lomography

Here are a couple of selections from Siobhán's first set of lomography pics.

flat hunting

I've spent the last couple of days flat-hunting in Brighton, a wearying but quite enjoyable process so long as there isn't any urgency and – happily – on this occasion there isn't. I'm basically window flat—shopping, wondering if I should upgrade my studio to a bigger and more comfortable place and seeing what's available. Unlike on almost every other occasion I've done it in the past, I'm looking without being forced to do so by a notice period running down.

The first flat I saw was through Direct Lettings, who arranged to show me a flat on Powis Road, and timed the appointment so that they could show a couple round at the same time. I hate this arrangement, so arrived early, establishing my presence as the dominant flat-hunter. The rival couple stood sulkily on the other side of the road, resenting my proximity. After a while a man-child with a thickly knotted tie pulled up in a hatchback and escorted us inside. The flat was nice but too small, a double bedroom which offered space for nothing more than a bed, and a nice living room with a kitchen settled incongruously on its flank, inching into the space. The young man showing us round was clearly tongue-tied so I didn't ask any questions, just peered into spaces and waited to leave.

The second flat was much better, tempting even – a compact but attractive apartment in the middle of Brighton's lively North Laine, complete with laminated floorboards, two balconies and a huge glass window-wall looking out onto the street. It was the sort of place that was easy to fall in love with, so I put my head down and muttered "too small, too small, too small" to myself, until the urge to take it faded away. I left the property exchanging warm words with the agent – this time a charming bloke from Leaders, whose first statement of purpose was the following:

"I don’t know if you can smell it, but I’m covered in deep heat".

Which kind of broke the ice.

This morning the same agent – Ben; if you use Leaders ask for Ben – showed me round a flat on Buckingham Place, well positioned in Seven Dials and near the station, as well as the shops and Dan's house, too. And all of a sudden the luxury of relaxed flat-hunting went out of the window because, well, it was rather super, and now I need to think of notice periods, deposits and contracts because... I think... I'm going to take it.

mick jagger

I'm writing this in the pub garden at the Crescent (the world's finest pub). Me, Dan, Siobhan, Laura and Sam are sat talking rubbish and discussing Glastonbury. But all of a sudden we're distracted...

And you know how it is when you realise that the person behind you starts jabbering in a way that makes it abundantly clear that he is unhinged. He's talking ten to the dozen to no-one at all, pointing and gesticulating. It's hard not to pay attention, but we keep talking while he chatters on.

Then he stands up, and addresses someone nearby, indignantly.

"I'm not going to do Mick Jagger for you!".

He jabs his finger aggressively as he talks.

We look up and realise he is addressing a cat, sat on the pub roof, looking down concerned.

He shifts a little. The man follows him with his pointed finger, and signs off curtly:

"Goodnight".

We stifle our laughs as he walks, head held high, out onto the street.

florence and the voice

It was partly a hatred of the vocal histrionics of commercial chart music that drove me into the arms of indie rock. My conversion to the less polished music of The Charlatans, Happy Mondays and The House of Love coincided, not accidentally, with a period when vocal divas dominated the charts, and the likes of Ian Brown, David Gedge and Mark E Smith sounded thrillingly, insouciantly unpolished and unpractised. I used to obsess over my VHS of the Stone Roses at Blackpool, marvelling over the way Ian Brown’s voice slowly, song by song, began to settle until after a while he sat neatly, and only slightly tunelessly, over the slight, sly music his bandmates conjured up. For the first six songs, to my delight, he was an utter mess.

Fashions have come and gone in indie music and a series of truly gifted singers have drifted in and out of the limelight, but it’s striking how few have been emboldened or inclined enough to open their lungs and belt it out. The full-blooded, top-volume vocal is even less fashionable in indie circles than the guitar solo, and still the preserve of commercial dance music and arena-rock.

So it's hard to know what to make of Florence & The Machine. Her peers are clearly from the folkier end of the indie spectrum – Emmy The Great and Lightspeed Champion; the guitars on her debut, 'Kiss With A Fist' sound like The White Stripes; and the words ("a kiss with a fist is better than none") are pretty uncompromising, indeed controversial. Yet she belts out her lyrics with a note-perfect perfectionism and power more reminiscent of Leona Lewis than her indie contemporaries. I find listening to the two songs on the 7" quite unsettling, if ultimately rewarding.

