thousand times over, but each time with a little difference? Well, a language based piece of art can be replicated 2,261 times over, at present count, when one changes just the written vernacular alone. If you’re on the internet, then here’s my guide to making art that merely imitates original thought and requires no deep delving into your fragile soul. It can truly inspire, and lacks any innovation whatsoever.
First of all, whilst remaining exactly where you are now, visit a search engine and source a website dedicated to the quotes of the living and dead; preferably one that quotes great historical figures or philosophers, and not Britney Spears. Find a phrase that resonates and has timeless implications and make sure you that bookmark it for future reference. The most important part of this stage is not to contemplate or come up with any phrase of your own. There are greater minds than yours - one’s that occasionally venture outside for instance - the aim is to steal, and not to pioneer.

Secondly, using Babelfish, or another language conversion based tool, translate your phrase into as many languages as you feel ready to utilise. If you’re feeling adventurous contemplate Braille. Please note; you have still not had to leave your chair, but this may be something you should start to prepare for.

Thirdly, after readying yourself for a little activity, use fridge magnets or newspaper clippings – or any other material that provides readymade letters – to turn your finely filched phrase into art. Readymade letters in various forms can be ordered via the internet if you find yourself bereft. The main aim is to get the letters and words in the right order, and not to mix up the different languages; that is, unless you’re feeling particularly exploratory.

Fourthly, and this may be the part where you stumble, whilst using a poking device, such as a pole or a stick, push the finished piece of artwork into your garden. If you are not in possession of a poking device of any kind or do not have a garden, I suggest hanging your art from any windows you haven’t permanently locked shut. I realise this means some strenuous activity, and perhaps even the intake of outside air, but the main premise of Step Four is to ensure that passersby can see your art. By creating your own gallery, in your own space, you won’t have to leave the house, spend any time in wanky buildings, or converse with tosspots other than your own dear self.

Now this is just the beginning. With a little practice, you can work your way up to sculptures, perhaps using household items such as doors or fireplaces, and other materials easily accessible to the committed recluse. If you discover yourself to have true talent, you might want to consider obtaining funding from private investors or government programmes. With financial backing you could develop towards materials such as large blocks of recycled Montjüic stone, sourced by a never ending supply of super-keen travelling lackeys.

Material such as Montjüic stone, particularly when salvaged from the military barracks of Girona, in northeast Catalonia, is the essence to feeding a true art form. Materials steeped in military history and a phrase inspired by a true revolutionary spirit, can confuse, confound and ultimately add meaning to art.

Eight years ago, far from home, and under Findlay’s will, the aforementioned Montjüic stone was sourced. Meanwhile, Findlay sat back in his chair, reading quotes on the internet and playing with fuzzy felt letters. A man that never leaves his home has a lot of time to relinquish his assignments, but it’s good not to lose touch with the project’s original inspiration or aims. An email may suddenly arrive from the outside world and insist on some kind of decision.

This happened to Findlay and the key to his success is that he was prepared. Findlay stared briefly at a digital photograph of the Montjüic stones, and then glanced down at his fuzzy felt. On noting that the stone was the exactly same colour as one of his favourite pieces of fluffy fabric, he declared “Och aye, that’s perfect. Now come back and change me socks”. Housebound men don’t like to change their own socks; it involves knee bending activities, which is not dissimilar from walking, and walking could lead to something unacceptable.

With the agonising part of the project over, and having been relieved of venturing beyond his front door, you should take the time to picture Findlay, the inspiration for your new career in art, chiselling away at the Montjüic stone. Can you see him now, in his hermit-hovel at the arse end of the world, trembling with fear? “The order of today is the disorder of tomorrow.” There are so many reasons not to go out.

Imagine away, but, really, you have quite an imagination there. Have you considered art? The inscription that I found on those sweet Barcelonan hills wasn’t carved by Findlay at all. Those Findlay stones, all that Findlay work, all of those Findlay exhibitions are a con. In this instance, the hero is one simply named and rarely recognised Peter Coates. It was Peter that travelled to Barcelona and inscribed the stones in situ. Meanwhile, Findlay pondered about how many more times he could get paid for one idea and others peoples graft. How many written languages are there again? See, the aim is really to get all the credit whilst doing absolutely nothing. From the outset you have to delegate. Before you start to cut words out of magazines and look up phrases on the interweb, see if there is someone else who might do it for you.

Some of us aren’t so indolent. Well, Saint Just wasn’t. I probably am. Not only did Saint Just inspire lazybones Ian Hamilton Finlay, he also inspired the one and only Albert Camus. More than 50 years ago, Camus took Just’s life and works as his inspiration for another famous arrangement of words: ‘The Rebel’.

So there we have it: one man has been inspired to get other people to inscribe a Just sentence into as many languages as he can get paid for. And if we go back a few more years into the human construct of time, another man has been moved to analyse the progression of rebellion and revolution, towards enlightenment and freedom, throughout all history. Camus’ cautionary tale tells us that revolutions, their ideals, and the idealists that lead them, can end up in despotism and tyranny. The order of today IS the disorder of tomorrow. You have been warned. Remember that next time you’re inspired to start a revolution. The stones do look mighty fine. Well done to Saint Just and well done to Peter Coates. Go fuck yourself Findlay. Make up sentence yourself, and do a bit of carving. I don’t even mind if you do it at home or if you carve up your fuzzy felt. I don’t even care if it’s shit. Just get off your arse and give it a go. Okay, he died last year. I have high hopes.

In stark contrast to the place of words, and my trip into a spiritually uplifting nowhere land, I suddenly found myself in Parc Guell. I looked about myself in bewilderment, and readjusted my mind to disregard bus load upon bus load of brain dead tourists. The sun had come out and I settled into a suntrap at the tourist vista. I sat down on a ledge facing the city, and vaguely registered the brain dead follow. I watched the city, soaked up the sun and rested my hot and weary feet. In a mild coma, I watched as couples, groups and a single white female sat beside me. They had their fill, committed something to visual memory, left and were replaced. I could see the scaffolding on the Bastardilicia. Finally, a group joined me that I could not blinker my eyes to; or shade my psyche from. I was at risk of being adorned with an al fresco meal. It was time to move on.

I worked my way down the hill, along wide well-trodden footpaths, and soon found myself surrounded by colourful buildings and Gaudi androids. Do the children playing in the school grounds in Parc Guell envy their counterparts learning about Gaudi on the other side of the fence? Or are they just sick of it all? This was my third day in Barcelona and I was sick of it all. I was sick of it all despite loving the parks nooks and crannies, delighting in the fairy tale church and house, and being enchanted by the mosaic creatures that greet you on the stairwell. It was truly beautiful, but it was a bustling tourist ghetto, and cheap jewellery was on ‘special offer for you madam’. Of course, a man’s greatness is rarely recognised in his time and the park was actually another of Gaudi’s unsuccessful housing ventures. The beautiful park is not the work of Gaudi at all, but I should credit him for the Hansel and Gretel like church. Churches made of gingerbread could be revolutionary. Watch out Camus.

I walked out. The androids were using a road to the right; I headed left and then south. I passed some graffiti stating ‘Libertino’ on a wooden gate. I was tempted to knock. Are you free thinking radicals? Are you cool? Can I hang out and hope that you don’t turn into oppressive despots? Instead, I walked southward to Passeig de Sant Joan. There were no anarchists, revolutionaries, free radicals or antioxidants. Two homeless - or very unkempt - old men sat on a bench conversing brightly. November Catalonian sunshine is like the first warm day of spring breaking through the perpetually overcast sky of England; it brings out the brightness in peoples’ hearts and the goodness of any street, field or abandoned hovel. It even brings cheer to the destitute.

Like the other wide avenues, Passeig de Sant Joan, has cars running along each side of a large communal promenade. It’s a great city for walking, and probably the best ‘planned’ city that I have ever had the fortune to roam. I passed the Monument a Jacint Verdaguer; a motionless Catalan poet lording it up on a plinth. I wished that we had roads with promenades running straight through them back in the land of my birth. Consumption free promenades without even a vending booth to turn a soft social arena into a dirty capitalist den. Much further down, I passed a statue of a small starving boy that moved me. I was moving anyway, but that’s by the by. I’d seen lost hope.

