A wedding in Nottingham

Saturday morning saw us speeding north towards Nottingham for another marriage ceremony - they seem to be coming in thick and fast this year!

The last time I'd visited Nottingham was back in the 1990s when I played a gig with indie/goth/dance outfit Melt at the Rock City venue.

I loved the venue, but the city presented an uninviting vista on a summer's Saturday night, with loud drunks, ruffians and hotheads roaming the streets, and every bar and cafe seemingly sporting a chisel faced bouncer.



Returning a decade later, the signs weren't too good: the city centre's shopfronts had turned into a sea of bland, anytown multi-chains with corporate logos grinding down any spark of individuality.

A walk through a dreadful, soulless, shopping centre dampened already-deflated spirits further, with the dull roar of air conditioning adding to the misery - whatever happened to fresh air?!

Why do people put up with this kind of anonymous, depressing architecture? The people responsible for this dreary planning should be made to live in it.



The wedding took place in the imposing Council House, once the largest stone building built in Britain since the first world war.

Opened by the Prince of Wales in May 1929, the building is dominated by a great central dome, rising some 200 feet above ground level.

The tower contains "Little John" a two and a half ton striking bell reputed to be the deepest toned bell in the country.

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A large banner was draped over the Council House with a book of condolences inside in memory of the late, great Brian Clough. I left a short note.

We'll never see his like again and football's the worse for that fact.



The wedding took place inside a grand hall on the first floor (above is a view from the balcony), and happily, the ceremony was so touching that it managed to melt even the meanest hearts.

The young couple were hopelessly in love with each other and the well attended ceremony was beautifully judged - even if they did make me mumble along to Reg Presley's dire "Love is all Around".



The wedding party moved on to the attractive confines of the (ahem) 'castle' grounds where I formed a far more pleasing impression of Nottingham.

I didn't feel like I knew the couple well enough to start sticking my scruffy phizog in their post-wedding poses, so I took a walk around the park, resplendent in late summer sunshine.

As can be expected, the evening involved a fine wedding feast followed by large amounts of champagne and beer. Lovely!



Next morning, we took a walk through Lenton, an affluent, hilly suburb sporting some stunning Victorian Gothic architecture.

We made our way back to Nottingham 'castle' (coming from Wales, I have to say I'm a but underwelmed by the thing) and enjoyed a fine coffee in the cafe after admiring the weird flower display (above) in the castle grounds.

The castle affords some excellent views over the city, but not all of it is a pretty sight.

Despite having some fine architecture lurking in the city, Nottingham has been blighted by hideous, loud, modern office developments which seem to bear no relation to anything around them ( the white 'mini-dome' thing and the new court buildings by the railway are particularly bad examples).



As we hastened back to catch our train, I managed to grab a quick picture of the clock tower at the splendid Neo-Baroque station, built in 1904, by A.E. Lambert.

Biiiig Offline Cabaret Special coming up: Thursday 30th Sept!

I;ve been working like a dog on this one: next Thursday I'm putting on a huge Offline special at the Dogstar in Brixton.

There's over 50 performers/DJs/musicians in total and trying to organise, promote and publicise the whole thing on my own is one hell of a task.

But a great line-up has been finalised and seeing as it's completely free, I'm hoping we'll get a good crowd down there - check out the website for more details....

Our week in Santorini
(I'll be adding more to this - and posting up some photos - so come back soon!)



Day One Tuesday 14th Sept
After a diabolically bad kip, I was up at the unhealthy hour of 5:45am, frantically checking that I hadn't forgotten to pack anything vital.

Fifteen minutes later we were walking through the eerily deserted streets of Brixton. It seems that 6am is too early for attitude, so everyone went about their business in a quiet and polite manner. Most strange.

We took the over-priced Gatwick Express from Victoria and had no hassles getting on our holiday-maker-tastic Thompson flight to Santorini.

Going back to Greece was a bit of a strange experience.

I used to regularly visit the islands in my twenties with a posse of beer-quaffing, skirt chasin' mates. Ios (known as the 'party island') was our location of choice, and what little I can remember of those visits was endless ouzo-imbibing nights spent dancing to awful music, desperate chat up lines and raging all-day hangovers.

The last time I was in Ios I was literally stoned off the island after spending the night with a Swedish girl. When I went to leave in the morning, a stone-faced landlady stood in my path and demanded that I pay rent for my few hours of passion in her hotel.

Seeing as the bed was already paid for his seemed an unreasonable request, so I politely told her to shove her demands right up her retsina.

And then things got a little hairy. Eerie shouting voices were heard from above and then rocks - followed by sizeable boulders - starting reigning down on me, presumably lobbed by members of her family.

I legged it. Fast. Happily, this happened on my last day on the island, so I wouldn't have to fear any more spontaneous avalanches once I was off the island.

But that was then and this is now, and I'm rather hoping that Santorini will find the 'all grown up' version of me more to their liking.


We arrived on the island mid-afternoon and the heat hit as with our first steps off the plane.

