Saturday, 23 July 2016

Watchin U

Jai Paul is a genius

But having released two of the most incredible tunes in the history of music, he's now displaying a similar aptitude for disappearing off the face of the earth. For one of the most sought-after producers on the planet to have absolutely zero internet presence, like none, in this day and age is kind of fascinating, like playing the most monumental game of hard to get with a chick who's already totally obsessed with you. I'm in. I'd marry him tomorrow. Without even telling him to get a new haircut.

Check out musical lightweight Caribou talking about his tune Jasmine.

To make things a little more interesting and a lot more of a ball-ache, him and his little brother AK have come up with a music platform called the Paul Institute. Some 80s style cryptic webpage with sound effects which you can only access by giving them your phone number, at which point they send you your own personal password by text, and then you're in.

Cool huh.

Well i've lost my motherfucking password. So i can't get inside. So i can't listen to any tunes.


Luckily his little brother AK Paul is a little more prolific - maybe three tunes in the last four years - and less hellbent on doing his best Frodo trying the Ring of Power on for size impression, so if you try hard enough you can access the music without needing to remember some dumb password. To add to the fact he lives somewhere far-off in the depths of the Milky Way from where he gazes seductively back at the earth every day just after the sun sets, he just dropped some absolute fire called Watchin U.

Without a PhD in advanced computer hacking downloading it onto your desktop is a problem, but you can inbed it. And seeing as your collective happiness is my delight, here it is. For your weekend delectation. To melt through your headphones over a first sip of organic cider, to pump to the max as you scythe through traffic on your piece of crap Santander, to waft through the bedchamber as things get steamy and smoothed-out and melodic and morph from the realms of the mental to the physical. 


Friday, 22 July 2016

Say What

The crazy broad cooking me dinner tonight has made public her intention to rustle up some chicken fajitas.

Someone missed the memo could be the understatement of the fucking millenium.



Thursday, 14 July 2016

Mi Casa Es Su Casa

Word on the street is that a picture can tell a thousand words.

After careful analysis of the above photograph, i've condensed a thousand words into 12 specific points. 


1. The sheepish looking character in the bottom left is none other than my old flatmate Ceeborg, one of my very best pal's younger brothers, who lived with me for over a year during a beautiful period in the near past.

2. Here's a selfie he took whilst chilling in the flat, with a gaggle of fine-looking women, the early stages of a good-looking house party in the mixer.

3. No males appear to be present. Just chicks.

4. None of which are his girlfriend.

5. Closer examination of the bottom right reveal that at this particular gathering, narcs abound.

6. And are apparently being thoughtfully laid out on my book of Argentine Estancias.

7. None of which would seem overly remarkable. 

8. Apart from one thing.

9. Ceeborg moved out of my flat five months ago, with a casual 'yeah i'll drop my set of keys round when i get my plant mate'. 

10. No plant was ever collected.

11. This photo is the first thing that landed in my inbox when i touched down from Canada at the back end of the May bank holiday weekend. 

12. Which is remarkable, given that last time i checked i wasn't in the habit of operating a mi casa es su casa open-door policy, not when i'm in a different continent, not five months after move-out day, not after over a year of charging a back-breakingly generous £125pw all-in. An agreement that was arranged on the premise he would fill the flat with smoking-hot 26 year old broads. Which i'd say he fell short of, seeing as this photo is three times as many as i ever saw. I mean this whole situation is just one monumental serving of insult to injury.


The sheepish looking character in the bottom left, Dominic by birth, is the rock salt in the seabed that gets extracted to make the salt of the earth. Like gold to midas and skittles to the old guy in the skittles advert, everything Ceeborg touches turns to good vibes. Being pissed with him is impossible, it just makes you kind of pissed off with yourself. 

So i'll leave the doghouse for his girlfriend to take care of. Plus this happened over two months ago. Retroactive doghouses are so much more meaningful. Especially when they come out of the blue. And especially on a golden floodlit balmy day such as today, one in the tantalising grip of a weekend on the horizon, a day full of possibilities, the special kind of day only one of mid-summer can bring, when the birdsong from the trees seems to be dancing in the breeze's embrace, pirouetting in the air in a harmonious chorus just for you.