"Kiss With A Fist" is nothing special, in fact, trading more on Florence’s vivid lyrical imagery and delivery than the quality of the song. It’s beautifully paced and propulsive, and probably sounds brilliant on the dancefloor, but it doesn’t do anything for me – and Florence's vocal, so over-the-top, is hindering, rather than helping, me get with it.

But the b-side, an extraordinary take on the Cold War Kids' "Hospital Beds", makes me think again completely. It starts with Florence belting out the verse acapella; her full-pelt, bluesy, delivery subsequently accompanied by a spare acoustic guitar and a kick drum. I still hate the exhibitionism of her vocal pyrotechnics, but somehow the song creates a spectacular, heartfelt intimacy and it's impossible to deny that it's the vocal that whips things along. In folk music, of course, mannered and controlled vocals are nothing new, but it still seems somewhat dazzling to hear the power Florence commands placed in this context. I'm glad when it finishes, yet I put it on repeat.

Like all new artists, what matters are the songs, and it’s too early to say whether Florence & The Machine has them. The Cold War Kids cover is, however, one of the most exciting cover versions I’ve heard in many a month, and I’m briefly lifted, suspiciously optimistic; my hope leavened by a dread that if she keeps singing like that, so bloody wonderfully, I’ll end up hating her guts.

blogs

Right, I need some new blogs to read - can I have recommendations, please?

Ideally I'd like something fairly regularly updated, quite personal (but not depicting an endless stream of sexual encounters), something that covers books or pop music or art but not in obsesssive detail, and something that is engaged with politics and world affairs but not super-serious; in fact, a sense of humour is quite important. If anyone is reading anything that sounds like that at the moment, please tell me about it.

I realise that the above sounds like I'm looking for a new sexual partner. Sorry about that.

rhonda's sketches

As an antidote to party photos, which may well accurately evoke something of the event (usually the hedonism or, cruelly, the boredom) but inevitably miss much else, here are a few drawings courtesy of Rhonda, who sat with an amused smile for several hours in an armchair at Dan and Laura's joint birthday party, capturing an element of the party which I remember strongly, and which is more in evidence here than in any of the evening's photos; the dressing up and the talking, the interplay between the guests.

Cameras at parties so often tend to draw the focus, arrogate attention until they break up the contents of the viewfinder. Practically every set of party photos I've ever seen - except for those taken by the very talented - seem to summon up the same party and the same guests.

These I like much more.

glastonbury

Last minute prediction: Jay-Z will be the best headliner of Glastonbury for at least 10 years. Comment me if I'm wrong.

more on peggy sue

You may well have noticed lots of praise for the ace Peggy Sue - who have lost their 'And The Pirates' suffix in recent days - on Assistant Blog in the last month or so, so thought I'd flag up the fact that they've announced a new single, and celebrate the fact that the double 7" pack is a collaborative effort, with songs performed with the also-ace Left With Pictures, who were one of my favourite acts at last year's End of the Road festival.

The single, attributed to Peggy Sue and The Pictures (all these name changes!) will be comprised of 4 tracks, including the wonderful 'Spare Parts' and 'Escargot', both of which are delightful in the Peggy Sue set and things of bare, trembling beauty, so it will be incredibly interesting to hear them rearranged as full songs. I'm actually really excited, as when I reviewed Left With Pictures last year I picked out their precise arrangements for praise and pretentiously heralded them as "wistful, diaphenous and enchanting", which sounds rather jolly, I know.

The single will be called 'Spare Parts' and it's out on August 4th, aaaages away. It's got a lovely cover, too, look:
Meanwhile, for a bit of context, here's what Rosa Rex said about the sessions leading up to the single, over on the Peggy Sue Myspace blog:

Me and katy have been pretty busy of late. We're doing practices every weekend with Left With Pictures which is going really well. it's fun to be able to have loads of different instruments in our songs and they're really talented. Rob has perfect pitch and they all work as human tuners which is good since our tuner still doesn't really like to work. I thought for a while maybe it was just us, but I've even read the booklet now. I guess it's temperamentality gives Sir Pablo character. Anyway they can tell us all the chords we're playing which is pretty amazing. My descriptions go along the line of 'and then you just play this string with that one on the fret that's about here' and one of them will tell me I'm playing A sharp half diminished and I feel a glow of undeserved cleverness. it's wonderful.