An unusually calm cab driver took us to our hotel, although we were concerned when a woman jumped into the front seat, uninvited.

We thought she might be a mini-carjacker, but it turned out it's customary in Greece for cabs to take on additional fares en route.

And what a top idea that is: the cab is used more efficiently and that fares are shared between passengers. Ken - sort it out!

Unlike the shabby, one room dumps of my lustful youth, our apartment turned out to be truly fabulous.



Carved into the volcanic stone of the Caldera crater, there's only one word for the view provided from our balcony - it's chuffin' spectacular!

We're perched on high on the rim of a volcano that blew itself to pieces in 1600BC.

With the centre of the island gone, Santorini took the form of a broken outline of a circle surrounding a deep circular lagoon where the volcano stood. It is beautiful!

Unfortunately, in amongst all this beauty, I'd developed a stinking cold, so our first night in town was a little quiet. We had a traditional Greek meal (they have proper veggie options - yippee!) overlooking the harbour, and chomped through a super-fresh Greek salad as donkeys strolled by.

Authentic stuff!



Day Two Wednesday 15th Sept
As the Merton Parkas sang back in the short lived Mod revival of 1978, 'You Need Wheels'. They certainly had a point.

Although Santorini isn't particularly large, the hills are high and the beaches are scattered all over the place. With public transport on the rare side, a scooter is essential.

One problem though: unlike the carefree days of my youth, drunk tourists are no longer allowed to jump astride powerful bikes and smash their limbs in reckless drunken accidents or drive off cliffs - the authorities now demand the production of a valid driving licence. The cheek of it!

Sadly, I am currently licence-less, but after some formidable hussling and haggling by Fran we were the proud owners of an 80cc scooter, although it perhaps wasn't of the highest quality.

The indicators didn't work, the headlamp was broken, the brake light was a mere memory and there was no sign of life on the dashboard, with the speedo, fuel and warning lights all in non-functioning mode.

But who cares - the thing could move some and we were ready to hit the road.

We were shortly on the road in a Welsh/Italian/Greek convoy consisting of our scooter, a lurid green SUV and a quad bike.

The last time I'd ridden a motorbike was about 15 years ago. And now I was trying to keep up with my speeding chums on an unfamiliar bike, on dodgy bending roads with Em riding on the back.

And on the wrong side of the road.

Visibly ageing as I drove, I somehow managed to keep the scooter from flying off the sharp curves and steep climbs, and it was with major relief that we purred into the gorgeous beach resort of Perivolos.



And what a beach it was! With black volcanic sands and warm seas, I enjoyed my first swim in the sea since (he mumbles shamefully) a less than savoury dip in the icy, suspiciously brown waters of Ogmore On Sea in Wales. I awoke next day to find a strange brown rash on my face.

Happily, no such horrors were to befall me from today's swim - the water is so clean that small fish swim around your feet and there's no strange brown floating objects to be seen!

In the evening we took the spectacular footpath along the rim of the volcano into the main town of Fira.

The town clings precariously to the steep slopes, and at night looks truly magical, with thousands of restaurant and taverna lights sparkling into the distance.

Powerfully illuminated large cruise ships light up the dark seas in the near distance, while the harbour below glistens with the pilot lights of small fishing boats.

It is one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen - imagine looking over a Glastonbury-by-the-Sea at night and you might get some idea....

Day Three Thurs 16th Sept
Another scorchio day!
We breakfasted on the balcony, enjoying the strange mix of foodstuffs that apparently pass for a traditional Greek breakfast: bread, slices of cheese, cherry jam that tastes just like strawberry, the ubiquitous Liptons tea with weird milk stuff and a large slice of sweet cake.

Suitably packed full of calories, we hit the road on our mo'fo', rubber-burnin' bat out of hell steed (all 80cc's of it) and headed south.



Too far south, in fact. An orienteering blunder led to us following dusty, twisting dirt tracks all the way to the very tip of the island at Cape Akrotiri.

It's a dramatic place, looking almost Moon like, with large, grey, open tracts of pumice and basalt stone providing spooky, colourless vistas.

But it was worth the ride, with a short scramble up the 135 metre summit rewarding us with stunning views across the whole island.

After a closer look at the map, we worked out the correct route to our intended destination, the Red Beach - a small, black sand beach, perched precariously under an overhanging red rock cliff face.

Only accessible by foot, the beach offers crystal clear waters, sun loungers for hire and a small traditional cafe playing a mix of Arabic and Greek songs.

We swam, loafed and lolled for several hours before wolfing down a feta salad roll and heading off down the highway home.

In the evening, we took our usual stroll along the picturesque walk along the crater's edge into Fira.

As Fira has grown, the boundaries between the northern villages of Imerovigli (where we're staying) and Firostefani have become blurred, with cafes, restaurants and tavernas forming a near-continuous two mile long stretch.

The restaurants in Fira are perched up high over the harbour, so that diners can enjoy a spectacular view as they chomp away at their Greek salads.

Walking back at night, the stars are incredibly bright and after a few beers, the inevitable, "is there life out there/what's life all about/we're so insignificant etc etc" philosophical tosh came out.