Sunday, 10 July 2016

End Of The Beginning

25 days, one dangerous eye infection, one fucked knee, ten days in and one rider down, 15 more days, relentless rain, 38 degree heat, one endless mountain range that became an unending desert, another fucked knee, two mental breakdowns, 3 hours of snatched sleep a night for a week later, a sorry pathetic whimpering excuse for a human being crawls to the mexican border fence at Antelope Wells extends a skeletal finger and grabs ahold of it, drops to his knees and passes out in a cardiac-arrested heap of stinking crap on the desert floor.

Perhaps not that dramatic.

I cracked a not so ice-cold bud took a sip and passed the fuck out.

Felt good though. 

Tuesday, 7 June 2016

Timorous Or Bold

Not a whole lot goes on in Calgary.

There i was having an early morning pootle a couple of weeks back, assessing the situation, and decided to cop myself an iced coffee and a sparkling mineral water, a combination fond to me and conducive i thought to an early morning frame of mind that played into the hands of further assessment of the situation. What struck me soon upon entering the Drugstore and assessing the situation of the drinks fridge was that it was absolutely impossible for me to buy either component of this favoured combination without procuring my bodyweight in liquid.

The sizing in North America is a joke. The photo's perspective is not the best, but that's literally a pint of iced coffee and that's a litre of fizzy water. And no this isn't some family pack shit, there was literally nothing smaller. Which got me thinking that capitalism and greed and not biting the hand that feeds to one side, maybe the reason everything is Supersized over there is more of an art imitating life thing. North America is vast. The products are simply mimicking their surroundings.  

Which ties somehow into my next point. About four months ago a seriously questionable individual with a hazy sexual orientation sat down by the side of my bed loined in a pink towel and asked me a question.

Four months later, me and him fly back to Calgary this lunchtime with two of his prototype Big Bro Brother Cycles Mountain Bikes stashed safely in cargo, to undertake the mother of all cycle tours.

We are racing from Banff in Canada to the US border with Mexico at Antelope Wells, along off-road trails the length of the North American Continental Divide, the tectonic plate meeting point that formed the Rocky Mountains.  

In terms of tapping into my survival instincts i think it shits and will shit all over anything i ever do in my entire life, and that includes going to the Cineworld in West India Quay to watch Dark Skies.

The more i think about what lies in store over the next few weeks the queazier i become. It's 2,800 miles, 60,000 vertical metres of climbing, which we plan to finish in 25 days, which boils down to 12 hours of pedalling and 106 miles of movement each day. On shitty, muddy, unrelenting, godforsaken, long-forgotten, backwater trails. The drop-out rate is over 50%.

We have grizzly bear spray for the north, and fuck knows what for the tarantulas of New Mexico. We face sub-zero temperatures at the start and baking hot unending deserts in the south. We'll hopefully high five some indelible memories, and tap into reserves of pain and stubbornness and fear and likewise elation and hysteria we didn't know were there, enough to break the memory-bank, proper Werther's Original shit. Most of all i look forward to the company of silence, of pine forests and river torrents and mountains tops and nature at its most raw and untamed, not to mention the peculiar folk who inhabit such remote parts of the world, that no doubt will find us just as peculiar as we roll through on our fat tyres like the muddied living dead. And hey yo, we've got each other. Whether we like it or not.

If you want you can follow our progress here.

Look out for 'Will/Mingo Brother' under the names, and click on that, a little dot will come up.

Send us loads of shit by way of encouragement if you feel like it, i'm sure it will mean a lot. I won't be checking emails much but will be on my english number. Wilma will be updating his instagram when he gets the opportunity. You can find that here. And a wicked post he just wrote about the whole shindig here.

