Fabpants Aint No Fool Day and the G20 Protests

The G20 Protests, April 1st 2009

What follows is an account of my day of protesting and trying not to get into hot water. Being trapped in a steaming kettle doesn’t sound like fun to me.

I have a bit of a no photographs policy on this blog, to encourage me to write. For writing helps me to remember. For this entry, I'm going to make an exception. Enjoy the colour, but don’t get blinded by it.

Blogger has automatically reduced the quality of my photographs, which is a little annoying. Apologies for the blur.


9.22am - Hove

On the train to the old smoke, the heart of commerce, and my old home - London - there was no sign of other protestors. A man sat diagonal to me raised suspicion. For the last few stations, he riffled cards. He dropped several on the floor. Anarchy!


11.00am - Liverpool Street

Liverpool Street terminus was surprisingly empty. I took a 30pence wee, glanced at two coppers in the main hall, and then headed out to Bishopsgate. I know that everyone expects protestors to wee wherever they like. I like to wee in a loo. Surprising, eh?

On Bishopsgate, a few people had gathered. One third carried big fat cameras. The media circus was in town. Oh Ruby, roll your stockings down.

While protestors held banners, the media made film and pictures. The banners said things like 'One World One Chance', 'Greed is Bad' and 'Capitalism Kills'.



No Green Horse was in sight. The four horses of the apocalypse were missing a member and we were without a leader.


11.20 - Restless Legs

It was sunny.

Someone asked me if I knew when we were going. Perhaps I looked like I might know. I smiled and said "no". I knew that we were due to leave at 11.30am. In my experience, marches generally start late, gathering as many people as they can. I didn’t want to assume leadership. Someone else had planned the march. They might be hiding in the crowd.

I overheard mention of a group that had already gone, held in by a police cordon. They had gone in the direction of the climate camp, not in the direction of the Bank of England. That was another protest, the one with tents and fake grass. It was peaceful until the police trampled it. There is some footage of it online: G20 Climate Camp Video.

I looked at the police vans lined up on the other side of the road. The gathering seemed small in number, the police many.


11.30 – Marching

A man holding a sign saying 'Mouths to Feed' took action. He didn’t look much like a horse, but he had a soft command of the situation.



"They’re boxing us in", he called, "Come on, we have to go". We left on time. An A-Z showed the way. The police had blocked our path. We zigzagged instead. It was defiantly wonderful.



I clapped heartily. A beautiful young lady, supporting a 'Greenwich Peace Society' banner, jingled her tambourine next to me. She had the air of someone incapable of violence, and it warmed my heart. A drumming band played ahead of us. Later, I walked ahead of it.

The start of this film shows the band. I'm just out of the shot. I encourage you to watch it later, and not now. It shows more of the day and may interfere with sequential reading.



I looked behind me and our numbers had grown. The protest looked strong. People whooped, and whistled. I whooped too. The band filled the street with echoing beats. I had to hold back tears. I felt so happy.



A taxi driver leant out of his window, said an emotional "Good on you", and raised his fist in support. Bankers, tourists and shop workers stood on the pavement. Some took photographs, some smiled and some stared. Liquid thrown from a high window landed just ahead of me. Not everyone was supportive.



Throughout the march, I was watchful for my safety. I stayed near the front, to maintain a clear sight of police traps. Police vans were on every street.

Where there were buses, with frustrated passengers going nowhere, I felt safer. I knew that the police could corner me at any point. Wild police batons, with no means of escape, hold no attraction for me. As we’ve already learnt, I also like to wee in toilets.


11.50 – Princes Street and Queen Victoria Street

On reaching Princes Street, a line of police quickly formed in front of us. The trap was set. A protestor tried to pass the line and failed. I climbed a pedestrian fence to escape. It would have taken seconds more to walk around, but I didn't want to waste seconds. Few followed me or seemed aware of the pen forming on all sides.

I was on the other side of the fence with city workers. Protestors were either side of the police line. Fluorescent jackets moved like ants forming into lines all across the plaza. I realised that another line was forming to block me in again. I swiftly moved to the other side. I was outside the protest on Queen Victoria Street.



In May 1st 2001, I escaped the kettle too. I don't think it was called a kettle then. Or I didn't know it was. Apparently, it's legal. In 2005, a judge ruled that surrounding and holding 3,000 protesters at the May Day protests in Oxford Circus, for seven hours, was reasonable in order to stop violence and damage to property. In 2009, they held many more.

From a group of girls on bikes, one called "Get your friends out, they’re trapping everyone".

"Our friend is stuck", she added, "He's in a pirate ship. There's no way they’ll let him out".

I had taken a photograph of their friend earlier. He looked brilliant. I hope he did okay.



To remain safe, I was unable to be a part of the protest proper. It was a close shave.

I wonder what I missed. I missed Billy Bragg having an argument and singing the Internationale. I saw both on the internet. I also missed the RBS bank losing a window. The pen was a big as the Reading Festival arena, so I may have missed both anyway. I'm more concerned about the comradery that I missed, and the sense of being part of something.

At Mansion House, on Queen Victoria Street, just outside the cordon, the Wetherspoons pub was shut. A suited man released a friendly laugh when he realised that neither of us could get in. I needed a wee. Yes, again! Did he need a beer?

Sweetings Restaurant was open. Well-dressed waitresses stood together peering outwards. Tables sat laid and ready for the rich to dine. The venue was missing its suits.

A pub two doors down had security on the door. That was to stop the likes of me.



The city workers, instead of hiding, seemed fantastically intrigued and amused by the protest. They walked up and down Queen Victoria Street. They had a look at the pigpens, took photographs and liven up their working day. Some wore jeans, shirts and trainers and looked like Jerry Seinfeld. Others wore beautiful suits. I admired those that shirked both the pretence of dressing down and the stupidity of the police and media for predicting violence against bankers. The girls looked pretty much as they always do; lovely.

As well as showing no fear of the protestors, the city workers showed no fear of the twenty stationary or circling police vans that surrounded us, ready to form another seal.



While I tried on several occasions, I was not as brave as the lunch-break tourists.

I couldn't bring myself to stay next to the sound system and the small gathering of protestors, that like me, were on the wrong (or right) side of the police line. Repeatedly, I joined them, danced a little, and then walked the length of Queen Victoria Street. To feel safe, I had to go to the other side of the vulture like vans. Back and forth, I went. I wanted so much to be a part of the protest, yet I was scared of entrapment, flying objects, shields and batons. My walks made me feel half safe, half part of the protest, and wholly frustrated.

My presence amongst the rubberneckers earned me a compliment. "Nice dressing down!" a man said. He wore a pristine t-shirt, designer trainers and ironed jeans. I was wearing all black, an outfit I regularly don, for I like black clothes. On the shoulder strap of my black rucksack, a yellow 'smiley face' badge looked on. "I think she's one of them", his colleague said.


1.00pm - Trafalgar Square

The police vans started to line up on Queen Victoria Street, forming the second seal for real. I got on the tube. Mansion House was still open. At Trafalgar Square, I looked to see if anyone had gathered. It is the traditional square for protest. No one had, so I emptied my bursting bladder and moved on.


1.15pm - Oxford Street

Arriving at Oxford Street, I saw a group carrying banners. Stood next to them at a crossing, I asked "Are you going to the Anti-War protest?" One of them looked at me suspiciously. "I've just come from Bank", I added, "They’ve got everyone in a kettle". I felt stupid using that term in real life.

