Spring forward, fall back

Fall, 2017 - Grizzly

Spring, 2010 - Fresh

I treated myself on Tuesday. I let the train take the strain (1st. Class, obvs) and met my good friend Mondo. Bethnal Green at one o'clock we said; perfect for a spot of lunch at Pellicci's followed by a stroll down to Brick Lane.
I've said it before, but it's worth saying again anyway, without Mondo this blog would not have got off the ground; in 2008/2009 (when I first heard Mondo & Piley's Podrophenia podcast), after just a couple of emails I knew I was gonna get on with this fella. His passion for all things rock, and indeed roll, coupled with his guidance and encouragement helped me get this stuff out of my head and into the world we now call social media.

I went for the mixed grill and Mondo went for the chicken. Johnny Depp and Michael Gambon were no shows, but Dave Gorman was sitting next to us; not sure if he's already on their wall of fame.

To the Truman Gallery to see another mover and shaker, but not till we've shaken hands with half the East End - Mondo's treated like royalty in these parts. I just basked in his reflected glory.

The Pigeon Detectives

After conducting a four year Twitter relationship with Morgan Howell it was good to finally meet him on Monday. He was sharing the gallery with Chris Barton & Horace Panter, and together they were showing Cassette versus Vinyl; Morgan's Super Size record sleeves vied for wall space with mutant cassettes and gigantic 'button' badges.
I'd only ever seen his masterpieces on line and in Sunday supplements, so seeing them up close and personal was very special, to say the least. Morgan was very generous with his time and was great company. We talked about everything under the sun, including how to get rid of uninvited pigeons who fly into prestigious galleries.

Chris Barton was a nice fella too. He took the time to explain how he made the giant musicassettes and boxes. I wish the Number One Son had been with me at this point as laser cutters were thrown into the mix and I know James would have been all over him like a cheap suit.

Chris Barton carrying the Cash

Hunky, and indeed, Dory

A rather Special pigeon

Catch that pigeon

From the Truman Mondo then gave me a guided tour of Spitalfields pulling in a fair few hostelries. It transpires Mondo's old man was a contemporary of Ronnie and Reggie. He glossed over the finer details but, like Morgan, he painted a picture of a world that just doesn't exist anymore.
Glasses were charged and recharged, photos were taken of Spoons carpets and we swapped more rock and roll stories than you could shake a shitty stick at.
Around nine bells it was time to depart; to Liverpool St. - homeward bound. Until the next time.

Before I go, here's Mondo's latest squeeze. They're called Howling Black Soul. Check out their bass player.

Johnny. Vaughan

From left to right - Johnny & Vaughan

When Kate and Vaughan came over from Lincoln to se us at the weekend I kinda knew that Saturday would be a boozy day. I think we started in Spoons just before midday, moving into town not long thereafter. Our late lunch at the Old Angel (where vegan is really taking hold) was exceptional. And it was great to see flossy behind the bar who used to work at the Hockley Caff.
But by late afternoon/early evening Vaughan and I were only communicating in Michael Caine and David Bowie voices. Come sundown and it all started to go a bit wavy.

I think this photo of us was taken on the cusp. We were having a good night. I do believe we were telling everyone around us we were having a good night.

Happy. And ever so slightly drunk: a great combination.

Black Hole

I recently enrolled on a screenwriting course. Last Wednesday evening was week three of an eight week introduction to learning how to develop characters, fine tune stories, dialogue, plots & subplots and generally getting an insight into turning an idea into a fully formed, all singing all dancing, script.

We're looking at a lot of films (full length and shorts), covering a lot of genres and in so doing trying to bottle that elusive spark that will ultimately give birth to the complete package - something that can then
be pitched to film makers. That's the theory, anyway! Me and my other nine cohorts are under no illusions; whilst we all enjoy writing and are bristling with ideas, the chances of us getting a script picked up by Hollywood is as remote as a lottery win.

Some of the films we've looked at contain little or indeed no dialogue. The Black Hole is a case in point. This five minute gem is near perfect. It had a budget of less than $5,000 and is the real deal. Forget what I said about Hollywood earlier - if I came up with something this good, I'd be a happy man. Tell me what you think.

WTF

Every now and again Netflix throws up something so random, yet at the same time so utterly compelling and so bloody watchable, that you would never - for a minute - think of unsubscribing.
The Good Place is sublime. The concept is simple, yet throws in subtle twists just for fun. Imagine dying and going to the good place, only to find out there's been a glitch: you're not meant to be there. You were destined for the bad place. Kristen Bell and Ted Danson star in the afterlife gone awry. The script fizzes (as does Ms. Bell) and leaves you wondering what makes frozen yoghurt, clown paintings and sink holes so attractive. And, try like fork, it's impossible to swear. As you can probably gather, I love it.

Grass Man

My friend Adele feels the same way about gardening as I do: there's only one thing worse than gardening, and that's people talking about gardening.

However, a garden without grass is one thing, but a world without grass is unthinkable. Say hello to the Grass Man.

Whilst Adele was with us this weekend we went to see Dodgy in a little club in town. As usual they were on fine form. Unusually, however, they were without Matthew their drummer. He was moonlighting.

But they did play this. Obviously.

Dodgy: Grassman