If you're not living on the edge, then you're taking up too much room...

Upping sticks and moving gaff can be a big ting, especially when it comes to leaving an area you've become a part of, that gives you a sense of self and purpose. But so it goes. You can't stand still.You're just getting in the way. Move on motherfuckers!

We high tailed it out of Dalston in mid-September to our new ends of Tottenham after a year of trying. Turning mid-thirties means it's probably time to give up our old place and make way for the next wave of starry eyed dreamers who believe life starts and ends in the N16 post code. Or at least, those who can afford it - elegant slumming such as this comes at a price. But for us, with the car boot at the bottom of our bed, the Marquis of Lansdowne across the road, Super Kebab, the Basak Off Licence, the weird grumpy guys in Kristina Records, the trendy overpriced clothes in Huh, Dalston and Hackney have become embossed in our very beings.

We've seen and done many things while in Dalston. One of the weirdest was nicking a doob off the youths downstairs, smoking it, then hallucinating we were being attacked by a helicopter to the point where I woke up and ran out into the street to find out what was happening. Or when we got so battered at Bar Tipsy that the owners had to carry us home. Or when I lost my keys after my work Xmas party, so had to sleep on the steps, Or when we had people back and ripped the breakfast bar off the wall. Good times yeah.

But now it's all change. Particularly with the Nordic Loft Space next door, possibly sign posting what the future of N16 is going to look like, At least in the eyes of developers who are really those who hold the cards when it comes to etching our future. So see you later Dalston. You've been kind if not very, very silly...

The view

A grand a month and you could get all this

6 things we learned in Marseille

Bonjour tout le monde is about as far as my French vocabulary goes so when we journeyed to Marseille at the end of September there were plenty of conversational hiccups to chomp on. But despite my inability to do even basic tasks, we still managed to have a whale of a time drinking rose by the gallon and stuffing our gobs with mussels and chips at every opportunity. We even got a bit of culture, got lost in the mountains and swam in the sea. 

Here's what we learned from our stay in Marseille... 

You can get extremely sunburnt in September. I failed to apply any lotions to the top half of my adonis-like body. Hence a deep, deep, deep frying and waking up the following day in agony feeling like a battered mars bar. The belly became very swollen and there was fear that I'd cooked my large intestine... 

French crabs are well tasty. We went to this joint called Toinou where you have to eat crab using a pair of pliers and all your strength. We even had a whelk.

The French have their own Super Kebab. Unbelievably we stumbled across the Super Kebab, which even more unbelievably has a fried egg in it. Yes mate.

The French love cheese toasties. Even better than the kebabs is just how much the French are into beige croque monsieurs. We ate one every time we saw them. Which was twice. 

They have cannons which resemble massive bifters. We found this cannon in the Musee bit of Marseille on the coastline. It looked like a massive, metal zoot. 

The French love cats. We found this book in one of the Air Bnbs. Essential holiday reading if you're a feline fan.

Inside Super Kebab's robo kebab arm

Glastonbury Festival has a fire breathing spider called Arcadia. It's an engineering feat acknowledged with equal awe by ravers and architects up and down the land. Super Kebab at the bottom of our road, arguably the Glastonbury of takeaways, has a similar, yet much smaller robot which is no less of a technological achievement. It doesn't belch out flames or contain techno DJs. Instead it slices the elephant's leg of meat no questions asked bruv and at double quick time to satiate the needs of local drunks.

You'd think that the gents who work there would be concerned by their jobs being potentially put at risk by this new piece of equipment. But instead, they love it, as much for the amount of attention its generating as the time it saves deftly slicing meat up. Whereas before these chaps would be hacking at the meat and sweating their tits off, now they can concentrate on frying the chips and exchanging bants with the customers. It's a win win all round. We're waiting with baited breath to see whether anyone else takes up the challenge thrown down by Super Kebab. But as always, our boys are one step ahead. That's why they're the fucking best.

Super Kebab are so powerful they have invented their own time

In line with the other tourists

Congratulations to us and Super Kebab

This is the 501st post on this blog. 501 posts! Shit. I had no idea that I'd still be placing rot on here when I tentatively first started doing this. To celebrate, let's celebrate the kebab joint at the end of our road, Super Kebab! Super Kebab won the prize for Best Takeaway at the British Kebab Awards. Well done chaps.Your success has inspired us to even greater feats of late night culinary indulgence. Without you we could, at times, have starved to death. Thanks for helping keep us alive...

Too. Hot. To. Blog. Part deux

So we've been having a shit load of fun over the last month or so. BIG FUN. We've visited Kew Gardens, eaten jerk at Brixton, got down to some serious tunes at the NTS radio all day rave up and drank many, many cans. Living life out of a blue plastic bag is always a pleasure...

Kebabs and a convertible

Breakfast

Gaunt crew

NTS outside rave up

The back of Super kebab. Aka 'where the magic happens'

Yeah mate

Teee hee

Brixton Splash - getting bashy

Jerk in a bag

Sasuage roll with extra cheese

Owl painting

Hangover ballast

Coppers round here will park anywhere so they can get into Super Kebab

First tin of Boddingtons this decade

Partridge disco - fucking students

fish face

Kew Gardens

Hello old friend

Peacottaging