A lady with an empty pushchair took my conversational bait. She said, "The police have already stopped us to ask us what we are doing and where we are going". I should highlight that this was a family group. As well as her baby, held in arms just behind us, there were other children present. The police perhaps feared the twelve year old from Cambridge. His clothes were a little unruly.

On the other side of the road, an Asian man had his car searched. "Is this what it’s going to be like today?" my temporary friend asked, "Do they think that all Asians and protestors are terrorists?"


1.30pm - Grosvenor Square

At Grosvenor Square, once again, police vans squatted all about. With so many protestors held at Bank, the turnout for the rally was poor. Three groups seem to be leading the way: the Anti-War Coalition, CND and the Socialist Workers. They all had banners to hand out. They just couldn’t get rid of them. There were more banners than people.

On the bright side, the ethnic diversity was greater here. While this cheered me, the Socialist Workers did my head in.



To raise my spirits, I watched Tony Benn being interviewed by Channel Five. Tony Benn is a dude. I am not. I sat on a bench and ate sandwiches. I don't have a pipe.

The construction workers that I sat with talked about joining the protest. One regaled the others with a story of a friend that went to The Races, instead of to work. His boss saw him on television. They opted not to protest.

With the construction workers gone, a group of young men joined me. A Socialist Worker saw fresh blood and swooped in. She made her point quite desperately. Then, deciding that they weren't her demographic, and that she was as boring as hell, she drafted in the Young Socialists.

"March with us they said, we’ll make lots of noise". "Okay", the young men decided without hesitation. That must be the Socialist Workers wet dream. "How about you?" a Young Socialist turned to me. "I don’t agree with your politics", I said. I should have said, "I hate evangelists".


2.00pm - US Embassy

Chanting started. It was directed towards the American Embassy. It was vehement. Tired voices that have chanted for years, cried old slogans. The atmosphere was far less cheerful than in the Square Mile. It was fierce and demanding. It was non-threatening. It was serious.

We really don't want war. We know that the governments won't listen, even if a million people march. Yet, we still we chant.



An elderly lady, with a young child in a pushchair, sat next to me. "I thought this would be the big rally", she said.

I told her about the trapped protestors. "I'll stand next to the hedge, so it looks like I'm adding to the numbers", she decided, "I can't go into the crowd with the child". She was as old as the hills, but it was the child that she thought of.




2.30pm - Back to the Bank

Feeling trapped on all sides by Socialist Workers, and itching to know what was happening at Bank, I decided to head back across town. Despite meeting some wonderful people, I felt like I had more in common with those that I had left behind. I have been to many protests with the Socialist Workers, but I have never felt so hemmed in by them.

Watching a video of the anti-war rally online, I can see that the numbers grew, and that the march was well attended. I'm truly pleased. I feel somewhat sad that I left, but I can't be everywhere at once. The march was due to leave at 2pm. It was late and I had an unquestionable urge to move on.

My contacts, elsewhere in the country, informed me that no violence had been reported at Bank, just a bit of argy-bargy between police and protestors. I guess that trashing windows and assets doesn’t count. As far as I can tell, the Royal Bank of Scotland was broken into at around 12.45pm.

The Royal Bank of Scotland smash up was a minor incident really. A bit of property got broken. It's a shame that such events are headline grabbers. It's a shame that people do such things.

I've seen financial institutions and McDonalds smashed up on other protests.

It's when the police and protestors battle that it gets scary.

Sat on the tube, I discovered that my bag had been either violently crapped or attacked by guacamole. I didn't touch or sniff. I covered it with tissue and wiped as much as I could off. This was the worst attack on my person so far.

An announcement declared that Bank and Mansion House Stations were shut, by order of the police. I opted to alight at St Paul's. A couple sat next to me. The female held the male's hand and gave him a serious look. "Promise me that you'll be careful", she said. She genuinely feared for her fella's safety. I have never known London's anti-capitalist protestors to fight with anyone other than the police.


2.45pm - Bank

I left St Paul's station with the city worker, and tried to reassure him. A helicopter circled above the Bank of England. The shops were open on Cheapside. I washed my bag and prepared myself with a pee. Not being pig-penned has many advantages.

A man, and what I can only presume was his young teenage daughter, walked beside me. She held a banner collected from Grosvenor Square. Like me, they left the anti-war rally to come back to the Bank of England. They discussed how the Square Mile protest looked different to when they'd left that morning.



All road access to the protest was blocked. Thirty police vans sat on or beside Cheapside. Police cars sat further back. Many protestors stood outside the police lines, unable to join the carnival, some infuriated by the kettle.

After a low-key reconnaissance mission of my own, I discovered that Bucklersbury Passage – a thoroughfare through a building – was open and had no police presence.



I walked into the carnival. The area on Queen Victoria Street, which I had once stood freely in, was now part of the cordon. Near Mansion House, a police line was being chanted at. I wondered if trouble was brewing. Reassured by my easy entrance, and feeling safe in using the same exit, I joined the carnival. There was no evidence of violent conflict.



Several sound systems boomed and a band played. Buildings and pavements had been defaced with chalk (not spray paint).



People sat in groups on the steps of the Royal Exchange and on the road, chatting and soaking up the sun. Placards moved with people. Banners hung from railings and buildings.



An effigy of a banker hung rigid from traffic lights.



There were jugglers. There were costumes and there were masks.



A man dressed as the Duke of Wellington sat on the plinth with a statue of the Iron Duke himself.



It surprises me that what looked like a shop manager and a security guard, stood outside a shop, bang in the middle of the kettle, chatting. The shop door was wide open. To the right of them protestors and police were jostling. Within a poor stone's throw, a masked man was scrawling the phrase 'melt-down' on a pillar.




3.30pm – Cheapside

With a police line gathering on the alleyway next to Bucklersbury Passage, I feared that my exit might be next. I headed back through the thoroughfare onto Cheapside. Cheapside was busy with protestors walking back and forth, and many were leaving. Just outside the pen, an Evening Standard stall had been set up. The board said "Riot Police Battle Anarchy in City". The two female vendors, based at the entrance to Bucklersbury Passage, sat right between the entrance to the protest and a long line of riot police.



Nearby, amidst the vans, Tesco was open and thriving. I watched as protestors boosted sales. A lady came out holding a large banner in one hand and a Tesco bag in the other.

Did the 'Consumerism Sucks' banner go supermarket shopping?

A small branch of Boots was also open and doing well. Anarchy has its own rules.

It seemed that some protestors caught outside the main area, between Queen Victoria Street and Queen Street were frustrated and in a pen of their own. I could see them over two lines of riot police. Some were climbing lampposts.




3.50 - The Thinning Crowd

On checking, Bucklersbury Passage was still open and I went back in.



The number of protestors had thinned, but there was a lot of noise coming from Queen Victoria Street. A large crowd stood gathered next to the police line and on the other side too.

I asked a policewoman, "Don’t they know about this exit?" pointing towards the passage. She replied, "We only tell them if they ask". This didn’t seem like a helpful approach to diffusing a potentially violent situation to me.



During my absence, Portaloos had been brought in a placed on Lombard Street. A group of media photographers sat in a doorway with cameras. They looked bored. I made a remark about it looking feisty on Queen Victoria Street, and got asked where I’d been all afternoon. "It all kicked off at the bank earlier", one of them said, "We’ve got our shots". The media only had interest in one event. If I was paranoid, I might wonder if the bank smash was a set up.

A man sat typing into his laptop. This was evidently an unsafe environment.

I went back to Queen Victoria Street to check my exit. My side of the police line seemed safe. Metres away, beyond the second police line, it remained noisy.

I saw some great characters. One was a friendly pensioner, with a fiercely brave spirit. She was alone, like me, but giving it her all. Shame on me for not doing the same.