You can preorder the single here.

going fishing

In Brighton - as in a lot of other cities, I'm sure - it's quite common to turn a street corner and see, perched on a garden wall or outside someone's gate, a box of possessions which are up for grabs. They're usually books, sometimes CDs, occasionally unwanted gifts. Larger items occasionally appear; microwaves, book shelves, chairs. I usually stop and have a look. A while back I grabbed an 'Indie Top 20' VHS from a box on St. Michael's Place. Recently Vic nabbed me a paperback copy of 'Him With His Foot In His Mouth and other stories' by Saul Bellow from a cardboard box on Compton avenue (which was much appreciated).

Last night me and my girlfriend went for a walk, idle in the summer sun, hoping we might find a pub and some cats to make friends with on the way (we did - The Chimney House, and a cat-caucus near Seven Dials, three podgy animals sat in conference, enjoying the weather). On the way I spotted a box of abandoned items and suddenly bent over, leafing through a box of abandoned items - mostly magazines.

"What on earth are you doing?", my girlfriend asked.

I looked up at her, puzzled.

"Just seeing if there's anything worth taking", I replied, squinting up at her.

She looked at me with mild disgust.

"In someone's recycling?"

I looked at the box, which had the Brighton and Hove council logo on its side; straightened my back; said nothing; and walked on.

fiery madness

Anyone else developed a bit of a crush on Slaven Bilic, the Croatia manager, during the course of Euro 2008? I think he's terrific; quite apart from the fact that he plays lead guitar in a rock group whose song for the tournament was titled 'Fiery Madness', he has a kind of innate charisma and a combination of authority and approachability, as well as being really bright. Something tells me he has the right blend of characteristics to go a long way, and I hope we see him in the premiership before long.

On the subject of charismatic leaders, my friend Dave sent me a really amazing article on K-Punk, which compares the incomparable Brian Clough with the incomparable Mark E. Smith - and does so with aplomb; a really insightful bit of writing.

"At a certain point, though, the sorcery stops working: self-belief becomes arrogant hubris, motivational techniques become mere bullying, everything dries up, apart from the drinks, which keep on coming. The fearless leader who inspires loyalty becomes the drunken Lear surrounded by sycophants. It happened to Clough, it happened to Smith."

Click here to read the full post.

mio mao animation

I suppose it's not surprising that I missed this, given that I am far from being a connoisseur of children's telly - nevertheless, I'm sad I've never stumbled upon this on the telly; it would have been a lovely thing to chance upon. As it is, my girlfriend directed me to this cartoon on youtube - it airs on Channel 5 apparently. Amazingly charming stuff. There's plenty more on there, too.

night shifts at the airport

Over the last month or two I've only picked up my guitar a few times, having been pretty tied up with my ukulele, which I'm slowly getting the hang of and enjoying using enormously. And as well as playing that a lot I've been scribbling lots of lyrics - mostly half thought-through - into my notepad for later use. One of those was a quick lyric for a song called 'Night Shifts At The Airport', which transcribed various memories and observations of mine, mostly dating back a few years, and jumbled them up with other hypothetical events I've never experienced, creating a weird half-poem which feels both made-up and oddly personal. Having written them down, I toyed with a few melodies and then gave up on the song.

Then a week or two ago I sat down by my computer and idly picked up my acoustic guitar, which feels all big and foreign after so much time with the uke. And I started playing a long, repetitive and very simple sequence of three chords - E, A and Am. And all of a sudden a song was in my head and I recorded the guitar, sang the completed lyric from my notepad and fed it quickly into Garageband, where the song sat for a few days feeling rather bare and lonely. Since then I've added a bass line, a bit of piano and some more guitars, but I think it still sounds simple and quick - or it's supposed to, at least.

