Friday, 27 November 2015

Putus Rex

Who could this be?

That's right friends.

This is none other than Don Julio el Putarelli of Putoville.

His favourite tree is the Putocalyptus, his favourite hot drink an extra large mug of Putaccino With Chocolate Sprinkles. Soya milk with that sir? Go get puto'dDon Julio divides his time pretty evenly between his garden and his drawing board. An interior-designer par excellence by week, a pro-league horticulturist by weekend. And by night i hear you chime? Ladies and gents... he's a dubsmasher

It's the sheer range of his repertoire that is so staggering. Strap in and he'll take you on a musical journey that will mark your mind for keeps. The stuff of dreams, a paradise on earth, an elysium for the ears. And throughout it all, the certainty that Don Julio's priority lies always with you, the listener. That's just him. Don Julio el Putarelli of Putoville. One of a kind.

Some recent highlights:

Like A Record






Sabor de Cuba


Get The Kleenex


Mo-town flex


Ms Fat Booty


Smoochy Time


Even Biggie wrote a tune about him.

Nuff said motherfuckers.

Thursday, 26 November 2015

World Wide Web

 The Internet is a pretty big deal. Not that one dummy. This one.

 Caught serious zzzzzs on these guys first time round.

Here's a lesbianic love eulogy called Girl.

Damn suuuuhhn.

Tuesday, 24 November 2015

Help The Foolish Take 2

Respect. You're about to get balls deep in a slicker than your average JustGiving plea.

This Christmas and New Year, while you place a handful of chestnuts next to your thermostat...

Three questionable individuals

Will be risking life and limb to bumble 3,500km from the southern toe to the northern tip of  


On nothing more than a motorised bit of tin with a top speed of 50km/h.

Same whip these cats are rolling with, also known as a motherfucking rickshaw.

It's part of this thing called The Rickshaw Run. It started as the brainchild of Alfie, and more accurately a deep-seated fear in him to lay his balls on the line at least once before evaporating into middle age, who then got Nick on board, a rich man's Ray Mears, a man capable of fixing anything anywhere, the man in charge of keeping the piece of shit tin-shack on wheels in motion for the duration of the trip. And then i joined, with a view to documenting the odyssey ​on celluloid.

I think this is the first time my mother has been legitimately worried about my safety. I'm fucking bricking it, and that's coming from a self-styled Robinson Crusoe for the 'on-line' generation. 

Here's the disclaimer.

And the kind of thing we'll be up to:


We want to use this as an excuse to ask our friends and family to give us money for charity.

We want to raise one large, a grand, a cool K

Five hundred sheets will go towards a charity called Cool Earth, cos face it we live on the earth and it can be pretty cool. It's a charity which works alongside indigenous villages to halt against the destruction of rain forests. 

Rainforests are the dope. Without them a large part of us would have no valid gap year stories, there'd be no ayahuasca, and let's face it not including oceans or Kenya they pretty much keep David Attenborough in a job. Their destruction affects us all, releasing more CO2 into the atmosphere every year than all the world's transport put together. Keeping them intact is a massive talk to the hand to climate change. 

So yeah Cool Earth is a brilliant charity dedicated towards their preservation.

Here's their page.


The rest of the money you might give us, we would like to go in any way possible towards the refugees currently waging their way across Europe, in the face of sometimes hostile and unwelcoming borders and overwhelmed authorities, as winter sets and their situation becomes ever more difficult.

It is said that the worst of all poverty has nothing to do with money. It is having no control or determination over your own life

The kind that drives you out of your own country, at the mercy of a civil war. 

While we think of Christmas, and sending telescopes to old men on the Moon, there are tens of thousands of tired and hungry people on the march through Europe, fleeing everything they know, towards a complete unknown, in ever worsening weather conditions.

This is an excerpt from a poem written by one.

Home by Warsan Shire

No one leaves home unless
Home is the mouth of a shark
You only run for the border
When you see the whole city running as well
You have to understand,
That no one puts their children in a boat
Unless the water is safer than the land
No one leaves home until home is a sweaty voice in your ear
Run away from me now
I don't know what i’ve become
But i know that anywhere
Is safer than here.

Our justgiving page is here.

Please give whatever you see fit. Thank you very much.

Monday, 23 November 2015

Fever To The Form

Manlike Nick Mulvey singing a duet with some lady.

I love this video so much. The way the camera shifts forever in and out of focus, as they trade glances and snatch glimpses of each other in some strange intense flirtation. Then you learn that it's his wife. And the whole exchange takes on a different meaning, like a lifelong love affair, and marriage and music and radness all condensed into four minutes and twelve seconds. Tune is off the charts too.

Literally. It's not in the charts anymore.

Anyway i don't think i've had this much boner for a dude since JK dropped Space Cowboy when i was ten.

Friday, 13 November 2015

And There Was Light

What with John Lewis having flidded out on this year's Xmas ad, it's safe to say now that the holiday season is officially out of Park, having transitioned smooth as a motherfucker into Drive. Christmas is a time for giving, for buying people shit they don't want, for receiving from others things one doesn't need or like. As i lift my eyes soberly skyward in search of the celestial, pondering with furrowed brow the question of our cosmic relevance, i think to myself that perhaps in the long run...

