Friday, 19 November 2010
Via I Love Typography.
There is also some sickeningly beautiful new Seb Lester work gone up there too, complete with workings out. FIT.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
I was Tuesday evening blue with a pain flower in dull bloom just left of my stage-right hip bone. The dog in the next yard shookah-shook a yard dog’s day from his shoulders and watched the lock on the gate to the alleyway. “All your months will begin on a Sunday” said the boy in black to a girl in grey who maybe then got home without her keys. I was heavy eyes under weekend weight, and I held my hands to sleep.
Friday, 13 August 2010
Monday, 2 August 2010
Wimbledon-bound tomorrow, with a pit stop in Camden, followed by some summer rain in Anglesey with the Crash Gang.
Obsessed with Exciter's "I HATE SCHOOL RULES"
And the less said about the album cover, the better.
Monday, 19 July 2010
Thursday, 15 July 2010
The severe weather warnings of the weekend saw myself, Dunc and the Brown Town swerve the fuck out of our coast to coast jaunt. We got up with the larks and instead rode up to Blackpool and back instead. The thing about Blackpool is that everything there is disgusting. The food is disgusting and Blackpool tower is disgusting. Everyone that you look at with your eyes is disgusting and disgusted by the disgusting people that they look at with their own disgusting eyes. Still, despite a windy and rainy day, I managed to catch a touch of sunburn and a feigned smile smack bang in the middle of our very own Las Vegas.
So yeah. New work:
Should be seeing the light of day in mainland Europe as September trips over October's welcome mat, and I dare say we'll be tripping up drunk across Germany for as long as they can stand us to.
And if Contador wins the tour due to today's tangled code of honour, will the Yellow Jersey offer him any piece of mind at all?
Friday, 11 June 2010
Instant chat-a-like makes it all worthwhile:
it was a weird night, after we left the gig berni got chatted up buy this alcoholic and i heard the most crazy sentence I have ever heard.
What was it?
'your exposed ankles are taking me to a new Babylon, i bet you've got a punani dats a real crispy'
she literally ran away
the weird thing was James went 'what are you saying mate' and he goes 'NEVER interrupt de black man'
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Now the rain was laced with pity. The beaches met the coastal roads and street lamps led them blind into the city fast asleep. And the wind carried the curses of collisions in the darkness and the accidental crunch of devil's purses underfoot. I was thinking who out of us all I thought would grow up and just how right and wrong I'd been in equal measure. She is buried treasure. She is bored. Butterflies will die towards the end of summer years, and apparently she's just ignoring them. A friend, he put it simply "If I understood, then I could understand..." These blue eyes grow ageless. The sky feels contagious when the stars recall spots on those teenager's faces who come down here after dark to learn how to fall apart, to dance with the devil until they become free of God's will again. We have surnames for the taking but the girls don't understand the men with guilt the shape of local police stations and the last train home. She settled down and said 'goodnight', never said 'goodnight' and went out in a blaze of glory in a bar room full of history, hope and pity. If I understood, then I could understand. The blue eyes grow ageless. The sky feels contagious. If you were the stars that means I was the places that we went.
Saturday, 29 May 2010
Recently I was in a pub in Cheshire when I spotted something that I can only describe as absolutely wonderful. When I say ‘pub’, it was in fact what most pubs in Cheshire have now become – a pub-restaurant. An aspirational pub-restaurant. Where once patrons ordered pints of Stella, now they’re just as likely to order cappuccinos or the limited edition produce of a local microbrewery. Where once customers were happy with an egg and cress sandwich, now they demand ciabattas; The menus bandy about terms like ‘pan-fried’; They’ve installed a massive sofa; There’s a room called ‘The Library’. Of course it’s all bollocks – the customers may want all the trappings but there’s still a deep resentment for all things cosmopolitan. Yes, we may watch Sex and the City but we still hate gays and the EU. Go and have a closer look at the books on The Library’s shelves – they’re all just Jeffrey Archer novels and Good Pub guides from 1986. The dickhead in the kitchen might offer to rustle you up a Pak Choi salad but he’d never eat that kind of food himself – he’s just saving up for alloy wheels.
Anyway, I was in a prime example of such a pub – maybe the best I’ve ever been in. The menu kept banging on about ‘organic produce’ and referring to the chef by name – Liam. Then I noticed a small blackboard high up on a wall. It was perhaps not much bigger than an A4 piece of paper and read, bafflingly, ‘Liam’s blog’. That bit was painted on, permanently. Then, below it, written in chalk, clearly in the handwriting of a sixteen year old girl, it said something like, ‘Chantenay carrots coming through nicely in the organic vegetable plot’. It was pretty clear this sentiment had not come from Liam. Liam was a front.