Here it is:

Assistant - Night Shifts At The Airport (demo) [2.35 mins, 3.6mb]

Peggy Sue and The Pirates, Komedia

Since I saw them at the Freebutt supporting Scout Niblett a month or so ago, I've been obsessing over the five songs I own by the marvellous Peggy Sue and The Pirates, but I felt slightly worried before they took to the stage at the Komedia, recalling other times a band blew me away on the first encounter and then failed to make good on those tentative promises. At the Freebutt the band - Rosa and Katy - were engagingly messy, extremely charming and incredibly impressive, their slight, romantic songs soaring courtesy of some stunning harmonizing. Their songs, occasionally acapella but generally accompanied by acoustic guitar and an assortment of toy instruments, seemed to marry a disregard for convention with an innate appreciation of pop, and their unforced style and vocal gymnastics put a new spin on the unmannered anti-folk groups they've been lumped in with. After that show I bought a CD from Katy and she apologised again for their shambolic set. I told her that all my favourite bands are a shambles, which is pretty much true. But I did wonder if they'd turn in a more polished performance the next time round.

And, at the Komedia, they sort of do, although they're every bit as likeable and unpredictable. And - to my relief - they're still comfortably my favourite band at the moment (with the possible exception of The Wave Pictures), their songs just as good as I remembered, their voices just as pretty. They play eight or nine short songs and, buoyed by the first appearance of a new, snake-hipped drummer, a couple which, in their own words, stray into epic territory: in other words they last three of four minutes, rather than two or three.

Of the songs, its hard to pick out a favourite, especially when I hardly know any names, but I love 'New Song', which is heartbreaking and terribly graceful, and one song built on a refrain of "love will save the day, love will save the day, love will save the day" is met with a pay off which ties me up in knots - Katy's baleful, half spoken reply; "if love will only stay". On 'Phone Song' they pull off the same trick, managing to give simple lyrics emphasis and impact. "I hate it when the phone rings and it's not you" is economical and unflowery, but Peggy Sue also make it seem true, which is a nice trick to pull off. Tonight's closer - 'Escargot', if I heard right - is perhaps the evening's most sumptuous moment, where Katy's breathy, staggering voice is underlined, or countered, by Rosa's tilting melodica riff. The pause, the micro-second gap where the latter switches her attention from her instrument to the microphone provokes a in me a shiver and gasp, one of those hair-standing-on-skin moments that make pop music so exciting.

When they finish I turn to my friends and I have that feeling I always have when I encounter a new favourite band; a kind of desperation for my friends to love them too. And I'm pleased that they do, and we argue about whether we like Rosa or Katy best (it comes out two-two), and how great and how pretty they are, and how much fun their set was. When they walk past I kind of shout 'that was great' in Rosa's direction, and she smiles as if they're still a bit surprised that people like them, but they must be getting used to it. I drink another beer and watch people sitting down by the stage, ready for Diane Cluck - who is headlining - and shout to Dan that they're all 'fucking hippies' - just at the moment that Rosa walks by again, and this time she turns and looks at me, surprised, as if I tried to accost her, and I feel embarrassed and stare at my shoes.

The reason I like Peggy Sue so much, I think, is because they make me feel inspired; when I watch them I want to learn new instruments, write songs, draw pictures, make friends, wear new clothes; be generally intuitive, unhurried, open to possibilities, keen. That must be because all those characteristics, all those urges, are captured in their group, and in their songs. And that, in turn, must be why I love them so much.

chlorine, bromine, resistence swimming

I've always been more of a splasher than a swimmer; when I was a kid I just couldn't get rid of the panic-tendency which meant that as soon as I put my head under I opened my mouth and gasped, getting a mouthful of salty (or chemical-flavoured) water for my troubles. I hated school swimming-lessons, hated every texture and fibre; lycra skull caps, goosebump-effect vinyl, hard towels and rubber locker-key bands. Snorting up water, particularly, wanting to retch.

I hated diving, racing, treading water. I hated getting out of my depth. I hated the coach-journey to the local grammar school, whose posh pool was rented out to the local comprehensives, but I liked the way we used to walk through their playground and sneer at the fact that they were playing cricket not football.

I hated too-tight inflatable arm-bands, compulsory showers. I never had a veruca. I skipped class the day they told us to bring our pyjamas.

Once, long after I'd dropped PE and stopped going swimming, my grandmother told me she hated Wednesdays, and when I asked why, she said "because you always go swimming on Wednesdays, and you hate it".

I do actually like swimming, so long as no-one is making me do it. But even then I lounge round the edge of the pool or, if I swim out to the centre, eschew straight lines in favour of broad arcs and slaloms.

