Saturday, 11 October 2014

Whizzing on the Wirral


We journeyed up to the Paradise Peninsula (aka the Wirral) the weekend before I reached the ripe old pensionable age of 33. Our time in the North West veered between cooing at babies and binging so heavily that we were still supping on a 40 quid bottle of white wine come 8am on Sunday morning. Oh yes. Age may be coming for us but that doesn't mean you go home rather than going hard. You just pay for it for days afterwards. Days and days. But the best bits of our jaunt were numerous; frolicks with a baby, digging into a Wetherspoons platter with absolutely no nutritional value and attending a charity gig which turned into an unexpected total all nighter. I spent the last day as a 32 year old rushing and drink M&S lager. How gourmet...

tomato on the tracks

a meal with 3,000 calories in it

How civilised

Sausage face

Small fries

Bit David Lynch

The blue grass  outfit

More dancing to bluegrass
Impromptu cheese binge in Marks

Hackney carnival all up inside the place


Notting Hill Carnival is the big street jam of the year but other London boroughs are also getting in on the act and ramping up their vibe. This year we stuck our toe into the Hackney Carnival for the first time and guess what? The toe came back well fresh mate. It was well good sneaking out our front door feeling slightly hungover, para and edgy to be confronted by steel bands, outlandish attire and beaming smiles. It usually involves a trip over west London to get the same hit and the journey back always feels like you're attempting to traverse thousands of miles blind drunk.

The parade itself was a total vibe but one of the highlights was a certain steel band playing on the back of a float. They refused to stop when the coppers asked them to and provoked some of the most outlandish dancing the streets have ever seen from trendy, white dudes. One fella was flayling his limbs round like an octopus being put down. It was a truly intoxicating and intoxicated move.


The parade

Our favourite steel band

Nice spot of shit faced moves

The octopus man is in the blue shirt... 

Carnival

Friday, 10 October 2014

Let's play a game of fuck off - you go first


Vibes have been heavy and fat over the last few months. Whether it's been celebrating weddings in Rotherham to getting it on at Notting Hill Carnival in torrential rain, there's been a constant tidal wave of great shit to roll around in. Summer 2014 - it's been a pleasure. Here's some more 'moments'...

Work scratch card business
Pie business

Bucky P

Bear? 
Raving in the rain at Notting Hill



Blue cheese triangles are the future

Wedding!

Watching monkeys dance on a big telly in Rotherham

Our Premier Inn digs in Rotherham

Enter Shikari ale

Toucan play that game... 

Mac and cheese - late night sunday dining

Stormtroopers in Leyton

Watch out for the ticks

Give me the wedgey

Hullo? Is anyone there? 

New work wheels

DFA1979 are back and stenciling their faces all over Dalston

The ultimate breakfast

The ultimate cake

The UK the morning of the independence Scottish referendum

Take me back to Oregon

Car booty booty


At the bottom of our bed, through the window and down a few floors is a school. Like many such academic establishments, it has a yard. Happen upon it in the week and this playground is ram-jammed with hollering youths throwing balls at each other and screaming. However, at the weekends, this pre-pubescent battleground is replaced by purveyors of fine (or not so fine tat) as part of the Princess May car boot sale.

The lure of the booty is always one hard to avoid and as such, we've purchased many a killer item from it in the time we've resided in such close proximity. Coats, shoes, records, pictures, pots, DVDs - in fact most of the shit that lies in mounds around our gaff is from down there.

While we've mainly been consumers when it comes to the boot, we've also taken it up ourselves to don the other boot and sell our shit. Much of the shit that we've bought from there in the first place. We did it back in March to raise money for charity and decided to do it again, this time to raise dosh for our holibobs. It was no less fun if a little less successful financials wise but that was the vibe. We managed to shift a furry coat for a tenner and saw Alex Kapronos from Franz Ferdinand buy an old turntable but neglect our collection of one pound DVDs. Your loss Alex you old duffer!

That gourmet shit right there

Dude in cape = the car boot clown

Our neatly arranged wares

An older couple attempting to give each other a backy at seven in the am... 

Grace

Monday, 6 October 2014

Can you feel my balls?



‘FOOTBALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL’ – ‘LADS’ – ‘UP THE GOAL - REFEREE - OOOOOOH SHITTTT AHHHHHHHHH’ are the chants you might possibly hear of a weekend ringing around the fitba stadiums of this green and unpleasant land.

The season of the ball is now upon us like a Gary Liniker-fronted rash, but we managed to pre-empt the hoolabaloo, the chatter and the froth by visiting the Arsenal back at the start of August. Oh yes we were to be found drinking watered down pints at an early hour in preparation for the big match like only the seasoned fan can. Let me tell you the Emirates stadium is a bit like a prison, where you can only eat shit (burgers), drink p1ss (Carlsberg) and can’t smoke. Fascists. Despite this abundance of rules, we still managed to have a cracking time at the game. But jesus wept, just give us somewhere we can enjoy a gasper. Be human! It’s only a game!

Really getting into the sporting spirit

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey

Weeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy

Wednesday, 1 October 2014

How to play a wedding disco

In Copenhagen back in June alongside the wedding frolics was a wedding DJ set from moi.

It consisted of some insider intel from the happy couple, a bit of research and an innate sense of whether a tune is a tune. Throw in a suit, some sweaty palms, a week or two of worrying and about ten pints and you have the backdrop to the whole vibe. Keep them 12 inches, re-edited and pop and you're away. It got laid down. Dig into a slight bit of the vibe below...

Beacons 2014


I can't stand the rain ... against my window - that's Tina Turner for you but it's obvious that the bow-legged one with the large pipes has never camped. Rain against your window is fine but rain inside your tent is not. Beacons, a three day festival in Skipton, offered some of the most challenging camping conditions we'd ever encountered in the form of the fag end of Hurricane Bertha. This flatulent beast ran amok through the site on Sunday evening, shutting down areas, causing mass muddage and big leaks. Camping in it on the night itself with the legs of the tent going all akimbo was an act of extreme endurance. Thank god for downers otherwise the puddle in one side of our temporary home could have been called a problem.


At the same time, while we'd never been wetter, Beacons was a totally fucking wicked vibe which made you remember that London is not the centre of the universe. Far from it. This event, catering for a fraction of the size of the audience crammed into similar musically bent parties in the capital, showed you could get fairly splattered but without feeling like a bog eyed hen in a really small cage. While it was a highly debauched couple of days, it was all tinged with an air of the civilised. Our trip from the train station to pitched tent took minutes rather than hours. The beer (the beautifully titled Ringmaster) was much nicer and cheaper than the Turborg we’d become accustomed to. No queues for either the bars or bogs was another large tick in the Beacons box for sure.

The music was also totally on point with the likes of Fat White Family, Neneh Cherry, Ralph Lawson, A Love from Outer Space and Jackmaster filling our ears and minds with total stimulation. Sleaford Mods also kicked some serious arse with their twitchy, speed-fuelled rage against the 9-5.

While the day after the (final night) before was hard, it also meant we got to experience the joys of Skipton. Turns out you can get a full English for less than £3, a juicy pie for less than a pound and a three bedroom mansion with a yard and garden for the same price tag as a bread bin in Stoke Newington. To Right Move and don’t spare the horses.



Vera Lynn

Wiggy

Looking fresh

Steez