Aldeburgh and Sutton Hoo

Just spent half the bank holiday weekend in Suffolk. Despite Sizewell looming large over the flat landscape of East Anglia... what a beautiful part of the country. Ok ok, so first we went birdwatching, I grudgingly admit, I sort of like it now.

Once the lone pursuit of anorak wearing, bespectabled nerds, I give it an urban flair.... but I don't have any binoculars. I just sidle up to some studious old lady and say, "Yo ho! Lemme look thru da lens of yo telescopic device beeatch" and they recoil open mouthed and let me check out the Golden Plover sifting through the silt. I am P Diddy to them.... they look at me wide eyed, slightly frightened.

Anyway, on to Alderburgh. Lovely seaside town. Where fishing boats sell their wares direct onto the harbourside. It feeds my imagination, my psyche. I'd love to live by the sea, to know Ron the fisherman, who will reccomend the monkfish or the skate today sir.... but I know this ideal is something my mind has conjured up. I'm not Peter O'Toole on his 3 month summer sojourn to the West Coast of Ireland, resting between movies, roughing it with the lovable locals. Half drunk on dining and drinking. I'm just some squat greek boy from North London with delusions of grandeur.... maybe someday though.

I'm a skittish person, I can rarely just relax, physically or mentally. So while deb was sitting on the beach musing and enjoying the morning warmth as the sun rose gloriously into the sky, I was busy launching pebbles, sometimes rocks the size of my head into the north sea until my left arm was sore from repetitive chucking. That was relaxation to me. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, and I was very careful to avoid the old lady having a swim. So I was socially conscious too.

Then onto Sutton Hoo... an ancient Anglo Saxon place of Kingly burial. Where Readwald was buried, along with his beautiful treasures. We did snigger at the name King Ethelbert... but it was educational, and I now am a member of the National Trust. Surely my first step towards becoming a country gent :)

Tube Journeys

Tube journeys always interest me. I like to observe. To see how people react when confined and squashed up against each other. Rather like the time my cousin in Cyprus put twenty neighbourhood cats in a rabbit hutch until it turned into a seething mass of thrashing fur and wailing cries of feline despair, humans are not designed to infiltrate each others sweaty auras in such close proximity.

If I have a seat on the tube, I'm fine. I can relax and watch everyone avoid each others eye contact. Those subtle non-verbal communications on the tube fascinate me. For some people it is all they can do to stop themselves flying into a ball of rage until they reach their stop.

If I don't have a seat, then I try to detach myself from reality, ignore the festering armpit from the lanky streak of piss standing in front of me, whilst also trying to ignore the hot conker in the pants of the fat man wedged up behind me. Tube journeys are not necessarily pleasant, but they are functional and always interesting. Especially if a gibbering madman gets on as well.

The other day I was on the tube, and I sat next to this bloke who had his legs akimbo, like some sort of Blind Date contestant, thrusting his horse like genitals in the general direction of female society. This to me is a challenge. His leg is at least 2 centimetres in my chair perimeter exclusion zone. So I wedge my leg up against his, much as this disgusts me, hoping he, rather than me gives up the physical contact challenge because of his realisation that my revulsion is blocked out by my sense of injustice that he is invading my personal space. And yes. I won! He moved his leg. I did a mental dance of victory. I knew he was angry. Motherf***er! Ha!

A small victory, but an important one.

Now what if an eldery person gets on? I would normally offer my seat. But what they were of borderline pensionable age? I'm all for chivalry and good manners, but I don't want to insult a 55 year old for instance by offering her a seat when she thinks she is a young Helen Mirren. Same goes for pregnant women. What if they are just fat? What do you do then? Humiliate yourself and the woman in question? I second guess myself all the time, procastinating over the right thing to do, 8 zillion computations per second and not making a decision. Whilst thinking like this, other functions collapse, my brain cannot take the strain, so like the starship enterprise, I have to divert life support power to thinking. I haven't stopped breathing in this state yet, but I do turn into a dribbling expressionless freak with a collapsed face, and then nobody wants to sit next to me or have my seat anyway. Such a cruel irony.

Oxegen 2007

In the year of our lord Two-thousand and seven, I Melly the first, fearless urban bubble explorer didst cross the sea to the isle of Hibernia. Here I witnessed many astounding sites, smells and sounds. The mud was unearthly, like nothing seen in the asphalted streets of London. I saw a man with the body of a hippo and the face of a man dry humpeth his girlfriend from behind, mounting her ferociously whilst she wailed like a banshee, I believe in mirth. A naked giant held an incredible hulk toy over his todger and flailed it in the general direction of his friends. Young men, like angry bucks did fly at each other in the mud, wrestling, their sinews popping. A crowd of scum splattered revellers clapping and cheering. I did avoid there revellry for fear of being drawn into combat I would surely lose. I am a scribe, not a warrior. A gentle waif, not a general. A weed, not an oak. A soft handed yellow belly etc.

