Another hero is gone

This story is about a guy who faked his way in to pro golf tournaments. Although sadly passed away, this man surely is a legend and an inspiration to us all.

"I bought some maps and books on the subject and a compass, suitable walking boots and socks. On one trip to the fells I bought myself a red jungle hat. It wasn't long before I was contemplating taking up mountain climbing. But I took up golf instead, which, in my case and the Open championship, could fairly be said to amount to one and the same thing."

He went from loving fell walking to wanting to win the Open. His kids don't sound too normal either, having recieved an anti-social behaviour injunction for fencing with each other (and something about winning the 1984 Disco Championships, - read on, it gets weirder).

(thanks to Lord Bramley for the story)

Crazy Golfer (from guardian.co.uk)

The best bar in the world?

The Saint Hotel in Melbourne is apparently under investigation following a promotion offering AUS$50 to any female punter who leaves her pants at the front door. Apparently the hotel got in to trouble earlier this year by “hiring a dwarf to pour free alcohol down customers' throats.”

The hotel is now under investigation by the Victoria state's alcohol licensing authority, who have referred to the event as “an inappropriate liquor promotion.”

Whilst we’re on the topic of Australia and its lack of public decorum, the following story seems fitting.

John Molony (great name), the mayor of remote Mount Isa, stated last week that “with five blokes to every girl, may I suggest that beauty-disadvantaged women should proceed to Mount Isa.”

However uncouth such a statement, let’s hope the message gets through and we lose a few of the mingers in London!

Pants story (from bbc.co.uk)

Ugly duckling story (also from bbc.co.uk)

The World's Inbox

Due to the specifics of my email address, I keep getting mails addressed to people whose surname match mine. Some are rather personal, like the one I just received a few minutes ago:

"HELLO MY DEAR -----....ARE YOU NOW IN SWEDEN?...I UNDERSTAND BUT YOU HAVE TO TELL ME IF YOU HAVE PROBLEM...IM YOUR GIRLFRIEND & I HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW OF WHAT HAPPEN... BE OPEN TO ME...WHAT HAPPEN TO YOUR WORK? OKAY YOU HAVE TO SAVE MONEY FOR OUR FUTURE..LIFE IS NOT EASY...TAKE CARE...I MISS UR BALD...LOL....U KNOW WHAT I MEAN. HOPE U CAN CALL SOMETIMES..LOVE YOU!

YOUR PUSSY CAT,

-------"

I hope she finds him and his bald... U know what I mean...

travels to creat a new worlds (sic)

(Notice posted by SUN sovichea from Phnom Penh)

i am looking for a travel job.

i an English teacher as voulenteer for SOUTHEAST ASIA MERCY CILDRENDS FUND.

i use to voulenteer at REPRODUTVIE HEALTH ASSOCIATION OF CANBODIA as a peer teacher.

NOW i am a law student at ROYAL UNIVERSIY OF LAW AND SCIENCE ECONOMICS.

i like travel very much.

i hope you choise me.

(sic)

(taken from here)

...for an English teacher this person speaks remarkably well.

Cold Ones live @ Old Blue Last, Saturday 12 July 2008

I got dispatched to Shoreditch’s trendy Old Blue Last to write a review of London-based hardcore band The Dirty Money. I had little knowledge of TDM and zero knowledge of the other bands on the bill, and I was determined to fuck off home after the TDM set as I’m not a particularly big hardcore fan. As it happened, myself and Omni (who was my chosen photographer this evening, and incidentally the reason I knew about this gig) decided to mill about after TDM had played. This was partially down to the good vibe at the venue and possibly Omni’s decision to come off the wagon (that took waaay too long!!!). In either case, I was tanked up and found myself upstairs at the venue just in time to catch Liverpool-based Cold Ones tear into their skate-punk fuelled mayhem.

Think of Black Flag, Descendents, and late-80s skateboard videos and you’ll sort of get the idea. Sort of.

Cold Ones are awesome. They instantly make me want to drink vast swathes of beer and pogo around uncontrollably, covered in my own (and quite possibly someone else’s) sweat. I have no idea which songs they played, how long they played for, who the fuck they are or even if you can drink a swathe of something. None of that matters really. Singer Russell Longmire (decked out in kamikaze headband and what looked through my beer-soaked eyes like a preachers robe) was all over the shop, energetic and enigmatic from start to finish. The band simply just exploded. Now it could be the beer (oh and that can of ‘K’ cider I had before the show), but I cannot remember seeing a better contemporary punk act recently other than possibly Zeke (no wait, not possibly, definitely - Zeke for life).

I would love to go into more detail (band members, set list, price of 6 Guinness etc) but I haven’t got any more details, really. And I don’t feel I need to either. Google it you twats. And once you do, download their demo Crack It.. it's free and it's good.

If you skateboard, you’ll love Cold Ones. If you’re an alcoholic, you’ll love Cold Ones. If you spent your youth watching Powell Peralta and Santa Cruz videos, you’ll love Cold Ones.

If you like punk music, you’ll love Cold Ones. You get the idea. I love this band.

Oh, and apparently one of the guys is pro skateboarder on Heroin :). Can this get any better?

Yes it can, provided I can fuck off out of work now and go get drunk.