But still, I was intrigued – ‘Liam’s blog’. What did it mean? Did Liam have an online existence where he waxed lyrical about the comings and goings of life as a chef in a provincial pub-restaurant - the ‘best bits’ of which later made it on to the blackboard I was now looking at? I can imagine this – I’ve seen other pub-restaurants misguidedly go overboard with their online infrastructure, ie, “The Nag’s Head –don’t forget to visit our website / forum / facebook group”. But a quick internet search on my phone for the name of the pub throws up no such thing.
Let me be clear about this: The small blackboard I am looking at proclaiming itself to be ‘Liam’s blog’ has no online presence. The startlingly abstract reality of the situation finally dawns on me – the blackboard itself, in the minds of the people who run this pub, is ‘the blog.’ This instantly threw up a matrix of questions – what do these people think a ‘blog’ actually is? Maybe they don’t think words need clear definitions? When they write something on this particular blackboard do they imagine they’re writing a ‘blog post’? I imagine the bar manager handing a stick of chalk to a young member of casual staff whilst telling them to “go and update Liam’s blog”.
Watched East Bound and Down in its entirety again, which sent me on the second David Gordon Green bender of the year. The male relationships throughout his stuff are so monstrously well-observed (see Kenny Powers and his brother Dustin or Schneider's gang in All the Real Girls). There's a warmth and fondess between the men, but executed with the flippancy and irreverance that only years in each other's pockets can produce.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Been learning Down With Prince by Hot Chip for Moshi's 100th record release show.
"I'm sick of motherfuckers tryna' tell me that they're down with Prince."
Tuesday, 18 May 2010
So here's Dirk Benedict looking a fair bit like my childhood guitar teacher. He didn't look all that much like him when I met him the other day in Blackpool after seeing him playing the part of Lt. Columbo in a stage interpretation of the pilot episode of Columbo. Well, not enough to think of it, anyway.
So what happens when you're known through your 20's as The Face Man? A cool headed van-driving fuck machine, jumping and diving almost unscathed from explosions and bedrooms? What happens when America tells you that you're the hottest shit available for the majority of the 1980's? What happens to a guy who "met Mr T back in '83... No, wait... it was '82"?
You apparently read the Daily Mail, moan about the treatment of Victoria Beckham in the press, whinge about dog shit on Blackpool prom and praise David Cameron. Maybe mistake the British political system for a presidential one and punctuate your point with the phrase "NEXT QUESTION!" You get pissed at me bringing up that Dave Egger's paragraph about Mr T cutting down those trees, deny it, then re-tell it almost word for word, complete with added phone call: "So Mr T, he calls me and he's giggling. Mr T, man! He's a giggler!"
Thoroughly psyched on being an audience to Mr Benedict in the theatre bar. Particularly enjoyed one employee's assumption that Dirk would give a shit about what he had to say:
"My dad owns a block of flats which I actually live in and look after for him..."
Later on, the same employee (who was the kind of guy who probably equates his theories on the final series of Lost to The Big Bang, closes his eyes as he explains) muttered in passing, "Finally met my childhood hero... That's one the perks of working in show business."
Well, congratulations. Your childhood hero hates you.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
Made a vid for this jam on Monday and Tuesday with the creative powerhouse that is Joe Fucker. Masonic tux-wearing drummer boy marker penathon. Shoot was great; filled with a pouring open endedness as Joe figured out how the fuck it'd work.
In the process of making something nice t-shirt wise for my local bicycle shop. If you're in Liverpool and need a friendly, experienced and knowledgable bicycle mechanic, you'd be a dumb punk not to head straight over to Picton Cycles.
And when I colour it in, I'm swerving red and blue.
Election day. I'll be spending the evening with a friend helping me through a midlife crisis. The results of which will be posted here, I suppose. I hope that no one is stupid enough to help vote in a Conservative government, we already have a BNP Euro MP.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Friday, 23 April 2010
Thursday, 22 April 2010
The Shire London Golf Club. EN5 4RE
If we go M1 1hr 30mins
If we go A14 – A1 2hrs but less traffic
Pick me up 7.15-7.30 I guess.
Bacon Rolls & Tea 10am
Start 11.30 finish 4.30
4.30-6 drinks and awards
Trousers and collared shirts for golf
Smart casual in the club house, smart jeans allowed.
I live in broughton Astley.