The mud, such liquid I have never seen, kicked in faces. Mixed with the pisseth and shiteth of thousands, running down the hill from the portaloo's into the filthy mix. My white silk sarong was ruined, but it allowed me to blend in.

The rain lashed down upon me, like a raging torrent, however the glistening gold tin foil dress of the goddess Ditto did light my path to the stage.

Ok, enough verbose rubbish. here's the photos.

First up, a pre-festival gig by the Go! Team at Eleckrowerkz in Camden. I flew to Ireland the next day. What a great gig. I so love the Go! Team, their infection fun can make even the most miserable bastard smile and dance. including me. Unfortunately as we are short greeks, we needed to see above the numerous tall people, so we nabbed a podium to stand on at the side, therefore people assumed we were professional dancers I think. Oh how wrong they were. Although I was much better than Dora and Christina and people asked me who my loser mates were.

Photo taken from our podium. I have no idea why there is a giant Cyberman head looming above Ninja. Tiny stage for a band as plentiful as the go! team, but it worked. And it was fantastic. They played new material. I'm looking forward to their upcoming releases!

Onto Ireland. First up. The Gossip. Beth looks like a ferrero roche in that dress. Her voice is astounding, compelling. And old fashioned blues performer fronting a hard blues band. They sounded awesome. And she was great. They did a cover of Careless Whisper too.....!

Dress came off, and lime green bra came out. For viewers watching in black and white, the lime green bra is covering her tits.

Next up... Mika. I hate myself. But I liked him live. He's a great festival act. And he had 20 foot high massive blow up women which you can't diss. (based on beryl cook art I believe - I briefly sounded intelligent, but my other half told me they were, so if she's wrong, it's nothing to do with me as I'm blissfully ignorant of beryl cook)

Mika knocks over big lady while Mr Miyagi looks on. Wax on, Wax off. Poor Mika has a lot to wax off on that big girl.

The Noisette's in the new band tent... always a top live act! Shingai is a bouncing ball of energy and theatrical grandeur.

I was really looking forward to this next band. CSS, Brazillian electro-pop-punk nutters! Awesome album too. And they didn't fail to disappoint live. I was especially excited by their cover of L7's classic "Pretend we're dead". Lovefoxx bizarrely peeled off many layers of catsuits through the gig. She looks like she is about to hyperventilate through heat exhaustion in the first photo, but saves herself by stripping down to her last pair of leggings like a human pass the parcel. (eventually).

Ok, now onto a band I've seen twice before, Howling Bells. They were of course great! Juanita did dress up like Charlene from neighbours circa 1990 though (which worked for her). Hard to pigeon hole, but I would best describe them as haunting country rock, which is a pants description but the best I can muster.

I'd never heard of Jason Mraz, but he was also awesome, and the kids seemed to love him.

Finally... New Young Pony club, fantastic band, and much harder live than their polished studio work. Definately will see them again. I also liked that dudes checker board hoodie, but he was bigger than me so although I considered braining him with a brick, I didn't want blood on the hoodie, so left him alone. (He'd have probably smashed me in actually)

Special mention to Bright Eyes, Rufus Wainwright (although two Judy Garland songs was a piss take, the self indulgent git!).
And Kate Nash, she was cool too. That's it. By the end of the weekend, i did look like I'd shit myself and was soaked through, but it was fun.

Tried to avoid the main stage, as that is where the drunks congregated, and the feeling of being in a Crimean hospital backyard surrounded by zombie like mud infused drunks who would try to hug you took away from enjoying any music. So Kings of Leon, next time lads!

Grizedale Forest

Me and Deb are just back from a nice break in the lake district. It was fun! A couple of new pics have been added of my unshaven mush.

Amoungst various activites, we spent a day in Grizedale forest, which has some really interesting sculptures along various routes through it. Examples we saw and photographed (by Deb) below.

The Guardian of the Forest (modelled on Bruce Forsyth - above)

A fern made out of wood (this was around 8-10 feet high for a sense of scale)

A sandstone fox. (around 3-4 feet high)

Das Boot

I was lucky enough to visit the Bavaria Film studio's in (strangely enough) Bavaria last week.

It was for a corporate work thing and it was all a big surprise as to where we were going.

So when we pulled up, I gibbered in excited reverence at what I was about to witness. Ok, so it was a short visit, and I was the only one of my work colleagues who had any real historical interest. But I love U Boats. A majestic piece of engineering, lived in for months at a time, by unshaven, pale and sweat stained submariners. The threat of death around every corner, and the knowledge that they were there to take down merchant shipping, merchant shipping that couldn't defend itself. The film Das Boot captures the psyche of the German submariner very well, the guilt, the fear, the claustrophobia, the honour and the dynamic of living underwater with a bunch of blokes you had to make do with, without fresh food, without even sunlight. Things we take for granted.