Back at Arse de Trump, I decided to return to Video Bum Stop, or at least to use the facilities. I discovered that nearby, in hiding, was a modern complex with a library at ground level. I felt nosey, like an anthropologist investigating an unknown tribe. I furtively ambled through the building, nearly joined a Thai Chi class and then found a supermarket deep down in the basement. What an all encompassing building this was, concealed and full of many delights. I came away with a bag of food to provide me with goodies for the following day’s excursion. I had succumbed to capitalism.

Night was drawing in early, and I wanted to see the sea. Unfortunately, access to the artificial beaches is not possible directly south, and by the time I had got to any place worth sitting; it was no longer a warm and sunny day. I could see the triangular shape of the Edifici Forum in the distance. It didn’t look far away; I headed geekward. Multiple parks rolled by to my left and the beaches seemed to repeat on a loop. My feet were sore; I had been walking all day, and it seemed to be a lot further than I remembered.

People became fewer and then, as though I had been caught in the middle of an hour glass, they grew once more. Bongo players drummed without rhythm on the beach. Like a well-trained sniffer dog, I was sensing something. I had a scent, and suddenly it was more powerful than ever. Hippies! Flowing skirts, saris, unkempt hair, a tepee sitting rebelliously on a finely cut lawn. Hippies! Large groups of people gathered into smaller groups. Their conversations lacked Spanish gesture and carried a tone of mysticism. A lady walked along the beach with the expression of having discovered a miracle. What a beach, the best beach on earth. What people, the best people on earth. The world is so beautiful, and the sand is making love to my toes.

I was intrigued. I felt like a misfit; a person from some crasser age, with a sneering attitude towards new age twaddle. I knew I looked right for the part, but I felt wrong inside; wrong and nosey. In the foyer of the conference hall, I had expected to be discovered. A large auditorium was laid out with stalls, and surrounded by elevated seating. Something big was happening, and the atmosphere was cultish. Then outside I discovered a poster. It said Amma Mata Amritanandamayi, Darshan en Barcelona, Dias 5, 6, y 7 de noviembre, 2007. Behind the writing, a smiling Indian lady held her hands together.

“To be in Her presence is to experience the best that life has to offer...a river of unconditional love, accepting anyone and everyone, and cleansing all their impurities. Luminous rays of grace, radiating wisdom and joy... like the earth bearing us on her bosom. By her love, consoling us, nourishing us, instilling faith in us... in whose presence, the innocence of a child awakens within... the world becomes a wonder. Such this and more is Mata Amritanandamayi Devi, Amma, Mother of Immortal Bliss. Come... Meditate...” I was surrounded by people who had come to visit a hugging saint. Did I say I have sneering attitude towards new age twaddle?

Online, you can view a video of her trip to Barcelona. Of herself she says: "Amma's hugs and kisses should not be considered ordinary. When Amma embraces or kisses someone, it is a process of purification and inner healing. Amma is transmitting a part of Her pure, vital energy into Her children. It also allows them to experience true, unconditional love. When Amma holds someone it can help to awaken the dormant spiritual energy within them, which will eventually take them to the ultimate goal of Self-realization." Yes, she does refer to herself in the third person. Perhaps she has to distance herself from her own fabulous stream of bollocks. Fucking brilliant.

I was happily enthralled. At the time, I was also blissfully unaware of why the people around me were filled with a strange and freakish serenity. I was excited by whatever could lead people to gladly camp in their cheap domes tents, illegally erected in the comfort zone of a tarmac car park. I felt like Jane Gooddall.

I walked further and further and the sky got darker. Should I be wandering along the beach front alone, I thought. Darkness comes so fast. I looked about myself. There were a few lone females walking too. I looked about myself again and they were gone. It’s okay, I thought, joggers, there are still joggers; joggers will scare off the rapists won’t they? Then I was in a dark car park all alone. It’s not far; just walk fast but with confidence. And separated by one dark and scary car park, unaware of each other’s very existence, hippies and corporate geeks live out a very different existence. I was more scared of the geeks. They were yet to come.

I arrived at the Edifici Forum to find a group of zombie geeks stood outside. They were mingling with the trees at dusk. With slow movements and vacant stares they had gathered on the grass. As I waited amongst them, whilst trying not to look too noticeably living, thousands more sluggishly left the building. The auditorium alone has a capacity of 3,200 and the building was filled to capacity. Some wore identifying wallets, and others were branded with Microsoft satchels. I carefully watched as a man with an active mind escaped the building unharmed. His Mohican and sweet soft flesh would no doubt mark him out for the kill eventually. At the time his ‘if then else’ mumbling chant allowed him life. I hope he had it in him to graduate to a mock ‘Zombie.IsValid = True’.

Eventually, with the passing of time, I feared for My Geek. Was he brain dead and trapped in a test environment? Then flash news: fearing the worst, he had escaped before my arrival. He was already enjoying the delights of Video Bum Stop; it was I who was at risk. Barely quelling my panic, I lost my statute like composure and fled. Using just the compass of my mind, a fast pace swept me through the dark and threatening streets. Would opening my map sell me out to these creatures of the night? With a sigh of relief, I found myself on Avinguda Diagonal; it was like my hazy Sunday morning but dark. It was the bookend to a very normal pleasant day, where people converse softly and no crows or hags heckle and lure ill-fate. Couples held hands, rollerbladers drifted by, dogs sniffed at the world and I felt safe. It all felt so fantastically normal and as though night had become day. Avinguda Diagonal is one hell of an avenue.

I passed The Dildo, opted against a shortcut through a poorly lit spit of a park, traversed a roundabout, and wormed my way back. Only when a road split into two, and became the streets with no name, did I lose my bearings. A supermarket foyer provided me with the light and safety to check my navigational paper. Home was just a corner away. A series of videos spilled from My Geek’s laptop and the swing of my soft bottom’s gait finally came to a gentle stop.

The Great Rock n Roll Swindle

Oscar Wilde had it, Peter Cook had it. Do you have it?
Do you embody the spirit of rock n roll? Are you rock n roll itself personified? I doubt it.

Come on. You can wish, you can hope, and you can think of all the ‘could have beens’ - oh if only life had thrown me such and such a card - but most of all you can get real.

Not many have it, few come close to touching it, and it’s not coming to a person near you; not ever. That is, unless you are an extremely lucky or unfortunate bastard-of-a-bitch from hell. It’s a rare and beautiful thing and, whilst flirting with the idea of extinction, it infects few.

Out of all the rock and roll contenders, how many REALLY have it, once had it, or accidently lost it somewhere along the way? Forget the nearly, and contemplate the really.

We’re all aware of it. Most of us are enchanted by it. Those of us with half a brain know that, in its truest form, it’s the path of a great mind to ultimate self-destruction. But think of all the dazzling moments of sheer genius along the way. We LOVE it. We love what it achieves, and what it achieves against all the odds. Its hosts are completely and utterly fucked, fucked up, fucked off and brilliant.

How many people aspire to it; as a teenage dream or as an adult failure? A never ending supply of wannabes will eternally opt for certain lifestyles, career paths or social circles in a quest for it. Ultimately, they will fail. You either have it or you don’t. It’s as simple as that.

The Twang; they don’t. Kasabian; they don’t. Bono; he wishes.

Give up, find your own kind of cool, or become a twat. Did I mention Bono?

So, who does have it? Or should I say; who did have it? Well, Jimi Hendrix did. But, what about all those other self-destructive dead rock stars? Did they have it too?

Firstly, and most importantly, Kurt Cobain was a wannabe; he tried and failed, and then in death succeeded under false pretences. Every knowledgeable person over 14 knows that. Don’t believe the hype.

John Lennon came close, but he lacked both the grit and vulnerability.