Here's how I learned to swim: Not at school, I don't think, although my primary school did have a pool. I remember swimming for the first time in the sea on holiday with my parents, somewhere warm. I hadn't summoned up the courage to swim properly, so I used to play a game in the water instead, which consisted of walking out well within my depth and half-running, half-bouncing along the sea-floor, playing an imaginary, slow-motion game of football. I'd pass the ball, turn, and pound slowly through the water to my position by the goal, anticipating the cross, which I would meet with a diving header carefully calibrated to leave me back in the shallows, still dry from the neck up.

One day I was scooting along on my hands and knees where the water was warmest, and hence only a foot or two deep, when I looked up to find my father pointing his camera at me. On the rare days the photo album comes out, he always points out that was the day I learned to swim - he doesn't see how my arms are tense, supporting my weight and keeping me anchored. There wasn't a moment on that holiday when I decided to take the plunge, but I think my strides got longer and my body relaxed more, until it seemed I wasn't touching the floor at all any more.

And then I noticed I wasn't.

I suppose I always associate the ability to swim with the process of growing up; the inability to do so is something you throw off, like the inability to walk, or ride a bicycle. We get to the age of, I dunno, three or four or five or six, and learn how to be comfortable in the water. Then I read this weird thing in the Guardian today, an archived article from 1919, and it really surprised me and made me think, and the idea posited within - that we are an island people scared of water - really captured my imagination and made me think about the things we take for granted about modern Britain; including the ability to swim.

"At Ashton on Sunday a crowd stood on the banks of a canal and let a two-year-old child drown.

They even held back a spirited lad who was about to dive to the rescue, and delayed his effort until it was too late. The Coroner yesterday censured the crowd for their cowardice, but we doubt if he touched the root of the trouble.

It needs little or no courage to rescue a child from a canal. If courage were the only essential, no average British crowd would be found to lack it. But the prime factor in courage is confidence, and the paralysis that falls too often on the spectators of drowning accidents is born of a pitiful and needless fear of water.

We are an island people. None of us lives more than half a day's journey from the sea. Water is our natural element, our strength lies on it. Yet the majority of our whole population still dare not trust themselves in it."

The article goes on to declare support for the 1919 Education Act, which made special provision for a new subject; the teaching of swimming. All of a sudden I think back to my childhood swimming lessons and feel a touch of gratitude, rather than remembered horror.

the peculiar david davis

Just reading about David Davis's bizarre decision to resign as an MP and fight a by-election on an anti-42-days platform. I can't think of a single reason why doing it makes sense, considering it'll cost heaps of the taxpayer's money, no serious party will stand against him, and it'll just turn into a circus with the BNP and UKIP chasing him around Haltemprice. The Tory party leadership is likely to be utterly perplexed. I suspect it's about ego, and nothing else.

Idiot.

currently listening

Argh, the sun is out and it's all a bit weedy/folky this week. Sorry, punk rock.

1. Peggy Sue and The Pirates - Slowcoach
2. The Dodos - Red and Purple
3. The Anderson Tapes - Turn To Speak
4. Port O'Brien - All We Could Do Was Sing LP
5. Emmy The Great - Long Island (Wave Pictures cover)
6. Truckers of Husk - Cookie Cool and the Candy Mob
7. Anna Log - Scribble Talk
8. The National - Fake Empire
9. Florence and The Machine - Between Two Lungs
10. Jeffrey Lewis - The Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song

something live in brighton

Now that the sun is out more often, I've started serenading my friends with my ukulele whenever we go to the park. They smile thinly and glance at their watches, wondering when the weather will turn. But Dan is my most consistent and enthusiastic audience member, only occasionally heckling and rolling his eyes - and he recorded me playing a song ('Something Good That Grows') in Brighton's Montpellier Crescent Gardens a few weeks ago. Note me ad-libbing and confessing to Ant that I can't remember the words, and discover why I rarely choose to go clean-shaven these days...

picnic season

The sun has come out in Brighton and the city seems much changed; it's proper sun and proper heat, but best of all the city is bathed in proper light, meaning that everything looks rather beautiful. St. Anne's Well Gardens, particularly, was a delight this weekend, and I went there twice, first for a breakfast on Saturday morning - where I watched the dogs leaping over each other with joy - and again yesterday, for a lovely lazy picnic with a few friends, including the brilliant Ali, who I'd not seen for ages. We did our best to play up Brighton as a city of constant sun in the hope we might tempt her back down from London for good, but I think she remembers living here well enough to remember it ain't so. She's back in Brighton next week too, which I'm very happy about.