A stunning lady in a haughty 'business person' outfit pushed a 'Greed is Good' wheelchair to the police line and I followed. Going into the crowd near the police seemed safe for the time being.

In the wheelchair, an evil masked mock banker sat. He was covered in fake money and holding a briefcase labelled 'bonus'. A sound system blared from the chair. In the middle of the thronging crowd, almost touching the police, they posed for photographs. One police officer turned his back away from the cameras.



4.15 – Trapped?

"Oh shit", I thought. For all my vigilance, a police line was heading towards my exit. They moved swiftly and a line formed before I reached it.

The police lady who I’d spoken to earlier was still in situ. "Can I get out there?" I asked. "No" she answered.

"Is there another way out?" I followed. "Yes", she said. She directed me towards St Stephen's Row, where I found myself surrounded by more police.




"Can I get out this way?" I asked an officer, stood in a line. "No", he said. "One of your colleagues said I could", I appealed. "You're not in the cordon", he offered. He was right. A thin alleyway was letting people in and out. I believe that I was one of the last people to be let out. The rest had to stay for hours. I nearly got myself trapped.



On Cornhill, a sleeping policeman sat on the Royal Exchange Building. His eyes were shut.

City workers were rubber necking next to me, peering at the fluffy animals, sorry the protestors, inside the pen.



A series of placards sat neatly arranged at the 'Royal Exchange Buildings' road sign. They said things like 'Get Money Here!', 'Apply Quantum Theory of Money', and 'Bail Me Out Darling!'

Despite the many riot police, the atmosphere felt light.

A line of non-riot police stood laughing at Threadneedle Street, right outside the smashed up RBS building.



At the split of Old Broad Street and Threadneedle Street, another line of police vans sat, blocking any route to the Bank of England.

Forget the laughter; an ominous presence remained.

Once more, I found myself at Liverpool Street Station. Whilst trying to get a shot of the Evening Standard newspaper board, a man dressed as Jesus stood distractedly in my shot. Half in half out, he was having a conversation with his friend.

"Please decide whether you want to be in my photograph", I asked in a cherry tone. He did. It was the comedy terrorist. The one that gate crashed Prince Williams’ 21st birthday bash. He thrust his dick at me. I guess they predicted a carnival atmosphere.



4.45 – Homeward Bound

I caught the train home. Two strangers politely discussed the protests on the train. They had opposing views.

I do regret not looking in on the Climate Camp before trekking home. I did intend to. I know that protests often get more violent after 5pm, so it was time to go.

The police didn’t charge the Climate Camp protest until 19.45pm, but when they did it was with brute force.




The Sad Part

Since then, we have all learnt that a man died at the protest. While City Workers were fed false fears about protestors attacking them, I was right to fear conflict between the police and protestors.

The night before the protest, My Geek worried that I'd get hit by a baton, never to be seen again.

The prophesy was half-right.

The man that died was walking away from the police, with his hands in his pockets. He got hit twice from behind. Moments later he died.

He was on his way home from work.






Fabpants Recommends: There is a little bit of a police and protest theme to my selection today. It seems apt, if a tad clichéd.

Download MP3: The Libertines – Time for Heroes (courtesy of rocktownhall.com)




Download MP3: Bob Marley – Get Up, Stand Up (clubnext.com)




Download MP3: Gustav – We Shall Overcome (courtesy of radio879.com)




Download MP3: Junior Murvin - Police and Thieves (courtesy of mydomainwebhost.com)




Download MP3: Gruff Rhys – Cycle of Violence (courtesy of vox.com)




Download MP3: Klashnekoff - Revolution (courtesy of radivizija.com)

Ya Boo Sucks To Greed

I’m going to London tomorrow. I’m going to protest. I’m going to protest peacefully.

I hope that peace surrounds me. If it doesn’t, I hope that my years of protest experience will serve me well.

I’m banking on the “swiftly walking away” routine if it all kicks off. It has served me well before. I’m not banking on banks.

I'm not an anarchist. I believe in social justice and equality. I believe that we should care for our planet. I believe that our current financial systems create social injustice and environmental damage. I believe that a system that promotes and rewards the rich and the greedy is fundamentally very wrong.

As well as the rest, I am protesting for the right to protest peacefully. I’m going alone and I'm a little nervous.

Fabpants Recommends: People Like Us are an inspiration. Vicki Bennett gives her music away for nada. Is she the creator of the oddest sampled based tracks that this world has seen? Perhaps.

Download MP3: People Like Us – It’s Just Amazing (courtesy of wfmu.org)



Download tracks dating as far back as 1992 here:
People Like Us Website
You’ll find many tracks that have given me great pleasure over the years.


This is a Flat 1a favourite:
Download MP3: Devendra Banhart - Cripple Crow (courtesy of hautetfort.com)

Gig Review: The Freewheelin' Peter Doherty

Peter Doherty, Brighton Dome Concert Hall, Thursday 19th March 2009

It’s no great secret that I am long-term fan of Peter Doherty; poet, singer, shambolic guitarist, tabloid fodder and chaotic dreamer. As a fan of fine words, delicate thoughts and ‘tickle me pink’ music, Doherty finds a vulnerable place in my silly old heart.

I have never had heroes. As a child, I found myself taken with lifestyles instead of laudable individuals. I had romantic notions of a free world. I longed for a society built on three constructs: love, peace and creativity. I thought that if I believed and wished for this perfect society hard enough, and if others did the same, then anything was possible. I never doubted the power of empathy, of being able to place oneself in another person’s shoes.

I doubted the will in others to dream and wish hard enough. I doubted the capability of others to realise the beauty of this dream. I felt that they could if they truly wanted to.

I looked to the hippie movement and I looked to the medieval world of wandering minstrels. So struck by a children’s book about wandering minstrels, in vivid dreams of longing, I visualised an idealised version of the society that this lifestyle encompassed. I never imagined myself to be a wandering minstrel, but as a medieval villager, enthralled.

I have always known my limitations.

Now I am 37 years old. I no longer live in a village. Entertainment visits towns. I visit festivals. We travel to each other. My insides flutter, melt and bubble whenever I see a great live act. What is an artist on tour but a modern day minstrel? What is a festival but a medieval fayre? Do I ever change?

I knew what I wanted before I found it.

Still, there is only one person, in real-life, that truly captures the full spirit of my childhood wandering minstrel imaginings. This is Peter Doherty. This is the man who would play outside a venue after a gig, take people back to his flat, prioritise fans over journalists, and wear his heart - however fucked up - on his sleeve.

The lifestyle can be chaotic, but therein lays the romance. There is romance in chaos. We are enthralled by chaotic periods of history. We love to find the beauty in hardship and hard times.

The Peter Doherty that played the 1800 capacity Brighton Dome on Thursday night was the same Pete Doherty that played the 100 capacity Brighton Freebutt in 2004. Life may have moved on, but the character remains the same: charming, affable, quick witted, generous of spirit and naturally shambolic.

On Thursday night, Peter walked on the stage wearing jeans and a long-sleeved jumper. He looked rather normal, with no razzmatazz, tie or glitz. Later, a hat would appear and disappear. For the most part his face was on full view. He looked healthy. He looked confident. He looked years younger. He looked less afraid of holding a stage on his own. He didn’t have to. The stage was, for the most part, full. Sensible looking men, older - even - than one such as I, added instrumentation to his songs.

Peter is trying something new. It’s not just his name.

And so it was. With strings, smoky jazz ballads and country-folk influences, the set-list bestowed a disjointed journey through Peter Doherty’s Arcadian dream, with a fresh veneer to boot.