Jim Morrison? Well, I think we may have a second contender; the hedonistic soul searching poet, no longer in residence. I’m not a great Hendrix or Morrison fan, but you’ve got to hand it to them; they were definitely infected. Even I won’t deny that. Two men absolutely committed to their art and to getting completely fucked out of their libertarian minds.

Shaun Ryder? Think about it. He’s an incredibly creative writer and he’s probably taken more drugs than Hendrix, Cobain and Morrison put together. He’s lived in a pleasure-seeking whirlwind and perhaps made the mistake of coming out of it alive. So why do we have to question his place? Where does he fall down? Probably all over the place. That’s part of the problem. Doesn’t the spirit of rock and roll provide for a certain graceful vulnerability in its victims? Sorry Shaun, you’re out.

So what we’re looking for is a liberated, outspoken, creative, talented, vulnerable rock star, inclined towards a life of substance abuse, and harbouring an emotional cavalcade of elation, futility and torment. Please step forward the one and only Ms Janis Joplin. That is, if you’re not too high to take a simple step or two.

Jimi, Janis and Jim: three completely infected motherfuckers who took the spirit in, took the spirit on, and died. All of them aged just 27 years old (oh the cliché it’s become). Yes, some 36 years ago. How long does the rock and rock spirit need to reform and find a suitable person with musical talent to infect? Cooo-eeeee. Where are you?

Has Keith Richardson been carrying the flag for all these years alone; just waiting for somebody – oh just anybody - to take hold of the baton and to allow him to overdose and die? He certainly lacks the depth and creativity to be a contender alone, but he could be a carrier. Or did the spirit of rock and roll give up on infecting musicians forever in 1971? Really?

It must have been a lonely world for Peter Cook.

Perhaps he took some solace in Bill Hicks; a wannabe that came so very close to cracking the code. Any closer and there would have been a revolution. A short one, ending with multiple drug overdoses, suicides and rehab.

What about living comedians; is the spirit still travelling around on the comedy circuit, waiting to find a musician that matches up to its person spec? Noel Fielding, for instance? Who’s more rock and roll than Noel? Who has more spirit? Could he be the one? No. Sorry Noel. Your scripted life lacks the extreme misery and levels of unbridled abandonment that’s required. An infected soul likes to parade its murky mutilated depths, not prance around in sequins with an ever enduring smile.

Where Noel falls, does Russell Brand stand up? A former heroin addict and alcoholic; he’s been arrested eleven times and he oozes cool. With hair from the rock and roll factory of limited editions, a pseudo-Dickensian Cockney character and the word smithery of an urchin poet, does he make the grade? Or is he just way too shallow and another media lovie pretender? I mean, the rock n spirit, Big Brother. No.

But then, I wouldn’t like to prejudge.

I’m seeing Russell tonight. May be I should ask.

Pete Doherty. Amy Winehouse. Do we actually have real contenders? Shhh. Don’t scare the spirit of rock n roll away; just in case. It’s been gone for so long. Please don’t spoil it. Drug overdoses and suicides. Who needs them? Let’s pretend it’s with Russell and Russell alone, even if it is isn’t at all. And I'm pretty damn sure it isn't. Well done on the rehab Mr Funny Man. Well done. Keep up the good work and take care of you know what.

A Spike into my Vein

Ever since I wrote the phrase “the dirty streets of London” on Sunday night, an older collection of my words have been running through my head.

Palindrome

Innocence was just a lie
You live inside the light
You let it burn you inside out
You always burn so bright

Little donkey on a high
Just toiling for a meal
Became a bitch at HMP
For thoroughbreds to steal

The dirty streets of London
Sang lullabies to you
You chased St George up Brixton Hill
And dragons spoke to you

The dirty streets of London
Sang lullabies to you
You hid yourself from all the world
And dragons spoke to you

Dalston pimp, a hackneyed tale
Square one and back again
South habits pave the teeth with gold
The hunt is not in vain

Media whores who dib dib dab
Enthralled by your decline
The London lovelies with junkie friends
‘O Dee, it’s so divine’

The dirty streets of London
Sang lullabies to you
You chased St George up Brixton Hill
And dragons spoke to you

The dirty streets of London
Sang lullabies to you
You hid yourself from all the world
And dragons spoke to you

When your hope just disappears
Your rock will hold you strong
For you see the world for what it is
And hide from all that’s wrong

When your friends all disappear
Your rock will hold you strong
For he’s the one that never lies
He’s loved you all along

Happy busking, my sweet friend.

Without Love, Life is Gone. Without Life, Love Goes On and On

Tomorrow night, I’m going bravely venture into the outside world and trek all the way to the dirty streets of London town. The mission, the pilgrimage and the reward will be to see the one and only Viking Moses, otherwise known as Brendon Massei. I’m sure that if you have the ability to use the internet thus far, you can find all about Viking Moses all on your oddy knocky. Here are a few facts that you may not discover during your lonesome exploits online:

• Before travelling to The End of the Road festival this year, Brendon packed a little collection of homemade CDs to give to a friend as a personalised present. Two of these CDs were ‘Saint Eskimo – Of the West and Shut your Mouth’ and ‘Viking Moses – If We Were Moons’. These CDs are on my computer desk as I type. I am not the aforementioned friend.


• Brendon’s favourite venue is The Luminaire, London.


• Brendon answers his own emails.


• Brendon is poor and sometimes has to sell his belongings, even the ones he plans to give away as presents.

What you can find out on the internet is that:

• Viking Moses has played with the likes of Bonnie Prince Billy, Cat Power and Devendra Banhart.


• Brendon has been perpetually on tour since 1996.


• Viking Moses have released an album called ‘Crosses’ which warrants eight out of ten from Drowned in Sound.


• Brendan will be playing his favourite venue in the whole wide world tomorrow night.

All the Songs Have the Same Chords

I am not sure if I’m more excited by the music or the essence of the artist that I fully intend to see tonight.

In his own words (from MySpace):
“Beans on Toast is one man with a guitar. Hes been playing songs for about a year on time of writing this (25th June 2006) and intends to do this for a bit longer. Hes convinced that global warming is going to wipe out civilisation any minute now. Hes bored of racism. He enjoys having sex. He drinks too much. He has recently bought a new guitar. He intends to offer his songs for download on this site. He intends to change them on a regular basis. He is aware that the road to hell is paved with good intentions. He likes North London. He has a beautiful girlfriend. He pretends to be a gypsy Hes a big fan of Tom Robbins. Hes not a big fan of capitalism. He owns an Apple Mac. He spent the last year making some sort of stand against myspace. This is his myspace page. He has his tail between his legs. He is a proud Sagittarius. He pretends to be a hippy. All his songs have the same chords and he sounds like Billy Bragg.”

See what I mean?

Okay, there are some parts of his manifesto that I can't say I subscribe to (Tim Robbins?), but hey, a man that holds onto good intention, whilst being fully aware that human weakness is generally a victorious son of a bitch, is a man that I can respect. And he manages to relay the complexities of character so very simply.

Who I saw at End of the Road 2007

End of the Road is an amazing festival, where artists and punters are all one, and everyone loves music. It's all about the music.

Strange Idols
Not nice

Seventeen Evergreen
Very up and down mellow slightly twee indie, some out of tune

Jesse Sykes
Had Slash imitator on guitar which made it awful

Scout Niblet
Nice then rocked out and went wrong

**All Smiles
Sounded very nice and mellow, guitarist from Grandaddy

***Viking Moses
Main man had excellent voice but the rest of the band were uncoordinated and there were some terrible female vocals, and too much humming

Marie Frank
Quite nice and mellow soft female vocals and did nice Velvet Underground cover

**Midlake
Excellent except for the unfamiliar tracks!

Yo La Tengo
Good experimental variable music, with a small amount of lovely twee mellow songs and some clever feedback, intense guitar experimentation, then just went too much into masturbatory rock.

**Loney Dear
Very lovely heartfelt gentle songs

****I’m from Barcelona
An amazing balloon and confetti party, with some lilo surfing.

King Creosote
Nice enough…

**The Bees
Rather jolly

Super Furry Animals
Good old stuff but now rock out too much and lack innovation. New songs seem like bad rocky version of old songs.

