Thursday, 26 May 2016


Quite often on pills, on hot dancefloors, I bound up to total strangers because the chemicals have morphed their faces into those of my best friends. I run up to them and hug them. They smile back. They’re fucked too. And it dawns on me the face smiling staring back at me is not the face I thought it was ten metres ago. First off it shocks me, then embarrasses me, and then I realise it’s fine, and lovely because we’re both out of our trees.

Now, sitting here in the corner of a dimly lit pub in Brixton on a warm Tuesday night three days after the clocks went back, there’s a strong feeling of seasons changing and the battening down of hatches and a migration indoors. It’s October, but today it got dark at five fifteen.

Summer was huge and made my mind flip and went on long. And now in the opposite corner of the pub looking across the bar, I see you. Look at you. The slight of your hips. The way they lilt like a seesaw when your weight shifts. The desert boots I don’t associate with you. They’re there, in silhouette beyond the legs of a bar stool. And the line of your very straight nose that hooks into the horizontal that wades into that space above your upper lip, and the hair you don’t let fall over your eyes.

I see you every day. We’re always in the same places. I think that must be because we’re similar. It means we’re similar. There you are. Skipping across the road nowhere near a crossing, sitting in the corner of a plastic coffee place in a part of the city I don’t imagine you being in, watching you focus in on a book you’re trying harder than me to read because words jumble up in your head when you look at them. That’s what makes you so fucking intuitive, and why you scare the shit out of me.

I wonder if we see our friends on pills because in that heightened state we want so badly for it to be them. Because we’re so in love we visualise the people we love the most and we bound up to them.

Tuesday, 17 May 2016

Happy Anniversary

One of the best things i've read in recent memory is the line...

Showing people photos of your children is simply not asking for their honest opinion.

Pardon my french, but no-one gives a fuck. Not after the very first photo at least, which everyone displays a certain curiosity to see, if only to ascertain if said sprog is normal-looking/doesn't resemble some sort of possessed demon-child/looks vaguely like both parents. The master Louis CK drops this segment saying exactly the same thing better than any person ever has or will in human past present or future.

Hypocritical of me then, to compose a blogpost consisting almost exclusively of photos of an ilk not that far removed from the one so far maligned up until now; photos of my parents on the day of their wedding. Photos that tick the same uninteresting boxes as those of the kids, namely that they're photos of people dearly beloved to you, but unbeknownst to those poor souls whose attention you're so fervently drawing them to. 

But i'll justify the below for a few reasons. To start with, photos of the past are far more interesting than photos of some unformed future. Which is essentially what photos of kids are, representations of some unclear, little-formed, for the moment at least, unpleasantly snot-strewn future. Secondly, if it wasn't for the day represented below, it stands to reason that you wouldn't be wasting the far too few seconds of your precious life reading this right now, as i wouldn't be around to write it. So the below relates to you too. The other reason is that it's topical. My parents got married thirty five years ago yesterday.

35 years on the drizzle getme

Photo album, embossed yo

Mummy rolling deep on that aquiline tip

Argentine couz's rolling deep on that silken gaucho garms tip

My grandfather giving his best not one of you mess with me motherfuckers look

My mother doing her best ghost floating gothic-horror impression

The vicar doing his best character from a Tintin impression

Pops looking a little too pleased he made the papers

My argentine grandparents seamlessly holding down their absolute geedom

Mummy looking on adoringly

Mummy thinking what the hell have i got myself into

Pops not waiting til pudding to get his gurn on

Best Mandem in the place

Holy Trinity

General Famalam tingz

I don't have a clue who that guy in the middle is

Best Mandem lighting shiddup at dinner later

My 7 year old couz's thank you card


But asides from the reasons mentioned above, there's one more reason that these photos are interesting to me. And that's because recently i've witnessed more than a few of my friends, contemporaries, people i've grown up with and known for a decade-plus, do exactly the same thing as my parents did that day. Get married. And now more than a few of them are having babies. Which is where the showing people photos of your kids is simply not asking for their honest opinion diatribe came from. 

But the one common denominator in all of this is that not one of them, knows the least about what the flaming hell they're doing. Getting married, getting pregnant, having babies, watching them grow, no-one has the faintest clue about what they're up to. It's the most monumental case of styling shit out i've ever seen. Which is why digging up these old photos of my parents' wedding thirty-five years ago to the day, demanded i reframe my understanding of them. 

Where in years gone by these faded photographs showed me clearly a man and a woman going through the perfectly rehearsed motions of something they were always meant to do, a preamble to the one defining moment of their lives - having me - to which my brother was evidently a practice-run, i now know differently. From seeing my friends fumble and err and cock shit up and style shit out, i realise my parents were equally none the wiser. The photos above are documentation of this. They didn't have a clue. At no point throughout any of the day documented above did they know either what they were up to, or what they were letting themselves in for. No siree. Growing up we think our parents have all the answers. 

They don't. 

And nor will we. 

Shit never makes sense. The idea is we just care less about understanding nothing.


n o n e t h e l e s s

In the shallow paddling pool of certainty, one truth lies floating in the corner amongst the autumn leaves. Keep the memories of your kids up-tawp, in your mind's eye, rather than littering your mates' inboxes with them. Your kids don't want their photo taken in the first place, they're trying to tell you something.

Regina Means Queen

In the noisy confusion of a tuesday morning after a weekend that did its best R Kelly impression and makes keeping peace with your soul extra-specially trying, Regina Spektor sums the whole thing up so perfectly it makes you think after all it must have been her barking orders at the Big Man when he went off on his 7-Day bender back in the day to bring the whole thing into existence.

This is how it works.

You're young until you're not.

You love until you don't.

You try until you can't.

You laugh until you cry.

You cry until you laugh.

And everyone must breathe...

Until their dying breath.

This is how it works.

You peer inside yourself.

You take the things you like.

And try to love the things you took.

And then you take that love you made.

And stick it into someone else's heart.

Pumping someone else's blood.

And walking arm in arm.

You hope it don't get harmed.

But even if it does...

You'll just do it all again.


Bombdrop from 1:32

She is just incredible.

Thursday, 12 May 2016

A Field In London

From now until the last leaf of autumn curls its way languidly to the floor, any day of faint sun will see London Fields going absolutely nuts. In fact, this shit will happen e v e r y day of faint sun.

Weekdays included.

All of life is here. Five year olds arguing offside decisions at the back end of seven hour football matches. Turkish ladies refining their tighest kofta flex. Gym-bunnies standing around in groups feeling their triceps. First dates breathing easy thanking the day for its grandiose stage design. Hispters getting their gurn-on from the night before. Smoke from innumerable disposable barbecues curling its way into the air amidst the plane trees and the pink blossom. Starlings circling up above, sighing, surveying the self-styled rulers of their earth baring teeth at each other. The smiles of a sun-starved populace, if you're lucky you might see a knife-fight, might even hear a gunshot, if you're really lucky you'll have the company of a dandy sporting the new Lemaire Uniqlo range walking with you side by side as you savour the cool lick of an IPA and pontificate on the excellent marriage of sunny days and the forgetfulness of mankind.


The best thing about having a nokia with a camera with less mega-pixels than your dad has facebook friends is taking full advantage of moments like the ones when Giles Peterson walks into the exact same coffee joint at the exact same time as the one you happen to be sitting in and you bust up to him all nonchalant and ask for the mother of all selfies with no doubt whatsoever in your mind you're about to lense the mother of all keepers to nestle above your mantelpiece until the time you get old and dribbly and start muddling your memories and reminisce about the days when you and world famous DJs used to hang out in coffee bars and shoot the shit like it weren't even a ting.