For the first few songs, I found myself agog. Self-assured and refined, there was nothing to fault. I may be a Doherty fan, but I never realised that with proper focus and practise, the man has an amazing singing voice. Has he been too freewheeling to find it, use it and fiercely fight his corner with it? Has he had coaching?

This is a creative fantasist and not a man of natural focus. The focus is new too.

In due course, the real Peter shone through.

For, even at the Dome, after such a cracking start, there were mistakes. I bless the man for them. Such failings are part of his beauty and his charm. Without them, the air would be tepid and the atmosphere dull.

With a sharp remark, a facial expression and a 'we’re all in this together' attitude, Doherty shrugs off the odd bum note or excitable false start with a 'I'm only human' charm. The man carries his fans on his journey with him, wherever that may be to, in the sweet by and by. He might be ramshackle, but he’s always inclusive. Perhaps it is this combination that causes Doherty to attract the most ardent of fans.

Stalkers besiege Peter and, although I am a self-proclaimed fan, stalkers scare me. Doherty doesn’t discriminate. He accepts all-comers, sometimes with bemusement but never with distaste. I like this. This is the libertarian in action. A man is merely a man. We are all equals.

Bras and flowers hang on the microphone stand, notes are silently read, jewellery is worn and half-smoked 'illegal indoor' cigarettes are lambasted and then smoked. Playful curiosity prevails.

Peter hasn’t choreographed every aspect of his set, and even with the new spit and sheen, this fact remains. Plans change according to mood and circumstance, and gifts find themselves accepted in good humour.

Good humour is not bashing the idiot - who hits you square on with a full pint of beer - around the head with a guitar. "Let’s be professional," Doherty says with a wily grin. Pretending to hurl your guitar at him is far funnier. Returning a wet gift when it’s least expected is an apt comeback. I hope he hit the right person.

With four albums true, and an unofficial back catalogue, leaked by the man himself, Peter - who turned 30 just ten days ago - has a vast reserve of great songs that should be the envy of most musicians. Fans know many of his songs in all stages of development, from the tenements to the charts.

Gently sung and poorly picked classics have a life of their own. Being precious isn’t the reserve of the wandering minstrel. Corporate sales, records labels and buff are not the Arcadian way to hearts and minds. Jacopo Sannazaro will tell you as much. A good song will find its way. Life is the sum of its parts. This is what the tabloids miss. From kernels, a new album has emerged for real. Songs mutate in a wider arena.

Peter has always been too generous. He is no doubt aware of his short fallings when it comes to musical accomplishment. Thus on release, his songs are never completely his own. The first Babyshambles album demonstrates the pitfalls to this approach all too well. Carl Barât is the only musician that has ever truly added something to Peter’s songs without taking too much away. The producer Stephen Street is now trying to take this crown. He is on stage for the show.

Perhaps we have a lot to thank Stephen for. The new album Grace/Wastelands is racking up good reviews. When the reviews are not good they are positive.

Developing a relationship with the old songs in their new form has been an odd but enjoyable experience. The album entries grow and grow on me. I am learning to listen to them in the different way. Gone is the George Orwell down and out, living-room busker. These songs have so much polish they could gently caress a middle-class eating experience.

When Peter stood alone on the stage singing 'The Ballad of Grimaldi', the loveable in house busker stood before us once again. He took us back to the unofficial recordings, with the "we fight in the street" lyrics punching into the room. Without perfection, playing as though to a room of friends, and for love of the ditty alone, it demonstrated that Peter is Pete. He is both men. Anything is possible for the future.

Seeing Doherty looking so confident and healthy, and performing so well, can only be for the good. The man is young enough to find his own path and to learn to direct his songs himself.

Perhaps the new album is too refined, perhaps the Dome Concert Hall rendition of Albion was bastardised, deplete of a proper chorus, and a dad rock tragedy, but, surely, this is a much better direction for the man we so easily could have lost.


Fabpants Recommends:

Here are three songs from Peter Doherty’s new album Grace/Wastelands.

Download MP3: Peter Doherty - Sheepskin Tearaway (courtesy of iamthe-walrus.com)




Download MP3: Peter Doherty - Arcady (courtesy of iamthe-walrus.com)




Download MP3: Peter Doherty - Lady Don't Fall Backwards (courtesy of media.clashmusic.com)



You can listen to the whole album, all twelve tracks, here: Peter Doherty - Grace/Wastelands

Other new albums worth your attention include Polly Scattergood – ‘Polly Scattergood’ and Camera Obscura – ‘My Maudlin Career’.

Download MP3: Polly Scattergood - I Hate The Way (sorry, this link has died)



Download MP3: Polly Scattergood - Unforgiving Arms (courtesy of stashbox.org)




Download MP3: Polly Scattergood - Other Too Endless (courtesy of hauntedgraffiti.com)




Download MP3: Camera Obscura – My Maudlin Career (courtesy of camera-obscura.net)




To finish here is a lively number from Heartsrevolution, purveyors of sweet things from ice-cream vans.

Download MP3: Heartsrevolution - Ultraviolence (Vitalic Remix) (courtesy of fileden.com)

Here’s to you Mrs Robinson

Life laps gently at my feet. I don’t want it to carry me way or knock me over. Lapping is good.

--

Last night, as My Geek travelled home, there was a scene to behold. Two ladies, one large, sat on the train. They were in their early forties. They were nourishing two lads, twenty years their junior, with beer.

"You are going to fuck us when we get home, aren’t you?" the larger lady said quite lucidly.

The lads looked sheepish. They gave a noncommittal response in the positive.

"I want you to fuck me hard"

Let’s hope her dreams came true.

--

Life knocks some people over.

Sometimes I want to write about my day job. I meet fascinating people. The grit of life forms words that whisper in my ears. Tissues wet. Plans form to stop the deluge. I believe in confidentiality. The best stories fade away.

The stories keep coming and they keep fading.


Fabpants Recommends: We are all machines. We just don’t know it.

Download MP3: Machine Boy – Jamie (sorry, this link has died)

My mum dusted him every day.



Download MP3: Passion Pit – Sleepyhead (courtesy of indiemuse.com)

I have a sleepyhead today. The Passion Pit 'Chunk of Change EP' has been with me since last November, and is still getting regular airplay. Let this song build before you decide whether you like it or not:

My beard grew down to the floor and out through the doors
Of your eyes, begonia skies like a sleepyhead, sleepyhead




Download MP3: Passion Pit – I’ve got Your Number (courtesy of kissatlanta.com)

I’ve always felt so scared of all this needing
Everyone that I’ve met has been somewhat mistreated




Download MP3: The Low Anthem – Charlie Darwin (courtesy of fensepost.com)

Cast your reckless dreams upon our Mayflower
Haven from the world and her decay

'Charlie Darwin' is not indicative of The Low Anthem’s 2008 release 'Oh My God, Charlie Darwin'. It’s a rather gruff affair, with some gut pummelling shanties and late night tales.

As a whole, the album does not gel. For 'To the Ghosts who write History Books' I felt the wince reaction. Crooner Alert.

'Champion Angel' is wailed in that "For some odd reason I think wailing is heartfelt" kind of way. Wailing is never sincere, as much as the wailer might try.

I fear that the worst of the 80s has inspired parts of this album.

All the same, 'Charlie Darwin' is a truly brilliant track and I must share it. It's the best of the tracks that I'm recommending today.




As I’ve started, I may as well continue with this 'has potential, but sadly fails' diatribe. No offence to anyone concerned. The fact I listened to your full release means that you tempted me with talent.