Wisely, half of Brighton had the same idea as us, so the park was full of people lounging around, and only the rampaging kids and frisbee-throwers were a nuisance, like contstant wasps. Ali glared murderously at the former, I stared coldly at the latter, weighing up things to call them should a frisbee stray too close. The group next to us had a solar-powered record player, which I was much taken with, although not so much by their music choices. I curled my lip snobbily and cranked up my own iPod, although Dan in turn bristled at my choice of a Carl Craig tune, and conjured up a sneer of his own. We had a few beers, some white wine, bread and olives, and rued the inevitability of returning home.

they always let you down...

...if it's true.

The Guardian report today that John Lydon - a musical hero of mine for his heroic PiL records - has been accused of punching Roxane Davis, assistant producer on a TV show Lydon is making, in the face because he didn't like the hotel room he'd been allocated. Stunningly unimpressive stuff, and bewildering too. I hope it isn't true, but it might be.

Oddly, having recorded this sad story, the Guardian's Sean Michaels decides to close his news piece by turning the article into an advert for the latest installment of the Sex Pistols tour. It's strange and dispiriting to encounter an article about a pop star punching a woman in the face should end with the line "You can admire Rotten's new teeth and nasty demeanour at the following gigs..."

more ukulele pop

More details on this song to follow; but here's a new one for you to try. This song was written over the last few weeks in a rare combination of locations: Lisbon, Somerset and the train from Bristol to Brighton last week. Once again, it's ukulele driven - I might as well just sell my guitar.

Assistant - Standards (demo) [2.13 mins, 3.5mb]

barnbrook is a nutter

It's hardly surprising that, in allowing a BNP councillor - Richard Barnbrook - to write a comment piece for their website, The Daily Telegraph has invited upon itself a storm of criticism. There are plenty who can and will make a good case for allowing this odious man to express his views and be judged openly on them, but none of that stops the piece itself being a hateful and rather shocking article to be published in a mainstream news outlet. What's frustrating is that looking at it now I'm fairly certain it's been significantly edited since I read it this morning; so it's not quite as offensive now. But only just. Anyone else able to confirm this?

Either way, the article is also ridiculously - hilariously - badly written. Here's a sample.

"Even SAS men get affected by Post Traumatic Stress. But our British young people are a resilient lot. They will get over it and the best thing they can do is supress it and move on. The last thing they should do is start going to those disgusting lefty therapists for counselling to relive the trauma. Look at that word "therapist" the rapist....and that is what they do....the rape of the mind."

I suppose I'm a bit more shocked at the reactions of the commenters, and by the decision to let so much of what they say stand. On the other hand, as readers of Comment is Free will know, these online debates invariably draw the participation of cranks. Nevertheless, the quality of debate is staggeringly low. I shan't be switching papers any time soon.

(un)fashionable

Weird how things come back around; five years ago you'd have been laughed out of town for liking The Boss. So I kept my mouth shut. Now Springsteen is back in fashion, and I confess all. Nice Drowned in Sound feature here.

As ever, I defer to Laura Barton, who can explain better. She says:

"One of the things I love about Springsteen is his ability to build a song out of such simple, small-town materials. His words are the linguistic equivalent of mere bricks and mortar, sand and cement - cars and girls, highways and factories. So by rights his songs should be plain, four-square houses with neat lawns and jolly red chimney pots. But instead he manages to construct extraordinary towers".

Which is true.

a green 2008?

There's an interesting piece on the Hii Dunia blog this week about John McCain and the possibility that the next US President will be an active defender of the environment. It's a thoughtful, optimistic piece, and worth a read. The author, Daniel Furr, concludes:

"It is difficult to predict who will win the general election in November and how their administration will benefit the people of America. However; the environment is now a significant issue in American politics and all candidates have promised to defend the green agenda on the international stage. Both parties now understand the importance of the American role towards the climate of the planet. Regardless of the result: the future of America will be bright, prosperous and green".

Do take a look and see what you think. I have to admit that, at a time when I dread picking up the paper every day, fearing more news of the Tory revival, I don't share Daniel's good opinion of either McCain or the ghastly David Cameron. But in a funny sort of way, I hope he's right.

