"IT'S GLASTONBURY 2011 - AND IT'S SO AMAZING". Zane Lowe will no doubt be shouting to a camera before introducing act 162 on stage 48.
I'm not there. Despite my apparent indifference to this and the usual 'it's far too big/not the same anymore/lost it's vibe/hi-jacked by the BBC' arguments I do have a pang of envy when I start receiving text messages from my friends who are there, screaming across my Nokia's one inch square screen, "IT'S GLASTONBURY 2011 - AND IT'S SO AMAZING".
I do owe Glasto. It was on returning from this festival many moons ago that I decided to never work a full week again. It wasn't just down to Glasto but it definitely hit the final nail in my nine-to-five, five day week coffin. And gleefully so.
Instead of going to Glastonbury 2011 I find myself in London town staring in disbelief at a double mattress left on the corner of a busy street. People completely ignore it, rushing past to the Londis for their Friday night combo - a Carlsberg 6 pack, tube of sour cream Pringles and 20 Marlboro Lights.
I feel like a self-absorbed character in a independent American movie. An ambient effect-laden solo guitar soundtrack plays whilst the mattress image is juxtaposed with a close-up shot of my eyes blinking in slow motion - the sequence repeated several times.
It might not be as exciting as being at Glastonbury but, to be honest, I'd even put staring at a mattress on a pavement above watching Coldplay any day.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Friday, June 17, 2011
The Eye Of The Tiger
A year ago to this Friday I carved up my right eye with a garden cane. Accidentally I must add - I have nothing against my right eye. In fact I'd go as far to say, it's my sixth most-loved organ.
After emergency surgery and a year of slow healing it's finally back to good. One would think I've learnt my lesson. Not on your Nelly - If you happen to have a Nelly that is.
It's local festival time and I've been roped in to paint a tree red. If the stabbing potential of protruding branch ends isn't danger enough then the drips and sprays from overhead painting should have my eye's alarm bells ringing. But do I wear eye goggles to protect myself? No way. And why not?
I've become an alpha male! Spent all my life thinking of myself as beta. No interest in cars. No interest in beef. No interest in shiny shoes. To me rugby is a suburb of Coventry not a sport. But my alpha has suddenly come out of the testosterone lacquered closet.
I'm not wearing safety goggles because I want to appear manly. I want to look daring and care-free like Rudger Hauer would on the front of Esquire magazine. It's like King Kong, Patrick Swayze, David Niven, Scrappy Doo, Busta Rhymes, Ray Mears and Desmond Lynam have all been melted in one huge vat of masculinity and re-modelled into 'Alpha Man'.
Passing women swoon and men look on in admiration as I bravely stroke red paint all over the brittle bark. I strip to my jeans and toss the sweat from my brow to the ground. I grunt like McEnroe as I reach for the higher branches. Paint sprays all over me. I don't give a shit. I can take it. I'm a man.
And then it's back home for a lovely bubble bath, a manicure and a G'n'T.
After emergency surgery and a year of slow healing it's finally back to good. One would think I've learnt my lesson. Not on your Nelly - If you happen to have a Nelly that is.
It's local festival time and I've been roped in to paint a tree red. If the stabbing potential of protruding branch ends isn't danger enough then the drips and sprays from overhead painting should have my eye's alarm bells ringing. But do I wear eye goggles to protect myself? No way. And why not?
I've become an alpha male! Spent all my life thinking of myself as beta. No interest in cars. No interest in beef. No interest in shiny shoes. To me rugby is a suburb of Coventry not a sport. But my alpha has suddenly come out of the testosterone lacquered closet.
I'm not wearing safety goggles because I want to appear manly. I want to look daring and care-free like Rudger Hauer would on the front of Esquire magazine. It's like King Kong, Patrick Swayze, David Niven, Scrappy Doo, Busta Rhymes, Ray Mears and Desmond Lynam have all been melted in one huge vat of masculinity and re-modelled into 'Alpha Man'.
Passing women swoon and men look on in admiration as I bravely stroke red paint all over the brittle bark. I strip to my jeans and toss the sweat from my brow to the ground. I grunt like McEnroe as I reach for the higher branches. Paint sprays all over me. I don't give a shit. I can take it. I'm a man.
And then it's back home for a lovely bubble bath, a manicure and a G'n'T.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Notes From A Summer Stroll
Parked up. The gathering of essentials. Lacing of boots.