Head of Sales
Most of my friends tend to be reasonable people which is perhaps why I have never had the opportunity to lay my eyes on an image like the above. I have a few married friends, but I can guarantee that none of their stag party invites looked anything like this. The invite, sent via email, was coupled with a bastardization of a Rudyard Kipling poem which makes next to no sense, much like the image. Apparently a man who works in a bank made it. He has reached abstraction.
My favourite bits:
Writing "BOSS WOZ ERE" in Comic Sans on a girl's bottom. The crude replacement of the stag's head for a woman's left breast. The use of the term "lucky neegs" and the addition of a complex arrow (when a simple straight diagonal one would suffice) pointing at a black man chatting with a group of attractive women. The addition of an extendable pink tongue protruding from the stag's mouth and entering into a woman's anus.
Thanks so much, Joe. Can't wait to muse on 'Liam's Blog'.
My friend Chris in Edinburgh gets people to go to a club to listen to him play records! He has the best flat in the whole of the UK. Seriously, his flat made me not have a nervous breakdown once. I like designing for Chris. He's like "I NEED THIS FOR THE END OF THE WEEK!" but not in capitals because he is too nice for that, and I'm all like "OK!"
Continuous variations on the Wolf Party identity I did earlier this year.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
And this will be what the new thing might look like when the thing we made goes live, live live. I'm in the process of trying to make this type into a font that you can type out with your fingers for free-as-fuck download but I don't know how to do that yet. I'm learning and learning is fun. Sometimes learning is long and sometimes longing is boring.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Leave a dumb note for some folks you know:
"I've left to join the Wild Boys and when you read this I'll be far from home"
where the beach meets the tide and the water is black with dull desire
and the pylons hum a secret hymn for the kids in need of quiet time.
The motorway is not as free as the freeways in the films we see
where no-one learns to live alone and choose friendly roads that take them home.
1. There's tails.
2. There's legs.
Insert the first between the next.
Get in late and sleep to death:
There's sanctity in single beds.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
The worst was the celebratory Facefuck status commentaries as though all those people we know (who actually do good work there) will crawl away from the disaster financially unscathed. Heartless cunts.
A text joke darted about Liverpool yesterday in the wake of Korova's demise:
"Gig tonight at Korova. The Little Flames supported by Hot Club."
Got a giggle out of me.
Anyway. Long live the Korova days, I guess. A small but fun chapter in Liverpool's musical history.
Saturday, 17 April 2010
I just remembered how funny Hercules in New York is.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Thursday, 15 April 2010
Thursday night ride was PITIFUL.
They've closed down the footpaths either side of the battered-off bridge and erected a plywood tunnel through a usually bollarded middle. A terrified man sat on a mountain bike on the north side was peering down the tunnel and as we passed, muttered "Where does that lead?" in a shaky baritone as though he'd found himself at the gates of some kind of Fuck-Hell. Later, a man (who I expect is a total tit) was pulling wheelies on some souped-up motorcycle whilst his mate stood on the pavement listening to Rhianna out-loud on his phone. I have no idea why these dudes were not balls deep in a gang of decent sluts. There really is no sexual justice.
Reading my friend's copy of Tommy Simpson's autobiography Cycling Is My Life. I didn't realise that he'd inscribed in the front "Dear Paul, our bikes could be your life." Sort of means I can't loan it to anyone ever just in case I never get it back. It's pretty inspiring to read of the Yorkshire man struggling on through the uncharted culture of the amateur cycling world of mainland Europe in the mid 50's. A catalogue of misunderstanding, he shrugs his shoulders time again and exclaims "I felt like a right nit! Anyway, the next day I caught a train to Belgium..." Also a good insight into the birth of darkness in a shadowy sport; He died at 29 of drugging-related complications halfway up a mountain with his hands wrapped around his handlebars.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Saturday, 10 April 2010
The entries for Lost Art's Fluff Book comp are looking smashing and daft in equal measure. Liverpool summed up with skateboards, tramps, theives and sunsets. One of my favourites was this guy above by Adam McAleavey. Discarded Vans above New Bird skatepark. I see them every day on blurry rides to work.
I lost my tooth to a sandwich the other day. Feel old enough to write a list of everyone I have ever lived with:
Thursday, 8 April 2010
Monday, 5 April 2010
Huntington Beach Police have released some personal photographs of the serial killer Rodney James Alcala. He was quite the photographer and now Police are looking to find the people he pointed his camera at. The full set is on the LA Times site. Via Reference Library. Totally not nice.
Wednesday, 31 March 2010
Right up my frig-alley, for sure. I'm that guy who is always siked on scrolls and paper planes. Via FLWRIDER.
