farming in summer

Day out at Brick Lane with Al, painting and getting accosted by builders, "You can come and do my house mate, all the same colour though!" and a bye bye to Derek's as the sun was setting. R.I.P.

Flyer Hire

Obviously people with flyers are annoying; you're in a rush, you've got bags in one hand and a phone/paper/umbrella (if you're a well-equiped sort of person) in the other. No room for a shitty club night flyer from an over eager girl in bright green stockings and a pink bum-bag. I needed/still do need money however so I've become one of those annoying people thrusting unwanted pieces of card in to your hands. One occasion, outside a Foals gig, I spotted - between the hoards of winklepickers and beginner smokers - a collective of the urchins of live music that are ticket touts. In my new found role as flyer giver out' er I felt slightly higher in the food chain than those who rip off punters, rather than just pestering them, as I was. What I never realised (probably completely naively) is that the touts seemingly work as a team, shouting for each other once they've found someone to massively overcharge and surrounding them in a huddle of whispers and transactions. There is still a glimpse of competition, which on one occasion worked itself up to the tout you see below shouting, "Did you just tell me to fuck off? Cos' I will fucking bleed you!" A bit unnecessary I thought. 

The next session in my new trade lead me to numerous London freshers fayres and the first lot of people who would actively take flyers out of my hand. Of course, trying to offer flyers to a 2nd year is hugely inappropriate, I found this out after a set of disdainful looks and a "Oh, no...we're not freshers thank you." A new and different set of men trying to rip people off were here as well; these were those scumbags who come up and offer girls an entirely 'free' makeover day. This particular guy (who's pictured above) was at both events and picked exclusively on Asian girls who he knew couldn't really understand him both times. Douuuche-chill.

  

  

Beat It

Riding shotgun in a porsche 911, soaring up the M90 to Dundee at 110 mph with two large guns in my lap and Fall Out Boy blasting out of the stereo is not a usual start to my weekend. The middle aged driver steering with his knees while drumming on his lap is an even more peculiar sight, if not slightly worrying. 

The reason for this excursion was the end result of a weekend beating in the Angus Glens. Although sounding like a euphemism for a homo-erotic jaunt to a remote location in the Scottish wilderness, beating - as I found out - is where you stand in a line with 40 burly, ginger Scottish men and march towards 9 tweed attired men with guns, flapping a flag around to scare birds out of the grouse moors and up in to the air to meet their demise. Morally that's a tricky one; I never agreed with fox hunting but for some reason birds didn't seem quite as important - coercing them towards their death however did make me feel slightly like the Joseph Goebbels of the ornithological world. 

The day begins with a 7.15 alarm, which in the summer holidays feels like you've done yourself a huge injustice, then you load yourself in to a van that resembles some sort of military vehicle; it has tracks instead of wheels, quite cool. The next few hours were a blur of 20 mph winds, Danny the head beater screaming at me to "STAY IN LINE....GET FORWARD" and birds falling from the sky like fleshy raindrops. I did hear one of the shooters remarking that his loader was "good to have in the butt," - the butt being the hole they shoot from - but after my earlier mention of homo-eroticism my immature side wouldn't let me emit that little detail. 

When I finally got back to the house I had one of those cigarettes where it feels like you've been in a war, gone over the top, made it to the other side and lit your fag off the burning embers of the ground around you. Well, not quite that that excessive, but it was a good cigarette.

 I don't think I'm equipped for the beating lifestyle, I've got skinny legs, feel the cold far too easily and can't really understand what any of the other beaters are saying to me. What I did make out however is that they spend the whole year tending to the moors in the hope that grouse, the birds who love those kind of digs will flock to them in time for the shooting season. It's a weird cycle of life and one that I don't really understand the original motivation behind, but it keeps the shooters happy and the beaters in work, so after my surreal venture in to the world of grouse hunting, I'll keep my nose out.   

    

shimmy shimmy ya

moving out of my childhood home in two days, the sanctuary where I've entertained some bad hairstyles (tiger striped fringe/bright green mohican) choice of attire (fisherman's hat/limp bizkit hoody) and dubious listening material (nickelback/crazy town). the actual process of clearing, other than the destruction of sentimental items like the dining room table :(( is pretty sweet. far too many hidden gems tucked away that i havn't seen for years, one of which being a street shark action figure. forget TMNT, street sharks are ( j )awesome (oh dear). what's cooler than four roller-blading, crime fighting sharks?   very little.

 

i want

I want to see this film; it looks a bit like wes anderson's take on skateboarding, with rick mccrank holding the reigns rather than owen wilson, which can't be a bad thing. Having bill murray unshaven, smoking a cigarette in the background of at least one frame would have been nice though.

I also want this shirt, but I want don't get and I ain't got the cash to splash.