Offline 8: a close one

Last night's Offline went well despite a well wobbly start. When I arrived at the Ritzy, I was horrified to find that the twin CD decks had vanished and been replaced by one utterly crap, hideous carousel CD player.



Not only was it nigh-on impossible to cue any CDs up on this ghastly player, it refused to release your CDs unless you asked it nicely.

With four new DJs booked, things weren't going to plan!

The first DJ set had to be scrapped while much emergency fiddling about with a borrowed CD portable and a mass of cables went on.

In the end, we got things more or less working, but I was left seriously underwhelmed by the Ritzy: seeing as the original CD mixer had blown up the night before, why the chuffin' nobbins couldn't they have called me so that I could have sorted out an alternative? Grrr!



Happily, the DJs - like the pros that they are (!) - rose above the hassle and most people seemed too pissed to notice any of the minor hiccups The night was a blinder!

As usual, I got over excited and ended drinking a little too much in the Dogstar afterwards.

Talking of which, the next Offline is going to be at the Dogstar on the Thursday 30th September and it's going to be something very special!

Set on two floors, there's going to be dancing girls, cabaret, poets, acoustic acts and more DJs that you can throw a Stanton stylus at!

Check the Offline website for more details...

I'm on the tele!

I've just come back from BBC White City where I did an interview about political games on the web

Apparently it's going to be on BBC4 7-7.30pm tonight and on BBC World sometime tomorrow.

Sadly, I won't be able to see it because I'll be busying myself spinning the platters that matter on the wheels'o'steel at Offline Club tonight...but I've seen enough of my ugly mush anyway....

A full-on urban75 weekend!
Sorry for the delay in getting this up, but things have been a tad hectic...

On Friday, we got delightfully smashed at How Does It Feel To Be Loved at the Canterbury Arms, Brixton. I shook a leg in an incoherent manner to several tunes and talked nonsense to anyone within earshot.



On Saturday, we grabbed a coffee at the The Lounge in Atlantic Road, Brixton before getting on a hideously hot bus to East Dulwich and on to the urban75 picnic.

The location was fabulous, affording a superb - nay unequalled! - panoramic view across London.

It's a tough spot to find though, going under various names: Dawson's Hill, Dawson's Heights and Ladlands and this lovely piece of green doesn't even show up on the A-Z!



The weather was glorious, the food over-flowing and the company delightful and we all got slowly drunk as the sun set over London.

Things got a little messy after that. We needed to find a local pub, so while I was on the phone to a mate trying to find where Gooodrich Road was, three of our party got out their A-Zs.

Much frantic searching followed, with the A-Zs being passed around from one baffled viewer to the next. And then a cry: "I got it I got it I got it! It's there."

Three steps further on we saw the street name. Goodrich Road! Ooops!

It was downhill all the way after that. We went to the Crystal Palace with some of us half watching the football while others sought more chemical based entertainment.

The exchange I witnessed between a 'tired and emotional' Jezza and some even more tired and emotional Greek bloke was priceless:

Jezza: Did youzzzz seesh the fooshball? (hic)
Greek bloke: Don't call me Barry
Jezza: I didn't call you Bazzzzy
Greek bloke: Don't call me Barry
Jezza stumbles off, tired, emotional and more confused.


Greek bloke seen puking up in the street later....

London billboards and sandwich board men



So, you're walking along The Strand in 1838, minding your own business, when suddenly you're confronted with a line of walking metal pots. Is the gin taking hold? Have you been imbibing some strong hallucinations?

Nope, you've just encountered one of the many weird and wonderful ways that advertisers tried to promote their products back in pre-Victorian days.

Check out my new article on the History of London Street Advertising and then compare with my Photo Gallery of Human Billboards

London weather pays off!

A few weeks ago, I invested an inordinately large sum of money in a new Nikon D70 dSLR camera and I'm happy to say that it's starting to repay itself already!



A New York agency got in touch saying that they had a client who loved this abstract photo of the Tate Modern and asked if I could mail over a high res version of the file, with the deadline being Wednesday.

Sadly, the photo was taken on a decidely low res digital cam, but I suggested that if they were prepared to grease my palm with some extra spondulas, I'd go out and retake the picture.

They agreed and then the stupidity of my offer sunk in. The original picture had a deep, blue sky behind it. This is London where blue skies can't be guaranteed. Not even in summer.

Thursday was crap weather. So was Friday. But when I woke on Saturday morning, the sun was out! So I rushed out of the house but by the time I'd got out of the tube, it had gone cloudy again.
Arse!

In desperation, I took a load of rubbish grey photos, before sulking off into central London in a hissy fit. I hung about, grabbed some coffee and flipped through some record stores before giving up and walking up to Warren Street.

And then the bastard sun came out again! I quickly legged it all the way back to the Tate, managing to grab only 20 shots before the sun vanished again.



Happily, I've just heard from the client that they're well chuffed with the photos, payment's on the way, so I'm going to have some beers tonight.

Viva le D70!