Journey to work

First in a series with Rashbre of 'cammuting'

Engine Parts

I've been constructing a couple of scripts amongst other bits and bobs. Going to shows, conferences, clubs, having a peanut butter binge and generally doing lots of things. The end of last year was awash with spending money and now I'm considering budgeting.

I'm thinking blog minded again, and need to flex the old muscles to get this engine operational.

This has to be a well oiled machine if it wants to keep going. So I'm swapping out the oil pressure spring, cracking in a new gland nut and washer, replacing the head gasket, taking the spark plugs to town for a wash, and airing the carpets from flood damage.

I'm also thinking about getting one of those flux capacitors? Time travel is inevitable.

Movember

Last chance to support Movember!

Quit while you're ahead

I’m not a fan but this feels strangely subliminal, like Bart’s boy band in ‘The Simpsons’. I’ve grown up with the threat of another terrible Guns ‘n’ Roses record and this proves the point. Utter trash. Even better is the story of bucket head, the lead guitarist who refused to record the album unless he could play in his very own bespoke chicken coup constructed in the studio itself. We know he got his way, and when he performs he wears a stupid KFC bucket on his head – hence the ridiculous moniker. If you though James Bond was soaked in product placement, this is worse.

The best part is that Dr Pepper pledged to supply every US citizen with a can of said drink if Chinese Democracy was released in 2008. Let’s see if they keep up their side of the bargain.

If you like the Tygers of Pan Tang, you’ll enjoy this.

Behind us the storm

Late weekdays, several novels, and an Eric Gregory submission have kept me away these past weeks. It’s all a matter of how you choose to fill your time. Except things aren’t always that simple, and sometimes it seems the way we spend time is chosen for us. Like the time spent sitting in a flood during a recent trip to Scotland:

Behind us the manure flood water
squeezed out through Lucozade bottles,
at the Gateway Inn car park.

Behind us no room at four inns,
and the A591s muddy middle bank,
separating separate rivers on
both sides of the dual carriage way.

Behind us wheel spin on slick grass,
horizontal rain, and mud splat on
bodywork dried like scratch marks.

Behind us the unlucky green car
twice at risk on the same road,
in the same town and
waterlogged, like the grass beneath
a Sunday paddling pool in June.

Behind us foot cramp on pedals
and trainers soaked to soaks.
The white lines lost in the dark,
and only cats eyes to save us.

The tide is high as Scotland welcomes.
The radio recalling last nights lost -
forty four still missing,
and the clouds move faster
than the car can outrun.

The weather turns like a playing card.

Down The Rabbit Hole

What always amazes me about London is the multitude of interlocking events happening at any given moment. It’s a great asset to know there’s always something to do, but at the same time it’s terrifying; at the southbank, I never want to go home. I could listen to the buskers all day, walking the length of the Jubilee Bridge taking in classical violin, steaming hot sax jazz, tropical steel drums, or the sad penny whistle of the homeless hunched in a corner by the stairs. There’s all the live theatre jazz, the ‘Watch this Space’ motifs, publicity stunts, extreme skateboarders, and a full programme of all kinds of theatre.

Yesterday, it was hard not to notice the hundreds of participants of the Urban Rat Race that came darting through the crowds, pausing to consult their maps and stare pensively in all directions. This UK initiative takes adventure sports to the streets of cities. Only learning the course hours before the event, teams face multi-disciplined challenges including, biking, climbing, running & kayaking.

As for my adventure, I went ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ at the Oxo Tower Bargehouse; a new production by ‘Let’s Paint the Town Red,’ whose mission statement is to explore spaces for performance in & around London and bring them to life. The Bargehouse was a fantastic location for just this. An old Victorian warehouse, all decrepit and rusty and often used as a gallery space for various art colleges. The concept for the show was loosely based on Alice & Wonderland, taking the audience down the rabbit hole and into the strange world Alice confronts in Caroll’s famous novel. Somehow, however the show didn’t quite live up to the copy on the back of the flyer which promised ‘alternative puppetry’ and ‘absurd encounters,’ and what we were faced with was a disjointed journey, part through darkness & tunnels, and part through underused white washed rooms with tiny and pointless art installations.

What I felt was needed was far more acting. Site specific theatre can sometime run amok by losing its audience through selling far too many tickets and one of the great benefits of Punchdrunk’s ‘Faust’ was its intimacy and the chance of more encounters with the actors. Something with they continued with ‘Masque of the Red Death’ that saw myself dragged off to a broom cupboard to hold a skull and listen to Latin whispers from a woman doing headstands in the corner. These are moments of a true twisted imagination – the ones that catch you off-guard and leave the back of your neck tingling as if you’ve had a good massage.

Although not trying to be exactly like Punchdrunk, and have more focus on art & installation pieces, ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ felt lazy; the actual art was underused, and hastily put together, and a partnership with cinematic illustration innovators, ‘Paper Cinema’ felt more a showcase for their work than anything to do with Lewis Caroll’s twisted world. The performance I saw also integrated a heavy rock band that had little relevance with anything Alice related, and left me disorientated at what seemed to be the shows most pivotal room, the Mad Hatters Tea Party.

Overall I do love these type of events, that blend together an array of artistic ventures, however with only three days of performance time, I wonder if this was a last minute, rushed affair in order to use such a fantastic space. When shows like this are so set dependant, any company attempting such would ideally need a few weeks of preparation to decorate & get inspired by the space. Perhaps this time ‘Down the Rabbit Hole’ was a victim of its own hype, with Time Out & London bloggers claiming this would be the next ‘Punchdrunk,’ the next must see experience, to feed the London trend-setters hunger for more alternative Monday morning news at the coffee machine.

