Whisky, weed and Warren Zevon, it's the little things in life

I have no fucking idea where July's gone. Or most of June for that matter.

Nothing to do with the above recipe, that's a line from Californication, a gentle and touching tale of a guy who loves girl and their daughter, graphic sex, nudity, drug taking, drinking, S&M, blasphemy, great music and squirting. Life's a bit gooey from time to time but any show that beats in time to the tunes of Warren Zevon has to have a good heart.

So I've definitely been way busier than usual and somewhat internet phobic. I'd blame work for the latter but I suspect it's proably more to do with American TV.

I am aware that no matter how much shit I have missed (argh, sorry), I have managed to catch up with a lot of friends I haven't seen in far too long. And despite a worryingly and annoying distinct lack of festival camping this summer, some of it was outdoors with too much sun and pear cider and the gentle tones of Neil Young and Blur drowning out the foreground and the central London Heathrow flightpath in the background.

One side effect of such a state was the purchase of Florence and the Machine's album which was a good thing. On the other hand I also think that the best film I've seen of late has been Crank 2. That means either I've watched a lot of shit, or I can't remember what I've seen, or the logic I use to determine that Crank 2's utter genius is based around the fact that it's all done in such gleefully knowing bad taste, is deeply fucking disturbed. History will judge me fairly I'm sure.

Actually, that's a lie. The best film I've seen in ages has been The Story of Anvil in which two hairy Canadians deliver more of a message on the beauty of friendship and humanity than any politician or religious leader in the past 190 billion years. Of course, I still haven't seen the Iron Maiden movie so that may change. But seriously you tiny select group of reader(s) out there. Go see it. NOW. It'll make you a better human being.

Crank 2 was the second best until my memory returns.

Unfortunately our current lack of promised heatwave has kept Chuffy unpainted. On the other hand I have learned a little more about electricity. There's an intentional lack of context in the last statement for no particular reason. I've also learned that riding a bike is just like what they say about riding a bike. And I love my new bike. Very much. I'm a muddy little two wheel speed freak. The image that just brought to mind made me cringe.

And just to gloat, even though I know you don't care and if you do then you shouldn't - don't put up with my petulant glee at proving my head is full of absurd knowledge - I've been on two winning pub quiz teams, grand total of winnings in hand at the end of the night: £40 and all drinks paid for.


I will endeavour to blog more in my 39th year.

Me my thoughts are flower strewn

It's been seven weeks since I woke up with my foot inflated like some giant baby, all stubby toes and puffy. Amazing what a hairline crack, invisible to x-ray can do.

The first three weeks were spent as immobile as possible, watching perspective disappear over the horizon as cabin fever took hold. Since then it's been a slow crawl to the six week bone healed mark.

It'll be another three weeks at least before I consider running again.

Note to self, need to buy new running shoes.

Listening to R.E.M.'s Find The River

I said ah welcome to the show!

I may not have been at Glastonbury this year, but I was very happy everywhere I was.

This afternoon I watched fledgling swifts loop through the air above me. It'll be another three to four years before they touch land again. Below them a pachyderm parade of Canada Geese followed their Colonel Hathi down the river whilst a grebe gargled at them and the coots shifted themselves out of the way. They look to be down to three squeakies now.



Listening to Def Leppard's remastered Pyromania

When you meet a stranger

The best advice I've ever been given came from a white Zimbabwean. After letting us out at our destination, having bought us lunch, drinks and keeping us in stitches for the entire journey, he left us with these sound words:

"Don't get too drunk, don't fall out of your tree and NEVER take your clothes off in public."

I've failed in all 3 at some point or another.

Today delivered some new wisdom:

"Go to the pub. And buy something pretty."

And why not.

Listening to Bat for Lashes

bitter hands broken glass

It's good to be in April. March has not been one of my finest months of late. For most of it I've been a bear with a bad head. Which I tend to keep down when I'm feeling like that. I'm not great company. Not very talkative.

52 Mondays ago I sat at my desk at The Archives for the first time. Doesn't feel like a year. The work-life-balance-ometer might be swinging a little too far in the wrong direction right now but I still love what I do. And if you're going to wander in to work on a Saturday, then it's much more pleasant to trickle down to Kew than trek up to Tottenham Court Road.

Spring: the chance to wash the coal dust out of my life for another 7 months, finches stopping ever so briefly, sky filled with birdsong, mallards gang-raping each other, and the gradual increase in the numbers of lumpen-headed-pointless-fuckwits (determined to get from one end of the river to another as fast as possible without pause to realise that they're oxygen wasting morons) going by my window. The kind of folks who should be spending time in an environment more suited. Like Jupiter.

I'm listening to a lot of Pearl Jam. The remastered Ten is wonderful, the additional disk of remixes almost better. Beautiful, hopeful and angry. Suited the mood.