Lots more thoughts on this from me in the comments box on Daniel's post, so probably best to tell me I'm wrong there, rather than here.

seven go mad by the sea

I suppose the lesson learned from this weekend is that - despite the lingering feeling that one can always expect them to be wrong - it's worth taking heed of weather forecasts. Just back from a bank holiday camping holiday in Somerset with Anne-Sophie, Rich, Siobhan, Vic, Andrew and Morgan, and feeling bruised and battered by the wind and rain, my joints aching and my head a fog; part hangover, part fatigue. There were moments - sat in my tent while it was buffeted from all sides by a crashing gale, or packing up in the rain - when I really felt that it wasn't worth it, but the overall feeling is: that it was a terrific idea, weather and all. Very nice to get away from Brighton and to see another part of the country, and particularly lovely to do so surrounded by some of my best friends. We timed the trip really fucking badly; heavy traffic, heavy weather, but lots of moments redeemed the negatives. Here are three, with more, and some photos, to follow in due course:

1. Tasting the produce in a lovely cider farm just outside Weston Super-Mare , and coming away with a 2 litre jerry can of dry cider.
2. Having a forward-roll competition on Brean Sands (I managed nine consecutively, a triumph of momentum, and a record at the time).
3. All seven of us sat in my tent last night, swapping stories, songs and cans of beer, and enjoying what proved to be a temporary lull in the weather.

Tired now. But feeling all the better for it.

cascais, portugal

Before my two days of indulgence in Lisbon last weekend, I actually spent several days working in Cascais, an enormously picturesque coastal town just outside Portugal's capital. It's a lovely place, a small settlement which arches around a plush marina, a picturesque seafront and some charming cobbled streets in the town centre. It's an ideal work conference venue, somewhere lovely, cosmopolitan and temperate, just diverting enough to provide a much needed counter-balance to work duties, but not so fascinating as to be actually distracting. Except...

Except it rained all week. Still, here are a couple of nice pictures, taken in moments of calm.

abortion debate

This bears quoting verbatim; sorry it's not much fun:

Proof that Tories never change their spots
Kira Cochrane
Thursday May 22, 2008

Guardian

Under David Cameron the Conservatives have been trying to shake off their reputation as "the nasty party". Now that Dave and his recycled trainers are pounding along out front, the thinking goes that the old-fashioned, puritanical, often bigoted party of yore has been replaced by progressive, caring, sharing people who can guide us safely through the maelstrom of modernity.

Anyone sucked in by this guff should take a closer look at the votes cast by Tory MPs in the past few days with regard to the human fertilisation and embryology bill. Having criticised the repeal of Section 28 in 2000, Dave has more recently changed tack, and gone to some pains to present himself as a protector of gay rights - supporting gay marriage, for instance. Yet this week, he voted in favour of Iain Duncan Smith's amendment to the bill, which would have compelled IVF clinics to consider the "need for a father" before allowing lesbian women to start fertility treatment.

Then there's the stance taken by the Conservatives in their votes on abortion. Only two shadow cabinet ministers voted to keep the current 24-week time limit - despite the fact that this was backed by the British Medical Association, the Royal College of Nursing, and the Royal College of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists, not to mention all those who believe that women have a right to choose. Eighteen shadow cabinet ministers voted to reduce the limit to 22 weeks. Cameron actually voted to bring the limit down to 20 weeks, and while an amendment to reduce it to 16 weeks was trounced - rejected by 303 votes - of the 84 MPs who voted for it, 61% were Tories. The mood was summed up in a comment by Tory MP Edward Leigh, who proposed a 12-week limit, that "in modern Britain the most dangerous place to be is in your mother's womb". The majority of Conservative MPs voted for a reduction in the time limit and the majority of Labour MPs voted against, which means that, if the Tories get in at the next election, women's rights will face a battering. A progressive, modern party, fit for the 21st century? On this evidence, most definitely not.

alfama, lisbon

Like San Francisco, the city it very much reminds me of, Lisbon is built on a series of hills and its geography contributes much to the feeling of the city; it's many wonderful views need to be earned through punishing climbs, but are worth the effort many times over. The houses are built in a jumbled, haphazard fashion, their positions dictated by the contours of the hills.

Perhaps the most beautiful district I encounter during my few days in Lisbon is the Alfama, a dense labyrinth of buildings on the steep slope between the mediaeval Castle of São Jorge and the river, which consists of narrow streets of terraced homes, baroque churches and the remnants of the city walls which, during the city's Moorish past, constituted the boundaries of this now hugely grown capital.