My Brightest Diamond
Too glam rock

Darren Hayman
Excellent and better than Hefner – his bluegrass set (Hayman, Watkins, Trout and Lee) was also amazing

Danielson
Like a discordant bad version of Bearsuit, not good

Tape the Radio
Nasty rock

***Slow Club
Fun and quirky great female vocals

**9 Bach
Welsh traditional folk – lovely voice and banter

Young Republic
Okay as background music

**Indigo Moss
The singer is the spitting image of an old friend in years gone by – youngsters playing good folk

**Port O’Brien
Anti-folk without as much silliness, but friendly and lovely.

**Dawn Landes
Gorgeous voice

***Jeffry Lewis
Crass covers with a couple of fun tunes at the end. Political and great.

**Herman Dune
Jolly Fun

***Misty's Big Adventure
Brilliant set full of classic Misty's, but no “all things bright and beautiful”…

**Malcolm Middleton
Scottish folk pop with some good amusing lyrics.

Hyacinth House
Big Swedish folk band – nice enough but too rocky with nothing that sets them above.

**Peggy Sue and the Pirates
Best set yet. Deliciously fun with a happy sit down audience applauding enthusiastically.

***Charlie Parr
Beautifully understated excellent guitar folk.

I Never Said it was Clever

Last night I had a beer shampoo and shower, got squashed into a more compact unit, narrowly avoided flying elbows and feet and sang my little black heart out. It was absolutely amazing. First of all Joe Lean and the Jing Jang Jong came on like true rock stars, having only released one single ‘Lucio Starts Fires’. Then The View jumped onto the cage in very convincing Dizzee Rascal outfits. Their set was really quite something. Say ‘WO-AH’, ‘WO-AH’. And of course, nothing could be better than hearing Captain Sensible’s ‘Happy Talk’ being sampled, a favourite of mine since the single digit years. You’ve got to hand it to Dizzee; he puts on a damn fine show. I’ve always loved a bit of scrit-scrit-scratching! I had been looking forward to seeing The View, as advertised, but what a warm up. Jump, Jump… We jumped.

Some headliners headline and others stand on stage like reluctant mice; some completely arse it up. The one and only Mister Pete Doherty - the tabloids favourite crucifixion target – is an unpredictable artist, but on the night of the 25th November 2007, he demonstrated all of the reasons that the tabloid disciples have no fucking idea.

The nation’s most loved and hated minstrel played like an undisputedly talented poet, musician and performer. He played the best gig I have seen in a very long time, and, I assure you, I have not been hiding at home. Okay, the sexual chemistry – akin to homoerotic fantasy blogs that The Libertines inspired - was absent, but me oh my, what a show. The new album ‘Shotters Nation’ gave a taste of what was to come, and there was no disappointment in this irrelevant person’s mind. To top it all off, Pete, alone and blessed with the magic of a natural singer songwriter, gave acoustic performances of ‘Music when the Lights Go Out’ and ‘The Lost Art of Murder’. In his living room corner of the stage the band then joined him for some further acoustic wonderland treats, with ‘There She Goes’ and ‘Albion’.

Get up off your back
Stop smoking that
You could change your life

Pete, you may have gone through a shambolic phase and released one truly terrible album, but your overall output over the last five years makes you one of the greatest artists I have ever been blessed to share a room with. Good luck with rehabilitation. You got me high.

I went to sleep singing, I woke up singing, and I sang all the way to work.

When Crisis Comes

In a month’s time I will abandon my post at our local mental health charity. I am sad to say, I must be on my way, to the land of risky gambles and a job that may not pay. And I am sad. I am sad because I will miss the crisis calls. Crisis calls, like buses, can be few and far between, but often, when they do come, several come at once. Crisis calls are the most important calls that I ever receive. A crisis call is a telephone call (surprise surprise!) from someone in crisis, usually with direct or indirect references to suicide. Giving time to a person in crisis is one of the most worthwhile things that anyone, anywhere in this world, can do. I will miss giving my time to people in crisis. I will not be there when crisis comes.

Umberto Peteo

He mumbles a thought, Dreams crumble away

In preparation for the Babyshambles gig on Sunday, I am watching this clip on repeat:
Umberto Peteo
It wasn’t always a series of mumbles that only just manage to escape from a byzantine mind.

Just be Humble

Calling the meek and the humble
Welcome to blackboard jungle
So don’t you crumble
Just be humble

The Orb sampled it, and now the Wobbly Squadron do too. Lee Scratch Perry’s Blackboard Jungle (1973) sounded brilliant as an ambient house sample in 1991and it was cracking to hear it being sampled again last night at the Hobgoblin.

The Trip Part Two

The past is here: so read it first:
The Trip Part One

Monday 5th November, 2007

Remember, remember the fifth of November, bike tours, mezes and port. A new day dawned. And as I awoke in this unknown city, magic was in the air. My geek was excited about the first day of his conference, and with a little help from the internet and a very poor wireless network connection, I had plans of my own.

Before the sun had found its way over the hills and high rise buildings, I was out of bed, breakfasted and heading towards the centre of town. I walked along Carrer de Ribes, past Arse de Trump and along Carrer Corders towards the Barri Gotic. I had an engagement to keep. I didn’t have time to stop and chat with Graffiti Che - and his fine pink moustache - about the delights of Barcelona’s freshly laundered washing. Or perhaps I did? I just wasn’t sure if I did.

I was heading towards Plaça de Sant Jaume for a four hour long bike tour of the city. Plaça de Sant Jaume, our meeting point, was once the centre of the original Roman settlement of Barcino. And did those feet in ancient times... get sore? It was a good place to start the day. The plaça is now home to the Ajuntament (City Hall), and the Palau de la Generalitat, where the Catalan regional government pretends to know what it's doing. Police stood outside guarding the buildings and directing tourists. I stood outside directing my camera and photographing police.

It was a quiet morning, but Plaça de Sant Jaume is not always so dull. At its best, it is a place of protest and Catalans love to protest. Not only do they love to protest, but they are also rather partial to protesting in no clothes. Yippee. In 2006, in this very square, seventy naked people curled up on the pavement outside City Hall. They were pretending to be the number of ill-fated minks that died in the name of Liz Hurley’s underfed wardrobe. My feet were standing in a place of public nakedness, with a fully clothed body on top. I feel guilty just to admit it and you don’t know what I was wearing yet.

Best of all, it’s perfectly legal to strip down. Recently, a man called Irwin decided to check it out. All summer he traversed the streets of Barcelona with his dangly-bits a-swinging. The 2004 nakedness law was upheld and his not so private parts celebrated their fully fledged liberation. There are photos of him on the internet to prove it. Made you look, made you stare; or did you? His toned bronzed naked torso and the city’s architectural triumphs sit surprisingly well together. I’m just a little bit sad that I can’t find any photos of him raising an erection at the Dildo. Perhaps that’s the one spot where he did feel self-conscious.

If you’re not sure about going naked alone, Barcelona also has a very good turnout for the annual world naked bike ride. The Critical Ass event was even born in Spain, in the city of Zaragoza, a little north of Catalonia. Many English towns now celebrate the event too, but Barcelona is probably a little bit warmer and there’s no risk of arrest. But beware; there have also been protests against tourism in the Catalonian capital.

Still completely unaware that nakedness was a viable option, I went for a little wander with my feet in the pouches of two live kangaroos, and a screaming giraffe wrapped tightly round my neck. Having barely bounced two steps, I found myself at the Cathedral of Santa Eulàlia; the real cathedral of the city. I soon learnt that, akin to the Gaudi Basilica, this holy building has the blood of many centuries soaked into its stones. Wars, colonialism and globalisation changed the political face of the world, new islands formed and people grew twice as tall, yet still God’s stones waited to take their place. This laissez faire approach to cathedral construction is a deeply seated trait of the Catalan population, passed from generation to generation like a defective gene. As far back as 343AD, the Roman Empire had built a basilica at this site and yet it wasn’t until 1913AD that the central spire of the cathedral was finally in place. The front of this building is still covered in scaffolding and I’m not entirely convinced that it is complete. Perhaps they forgot a feature or two.