But this lamp is a thing.

So there's no truth to what is stencilled on that wall whatsoever.

Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Magical Mystery Re-Tour

I got asked by an adventure blog to send in an edited account of a cycle trip i did in 2012, and as is the habit when revisiting old diaries and such, it took me back, straight-up Werther's Original style. I've since been back there, to la cordillera, retracing the route i cycled, but this time in a pimped-out 4x4 on a road-trip with my Old Man. As the jeep cruised along the empty runways at 150km/h i remember staring out of the window into the Andean wilderness, and being scared. Of the person i'd been. The one who'd locked horns with what now seemed like lunacy. What kind of a madman was he. Who wrote his jokes. How much of him was left.

Here's what went down.


When i’m old and sedated by my years perhaps I’ll dine out on the memory of the English summer of 2012, a time I spent at 3,000 metres above seal level cycling through an endless Argentine winter.

A detailed account of exactly what one person gets up to on his own in a tent for 45 days is for another day and perhaps a different audience, so here's a foreshortened version of events for you to draw your own conclusions as to what brought about the terror which that barren wilderness unleashed inside me, enslaving me to demons which now deprive me of sleep and have me bound to a hospital bed, sweating rabidly between convulsions and speaking in tongues.


First off i want to clarify that Argentina is more than just a combination of the world's greatest footballers and the world's hottest women.

The first thing that slaps you clean across the face is its size.

s h i t  i s  m a s s i v e

In terms of cycle touring i pretty much experienced the most radical shit i ever have on a bike.

A savage untamed wilderness haunted me at every turn.

Unending stretches of sand sank my bike wheels halfway through the floor and made any semblance of progress a joke.

And a 7 hour 53km ascent up to a pass at 4,300m almost did for me

but coasting down the other side was fresh

75km of nonstop free-wheel

There was also the bonus of cycling the same road drug-traffickers use to run their shit down from the Bolivian border to Buenos Aires where they ship it out to Europe. With the sheer units involved and the pigs constantly on their tail, spillages are inevitable.

Bolivian uncut, pure as the driven snow. That afternoon I chewed up the kilometres like they were Bubbaloo, relentlessly chatting shit into my ear about absolutely nothing, of which i remember nothing, since i wasn't listening to a word i was saying.


Nowhere i have been comes close to the remoteness i experienced on the roads out there, the feeling of existing in places where humans don't very often tread. Every day i saw nothing but empty roads stretching out endlessly away from me towards the horizon; at times so relentless that calculating the distance ahead of me was wholly counter productive in that it made me not want to start cycling at all.

It got so desolate sometimes that for want of a smoother surface I made that shit count and camped out in style.

The hugeness of the landscape also obliges one to switch up the focus from a far too distant destination back to the simple process of pedalling; the bicycle equivalent of taking very small baby steps, one foot in front of the other. In this manner i slowly inched my way for 3,200km down the spine of the country from the Bolivian border to the province of Mendoza, meeting legends along the way, making memories by the bucketload, leaving pieces of my heart strewn here and there, and more importantly taking time out to grow an absolutely gangsta handlebar moustache.

I also saw some heavy sunsets

cactuses bigger than houses

villages dedicated solely to the production of condiments

nextlevel petrol stations

some of the world's most informative road signs

and Argentina's answer to Bradley Wiggins

 6 weeks alone on the road, heat from the locals was an inevitability i had to live with.

So I upped my security with a tight support vehicle.


When it comes to the cycling, i think Hemingway said it best:

It is only by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them. Thus you remember them as they actually are, while in a motor car only a high hill impresses you, and you have no such accurate remembrance of a country you have driven through as you gain by riding a bicycle.

I definitely think the physical memories of places are intensified by the exertion it takes to haul your tired butt through them, and if i put my mind to it i can remember details of every single day of the 45 i spent in the saddle. The sun on my back, always the smell of the tarmac, the dirt coating my skin, the dryness at the back of my throat that no amount of water could assuage. You forge strong bonds with particular roads you graft through and villages you collapse in. I don't exaggerate when i say at times i felt even the walls were speaking to me. 

The relentless rhythm of cycle touring means that after killing yourself one day, beating your legs into submission, and face planting onto the floor of your tent drooling dust out the corner of your mouth, somehow you get up the next morning and do it all over again. It is symbolic of a bigger thing. You go through every single emotion possible, every single day travelling by bike in this way. I think touring by bicycle is an allegory for life itself.

And the one constant, the thing that keeps you going, on and on, face down through gritted teeth into the unrelenting headwind...

- asides from some expertly brewed early morning caffeine injection -

is the thought of what might be round the next bend in the road, down into the next valley...

 or over the next hill.

When that stops mattering you might as well sack it all in and hit up Caffe Jack.

Yes. Cafe Nero in Argentina is actually called Caffe Jack.