Historically the part of the city where the poorest are most densely populated, Alfama remains a beguiling combination of picturesque and down-at-heel. Unlike the Bairro Alto, it is free of grafitti and its colour palatte is restricted to whitewash and terracotta, which - lit up by the sun - creates an impression of a Mediterranean paradise. Step a little closer and the buildings are worn and crumbling, yet this part of the city is actually evidence of an incredible sturdiness; this 12th century district easily survived the great Earthquake of 1755. Goodness knows how.

I walk through its streets, sweltering as I clamber uphill, noticing the crowds growing with every step. Before long, police are stood managing the traffic, and I realise that even by the district's normal standards it is unusually busy today.

Then I'm astonished to see a bicycle race past me at an angle not far from vertical. The sound of whistling and cheering surrounds me. So as I climb higher, past iron fences, I discover that I have timed my visit to Alfama to co-incide with the much celebrated - and ludicrously dangerous - downhill, which consists of cyclists racing at full pelt downhill through the narrow cobbled streets. To make matters worse, they do so navigating not just eager locals and tourists, but a series of jumps and steep stairs, too. It's an incredible sight - of which more later.

One thing I like about Portugal is the ease with which people move from bar to bar; there are no cover charges, so it's perfectly okay to buy a beer in one place and wander to another without having to down it or leave it behind. In Alfama, everyone - perhaps because of the climb or the now sweltering heat - has a plastic glass of beer and the atmosphere is celebratory. I sit in a crowded square watching the cyclists clatter past and drink in the good mood. What wonderful timing.

mr harvey lights a candle

I just watched a rather charming BBC telly movie in my hotel room, entitled 'Mr Harvey Lights A Candle' - anyone seen it? I think it was produced for Easter a few years ago, and features a wonderful controlled Timothy Spall as a pent-up teacher, for whom a school trip to Salisbury Cathedral proves a catalyst to a reawakening of sorts. Also on outstanding form was the brilliant Natalie Press, whose troubled teenager indirectly leads him to his revelation. A really nice film, which touches on closed secrets, reserve, religion and release; all ever so gently evoked, and nothing Oscar-worthy, but nevertheless moving. The sheer quality of the BBC's back-catalogue is exactly the kind of thing the BBC should be opening up on their iPlayer, and I hope this gets a deserved repeat one forthcoming Easter.

lisbon walls

When I first visited Lisbon, aged about fifteen, I traipsed around the city for several hours taking photographs of every single piece of graffiti I could find; I loved the way the bright, severe colours of the paint interacted with the subtle colours of the city, and I also loved the huge collages of peeling posters found all over the walls. In that respect, Lisbon has hardly changed - there are wonderful, vivid textures everywhere. I could probably find things to photograph all day here.

thoughts on travelling

Of course, if I was a genuine traveller, rather than a tourist-fraud, I'd immerse myself completely in the culture I encounter when I'm abroad. Here's an example: one thing I've noticed since I've been in Lisbon is the extent of the Brazilian influence in the city - and several times while I've been out I've noted a band playing the country's music in the street. And each time I've walked by all but oblivious, hearing not their undoubtedly beautiful music but rather the bass pounding in my headphones. Equally, I've sat outside cafes with a stunning view before me, basking in the Portugese sun, but at least half my consciousness has been wrapped up in thoughts of post-war Tokyo, because I've perpetually got my head in a book about the city at the moment.

Obviously this isn't constant - so I have spent hours admiring the city for what it is, enjoying the local food and beer, listening to the fado players in the Bairro Alto. But equally, when I look back on Lisbon, I suspect mixed in with the genuine observations will be flashes of Tokyo, played out on a soundtrack of the three records I've had on constant rotation: Supa D's joyful Rinse mix of house and garage, Uusitalo's Karhunainen LP, and the more-stunning-with-every-listen Think Tank, Blur's last album.

My memories of other places work in the same way - in fact in many ways the sounds I remember become a distinctive feature of the city, even if their relationship to the city is entirely imposed. I remember listening to The Wave Pictures in Florence, Prodigy of Mobb Deep in Croatia, and The Silver Jews in San Francisco.

Am I in some way polluting the purity of my experiences? Or doesn't it matter at all?