The coolest part about the history of the Cathedral of Santa Eulàlia, is that I can go back to talking about naked people and I’ve barely drawn a light breath. Nakedness is not new or trendy; it’s inherent, wonderful and travels through time as a superior partner to the slow-cathedral-construction gene. The Barcelonans were keen on people roaming the streets naked as far back as 303AD. All the same, there has always been confusion about whether one can get away with it.

Way back then, some three hundred years after Jesus had led everyone up the Roman road with talk of his amazing imaginary dad, a beautiful young girl called Eulàlia, later to be known as Father Christmas Eulàlia, tried to test it out. She was full of youthful idealism and wanted to walk the city naked. History goes in cycles don’t you know? As thirteen year old Eulàlia ambled around with her small pert breasts raised high, legions of men - and a handful of women - were excited to see the outcome. Would any officials intervene while a naked girl walked the square? The anticipation was unbearable. Imagine a city where all the girls are free and willing to walk around completely unclothed. Imagine a city where, just for a few hours, a sex starved populous – bound for eternity with fat nagging wives - can stare at a beautiful naked thirteen year old girl in one of their finest public places. We have already established that nudity and fine buildings make for a tasty combination. Back then, thirteen was okay. Eight year olds got married... Don’t go all Paedofinder General on me.

Unfortunately, Eulàlia’s adolescent experiment took an unexpected turn that would lead to dire consequences. Just as excitement levels were reaching fever pitch, and more and more onlookers were coming in droves, flash cooling struck Barcelona. On that warm spring day, without a cloud in the sky, it started snowing, and snowing really hard. The washing that hangs from each and every window in town, gained a thick layer of soft frozen water. In no time at all, Eulàlia was wearing a dense white coat. Not an inch of her flesh could be seen. She had past her idealistic phase and discovered mink; white mink at that. The anger of this unforeseen interruption was insurmountable; the Catalans like nakedness, and fur clothing is just not on. Eulàlia was nothing more than the biggest prick tease that had ever walked their sun-soaked soil.

To punish the young whore for not maintaining full exposure until the time of complete climax, and for bewitching the weather, the Barcelonans rammed Eulàlia into a barrel, jabbed knives into its soft wood and rolled her down the street. They also cut off her breasts and decapitated her. The body of Santa Eulàlia is entombed in the cathedral's crypt. It has lots of bits missing – two small breasts, a head, many chunks of flesh – but it is where they can keep an eye on it and make sure that she doesn’t get up to any more mischief. The cathedral has a secluded Gothic cloister where thirteen white geese are kept to remind all thirteen year olds about poor young Eulàlia’s fate. Keeping birds in captivity is wrong; don’t they know that?

Just round the corner from the Cathedral is the Museu d'Història de la Ciutat (the Museum of the History of Catalonia), Palau Reial Major and Rei Square. In Rei Square, I watched a film crew and some 70 odd people dressed up as olden day Catalan peasants. It was time for my tour.

Back at Plaça de Sant Jaume, seventeen fully dressed travellers had gathered for the bike tour. The tour guide was already in full flow and telling the ancient story of The Barcelonan Bike Tour Wars. Way back in BC (Before Cycling), Fat Tire set up the first bicycle tour of Barcelona. It was a time of great capitalism and before long they developed many rivals. We have since learnt that the principle of competition is unfair, but those were hard and bleak times. Unsurprisingly, any village, city or town bike does not take kindly to rivals. Just thinking about her slimmer, prettier competition wears her down. And she just can’t stop thinking about them. Aaaaargh. This isn’t surprising when you see the rivals in action. Two other bike tour companies turned up in Plaça de Sant Jaume while I was there. They arrive about thirty minutes before the Fat Tart’s tour starts and steal her customers. It looks quite easy to do and I quite like the idea of sending Fat Tart mad; just because she is so very close and already provides such great amusement. Fancy a Fabpants and Softseats tour anyone? You can come naked.

While the bike tour-ists gathered in the south west corner of Jaume square, and shared horrified glances about the bike tour wars, a gypsy beggar woman circled her prey; ummm, that would be me. She wore many layers of colourful clothes and put her hand to her mouth repeatedly to suggest a need for food. She was missing a fake baby. Perhaps this was not her day. Akin to London, it is common to use a fake baby or to borrow a real one for a stint of begging. The scam must work to be repeated so often. Perhaps Westerners are soft to the idea of helpless starving children. How odd.

In many parts of the world, a baby is not enough to make the rich heart bleed; the ladder of desperation is climbed by self-inflicted mutilation whilst working towards maiming. We Europeans have such style. Instead of allowing our citizens to reach such levels of deprivation that they cut off a leg, we educate them just enough to come up with scams like throw the baby. So while you are trying to catch Tiny Tears in mid-air, and save a poor helpless doll from certain injury, remember that this is civilisation. Your possessions needed a new home. Alternatively, if you see a flying baby, just let it bounce. Not just in Barcelona; anywhere. You don’t know how these scams can travel. I saw a young gypsy beggar woman with a genuine baby later that week. She was sat on a bench in Avinguda de Gaudi. I had to stare twice to check that the small apparent human was real. How convincing are fake babies? I really want to know.

Fake babies grow up and, if they haven’t cracked their head open on a boulevard or pavement, they become baby beggars. Big baby beggars with clipboards. You may see them in the streets of your local town. They claim to be raising money for charity; you know War Head, Christian Aids or Apathy. In Barcelona they cut out the middle-man. They want the cash in the here and now, and not your card details for those regular monthly instalments. Enterprisingly, they do have a photocopy of a sponsorship form and a fully fledged scam in the making; it’s that European education again. A clipboard is also a wonderful tool for covering over anything that a hapless tourist happens to have left unattended on the table. The dual purpose tool enables both the ‘sponsorship’ and ‘walking off with it’ scams. I have a clipboard myself. I would later encounter two of these children outside the Museu National d' Art Catalunya. I bet it’s not the life they’d choose.

Back in Plaça de Sant Jaume the bike tour starts. It takes us back to where I have wandered; to the cathedral, the film set, and onwards. I have a nice red bike with somewhat fat tyres; they could be fatter, but it could get silly. We ride further through the Barri Gotic like a sedated bike gang and stop for the odd story. Then like a true gang we are told to ride three abreast on busy roads and to completely take over our side of the street. We hold up traffic and have a few near misses with the batty motorcyclists that govern the local highways. It's fun and slightly exhilarating. I wish we looked like a proper gang; tourists are so pansy.

Key stops in the city centre included: the Ramon Berenguer Square, which is home to a large stretch of the old city wall and some big brass letters that say ‘BARCINO’; The Palau de la Música Catalana (Palace of Catalan Music) which was designed by Lluís Domènech i Montaner Paula; and an eternal flame in Fossar de les Moreres, which is dedicated to those who died during an invasion on September 11th, 1714, in the Siege of Barcelona. It is pleasantly understated communal space

Do the Americans love the date symmetry? Of course they do. Will they compare Fossar de les Moreres with their own 09/11 memorial? I don’t know. Perhaps I should for them. On the one hand we have the Catalans. They have a small communal memorial square. In the square, a stone wall commemorates the dead; it bears an inscription of a poem which honours their sacrifice. A twenty foot steel arch holds a Bunsen burner-like flame over the street. It burns for the lost souls. It is soft and unobtrusive.
On the other hand, we have New Yorkers. Their memorial hasn’t been finished yet and their loss is much more recent. They are constructing a park; once more a communal space. In the footprints of the Twin Towers, there will be two man-made urban ponds. They will be filled by waterfalls that run from the edge of each watery square. Visitors will be able to descend to an underground memorial space.

So there we have it, two communal spaces with a soft feature to help visitors to contemplate a country’s loss. There may be 287 years, and many miles, between these two countries, that for many September 11th is a sad day, but they share so much. Oh sorry, I forgot something: The Freedom Tower.