So what if there wasn't a real U Boat? I didn't care, I was on the set of Das Boot, a U Boat interior was lovingly put together using original materials from ships scrapyards. I got to clamber around it. Here is a picture of me releasing some pressure shit from some sort of valve to save my mates. I'm a fucking engineer. Yessss.... you may notice my curly locks are tied back, like some sort of faux new romantic Spandau Ballet inspired pirate from 1982.

If it was a real U-Boat, of course it would have smelt of wee, poo, diesel, B.O. And I couldn't possibly live on one, there are no chocolate croissants for breakfast, and I've have to share a bunk with a fat flatulent bloke from Liepzig called Heinrich. That wouldn't be good. Especially if he had crabs (watch the film) and needed a cuddle cos he misses his mum.

I coulda been a contenda (at Chess)

When I was six years old, I was somewhat of a prodigy. I used to beat my brother within weeks of him teaching me the game. He wasn't a bad player, but for my age, I was magnificent...

I remember crushing the nurses with my cynical and effective strategies when I had my tonsils out at UCH, the towering presence of the Post Office Tower (as it was known then) casting a shadow over the board as my knights and bishops blasted holes through my medical opponents weak defences. It was a glorious time. If there was an under 7's world championship, I may have got past the first round I reckon, but probably then been knocked out by some Chinese 3 year old who was more talented than me. But as he was smaller than me, I would smash him in the face and break his glasses with my Rook and claim it was an accident, like an Argentine defender who shrugs and ruffles your hair after trying to cleave you in two.

Chess is a masterful invention, ancient and glorious. A game to suck your pipe to and stroke your proletariat beard whilst musing on the latest developments in the potato fields.

However, as with many things in my life, following a brief and brilliant flirtation, I got sidetracked. I would like to say it was by girls and booze, the George Best of the Chess world, an unfulfilled talent lost to the sport… However, I am ashamed to admit, it was my love for Dungeons and Dragons and ZX Spectrum games that took me away….

Through school and college on the occasions I would play (for I was not dedicated) I would still be in the upper tiers of my peer group.

I did have a brief renaissance, first at college, where I won the tournament we had in my class, secondly at Uni (or rather Hatfield Polytechnic….).

At Uni, I joined the "Harrier" pub chess team. The Harrier was a tough boozer on Hilltop in Hatfield. Somewhere students were not welcome and regularly got battered. For some reason, the locals left me alone, probably because I was such a snivelling wretch of a student it would have been no fun to beat me up. I played an "initiation" game against the club captain. He used to be 74^th best player in England or something like that. He looked like a chess player, straggly hair, a beard, an eccentric English gent. I shocked him, I took his knight. A small crowd of nerdish folk gathered to watch this mysterious newcomer take on the old champ… could I defeat him? Of course, the answer was no. What I should have done once I'd gone a piece up, was to play a war of attrition, offer exchanges and sacrifices all across the board hoping that I could salvage a draw or by some miracle, snatch a victory in a messy end game….

What I did do, was knock back a couple of pints, give it large and then like Alex Higgins in his waning years proceed to play flamboyantly thinking I was about to put on a show… in the meantime my opponent ground me down, his superior knowledge of the game ultimately giving him the win.

It was somewhat of a pyrric victory for him though as that early blow showed he'd underestimated me. I was then welcome to join the team. He shook my hand vigorously thinking he'd uncovered a rough diamond, when in fact he'd uncovered a smooth turd. I was as shiny as I could get, because under the surface… my game stank!

I played two matches (because I was lazy and couldn't be bothered usually) drew one, lost one, and realised competitive chess can be quite aggressive in its own way. As we represented the Harrier pub, we had an air of violence about us. We were like playing Millwall away, I'm sure other teams were scared to visit. But we were nice really….

My problem was I couldn't play black, due to my lack of dedication I had no real understanding of opening gambits, so when white made the first move, I mostly lost when faced with someone of equal or greater talent. When playing white however, I used the English opening, a rarely used and antiquated opening move. I studied the theory behind this opening to give me an advantage, because I knew that the opposition wouldn't have much knowledge of facing this. Anyone with a decent knowledge of the game could of course take me apart, no chess player in his right mind would risk using the English opening, but it was its lack of use that was my strength. In a limited time game it pressurised my opposition into having to come off auto pilot very early in the match. It bought me thinking time……

I used to share a train home with one of the lads in the chess team. As he was more of a geek than me, I was his cool friend, which was a novelty. I don't remember his face or his voice. I only remember his anorak, and the fact he unleashed silent stinking farts on the journey home. The last time I saw him he was being harangued for fare evasion by a ticket inspector. He probably had to pay some sort of fine… I am sure I was witness to the most exciting moment of his life. Those are my memories of chess at Uni.