Nothing much left to say other than writing this thing out has made me feel even queasier. But at the same time i find myself so excited i can barely sit still or hold a single thought in my head. That must be the excitement only a free man can feel. A man at the start of a long journey. Whose conclusion is uncertain. I'll leave you now, feeling more than a little timorous, with one of my great pal Jonty's favourite lines in the english language, the words of Seamus Heaney.

The way we are living, timorous or bold, will have been our life.

Seamus Heaney 1939-2013 Irish poet, playright, macdaddy 

Saturday, 4 June 2016

The World Isn't So Bad

When Alexander surveyed the breadth of his domain, he wept for there were no more worlds to conquer. 

For many years this nugget of Ancient Greek literature always held a smug place in my quote armoury, up until five minutes ago when i googled it to find that it's really a direct quote from Hans Gruber, the german brey who gets yipikaye motherfucker'd by John Maclean before hurtling 30 stories down the side of the Nakatomi Plaza to his death at the end of Die Hard.

Which makes sense. I can't remember reading any Plutarch when i was 10. 

But i like the syntax of the sentence. And in the manner of Alexander i've found that when surveying the world in front of my eyes, perhaps not weep, but one thing does make me very sad. It's how much human beings are fucking shit up. There was an article yesterday about how certain small fish are evolving to prefer feeding on polystyrene bobbles over natural foods, which is changing their physiology and stunting their growth. You can see all this plastic shit in their stomachs. Think about every time you go into Pret. And how much crap you discard into the bin six minutes after buying it. All the packaging. Where does it go. Why aren't there as many recycling facilities as there are supermarkets. Where are they all.

We're so mindless about it. I'm no better, curbing my predilection for the San Pelli is a daily struggle. Especially when that Croatian chick Bianca is plying me with it on the regular.

Dustbins are called dustbins because they were exactly that. Receptacles for gathering dust. Before the industrial revolution there wasn't any rubbish. Stuff people discarded were things like ash from fires, wood, bones, vegetable matter, and number two's. They stuck their meat and fish and produce from the market in a cloth sack and busted back home to get medieval in the kitchen. No wrappers, no cans, no yoghurt pots. 

Some people argue that nature will adapt to this rubbish-laden change in their ecosystem, it will find a way. I'm thinking they'd prefer not to have to, that they preferred it before. When there were lions roaming the hills of southern France and New Zealand had a birdlife so dense the first explorers to reach it had to moor their ships two miles off shore just to be able to sleep at night, for the birdsong. 

The current rate of extinction is higher than at any time in history, since back in the drizzie when dinosaurs got wiped out by the mother of all asteroids. Word on the street is we're losing species at 1,000 to 10,000 times the natural 'background' rate, which reps for about one to five species a year. 99% of currently threatened species find themselves at this risk specifically because of human activities. Plastics are just one of the ways in which we're fucking their shit up. Add to this deforestation, hunting, global warming, and now taking out gorillas in zoos. How is it that one species is so singlehandedly intent on screwing up the habitat for every single one of the other 8.7 billion who also happen to share our earth.

Who the fuck do we think we are.

So yes i survey the cinders of the world and get sad, and like everyone else i don't do jackshit about it because when i'm hungry Pret seems like a good idea. Which makes me feel even worse, and makes me want to get the hell away from everything, the horns, the machines, the screw faces, the screens. To flee, to get real, because instagram is not fucking real, to touch base with all the shit i forget, the stuff that is always there still hanging out, waiting for the curious animal in me to come seek it out. The daybreaks, the sunsets, the starscapes, the trees rustling in the wind, the rivers beckoning you to throw yourself buttnaked into them, to drink them, to galivant with grizzly bears. Nothing is wiser or cleverer or finer than nature. The world isn't so bad if you can just get out in it. It's the motherfucking tonic.

But before i do any of that i want to go to Sweden, track down Emelie Forsberg, and marry her.

Of all the scant solace i grope around for when my head fills with the above, watching the below provides me with some. A supersize serving of solace. This girl is incredible. And this video makes me really fucking happy. The whole post was really just a longass introduction to it.