New York’s Freedom Tower will stand some 1,776 feet above ground level, and will block out sunlight to half of city. I pretended to be an aeroplane there once, which gives me an idea. Instead of building a tower, they should erect statues of people with outstretched arms pretending to be aeroplanes and encourage visitors to do the same. I digress.

Following the Siege of Barcelona, the "Decretos de Nueva Planta" ("Decrees of the New Institution") abolished all Catalan laws and institutions, subjected the region to heavy taxation, and banned all public use of the Catalan language. It’s just what the Americans fear; most of all being robbed of the language they invented all by themselves: MSEnglish. The Catalan language was forbidden until the early nineteenth century, when it flourished once more. Harking back to the good old days, the draconian dictator Franco prohibited it once again from 1939-1975. He was a card.

The longstanding bike tour then took us to the Parc de la Ciutadella , where we saw the large temporarily inoperable fountain designed by you know who and a lesser known architect Josep Fontsere. It is apparently very nice when it’s working. We then rode on to the Arse de Trump (my local pooping arch), and northwards to the Sagrada Familia. On foot, I walked around the entire building. I like the cranes. They’re a good feature. It did look quite fun to climb the spires and peak out. We then rode down to Barceloneta beach and stopped for some tourism-enhanced lunch. I dined with an American pilot and a hairdresser from Coventry. It was dry cous cous with a bit of salad. How do they come up with it?

The favourite topic of our tour guide was the marriage of Ferdinand and Isabella in 1479. Isabella was the queen of Castile, so the marriage united the whole of Spain. Unfortunately for the Catalans, Isabella had the upper hand and Ferdinand was well and truly sat on. Isabella was the one who sent Columbus off to America, when all other nations had turned him down. She was a shrewd woman; or perhaps she was just lucky.

Isabella’s original plan had been to fill Columbo’s ships with prisoners and lose the whole goddamn lot of them - and a surplus of flasher macs - off the end of the world. Good riddance to bad detectives. Her dreams were not realised, but this is where the luck comes in. Columbo may have returned with his cigar and conceited manner in place, but he spoke of gold and the kind of riches that the Queen had only envisaged in her wettest and wildest dreams. Because Columbo had travelled with the Queen’s money, and the money of Castile (what’s mine is not yours Ferdinand), the Castiles were rich. As for the Catalans, they were later refused permission to trade in the New World, and were told to finish their cathedral first. If you’ve ever wondered who started the Spanish Inquisition; that was Isabella too. She was staunch Catholic and God demanded a lot of her.

It all worked out rather well until inbreeding killed off the royal family some two centuries later. Okay, perhaps not that well. Isabella was succeeded by her schizophrenic daughter, Joanna, who went completely mad after her philandering husband had shagged every woman in the Western Hemisphere. Good old Ferdinand, so sick of it all, poisoned his son-in-law and Joanna was locked up. Fortunately, any offspring from that kind of background is stable and well-balanced by default and then it really did work out well. Peace, stability and reluctant, but stable, leadership followed. All the same, marrying your first cousin is not to be recommended.

Poor old Charles II of Spain, descended from Joanna Schizoid a total of fourteen times - twice as a great-great-great grandson, and twelve times further - was fucked. He had so many multiple, severe disabilities, linked to inbreeding, that he was developmentally disabled, had a huge head, and could not chew his food properly. His aunt and his grandmother were one and the same. He was so deformed, that nature decided to put an end to all the silliness; and children were not to be. The collapse of his bloodline and the family’s habit of fucking their cousins led to the War of Spanish Succession. Those Habsburgs, eh? They liked to keep it in the family. Well, not long after that came September 11th, 1714, which was part of a very complicated war. The less said the better. On the bright side the 1714 incident did lead to Catalonia having a domestic market in Spain and later an overseas market in America, they just couldn’t use their own language to trade. It’s hard to understand why they make such a fuss.

I decided to head east in such of any long lost cousins. Wandering along Carrer de l’Arc del Teatre a homeless man lay sleeping on a window ledge. With each pace I saw increasingly levels of poverty and deprivation. With each pace I developed a more hardened expression in an attempt to blend in.

After a left turn, I soon found myself at Port de Barcelona. Huge luxury cruise ships lined the port’s harbour and I looked out of place amongst the sparsely distributed passengers mingling in the World Trade Centre terminal. I almost expected security to move me along. With familiarity, I could lose the fear of mugging on Carrer de l’Arc del Teatre, but I’m not sure that money will ever make me feel comfortable amongst the über–rich; born and breed into the upper echelons of greed.

Port Vell is perhaps more me. Or is it? Port Vell is another 1992 Olympics story. Before the Olympics, Port Vell was an old obsolete harbour, complete with empty warehouses, industrial buildings, refuse dumps and railroad yards. It is now a clean modern yacht basin and entertainment centre. It houses an IMAX cinema, the largest aquarium in Europe and a state of the art indoor shopping centre. I had little interest in any of the entertainment and I certainly didn’t want to waste my time abroad in shops, but the communal outside space did capture my imagination. In the water bobbed a porcelain white buoy in the shape of a young, contemplative man. A cable car tower stood silhouetted against the background. At certain angle the bouy and the tower were silhouetted together, with the cable cars moving across the skyline in perfect symmetry.

I turned round to find the Maremàgnum shopping complex and its unique exterior of mirrored surfaces. The sea, yachts and clean structural features of the port stood over me in a series of gently curving squares. By standing under the entrance I could see myself from up on high. Stood centrally in a square of my own, with the wooden slats of the port’s causeway as my background, I became a uniquely framed piece of art. I became more than many modern exhibitions at the Tate; and I a humble tourist. I walked back through the city, once again past Graffiti Che and his wonderful pink moustache. A film crew was at work in a shoe shop opposite the South American rebel.

A bath later, I walked those streets once again; this time with a companionable geek. It was dark and the streets in the Barri Gothic were wet and slippery following their nightly wash. Tourists are filthy buggers. We ate a fine meze at the Vegetalia Restaurant, followed by biscuits and a divine hot chocolate. On the way home we passed the Restaurant Colon. Oh, if only we had passed it earlier, we could have eaten like thread worms.

It’s Such a Perfect Day

I was taken out today. In an ‘I’ve been out’ with Nicholas Parsons kind of way. Nicholas Parsons! Nicholas bloody Parsons! I’m not actually dead; sorry. I was taken out for lunch in a mad but fancy restaurant (yum yum), fondled the Tate’s crack (it’s much bigger than mine), saw Elephant and Castle - Stick it up your Arsehole - from a pod from on high, way up in the sky, watched Beowulf hide his lust muscle in 3D and then visited another Old English Pub. It was bloody brilliant.

Yes, they really do use the terms 'lust muscle' and 'wank' in Beowulf and it's a certificate 12. Angelina Jolie won't let her own children see the film because of the nudity. Instead her bairns are going to listen to an audio version of the film. 'What's a lust muscle mummy?'

Don't Walk Away in Silence

I have just returned from the cinema having watched Control. It is a beautifully understated film and the live music, which stole a significant proportion of the running time, had me completely and utterly hooked. Unfortunately, that was its last showing. I am so happy I caught it during a second run at our local palace of sticky floors. I wish I could watch it on the big screen again tomorrow and then listen to my Joy Division CDs over and over. I want to hear those songs until they can’t penetrate any further into my soul. Don’t walk away in silence. I will walk away in silence.

The Trip Part One

Sunday 4th November, 2007

Getting up at 3.45am is wrong. Have I said that before? For the first time in my life I got a taxi from home to the airport, but where is the luxury when you feel sick with sleep deprivation? Where is the luxury when the valleys between Brighton and Gatwick are filled with a beautiful mist, the taxi driver proceeds with great haste and there is an underlying feeling of fear? The luxury is at the other end, on the other side of the pollution trial that we leave across the sky. The luxury is Video Bum Stop.