Something Somewhere

I always like to try and get the most out of the weekend. And this doesn’t mean sleeping till noon, waking with the obligatory hangover, and sauntering around in dirty clothes all afternoon. Instead living from breakfast till supper seems the best way to see what the city has to offer. So Saturday morning, armed with a 25mm wide angle lens, Borough Market was the destination. Seemingly permanently trapped in autumn, it’s a great place to spot fashionista’s, tuck into some cracking home ground produce, and sip on a guest ale or two at the Market Porter.

Then after a general wander through the city, the day rounded off at ‘The Troubadour’ in Earls Court to see Michael Horowitz perform from half a centuries worth of spoken word material. Punctuated by short sets of Irish folk songs, improvised Cello-jazz, and his infamous kazoo, age seems to have riled Horowitz as he works in segments of his most political work to date; a take on T.S. Eliot’s ‘Waste Land’ criticising the state of the world at the turn of the Millennium, from Bush’s ‘war on terror’ to the “suicidal commercial triumphalism promoted by the arms, nuclear, advertising and war industries.”


It’s interesting to see how Horowitz uses Eliot’s’ post war devastation of the 1920s, as a vehicle for the metaphorical cultural & political wasteland of a media-numbed population today. I feel there’s also a disappointment for Horowitz given his back-catalogue of beat poems, and literary jazz licks, where the world for a moment seemed it was going forwards for the best, whatever that may be.

Overall I can’t help but think that ‘The Troubadour,’ as beautiful as it is, is stuck as a patron saint of veteran musicians & poets alike making it hard to imagine anything truly groundbreaking will ever come out of it again. Surely younger generations shouldn’t leave it to the post WW2 baby boomers to spell out the problems in their society?

Oh well, there’s plenty of other venues to witness twenty something’s rile against Bush & Blair, but last night in this small romantic underground corner, it was groundbreaking to see someone as frail as Horowitz; a survivor from the Beat era, tell us how he feels with a smile, and lead a chorus of laugher from a diverse audience during the cello-led sing-along of ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor.’

Reoccurrences

Everyday I pass the central criminal court and see the news reporters touching up their hair, the camera men setting up their gear and the legitimate paparazzi fiddling with all manner of lenses and the occasional tripod. In fact I see the very same bald guy everyday in brown workman’s boots, with a khaki bag that looks like it’s from Gap and a massive white lens that could be used as balancing stick in a circus act.

Yes, sometimes days are like clock-work and faces become familiar in a city of strangers. In fact one thing I always ponder at this point in my journey, is how strange it seems to be outside the walls of the court, when inside it’d seem one can slip so easily, with a plethora of offences to chose from. And everyday I think about the drama series ‘Criminal Justice’ that aired on BBC1 a few weeks ago. It stared Ben Whishaw as a young man who unwittingly ends up the wrong side of the law, after waking up to find his squeeze for the night murdered and the knife beside him. Obviously the poor chap had no idea what happened and to some extent doubted his own innocence due to his intoxication. What followed were five episodes of the usual tripe; corrupt cops, corrupt prisons, and an inmate who ruled the coup.

In the end our hero went the way of alleged murderer Barry George proving that in fiction and life, the good guys get it wrong sometimes.

Death defiers on the morning commute

Every morning thousands of commuters actively stare death in the face and laugh. Either that or they don’t even realize how close they come to the inevitable. I myself am included in this bubbled mass of fools who happily dance through busy roads, pick fights with cyclists and leap onto packed trains with legs dangling through the gaps.

In most cases I imagine people don’t even think about being killed, the astonished look on their face as a taxi runs them down, as if to say, “but I’ll be late for work.” I managed to rattle off a few snaps this morning catching pedestrians close to the edge. Some chap even lost his rattle at a cyclist, whacking the back of the bike in anger as the misguided rider ringed a ringer and rode on through a pack of red-man jay walkers. I’ll be on watch tomorrow…

The Barricades Arise

I’m not a military man, but any fool can see the importance and the reason why countries have armies, and it’s not so Generals have something to hide in their ‘sleeves.’

Everyday I pass Chelsea Barracks, and ever since its purchase last year for over 900million quid I’ve been interested in its affairs as it looks set to become a hive of posh flats. Now I’m a fan of changing spaces within the city, but I do have some reservations about this arrangement. Gone, are the times when I’d pass the barracks in early morn to watch the drills, marches & general army revelry. I’ll even miss the random chats I’ve had with young soldiers at the Rose & Crown on Lower Sloane Street. But what seems to be the biggest travesty so far, is the surrounding of the entire site with giant black boards cutting the ex-barrack from view.

In fact at the moment the only place you can see into it (other than the gate) is down at the corner by Ebury Bridge Road where they used to keep the Armoured Personnel vehicles (terminology courtesy of ‘Command & Conquer’) and such. The place where you can hear someone play bagpipes in Chelsea Mansions. It won’t be long before the whole thing’s cut off from public view, colluding with the overhanging trees to block the sunlight from Chelsea Bridge Road all-together.

As they say there’s no pleasing some people, and I imagine this’ll go on for a good few years before we see the fall of the wall. Then we’ll have the towering obelisks of luxury to contend for sunlight with.

Nature faces yet another villain in the ongoing 'survival of the fittest'…