I have been listening to the new album from 'Here We Go Magic'. In their words, "It is a lovely ruckus." I listened to the album three times and it got worse with every listen.

The brain says, this is different, how avant-garde, I should like this. Then there is this smell of shit that gently wafts from the speakers. To start with, it’s subtle. Then it takes over. Some of these tracks may have lived up someone’s bottom.

The track I’d recommend, if any, is called 'Everything’s Big'. It isn’t available to stream online, but I’m sure that you can find it on torrents.

Some people love the 'Here We Go Magic' album. It’s one of those divisive releases. Brooklyn’s contribution to popular music continues.

For gigs, perhaps I should have visited Brooklyn in 2008 or 2009, and not in 2004. Tom's Diner, Brooklyn Botanic Gardens and The Union Club, were as rock 'n' roll as Brooklyn got for me. My trip to the States was pretty rock 'n' roll though. Don’t get me wrong.

If I went now, I wouldn’t be able to recall Asbury Park, aka 'Beirut by the Shore', as it was five years ago. The Great Bamboozle was the name of a festival in Asbury Park, New Jersey (a short hop from New York). M Ward and Sonic Youth played in 2004.

The Great Bamboozle describes the whole day. It started with a suicide on the railway tracks. Asbury Park. What a town. The American dream is this town. Gay pride, a small and sedate affair, sat on a grass square next to The Stone Pony music bar and festival venue. The town owes its resurgence to gay pride.

Asbury Park was a mess. The powers that be charged a fee to walk on the cold and windswept beach. The promenade, the shops and the attractions were long dead.

There was something quite beautiful about the crumbling buildings, the potholes, the struggling, but aspirational gay community, and the well-dressed African American’s heading to and from church.

Today, I am going to finish with something that’s light and cheery, but strangely sad. It’s from Mali, Africa.

I have no idea what the song is about, but, in my mind, it’s like the dreamy sister of Paper Planes (M.I.A.). Maybe it’s just that 2008 sound. Why am I still in 2008? What is this hold that it has on me? This is one of those tracks that I downloaded and then forgot about. There are a lot of them.

Download MP3: Amadou & Mariam - Sabali (courtesy of theyoungturks.co.uk)



For your information, someone is singing in the flat upstairs and it sounds bloody awful.

Gig Review: Men Diamler, Women Crisis

I wrote this on Saturday 21st February. It’s been waiting. Now it’s here. I didn’t want to post any off-topic blurbs during the Venice Marathon.

Men Diamler – The Greenhouse Effect, Friday 20th February 2009

This one-man act could be the most impressive that I have ever seen. With just a guitar, a voice and a rhythmic foot Men Diamler makes soft and raucous music to equal appeal. His vocals have such strength that, like an opera singer, Men Diamler has no need for a microphone.

Unfortunately, it was Friday night when I saw him. Some of Men Diamler’s vocals are sweetly quiet, like a whisper in your ear. Peace was required and the sound of drunken chattering was no great backdrop.

‘Shhh!’ Men Diamler gently requested, with a friendly grin. He unplugged his guitar, and with one finger still pressed to his lips, he softly stepped through the crowd.

The primary culprit was more than drunk. He was excitable. He said ‘Let me play guitar, I am Mariachi’. He followed Men Diamler back to the stage and haunted him. “The ladies want to dance,” he shouted. “Ladies, you want to dance, don’t you?” They didn’t. Glances became Pokémon cards. Traded.

“I think I’ve opened a can of worms here”, Men Diamler announced. He sure had. With a drunk by his side, raucously shouting over the lyrics, and trying to grab the guitar, Men Diamler pressed on in good cheer.

The drunkard would have followed Men Diamer under the legs of a tall man. Instead, the drunk wobbled and fell onto me. Later he asked me to go to a pub with him. The drunk that is.

A man that can crawl through the legs of a taller man, whilst strumming and singing, doesn't ask you to go to a pub with him. Not when you're both already in a pub. That’s just stupid.

I wish, I wish, I wish that I could have enjoyed Men Diamler without the side show. Unfortunately, we don’t always get what we want. I did come away with a ‘make your own’ CD for just £5.

Fabpants Recommends:

Download MP3: Men Diamler - No Matter (sorry, this link has died)




Download MP3: Men Diamler - When I Get Fucked Alternative Version (sorry, this link has died)

A Guest Entry by Mr Tresvant

Spoiler Alert: only read the next five paragraphs if you like Movie Trailers or Book Forwards

My wife and my dead wife. Am I the only one that sees her? My wife and my dead wife. Doesn't anybody see her at all?

Mr Tresvant would probably rather you didn’t. He may sometimes wish her dead, but she isn’t.

Sean McGuire probably wishes that he'd jumped of a tower block and succeeded in death or permanent hospitalisation. That Aidan Brosnan character had it easy.

Mrs Tresvant is the source of all ills.

The best thing about having a difficult wife is the days off.

My Favourite Day
By Ralph Tresvant

MY favourite day of the week is Wednesday because that’s when my wife gets the bus to Skipton with her friend Mrs Devoe.

Mrs Devoe looks like Gordon Strachan and she stood for Parliament last time round under the Euro Sceptic banner. She has energy that one – she posted over 4,000 campaign leaflets in one day... to 3,000 houses. She didn’t get in – she was beaten into third place by someone running under the Slightly More Euro Sceptic banner.

Goosnargh’s not received a penny from Brussels since them two were at it. She was right to be sceptical was Beryl.

Anyway, my favourite day of the week...

Wednesday is the one day of the week when I know I won’t get any calls from the police saying Mrs Tresvant’s been arrested for cutting people’s hair in the queue at the Post Office. And it’s the only time I get to reply to all the emails and letters from Sean McGuire’s solicitors... cease and desist orders I think they call them. I can’t help it if Mrs Tresvant didn’t like him giving up his pop career.

The traders in Skipton don’t like Wednesdays at all. That’s the day when my wife and Mrs Devoe hit the market and throw sponges in puddles. There’s been talk of an ASBO being served but everyone else round here loves Wednesdays so much they help the wife contest it each time.

Yours in magic marker

Ralph Tresvant


Tresvant Recommends:

Download MP3: Anvil – Hair Pie (sorry, this link has died)



Anvil’s fortunes have changed. Perhaps Mr Tresvant’s will too.

Venetian Dreams: Outdoor Spaces

Part 1 is here: Venetian Dreams: An Introduction
Part 2 is here: Venetian Dreams: Water Buses and Islands
Part 3 is here: Venetian Dreams: The Obligatory Museums

The best thing about outdoor spaces is that they are free. They tend to involve you in, or allow you to witness, the real life of a place. They satisfy the greed of wanderlust. On a cold and wet day, they can be just that: cold and wet. That’s real life for you.

Canal Di San Marco, Castello and Sant‘Elena

When the Grand Canal has finished snaking from north to south, it greets Canal Di San Marco (Saint Mark’s Basin).

If you visit Piazza San Marco (or Saint Mark’s Square) - the prime tourist spot of the city - Canal Di San Marco is next door. When the water levels rise, the basin and the square become as one. Stepping-stones provide a walkway through the flood. It was wet, but it wasn’t that wet.

Instead of visiting Piazza San Marco first, we decided to meet a little of the city. Starting at Palazzo Giustinian, we walked along the water’s edge from San Marco district, or sestiere, into Castello. Across the water, we could see the island of La Giudecca, the grand domed of church of Santa Maria della Salute and, to its left, Dogana di Mare. The latter sit at the tip of Dorsoduro district and, with a map in hand, are easy to identify. I recommend buying a waterproof city map before leaving home. Dogana di Mare is an old customs house and in the shadow of the great churches’ dome, the customs house has a feature of its own. On top of a short white tower, sits a golden globe, and on top of that stands a woman who points with the wind.

