God's Whispers

Any time a plane even half-full of argentines touches down on the runway at Ezeiza International Airport in the outskirts of Buenos Aires, applause and hollering and general uproar sweeps through the cabin. On friday night at the cineworld on fulham road as the credits rolled two hours forty three minutes into American Honey, my brother and i channeled the latin in us and hollered and applauded and brrrap'd from the far right of row G, causing the rest of Screen 3 to fumble about in the darkness for their coats and scarves with extra-specially furrowed brows. I think one person joined in. With good reason.

Permit me to get a little Barry Norman about this.

American Honey is sick.

I can't remember being made this happy by a film since Pride Rock went apeshit for the second time.


One reviewer saw it and coined the word Youthquake. Check out the trailer.

Sasha Lane who plays the main character Star had no previous acting experience at all, she is absolute fire. The director Andrea Arnold who did Red Road and Fish Tank found her on a beach somewhere and convinced her to come for a casting.

The sex scenes are incredible.

One moment sticks out most of all. A shot near the end in a van where QT this heavy-set girl turns around and an extended smile breaks across her face, that captures the whole thing in the shell of a nut.

People say it's too long. People say it's disjointed. That it rambles on. Two sets of people walked out half way through. And i spent almost three hours with my mouth wide open forcing my bladder to seven times it's natural size because i couldn't handle missing any part of it. That two people can have such different reactions to the same thing is weird. Especially when there is no room for debate. Subjective opinion needs to step aside on this one. Not coming into this club with that kind of footwear sir, dark shoes only.

There's so much to this film. The silences, the close-ups of faces, the spaces in between. The music. Everything. It won't be as good as any expectation i may have stoked up. But i totally fell in love with it.

Holy Chip

Newfound maximum respect for Pringles.

This is 

i n c r e d i b l e.

Watched the whole thing in some quasi highly-saturated trance.

Batman Shit

No-one ever made being late to the party cooler than The Caped Crusader.

Any time there's a whisper of an after-party these days i make sure to leave the club a half hour before anyone to check the next venue for sky-lights.

Then i hang the hell back.

Problem with after-parties being is that if you hang back for too long, everyone's too mash-up to notice you coming through the ceiling anyway. 

I suppose it's all in the landing.


Dropthebeatonit now has an instagram account.

Click here for dopeness.

Life Goes On

Another sorry tale from the annals, back from January 2015.


A somewhat soul-searching start to a thursday morning.

It all began with a triple-shot cappuccino. The problem of being a monosyllabic retard redressed, Stavros' wisdom in his Easyjet brochure sprang instantly to mind. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Meaning that on top of being woken the hell up, said amount of caffeine has a side effect of shifting everything through your system. Fast. To call it a side-effect is a bit unjust. It's an effect. 

Healthy Stuff is like being in someone's living room. It's got that homely feel to it, unsurprisingly it's the kind of place that gets pram-heavy, but it's resolutely not the kind of place you drop the kids off in. And yet somehow three shots of caffeine removes all choice from the equation. 

The pram-brigade not yet arrived, asides from a biddy in the corner enjoying history's most over-brewed cup of tea, i was on my own. Having paid for my coffee and asked if i could duck into the loo, i then emerge fourteen minutes later. Walking back past the bar where the Finnish chick owner is having an in-depth conversation on the merits of activated almonds with some australian dude made exclusively out of hemp, she clocks me. 

The look on her face can be broken down into 3 key stages:

1. You're still here? I thought you'd left ages ago.

2. Oooh, you've been in the toilet.

3. Oh.

This is where the soul-searching comes in.

Separated by a hair's breadth of plasterboard, that loo can't be more than 2 feet away from where she spends six hours a day busting out Lifesaver smoothies or frothing up babyccinos for the little ones. It's a violation of all sorts of stuff. It was plainly there, in the lines of the consternation etched onto her face. Yes i felt two stone lighter, but my heart was heavy. How do you come back from that. I'm not sure i can go back there for a fucking while. Probably not until i have kids of my own. Which now i'll be sure to take with me when i leave. Both sets of them.

There's a moral in this story. There's a certain sort of business that needs handling before you leave the house in the morning. Or more aptly put, buy your food in departures before you get on the flight. That way you won't have to pay Stavros six quid for a packet of mini cheddars.

Top Trumps

When I stopped working on the races I was glad, but it left an emptiness. By then I knew that everything good and bad left an emptiness when it stopped. But if it was bad, the emptiness filled up by itself. If it was good you could only fill it by finding something better.

Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.


If he was a top-trump card, kids would whoop and holla when they got him because they knew the 98 score on power to chill on his jax trumped every other card in the pack. He’d lived out most of his young adult life with a corset on, the tightness of which symbolised the strength of his self-containment. Loneliness wasn’t for him. The company of other people, to give him what? His was a landmass surrounded by turquoise waters on all sides, well away from the maine.

On the off-chance he’d need to, he might seek company out. But always in a removed way that screamed out in veiled text that he wasn’t bothered either way. Even when his therapist flipped the script one day and told him his lonerdom was fear of engagement and his singledom was fear of rejection, he’d still beat the drum of one of the old Greek guys whose words echoed upstairs whenever he needed reminding. Self-sufficiency is the greatest virtue.

Seven weeks before he had given up drinking. And loneliness had crept up behind solitude and tapped it on the shoulder discreetly. My turn. And they had switched places. And now he felt lonely all the time. Perhaps not in the sense of needing to be with people. More in the sense of an awareness of the crushingness of how totally alone he was. Every single thought process which led to another thought process which led to another, was his alone. If he employed someone to a permanent position of listening to him speak his mind for twenty-four hours a day, an ocean would still remain present between them. Which led him to feel an ocean away from everyone.

Seeking help wasn’t really the issue. Since any help however well-worded wouldn’t penetrate. The issue had no core, nothing to get to the heart of. He could think of nothing more pathetic than wailing down the phone at somebody or staring deeply into a glass of sparkling water outside a cafĂ© describing his symptoms and his ailments. And yet he had a sneaking suspicion he was doing his best to deny that he wanted more than anything for people to beat his door down and find him sat there in his flat at night, staring deeply into his glass of sparkling water, and ask him what was wrong. Nothing was wrong, he might reply. What is what.

There was a strange satisfaction in this death march. As if an unending set of enormous waves were crashing down on his head repeatedly, sending him spinning and tumbling into the depths, from which he’d surface just in time to catch sight of the next oncoming wave, to lock eyes and smile calmly at it. Then he’d go under again. It was calm and it was persistent.

A friend of his with a brain like a triple-decker bus and a heart like a champagne glass teetering on the edge of a table had told him that the colour would return. One day. The emptiness would fill up by itself. Or perhaps with something better.