(Picture: Omni)

Cold Ones

The Dirty Money review

No one is harder than Hackney

Yesterday I came home from work to find (yet again) representatives from the law enforcement occupying the entrance to my building. On this occasion it wasn’t arson or a shooting investigation like it usually is. My downstairs neighbour got stabbed, and judging from the blood splattered everywhere it could have been very, very serious (is there no such things a non-serious stabbing?). A quick word with one of the PCs established the fact that my downstairs neighbour had survived the attack, and that she was stable.

After giving my details I was carefully escorted to my flat by said PC in order to avoid me walking all over the evidence. My flatmate was already in. I was told we would have to stay in the flat for a while until the forensics team had finished, so we cracked open the rum and vodka and started playing poker. We even had a sneaky joint or two, giggling like school kids having a crafty fag behind the bike shed, aware that ten police officers were milling about just outside our flat for hours.

Business as usual.

I thought I’d be a bit more concerned, or shaken even, by the events. But apart from sympathy for my neighbour (no one deserves to get stabbed, do they?), I couldn’t really give a toss. I thought I would, and I probably should, but I don’t.

At the end of the day, no one is harder than Hackney.

Broken cash

Life goes on, money or not. The thing about being broke is, once you can no longer withdraw cash it becomes irrelevant whether you owe £100 or £100,000. You have no liquidity and you’re forced to scrounge, scam and starve. Why it has to be so every month is beyond me, frankly. And rather irritating.

I work for fucks sake. How come I never have any cash?

I’m beginning to understand how debt can literally spiral out of control in a very short space of time. Getting on top of it all is a slow, laborious and nutrition-deficient process and usually results in malnourishment, temporary social pariah status, general bad vibes and an irrational desire to become a heroin addict.

On matters mixed and structured not

The time hath cometh for discourse on the very nature of employment and the matters of unpleasantness therein, be they latent or otherwise. Why doth we toil for pittance fare, when existence should be spent perusing the wonders of nature from an establishment of mirth, washed down with the mead of one’s volition to the backdrop of bossoms free and bores dear?
Do we not see, how the striving for pay, eludes no time for things merry and gay?
Are we not men of leisure, women equally so? Are we not masters of beasts?
Why are we subject to such desires base, that time is spent not pursuing matters idle but occupied with receiving raise?

Make note, when days are here of gentle men using pistols for their automobile to render repaired, should we not ask, why?
Bolts of wheels round, that hath with pistol been fixed, have ne’er been found.

That and other things.

Oi

So where are we?

It is late June, I have no electricity and the weather is shit. Cheated of another summer. I may have to relocate to sunnier climes if this keeps on going.

Due to a fire in our staircase, the whole building is without electricity and, subsequently, hot water. I feel like I’m taking part in a new run of How we used to live: Early Victorians. I wake up to the pleasure of an ice-cold shower in a pitch-black bathroom, followed by coffee made from boiling water in a saucepan on our gas cooker (at least that still works). Breakfast consists of whatever I can store without using a fridge (dry bread, marmalade, the odd apple). After work I rush home to make dinner before the sun goes down, again using only ingredients that doesn’t need refrigeration. Making lunch for the following day is an impossibility. Dinner and washing up taken care of, I recline in my living room reading books until there is no more natural light, after which I sit in darkness and smoke cigarettes and drink warm beer until it is time to go to bed. Last night that time was 22.30pm.

To add insult to injury, I can no longer do any washing of clothes. Use a Laundromat I hear you say. That would be kosher if I had any cash. As I don’t, I have had to resort to washing socks and underwear (the essentials) by hand, again in a pitch black bathroom with ice-cold water. As for the remaining laundry, I’m considering arranging a dirty washing amnesty point somewhere in the living room, as my bedroom is becoming full (and somewhat smelly). I suppose I could burn all the dirty washing and use the fire as TV replacement. Actually, no, enough fires.

On the plus side, I have started to appreciate the various stages of natural light throughout the day, and I haven’t watched TV for almost two weeks. My body clock is slowly reverting to what I assume must be the pattern of pre-electricity humans; rise at dawn, retire at dusk. Never has daylight been this precious to me. At least it is summer. Had this happened in the dead of January I would probably have hanged myself or administered a dose of strychnine, in the dark, of course, and probably shivering cold.

Still, it’s not all bad.

Last Friday I went to the ICA to see the first ever My Bloody Valentine show in almost two decades. Petka managed to get tickets and kindly took me along. Announced last minute and billed as a rehearsal for their sold-out shows across the UK and Europe in the following month(s), we were treated to something we never thought possible, and not a moment too soon.

Was it good? Yes, it was very good. In the space of a few years I have now managed to tick off quite a few boxes in terms of childhood musical heroes that I’ve experienced live (Dinosaur Jr with the original line-up, My Bloody Valentine, Megadeth, Misfits (sadly w/out Danzig), and The Pixies etc). But enough about that. My Bloody Valentine, for those who don’t know, was responsible for recording the best album ever made, ever. It’s called Loveless, and unless you hear it, you will never know what perfection is. Seriously, it is that good. Go and buy it / download it / copy it from a friend now. It was released in November 1991 and more or less bankrupted their label, Creation Records. But so what? Even if it had cost £1 billion it would have been worth it, fucking up the sonic landscape and perceptions of beauty forever.