We slipped past Piazza San Marco to find a very small public garden called Giardini ex Reali. It’s size exemplifies the lack of green space in Venice, but we were on a quest to find more. We raised our noses snobbishly and walked on.

Past the Doges Palace and past the Bridge of Sighs, we headed eastwards. In the summer, this is a place of funfair rides, sweet treats and pickpockets. In the cold, we walked past closed tourist attractions and enjoyed the peace. Pink lampposts, nearby islands, a wide promenade and gentle waves set the scene. It was dry, but cold. A young couple sat on a bench sideways. Silhouetted against the water, they faced each other. With her legs folded, they tucked neatly inside his. With locked eyes, they were eighteen or nineteen and in lust.

Small detours allowed us to view the alleyways and the houses where people live. The streets wore washing and communal dead-ends told us of life, but people were few. It was ideal. Street hung washing delights me. Colourful t-shirts, empty jeans, billowing jumpers or well-washed whites, there is something quite beautiful about washing. Freshly hung or nearly dry, washing is a storyteller. It dresses streets, adorns gardens, and adds life whenever it dries. It provides a public exhibition of a private world.

Whether in Zanzibar, Barcelona or Venice, street hung washing is a travelling favourite. It means so much more than historic relics or tourist draws. Money and power make landmarks. Washing is part of the life that all of us live. I could travel the world taking photographs of drying clothes and die happy. Such images would create an exhibition so colourful, so real and so levelling, that I could never leave.

Back in Venice, on an archaic hotel television, I watched a weather forecast sponsored by Confetti. That was before I started to see confetti everywhere. There are other ways to create colour in streets. On an unguided and unscripted walk along Canal Di San Marco, we always returned to the water, the promenade and confetti.

Now when I shut my eyes, small colourful shapes, cut from paper, pattern my eyelids. We saw so much confetti that it’s left a indelible image in my mind. A small girl held a large bag aloft, and she threw it to the world. It filled her sister’s hood, spread wildly across the pavement, scattered all across Venice and then travelled with the wind to Rome. We saw it thrown once, but it was everywhere.

Then, we found green. It was landscaped and tamed. The promenade continues to the tip of the Castello district and circles the largest park we found. In fact, two parks sit alongside each other. They create a large public space, with swings, trees, benches, statues and archways. They are Giardini Pubblici Park and Parco delle Rimembranze. A group of young people rollerbladed and cycled by. Young families strolled. It was quiet, but not empty.

We walked over a bridge, and when Giardini Pubblici became Parco delle Rimembranze, we found ourselves on the island of Sant‘Elena. Centro storico is all islands, but Sant’Elena has retained its island status in name. It’s a lovely part of town. Gated communities live there. Perhaps there are threats from parkland wolves, degenerates or rabid tourists.

We walked along a wide, tree-lined pedestrianised street called via 4 Novembre - not via five Novembre - and turned left at the gated community onto via 24 Maggio. Why the streets are named with number is a mystery to me. We crossed the river, which has an accessible bridge, with ramps, and followed the locals along Pakudo Sant’ Antonio. There were rows and rows of fabulous washing hung over this street. Rio Terra di San Guiseppe took us to Parco delle Rimembranze. On the other side of the park, we took a Vaporetto back to San Marco.

That was the end of a lovely walk. It was simple and easy, and there was green.

If you follow it, you can see Piazza San Marco beforehand, afterwards or both.


Piazza San Marco

Piazza San Marco is a famous square, that’s not square at all. It’s trapezoid. You can get there on a number 1 or number 2 Vaporetto. It’s signed posted all over Centro storico for walkers. You can’t miss it.

If you travel within the safety home, you can see it here:
Piazza San Marco All Round View

Of all the buildings in the Piazza, the Basilica is the most impressive. It has five domes and is impressively decorated. It’s also free to get in, and not much is in Venice.

I bought an Eyewitness Pocket Map and Guide for Venice, which I’d heartily recommend. Its size, content and style make it a good companion. The map of Vaporetto routes is particularly useful.

The guide contains a particularly impressive diagram of the Basilica and Doges Palace, with explanations. It seems that Saint Mark’s body has a symbiotic relationship with the history of Basilica di San Marco. Venetian’s monks stole it from Egypt, it was lost in a fire in 976AD and then reappeared in 1094 when the church was consecrated. Apparently, it now lies in the altar. Or does it?

Ultimately, Piazza San Marco is a large public space, covered in paving slabs. The buildings and water that enclose it, are what makes it special. Doges Palace, Museo Civico Correr, Basilica di San Marco, Campanile si San Marco and Saint Marks Basin make this square a natural magnet for day-trippers and tourists.

Tourists can’t sit unless they pay to. Pigeons can. Personally, I prefer Trafalgar Square, with its multiple steps, gushing fountains and low walls, all available as seating and picnicking. Trafalgar Square also has many free public events and free toilets. Piazza San Marco wants your money.

It was quiet when we were there, and these are the benefits of travelling in the cold.


The Grand Canal

You can see this by Vaporetto or foot. I suggest a bit of both, mixed with some sightseeing. It’s a wide waterway filled with boats and dressed with buildings.


The Jewish Ghetto and Cannergio

The Cannergio sestieri, or district, with wide streets and public spaces, buzzes with a mix of locals and tourists. It has shops and is a place to buy everyday goods. Small alleyways lie off the main thoroughfare. Schools and green space demonstrate that there is more to life than tourism.

The main thoroughfare runs from Fondamenta di Santa Lucia (Santa Lucia Railway Station) to Strada Nova. Although there was no flooding during our stay, raised walkways, like tables, lay along parts of this road. Important routes in Venice keep raised walkways at the ready.

The through road hosts bustling market stalls, bread and sweet shops, and an odd mix of products. The stalls aspire to attract locals and tourists alike. Outside Campo Santissimi Apostoli we saw approximately 50 locals protesting, against what we could not tell. Men pushing two wheeled trolleys rushed goods to their point of sale.

Near Fondmenta Nove, where we took a Vaporetto to San Michele, abandoned and boarded up convent buildings stood next to the imposing white church of Santa Maria Assunta. This was on Campo dei Gesuiti. The sight of the ostentatious religious building on this wide, and empty, avenue of boarded up windows was quite striking. I wonder what the Jesuits would think. After all that effort to build it, it now stands next to desertion.

Cannergio is the home of the Jewish Ghetto, and attracts tourists away from San Marco. It was the first Jewish Ghetto ever and this was exciting news to me. 'Geto' in Venetian dialect refers to a foundry, and the Jewish population replaced the foundry. The name refers to what went before and nothing more.

We went to the Jewish Ghetto with a courtesy umbrella from our hotel. We turned it into a circular walk of sorts. I will describe it, and you can follow if you choose.

Starting at Fondamenta di Santa Lucia (Santa Lucia Station), we walked along Rio terrà Lista di Spagna, past the rain-soaked market stalls and raised walkways. We crossed a canal at Ponte Guglie, strode along Rio terrà San Leonardo, with its bread and sweet shops, and then headed northwards onto Rio terrà Farsetti. The synagogue signs lead to the ghetto, and we opted to follow these westwards.

We met Campo Ghetto Nuovo via an old gateway. In secular times, the gate would close at midnight. Christians then guarded it, paid by the Jews. It was an odd scenario.