From the moment I saw the words ‘Video Bum Stop’, in thick black lettering against the yellow advertising board of a crusty porn shop, I knew that I had found home. I knew that posteriors on film and my sleeping hole were destined to be entwined. Of course they were; how could they not be? And how could they try and reject us, confuse us with a Microsoft drone from The Netherlands? They couldn’t for long. So there I was at 10am, at the Hotel Confortel, checked in and ready for the city rejuvenated by the 1992 Olympics and, before that, the 1888 Expo World Fair.

I was a mere stone’s throw away from the Arc de Triomf, that fine gateway to the 1888 shenanigans of old. Yes, there I stood, as the sun began to warm the slowly stirring city streets, fuelled, armed and ready for action. The famous city of sweet Pari awaited my full attention with garlic breath and rude stares. No, you’re confusing me, why did you put such thoughts in my head? I wasn’t in Paris at all. I was in the warm hearted washing capital of Catalonia. The Arc de Triompf is, was and always will be a beautiful ruse. Barcelona is way cooler than that French shit hole.

East Barcelona is a series of squares, but no Spaniard can live in squares alone. That’s why Ildefons Cerdà invented the Avinguda Diagonal. To save the Spaniards from a square rigid existence, he gave them a street that cheekily cuts right through, oh so very many rectangles, from the heart of Plaça Catalunya, past the bullet of Torre Agbar, and onwards to salty waters and the Edifici Forum.

The Edifici Forum is where Microsoft bases itself for two weeks of every year; where sea meets land, sand meets toes, and lowly geek meets geek god, or was that Gandhi? My geek companion said it was like meeting Gandhi. Being a systems architect for Microsoft is logically akin to being a major political and spiritual leader for an entire country seeking independence and civil rights. This you may not know.

The Edifici Forum Building, designed by Swiss architects Jaques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron, hosts an auditorium to seat 3,200, an exhibition hall covering some 5,000 metre squares and an arrangement of construction materials that cost 144 million US Dollars to put in place. It’s a triangular building that says ‘I live on a diagonal street and I’m an awesome triangle; fucking eh!’ Opposition parties in both the Barcelona Council and the Parliament of Catalonia wondered why it cost so much to build a triangle, but they hadn’t anticipated the cost of a protractor or the needs of the corporate geek that would visit once a year. Of course the average geek spends most of their time at the yearly MSConference marvelling at this ‘new Barcelona’ architecture. They certainly don’t sit in corners all alone, nursing their laptops and contemplating code. The one I saw was definitely marvelling the architecture as reflected by his laptop screen. Very modern!

In Diagonal Avinguda, sunny Sunday vibes were in full effect. A wide promenade runs along the centre of the entire length of street, as it does in Aviguda Meridiana, Saint Joan and the frightening Rambla that fights through the city’s heart. Along the promenades, bikes, roller blades, skate boards and feet roam, glide and stutter, and people converse merrily on benches. The roads provide for life and not just gas guzzling transportation. And gas can be guzzled from bus stops, or so it seemed.

I merrily conversed on a bench myself, while eating bread rolls made in England at 4am. A lady dressed in a leotard was trapped inside the cellophane wrapping whilst doing her daily exercises. I liked the graffiti that announced it was Urbano in the corner of a dilapidated abandoned square, where perhaps a home for many had once stood. A photographer, sat in the middle of the promenade, with her camera and tripod pointed at nothing but an ordinary street, and her bottom resting comfortably on the path, said ‘Sunday’. Diagonal Avinguda is a street for locals and not for hapless tourists, beggars and the drunken fools who define their vacations by alcohol consumption. Hazy Sunday mornings are made for people like me and the locals.

From the Edifici Forum to La Barceloneta, the Barcelona lawns and prom run along the water’s edge. From Nova Mar Bella beach, I walked along the coastline to La Torre de les Aigües. Along the way, at a seaside cafe, the language barrier that separates the ignorant English from the ignorant Spanish provided for a little gentle amusement between two proud and incompetent European races. When two nationalities of great ignorance combine, good things can happen. People smile, point and, because each are the same, there is no embarrassment to endure. The everyday situation, which could be oh so very formal and dull, becomes a dance of incoherence without misunderstanding.

When both Spaniards and the English can travel so far and wide on their sweet home tongue, there is little reason for learning another. Both are truly fine languages for expression, and to learn a second language would sully the importance of the first. ‘Am I not enough?’ cries the Oxford English Dictionary to the child of grey clouds and dark poetry as they open a traitorous book of bleak translation. And ‘please do not betray me’ the La Real Academia Española pleas passionately to its beautiful sun scarred babies as they depart with warm smiles and grand hand gestures. Don’t be brainwashed by the places where hola is not hola but hello, hi or ni hao. And why would anyone learn any language when they have been born with inbuilt pointing devices and a smile?

Incredibly brave or stupid English people swim in the cold sea while the land creatures pull their coats closer to their bodies. Slender men with six packs throw cartwheels and handsprings on the beach. A cycling tour rides by and a bus tour goes the other way.

The bus tour awaits the ears, eyes and bottom. Barcelona Bus Touristic has three routes: Red Route which circles the north of the city; Blue Route which circles the south; and the Forum Route which travels to where my feet have already trodden and is not in service. At the Platja del Bogatell the bus says ‘hello’ and ‘sit down’ to tired feet. It only takes a short period of assuming the sitting position to remember the torture of sleep deprivation. A whole city, that I know so little of, lies ahead in a welcoming embrace. I have not yet heard about the impact of the 1888 Universal Exhibition or the 1992 Olympics 100 times over, and I am so very eager to. Sleep can wait a little while longer.

As my feet say ‘ahhhh’, I learn that many of Barcelona’s beaches are new; thanks to some famous sporting event in 1992. They sure are pretty and so very clean. Will Hackney get luxurious sandy beaches in 2012? I want to play volley ball on a beach in Hackney.

The Parc de la Ciutadella houses the Catalan Parliament in a zoo that was created in 1888. Most interestingly, there are 400 different species of politician held in the zoo. I never knew there were so many, and in one region alone. The Spanish and the Catalans don’t get on too well.

The Torre Agbar, designed by French architect Jean Nouvel, looks rather like Norman Fosters London Gherkin. It lights up at night and is home to the Barcelona water company. The building is known as the Dildo. It accommodates the needs of many Catalan housewives. It is a very dry country.

At the Placa de Catalunya, I move to the Red Route, which starts at the Tourist Information Office. This is very much tourist land and akin to Piccadilly Circus. It is also the start of the terrifying La Rambla, with its pickpockets and living statues that move.

Soon we are to be bombarded by works of the famous architect Gaudi. My favourite Gaudi fact is that he was knocked down by a tram in 1926.

The Sagrada Família cathedral is not a real Roman Catholic cathedral because each city only has one. The term cathedral developed because Gaudi lived up his own behind and developed a building far grander than Barcelona’s real cathedral. The snails are the best part of the whole Sagrada Família Basilica building. The snails are ace. Good work on those snails Gaudi. The roof of the Casa Batlló is also pretty damn cool. There is a lot of Gaudi this and Gaudi that on this part of the tour, and perhaps my geek friend was confusing Ghandi with Gaudi when he was describing the godlike status of the source code masters. Gaudi liked to dress as a pauper in his later years. After being knocked down by the tram that led to his final demise he begged to stay in a hospital for the poor. He wanted to live like common people but to build a cathedral that would cost so much that it still hasn’t been finished to this day. My guess is that Jarvis Cocker would take him to a supermarket given half a chance.

Other points of interest, which I decided to attempt to return to later, were Park Guell, Montjuic hill, the Olympic stadium, the Montjuic cable car and Port Vell. The Tibidabo amusement park, with the Tramvia Blau - a tram that has been in service for over a hundred years - was rather disappointingly closed on weekdays by the time of my visit. A trip on the roller coasters was not to be. The tour bus got dark and cold. Sleep was beckoning. After another short trip on the blue route, Video Bum Stop called my name.