The weather is so mean. I could actually lean on the northerly wind at the Upper Parliament crossroads this morning once my early-doors puncture party had ended. Got a nasty snakebite bad guy all up in my tube after recording some new Cold Ones demos until super dumb o'clock last night. Sounds brazenly radical; Suicidal meets FEAR meets Dead Kennedys (actually so) meets The Who.
A little boy threw Mint Imperials at a window pane in a friend's dream during last night's hailstorm.
Monday, 29 March 2010
Totally putting out a new record in May. It'll look like this and will feel like reverse board and the vinyl inside should weigh 180g. As its Moshi's 100th record they're doing 5 GOLD vinyls Will Wonka-style. Maybe the winner gets a day out in a pressing plant in the Czech Republic.
We were loading out of The Stag's Head the other night. I was carrying Al's fan and some guy said to a girl I suspect he was failing to have sex with "That's their biggest fan." Dad jokes are like nails in coffins. And mate, its not our biggest fan. My mother is, you prick.
Bargain. I can't tell if I like this or if it just looks fucking grubby.
Added 8 more channels to my 8 channel recording rig. Doing a session with Cold Ones tomorrow. Psyched.
A dog was going bonkers in the alley whilst I was taking out the rubbish this afternoon. He kept popping his tiny head through the perfectly square hole the rats have chewed into the bottom of the door and barking. "Hey! You there! I'm over here!" I assume he was saying.
Al went to buy a budgie today. I'm happy for him. The last one he owned brought him the most insane amount of joy. "I used to pretend to people that I'd trained him. Get on my head, I'd say and he'd do it."
Friday, 26 March 2010
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
A risotto is made of Arborio rice. Sometimes in supermarkets they call it "Risotto Rice" or they'll at least write "THIS RICE IS FOR FUCKING RISOTTOS, DICK-EATER" underneath whatever dick-suck font they've written 'Arborio Rice' in on the packet. It'll probably tell you how much to put in as well, per person. If it doesn't, trying taking a fucking chance on fate and stop being a pussy. Guesswork is what made this country great, not crying like a little girl in a PINK dress in a student kitchen.
If you're a pisshead you'll have some dogshit week-old white wine sitting in your fridge. Take it out. Swig from the bottle. If that mouthful feels like the jigsaw piece that's been missing from your day then DON'T WORRY; It just so happens that you've been doing the right thing for far too long and that the rest of the world can't keep up with your awesomeness. Phone your boss. Quit your job. Pour in some wine, but leave just enough so you piss your pants and panic-phone your old boyfriend/girlfriend later on in the evening. Get one of those vegetable stock cubes that your retarded friend tried to smoke at your last FAILED house party. It'll come in handy seeing as you're about to make some stock. There will be instructions on the back of the box that will tell you how to make it. If you can't read them, like your retarded friend, call your mother. Tell her that you were a fucking mistake.
Now, I know you're a keen little sort; always sticking your dick in things that aren't people and showing your poetry to girls who you will never get to fuck, but this next step will require a little PATIENCE. As you add the stock, the rice will begin to absorb it. If you add too much stock your rice will go to shit. Wait for the stock to be absorbed then add a little more. Use a fucking ladle or whatever. Repeat until the rice is all plump and tender and represents something you might want to eat, not something you have already eaten.
Remember those mushrooms you were soaking? Of course you do, Kim Peek. Drain them and chop them up. Throw them in the pot. This bit is easy and requires little brain power, so maybe you could have a little think about why your older brother or sister is far more successful than you. Maybe you could also do us all a favour and plan to remove all those pathetic photos you took of yourself and posted on Facebook.
Holy fuck! Does it smell good? It should do if you've done everything right. All that's left to do before you and your friends fill your cretinous faces is to add a handful of fresh parsley and a knob of dairy-free margarine. Check that you laughed at the word 'knob', string up a noose and use the fuck out of it. If however, you didn't, stir in some salt and black pepper, serve in a bowl, and for fuck's sake, try not to eat it with your hands. Oh, and if your non-vegan friends want to sprinkle a little Parmesan cheese on the top, you should let them. Do not call them rapists. They'll be needing no encouragement in thinking that you're a total wanker.
Tuesday, 23 March 2010
My friends have got this band called Voo and some dudes what ride BMX's reckon that their instrumental song SCHNICK SCHNACK SCHNUCK would make their videos of them riding their BMX's look totally great. It's for some guys called NIKE! I reckon 2010 might be their year.
Anyway, Voo are flinging this particular song all up in Itunes in the next few days and wanted me to throw something together super-swiftly based on some type design I have done for them in the past.
The video will be up tomorrow over here. Here's a toast to bicycles and free trainers.