The gate was no more. Instead, there was a big sign that said “Campo de Gheto Novo” clearly welcoming us or warning us away.

The Jewish population of Venice was confined to live in this area from 1516 to 1797. That is was the first ghetto is not something for Venice to regret. When other countries choose expulsion, Venice chose to resist. As a merchant city, Venice wanted to retain Jews. They placated the church by creating the ghetto, and it is told, that the Jews didn’t really mind. They enjoyed the benefits of a gated community. They did complain about being squashed.

In Barcelona, the ghetto streets are so narrow that one can imagine the cramped conditions. In Venice, most streets, ghetto or not, are narrow, and there are few public squares. Campo Ghetto Nuovo has a large and pleasant public square, with trees. TREES. In some ways, it seems spacious. You don’t get the same sense of overcrowding. The Venetian Jews built up instead of out, with buildings growing taller and taller.

Napoleon tore down the ghetto gates in 1797, but the people chose to stay.

Hitler deported and killed 200 Venetian Jews, during the Second World War, and it was then that ghetto lost its Jewish focus. According to the Jewish population of Venice, there are now about 600 Jews living in Venice and Mestre, and very few in the ghetto. All the same, the ghetto is experiencing resurgence. It hosts Jewish community activities, synagogues, Jewish community administrative offices, a museum, a rest home and a social centre.

While we were there, Campo Ghetto Nuovo also hosted a green sentry box, with armed men inside. Other photographs suggest that this is new, and we wondered if it might be due to recent Israeli and Palestine conflict.

We walked southeast through Ghetto Vecchio, past a synagogue and kosher shop. It was a little late for the museum.

Instead, we walked along Cannaregio Canal - the second largest canal in Venice – past more gateless gateways, well-kept buildings and shops. Reaching the lagoon waters, and driving rains, we wove our way back to Santa Lucia Station. We passed Parco Savorgnan, one of Venice’s rare parks, and the leafiest alleyway in town.

Having walked from Ca’ d’oro to Fondamenta Nuove before, we covered a lot of Cannergio on foot. I preferred it to the San Marco or Dorsoduro districts. The latter focus heavily on churches and tourism and Cannergio does not.


Dosoduro

It was in the Dosoduro sestieri that we found the Peggy Guggenheim museum. Our visit to the district started well. It was raining lightly, but manageably. As the day progressed, the rain continued abated. Suddenly, tolerance levels found themselves exceeded, and we frog marched back to the hotel.

The sights probably didn’t get the attention that they deserved, but we covered much of the region and had churches coming out of our bottoms. If you like churches, Venice is for you. Even for a non-church enthusiast, like me, some of the Dosoduro sights are well worth a repeat visit.

From the Guggenheim Museum, we headed south to Fondamente Zattere al Gesuati. The Zattere’s run along the edge of Canal Di San Marco, provide a view of La Giudecca island and, without any tourist ‘sell’, provide a great opportunity to walk alongside the urban landscape with the lagoon lapping at your side. This is where sailors and fisher-folk once lived. It now has a relatively suburban atmosphere.

We followed the basin-front to Ponte Lungo, where we turned right onto Fondamente Nani. There we saw a boathouse. It was so similar to those that sit on the edge of the Norfolk Broads that my heart sang. This was in Squero di San Trovaso. From across the canal, in front of the boathouse, we saw upturned gondolas, perhaps waiting for the rain to stop. We learnt that this is where gondolas are made and repaired. I felt oddly at home.

We crossed the bridge and turned back southwards, passing the church of San Trovasco, and its three wells. Instead of collecting groundwater, the residents would collect rain. It was raining when we went by. Churches and wells seem to exist in partnership in Venice. If you see a church, a well is usually to hand.

We turned again, right, onto Fondamente Bontini and proceeded along the road as it turned into Fondamente Ognissanti. There, we passed a former convent, now a hospital. We learnt that it once housed nuns that escaped Torcello during the malarial days. I was tempted to go in. The building looked bold and shabby on the outside, but large signage indicated a professional interior. I have a nosiness for such places. The grit of life must live inside.

The reason I loved this walk, despite the rain, is because I got to see not one, but two boathouses. From the bridge at the end of Fondamente Ognissanti, we stood looking directly over the Squero (boathouse) and it was more impressive than the first. Even though the rain was now soaking through our trousers, and there was an ugly building site to our left, I found myself delighted with the view. To our left was the realism of construction, and to our right the fairytale world of boats.

From the narrow Calle della Chiesa, we turned right onto the Fondamenta Bontini, and then left across the canal. We found ourselves in a piazza between two great churches, with San Sebastiano on our left and Angelo Raffaele on our right. The oddly shaped public space felt good to walk through. We continued along the Fondamenta Pescheria, and over a bridge protected by a startling encased Jesus.

We briefly looked at the church of San Nicolo dei Mendicioli, rebuilt many times since the 12th century and, undoubtedly, a highlight for some, and then headed back the way we had come; along the Fondamenta Barbargio, and then back across the canal into the courtyard of Santa Maria dei Carmini Church. The huge gothic building before us, stood astern and imposing. The building does not encourage fun. There is no fun to be had here, it says.

Then we stepped into the Rio Terrà della Scoazzera and our rain-soaked hearts rose. Rio Terrà della Scoazzera transforms into a large square, called Campo Santa Margherita. The square hosts trees, more glorious trees. Lined with homespun cafes, and boasting an irregular shape, the piazza is warm and welcoming, even on a cold and wet day. There is a quirky building that sits alone in its heart. Apparently, this is the Scuola dei Varoteri. It once housed furriers. Campo Santa Margherita is a Venice highlight.

At its northern tip, we left Campo Santa Margherita and the Dorsoduro district. We found a wonderful shop selling freshly made bread, pizzas and soya milk all for a reasonable price. Feeling cheered by our first and last successful shop in Venice, we headed for warmth.


Rialto Bridge and Market

Rialto Bridge crosses the Grand Canal. Rialto Bridge is the oldest of the Grand Canal’s bridges. As bridges go, I didn’t find it very impressive. It’s a sight worth seeing, but not a wonder of the world.

The oddest aspect of Rialto Bridge is that it hosts three walkways. If you take the middle walkway, you could miss the whole bridge thing altogether. Shops line either side of it and hide the canal. The tourist hellholes, that they probably are, stood shut for winter.

There is a good view of the canal from the side walkways and tourists gather to snap, snap, snap.

Rialto market is close by. It’s smaller than Norwich market. The focus is on fresh food. Artichokes in water, courgettes wearing flowers and old Seville oranges fill stalls. We bought oranges and they were dry and tasteless. Fresh dates were expensive – four for €1.50 – and perhaps Rialto market isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be.

There is an impressive line of seafood stalls.

You can see a little video of the Bridge and Market here:
Rialto Bridge and Market Film


Final Venice Tips

Recommended Websites:
viewer.arounder.com
europeforvisitors.com
museumplanet.com

Recommended Resources
Eyewitness Pocket Guide and Map: Venice
Insight Fleximap: Venice (it’s waterproof)


Fabpants Recommends: I’m enjoying the resurgence of morose music.

I rated The White Lies as ‘Fucking Awesome’ at Latitude Festival last year and truly enjoyed their bottom of rung support slot at the Concorde2 last May. Do I like their number 1, bestselling album? Hell no! During the first track, I had to stop myself from yelling out ‘Oh, will you please stop wailing’. It’s stadium wank rock. What a shame.

Alas, it is not to be.

Fortunately, there are more doom and gloom mongers for 2009. Where’s there’s misery there’s hope. It’s not very often that I’ll praise an NME giveaway, but their ‘Pictures of You’ album - made up of covers versions of The Cure - is brilliant.