You Can't Trust Anyone Nowadays

After pocketing the Spanish weather and sneaking it through customs, I am horrified to report that it was stolen. I have been looking at worldwide weather reports and I am almost convinced that it was a damn Spaniard who robbed me blind and took the goodies back to their own country. The cheek of it all! It is cold.

Who I saw at Truck Festival 2007

Getting up at 3.45 in the morning is wrong. Here is one I made earlier. The only expertise I have in music is knowing what I like and what I don’t like. Comments may be considered inaccurate…

Monkey Swallows the Universe
Nice twee pop with some terrible out of tune moments.

Morrison Team Fayre
Like The Coral with a bit of a hoe down

***Fuck Buttons
A VERY pleasant wall of sound

**Paris Motel
Like a smoky folky Stereolab

Fanfario Music
Like a less interesting slowed down Granddaddy. Nice enough voice, but voice and lyrics did not fit with the music

**Brakes
Good dirty rock

Garth and Maud Hudson
Music to listen to when you are old and ready to die

***Six Nation State
Dirtier bouncier version of The Coral with the grit of The Libertines and a good measure of ska.

Emma Pollock
Lacked the sparkle of The Delgados, didn’t use full range of voice and rather dull.

Gabriel Minnikin
Great gravelly voice a bit like Leonard Cohen, a country twang

The Early Years
Atmospheric like Spiritualised.

The Epstein
Bland country. Technically proficient but no pep.

**Sam Isaac
Like a young Frank Turner or Get Cape Wear Cape Fly with no politics.

Actress Hands
Like Galaxie 500, but nowhere near as good. Made a lot of mistakes but giggled through them.

Fonda 500
Started like poppy Alabama 3 then turned into horrible rock

***The Mules
Good fun bouncy tunes with a gritty edge.

Lo Fi Culture Scene
Sounded good when we walked by.

Napoleon IIIrd
Indie wailing

**The Rock of Travolta
Funky wall of rock with no vocals.

***The Winchell Riots
Lovely Fell City Girl crossed with Mogwai-esq soundscape, but mellower and less intense.

Rachelle Van Zanten
Not nice. Thinks she’s Jimmy Hendrix, sings with a southern American state accent in a style similar to bad country music.

Baby Gravy
Terrible untalented riot grrl racket.

A Silent Film
Have potential like a rocky version of Interpol but too rocky and didn’t have the tunes.

Thomas Truax
Discordant comedy songs which were not funny. Rubbish.

Easy Tiger
Country rock with pep.

**Joe Driscoll
Funky – Brimful of Asha – style songs all done with loop layering – beat box, guitar and vocals by just one man.

Toenail Cutting Service Required

When I play computer games, I have to sit with my nose almost pressed against the bright screen of speed, action and adventure. I can’t aim a car, a weapon, or a person, unless my eyes are at least a metre away from the screen; 40cms makes me a potential winner. The screen might be 15” or 36”; I have to be just as close no matter what. It’s like a secret law of physics that only applies to me. When I cut my fingernails I like to hold my fingers at least 5cm away from my aforementioned nose. My fingers are in great peril if I don’t. I currently have one foot with raggedly cut toenails and chunks of missing skin and another which could be used to catch small rodents. In conclusion, fireworks are ace, but health and safety measures should always be adhered to.

Who I saw at Glastonbury 2007

It rained a lot and I didn’t make notes, so really after all these months I’m not too sure. I definitely saw these:

• Bill Bailey (briefly – it was very very wet)
• Bjork (briefly – walk by)
• Get Cape Wear Cape Fly
• Iggy Pop (briefly – walky by)
• Jamie T
• Jeremy Hardy
• Mark Steel
• Mark Thomas
• Phil Jupitus (comedy and djing)
• Simon Munnery
• The Dirty Pretty Things
• The Earlies
• The Fratellis
• The Guillemots
• The Maccabees
• The Magic Numbers
• Jonathan Kay Twisted Cabaret
• The Waterboys (briefly – walk by)
• Euros Childs
• The Stephen Frost Impro Allstars
• Ed Byrne
• Shazia Mirza
• The Rakes (who were really poo despite having a few good songs under their belts)
• The View
• The Who (had the misfortune of walking past)
• Tony Benn
• A great mystery band in the Steiner School Tent

I know I missed loads of amazing bands and made some bad choices, but I did have a very lovely time. That's all that matters!

Cows on the Rampage

The Devilish Dyke Halloween Walk was supercool. The cows were really quite scary.

Who I saw at Latitude Festival 2007

Everyone was great apart from Arcade Fire who Live up their own Bottoms and The Broken Family Band who made me want to die.

• The Magic Numbers
• Midlake
• Kissaway Trial
• Patrick Wolf
• Albert Hammond Junior
• Maps
• Sonic Hearts
• New Young Pony Club
• Emmy the Great
• Pete and the Pirates
• Lion Heart Bros
• Bobby McGees
• The Good, The Bad and The Queen
• Clap Your Hands Say Yeah
• The Hold Steady
• Seasick Steve
• Loney Dear
• I’m from Barcelona
• Middleman
• Lee Mack
• Russell Howard
• Paul Zenon
• Dylan Moran
• Little George Sueref
• Edgar Jones and the Joneses
• The Broken Family Band
• Alabama 3
• Arcade Fire
• Jarvis Cocker
• Gruff Rhys
• Strange Death of Liberal England
• Euros Childs
• Jaymay
• The Silent League
• Hello Saferide
• Wild Beasts
• Sonic Flyer
• Blood Red Shoes

Seventh Day Terrorist: Cult of Socks

Well, whadya know. A busy week...! Still sniffling and sneezing. It must be biological warfare. It wasn't my terrorist action group, but one of them must have decided on subtle action. Find a cold virus, nurture it into supreme virus form and release. No one will know it was you and you’ve got a whole country working at reduced capacity. Smart, eh? I will have to take it to our next action group; we could give everyone athletes foot. That’ll make them think about sock related matters more.

Jeffrey Lewis was ace, my meeting last night was both informative and deflating, and tonight it’s sausage and mash with the people who were sent to Coventry. They let them out now; would you believe it? Down South an’ all. It’s a 24hour release package and may help with their rehabilitation. Charity is my middle name. Emily Charity Fabpants. Tomorrow we will send them back to their shack. Tomorrow, well that is something in itself...

After kicking out the appropriately banished, I will bless a wedding party with my presence, embarrass myself at the Hove International Computer Games Tournament (oddly enough in the space I call home) and then save a local radio by witnessing some live music. On Sunday I shall be seeing Sicko. I might be well for it. Then again I might be dead… famous last words :)

The Best Kind of Nap

What a lovely sunny weekend it is to be full of cold. I went out yesterday and napped in the cinema. I fell asleep to Robert DeNiro being a macho ship's captain and awoke to see him dancing (or should I say prancing?) in a dress. That's the best kind of nap. A similar thing happened in the pub and I awoke to a male orgy; some sort of public school boy sport I am led to believe. I have my doubts. A little trip out on my bike along the beach awaits today. I wouldn't go out as I'm feeling rather ill, but the sunshine is bound to bring out the best kind of people. I am going to stare at them in admiration through glazed eyes. Jeffrey Lewis gig on Wednesday - wooo hooo.

Buy More Slaves

In case I forget where I've been, this is where I think I will be...

Globalistica - Wednesday 17th October 2007DJ s & Live Latin band - tropical treats from AFROBASE DJS; Live Brazilian percussion & dance from MARACATU NAO E; Global percussive beats n breaks from DJ EQUAL-I (Blue Note, Cargo, Fabric, Herbal, Vibe Bar, The End, 93 Feet East); Eclectica Delectica from FANCY PANTS and NANCY BOY (Glastonbury, Lost Vagueness, Bust da Box) Capoeira from Filhos de Angola, Live Cuban music from CORO FOLKLORICO. ALL PROCEEDS TO ANTI-SLAVERY INTERNATIONAL. Time: 22:00, £5/ £4, Volks, Age restrictions: 18 +.

Remember to make food for the people coming round before. And remember to buy some more slaves.