Lost within five minutes.
A token nod from a miserable man walking two happy Jack Russells.
A feeling of weightlessness.
A winding river with small beached areas where one could imagine some eccentric chap called Rothschild sunbathing and drinking Pimms.
Stumbling upon an eerily quiet suburban village. Volvo's parked up on front lawns and the distant song of hand drill.
Sheep. Always sheep.
The ruins of a castle accidentally burned down in the 14th century by it's baker.
The Queen of all rainstorms and a right royal soaking.
A wren. Or was it a tit? One hopes a wren.
A church spire impersonating a space ship behind a cluster of pine.
Bulls. Sinister and still. Watching. Plotting.
A blister.
An anonymous pint in a pub at the end. At the bar. Packet of Tyrrells Chedder and Chives. Writing these words.
A token nod from a miserable man walking two happy Jack Russells.
A feeling of weightlessness.
A winding river with small beached areas where one could imagine some eccentric chap called Rothschild sunbathing and drinking Pimms.
Stumbling upon an eerily quiet suburban village. Volvo's parked up on front lawns and the distant song of hand drill.
Sheep. Always sheep.
The ruins of a castle accidentally burned down in the 14th century by it's baker.
The Queen of all rainstorms and a right royal soaking.
A wren. Or was it a tit? One hopes a wren.
A church spire impersonating a space ship behind a cluster of pine.
Bulls. Sinister and still. Watching. Plotting.
A blister.
An anonymous pint in a pub at the end. At the bar. Packet of Tyrrells Chedder and Chives. Writing these words.
Friday, June 03, 2011
The Friday Morning Horror Double Bill
Human beings of around my age (41) may well remember that back in the day (a Saturday to be exact) there used to be a Horror Double Bill on BBC2. The first film would usually be a B/W 1940s number. A bit creepy but not poo-your-y-fronts scary. This would be followed by a technicolour Christopher Cushing saturated shock-horror that would make going to bed afterwards a gruelling experience where every sound heard would be Dracula sharpening his incisors with my dad's welding equipment (my father did use to work in the welding trade so the garage often had various welding tools stored within).
This morning, on the witching hour itself, I decided I would create my own horror double bill. I logged on to ireallydoquitelikefilm.com and downloaded two horror films for instant viewing.
Firstly 'The Objective'.
Quite intriguing sci-fi horror. A little on the macho-American 'uh uh uh' side of things but I suppose being set in a war zone it's hardly going to feature artisans discussing Van Gogh and how to pickle beetroot before being eaten by vampire cricketers.
Secondly 'The Box'.
Jesus H Christ and all his disciples! What a load of cobbler's nuts. In fact, that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts. I can't even bring myself to describe the plot or the acting. I gave up watching it with over half an hour still left. It's not even so bad it's good. It's just bad. Awful. I found myself thinking, "What the hell am I doing watching this cobbler's nuts at 3am? And that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts."
And so I went to bed. Nightmares galore including waking with a classic 'night terror' moment - the sensation that someone or some kind of force is holding you down as you try to wake. The nightmares were unpredictable, well acted and involved some amazing special effects, way better than CGI. Whats more I didn't need to take out a subscription and I managed to notch up 8 hours kip into the bargain.
This morning, on the witching hour itself, I decided I would create my own horror double bill. I logged on to ireallydoquitelikefilm.com and downloaded two horror films for instant viewing.
Firstly 'The Objective'.
Quite intriguing sci-fi horror. A little on the macho-American 'uh uh uh' side of things but I suppose being set in a war zone it's hardly going to feature artisans discussing Van Gogh and how to pickle beetroot before being eaten by vampire cricketers.
Secondly 'The Box'.
Jesus H Christ and all his disciples! What a load of cobbler's nuts. In fact, that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts. I can't even bring myself to describe the plot or the acting. I gave up watching it with over half an hour still left. It's not even so bad it's good. It's just bad. Awful. I found myself thinking, "What the hell am I doing watching this cobbler's nuts at 3am? And that's being really hard on cobbler's nuts."
And so I went to bed. Nightmares galore including waking with a classic 'night terror' moment - the sensation that someone or some kind of force is holding you down as you try to wake. The nightmares were unpredictable, well acted and involved some amazing special effects, way better than CGI. Whats more I didn't need to take out a subscription and I managed to notch up 8 hours kip into the bargain.
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