I gave up the game again… However, we had a chess tournament at work a couple of years later. We were a software company. There were two wings in the building, the pristine air conditioned section the programmers sat in, and the stinking warehouse which used to be an abattoir (it even had a disused blood gutter running along its length, stained with the entrails of long dead cattle). I was one of the hairy engineers, in the abattoir warehouse. A tournament was to be held at lunchtimes. I thought "why not". They (the programmers), the "haves" were surprised to hear that one of the grease monkeys wanted to enter their tournament. Oh how they chortled, it was a novelty, but like Victorian gentlemen, they of course would be delighted if a citizen from the British Commonwealth wanted to play cricket with them. Of course I had to get changed in the shed, and not be allowed a cucumber sandwich, but I would be allowed to play.

By far the best player involved was a chap called Chris, he was from Blackburn, an uncompromising hot headed northerner who supported Middlesboro. He was a programmer, but he hung around with the engineers like us, as he was a down to earth chap. Mild mannered mostly, unless someone took the piss or said something stupid. He was massive as well. We had a few practice games unbeknown to the others, he beat me every time, but I knew I would shock a few of them, and so did he. It was clear Chris would win the tournament, but I could be the surprise package. He was Mr Miyagi, I was the Karate Kid, together we would be supreme.

So the tournament started, a couple of my wins were put down to luck, I knew better….. I also lost to Chris, which was no surprise, so I was in comfortable mid-table. Then I played a blinder against this chap Mel (a different Mel), smashing him in about 15 moves. Somehow everything was coming together and I was then up against a programmer called Justin. He was second in the league, I was third. He was an intellectual, academic, bookish, a nice enough chap, looked like Shaggy from Scooby doo, slightly stooped, a bit posh, and he expected to beat me. And beat me convincingly.

How sweet it was to thrash him. To humiliate him. My best ever chess performance. It was a close battle in the opening exchanges, a small crowd gathered, I used the English opening, this threw him. We jostled for position, he lost time in the early exchanges, his unfamiliarity with my opening move giving me the advantage.

Then I saw a series of moves which would win me the game, an intricate exchange play, I ran the play though my head again and again, trying to avoid giving away my excitement. I confirmed to myself that it would almost certainly win me the game, I would sacrifice my queen for a knight and within three moves, check mate to me. Would he take my bait though…. Oh how my heart leapt when he greedily gobbled up my queen. Chris who was rooting for me, thought I'd blown it, he looked away, he hadn't seen the opportunity I had. Justin, in a sporting and somewhat arrogant way suggested I could take the move back as I would be losing my queen. I insisted he make his move, how dare he assume I'd made a stupid move, how dare he humour me, thinking he was toying with me. He took my queen.

I then made the devastating killer move… he realised he was doomed, immediately seeing the next two moves. The expression on his face, he realised he'd lost to an engineer, oh the shame for him! He toppled his King, I had won. He then asked me whether I made that move by accident… "If it makes you feel better about losing… then yes... young man" I said with a glare. I was Bobby Fucking Fisher, the maverick grandmaster for those few seconds!

Justin – no hard feelings, I did like you, and if we ever bump into each other again, I will buy you a lime cordial with cognac, or whatever posh shit you drink!

To summarise - this may seem like a bunch of shit to you, but at the time, it felt wonderful. We all need to be good at something, even for 5 minutes. And I was proud to represent the working classes that day. Take that Prince Charles you horse faced ****!

Airport Security

When I don't shave, airport security like to feel me up. They are very polite, but it seems unshavedness is somehow a sign of being "dodgy" and thus there is a requirement to touch me, take my shoes off and loosen my belt. Which is fine, don't have a problem with it.

But next time I'm going to bring some baby oil (it would need to be less than 100ml of course) and tell them to the pretend that I'm their rap video bitch and get 4 security guys to rub it into me whilst I take off my clothes.

However, I think someone should mention to them, that international criminals might be tricking them by shaving before they get on planes. How many shaved criminals are slipping through the net? It is worrying.

By their very nature, criminals are sneaky, I wouldn't put it past them to shave, shocking as it may sound.

As for me, I hate my hair at the moment, its a big frizzy mess. I am unshaven as I when I shave I look like a big glistening melon spam head with a fat smooth neck and look utterly foolish. I need a haircut that tells people I'm street savvy, yet harmless, entertaining, yet moody. What sort of haircut evokes all of these elements? It is now my mission to discover it. Otherwise I will be a big frizzy muff head for the rest of my life. A real life playdough barber shop person, press the button and oozing hair comes out of all my pores until it envelopes my persona like bloated black caterpillars, you know the hairy ones that we all used to play with in the garden as a child, but don't see anymore (like white dog poo).