When Dinosaur Jr’s cover of ‘Just Like Heaven’ came on I found myself back at college. I used to have that very song on a cassette mix-tape, made for me by one Mr Banyard in 1989. It had the same abrupt ending too.

Download MP3: Dinosaur Jr - Just Like Heaven (courtesy of coverlaydown.com)




Initially the drums on this track confused me, now I love them:

Download MP3: Marmaduke Duke – Friday I’m in Love (courtesy of 8106.tv)




The Cure revival was evident in town yesterday. In one pub, they played a best of CD on a loop. There’s something wrong with that in a public environment. In another, they played several tracks mixed in with a great selection of tunes. It was a far better mix than at the Silent Disco later. Last night, the Silent Disco DJ sets were surprisingly poor. I expect them to be poptastic in a highest common dominator dreadful pop kind of way. That’s a detour though.

Crystal Stilts ‘Alight of Night’ secretes gentle and soothing misery. Gloomy, warm and lovely. The Jesus and Mary Chain, they imitate, but are not. Crystal Stilts are a little one dimensional and certainly have room for improvement. This song is rather wonderful though:

Download MP3: Crystal Stilts – The City in the Sea (courtesy of Frocksdemilo.files.wordpress.com)




Download MP3: The Jesus and Mary Chain – April Skies (courtesy of bnc.yi.org)




Finally, I highly recommend the Maupa album ‘Run Sleep Run’. Maupa create bleak, desolate and beautiful music. Allow the album to seep into your subconscious and bestow a visual imagery of dour industrial towns, and gloomy alluring lands.

Download MP3: Maupa - Run Sleep Run (sorry, this link is dead)



Download MP3: Maupa - Milky Eyes (sorry, this link is dead)

I Hate Firefox: A Guest Entry by Grumpy Missives

Here comes the second article in my guest entry series. If you hate Microsoft, have you ever thought that you could be wrong?

Why does Apple get away with being such a big bastard monopoly without the world calling them evil?

That’s by the by. Today, we’re here to learn about Firefox.

Firefox? Lovely free software, open-source code, not-for-profit, faster than light, visits your ailing granny at the weekends and so on.

Don’t act like a corporation and no one will think you are one. Firefox have foxed the world.

They do make money. They really do. Check out the Mozilla Corporation if you think they don’t. That’s all I have to say. I’ll let Grumpy do the rest.


I Hate Firefox
by Grumpy Missives

OK, well the title of this article is a bit over the top, but hopefully it will Google well and I want to be heard.

"Well why use it?" I hear you ask. There are two main reasons why I use it:

Reason 1
I develop websites and I need to test that my creations don't break in Firefox. Damn Firefox.

Reason 2
Firefox does not understand Microsoft's domain policy. If a hypothetical company somewhere near me uses a domain policy to stop employees from accessing dodgy websites, Firefox will not understand. This leads to a situation where a certain employee can access his webmail, and even listen to low quality Myspace songs at work. The horror, the horror.

That doesn’t stop me hating it.

There are a few things that I don't like about Firefox and I’m going to rant about them now. Buckle up, here goes.

Reasons to Hate Firefox

Evangelists
First on that list, by far, is the Firefox evangelists. How Firefox has managed to attract such blind loyalty and devotion from so many otherwise normal people is a mystery. Apparently, 25% of non-porn traffic (NPT) on the Interweb is devoted to bashing Internet Explorer and praising Firefox. Which is astonishing as 74.9% of NPT is Facebook status updates and Twitters saying "At my desk...scratching my balls" [citation needed].

Fussy HTML rendering
The evangelists lead me on to the second thing I hate about Firefox. Generally, it would appear that most are web designers endlessly droning on about Firefox's superior adherence to web standards. Well, a giant whoop-de-do. I'm sure that the millions of amateur website creators out there are very happy that although their website looked great in Dreamweaver and IE, it’s unusable in Firefox. This is teaching them valuable lessons about coding standards, not frustrating the hell out of them.

I tend to develop websites testing mainly in IE and then later in the other browsers. This has lead to many fascinating hours spent trying to figure out the strange take that Firefox has on displaying websites. Run a search for "Firefox" and "Whitespace" to find some of the many millions of other souls damaged by this monster.

Don't get me wrong, I love web standards but that’s because I am a geek. Firefox's unwillingness to forgive normal people making mistakes when creating websites seems malicious, especially when Firefox's own adherence to standards is a bit suspect.

Automatic Updates
The third thing that I hate about Firefox is the automatic updates. In my personal list of bad updaters, Firefox gets first prize. Third place goes to AVG anti-virus for really pointless in-your-face updating. Second place goes to the Adobe updater for repetitively poking me for a reaction. What sane person could be expected to care that Adobe reader just went from version 9.1.1 to 9.1.2. It's just bloody-mindedness.

Firefox is the shitty update king though. It's like an attention starved child who's learned a new trick. [Update] Mozilla seem to have somewhat sorted this out with later versions of Firefox 2 and with Firefox 3. It still recently reduced my full screen YouTube video back to window size, to tell me something i didn't want to know. So I decided to keep this in as a permanent reminder.

Cookies
Being a paranoid sort of chap, I like to tinker with my browser cookie settings. I dislike the idea of being tracked across the internet by Google and Doubleclick. If I have a fondness for music blogs and Hello Kitty, that's my business. As a web developer, I know that cookies have their place. Deleting all of my cookies when the browser closes can lead to some frustration and an inbox full of password reminder emails.

Internet Explorer and old versions of Firefox make it nice and easy. Just go to the browser privacy menu and choose to accept first-party cookies and reject third-party cookies. OK not a perfect solution, but pretty good and very easy. Plus the cookies that slip through give my spyware checker something to complain about.

How do you do this in the new versions of Firefox? Well, start by rolling up one trouser leg and hopping in a circle three times. Next, start Firefox and type "about:config" into the address bar. You may get a warning at this point along the lines of "What are you doing Dave?". Type network.cookie.cookieBehavior into the snazzy filter field at the top. Right-click on this option and choose "Modify". Change the value to 1 to disallow all third-party cookies; change it to 2 to disable all cookies; change it to 0 to accept all cookies. Then kill yourself if you got a step wrong.

Me: The IE Apologist

So what browser should you be using? Well Opera has a nice interface but web developers suck at testing with it. Safari can be fast but the weirdly absent or minimal status bar freaks me out. Firefox has some pretty cool extensions but I seem to remember not liking it for some reason. Chrome looks to have some great user interface features, but Google's record on privacy is scary. Lynx is for people who like their information very dry, like a red wine that adds fur to your tongue.

I'll be sticking with Internet Explorer for the moment. Yes, I know it (so far) treats web standards with contempt, and Microsoft is the devil that killed Netscape. Also hackers will always target the biggest browser with their shenanigans. However, it’s easy to use and every website is tested for it.

At least every website is tested for IE 7, IE 8 so far doesn't work with any websites in default mode but that's another story.

The most recent security flaw also showed that Microsoft can get a patch out in under a day, if it is reported widely enough in the press. I have always felt that the crazy pace of growth on the Internet at the end of the 90's, was partly due to MS bundling IE with Windows. Every owner of a new PC got that tempting little "Internet" icon on their desktop, just begging them to buy a modem. The loss of the crappy little browser that was Netscape was a small price to pay for those heady days of HotOrNot and Fark.


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Download MP3: Bonnie ‘Prince’ Billy – I Came Here to Hear the Music (courtesy of thelookback.com)