All posts by hamishcraig

Miscelanious

Big Ben and Stewed Eels

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My sudden thirst to hear the historical chimes of Big Ben was somewhat quenched over the weekend. Hearing its quarter bell ring certainly had its effect on me, however as we moved closer to its grand presence, the mood was soured due to an unfortunate Deliveroo driver accident. My want for historical vibrations had dampened after seeing another human being lying unconscious on Westminster Bridge, an apt metaphor for the times in which we currently live (he was okay in the end). Nevertheless, the goal of hearing Big Ben sing out with a Guinness in hand is very much still alive. I’m sure a sunny day in Spring should do the trick.

Saturday would carry on the London-centric theme, another day to embrace the rich culture that formed some of Big Smoke’s various plumes. Heading to Mile End, it was but a short walk to G. Kelly’s, an institution that had been beating away since 1939. Throughout the decades, Kelly’s would have served many an East Londoner, all of whom I suspect left with bellies full and a smile upon their face. Arriving just after three with the market outside beginning to peter out, the five of us nestled ourselves in amongst the booths.

2 Pie, 1 Mash is what I ordered along with a portion of Stewed Eels. After seeing a marvellous BBC Archives video on Jellied Eels the week before, I was adamant on trying a few of the wriggly sea creatures, however, one glance at them left me a little hesitant. Afraid of missing out, I opted for a Stewed Bowl instead.

The pies and mash went down a treat, helped by Kelly’s selection of chilli-infused vinegar oil that gave them an extra kick. Ten minutes later, the bowl of Eels had made its way onto the table, “watch out for the bones” warned the man. I took my first bite, the ’70s market stool owner’s cockney accent replaying in my ears, I hoped he’d be proud. As you might be able to tell, I’m not all too well-versed with food reviews, so I’ll just say they were hearty. Not as fishy as the tomatoed sardines I’d had the night before, but fishy nonetheless. The questionably green liquor helped ease them down, and a few minutes later they had met the same fate as the two pies before it.

A short stroll led us to a corner pub, the red-tiled exterior and dimly lit features had all the markings of a great local. A couple of Guinness would swiftly follow, coupled with a solid assortment of London-based chat. All in all, a great weekend and wholesome evening. London aye.

Poetry

January Poetry: Wooden Smiles

Leave a comment 
Smiles across the table
felt different,
more lines to count
between the ripples in the bark.
They had once grown tall
reaching for the sun,
realising it was not heat they were after
but warmth.
One found low down on the Forrest floor
where leaves had 
began to wither and
yellow.
Light breaking
through the canopy,
beams more beautiful
to acknowledge
than the walls of light above.
Their smiles would speak of stories
most of which were the
ones they told before,
more and more unaware
that the remaining few that were so much
harder to share.
Their walls like the canopy
would grow thick and dense,
blocking out the light that was
always there.
From then on we let the beams through
and warmth with it,
allowing that which lay down below
the best chance to grow.
Shoes

Buying Shoes in Return To Seoul

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I finally watched Return To Seoul the other day. It will stay with me for a long time. As if this was Ji-Min Park’s debut acting appearance.

Similar to a scene in Paris, Texas by Wim Wenders where the protagonist has a line of shoes sat on a wall after having polished them because of his insomnia.

This scene involves the main character’s (Freddie) father offering to buy her a pair of shoes from the village market from his childhood. There’s a deep connection when buying someone footwear, especially when it comes to your child.

Here, the father takes the opportunity to protect his daughter’s feet, a role he would have enjoyed filling if he had not regrettably given her up for adoption decades ago. His longing for connection is a feeling we encounter throughout the film’s runtime, achieved here in a minor way through this simple act.

Growing up in a catholic school, you would often hear about Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. A symbolic act, this idea was referred to many a time, its meaning something I still have yet to fully appreciate to this day.

The symbolism in this scene can go amiss, it’s only fleeting afterall – yet its moments like this where director Davy Chou has gradually painted a portrait which feels so very real.

If I ever create a book about footwear then best believe this moment will be printed in amongst the pages.

Couldn’t recommend this film more, especially if you’re in your mid 20s.

Sidenote – I do actually rate Ballet shoes

Poetry

January Poetry: The Workyard Boat

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I had rarely felt.
Just as a boat stuck in a work yard would feel.

Rust,
small puddles
all randomly collected on this
long forgotten vessel.
It had once begun its life existing among the seas.
The Sea was real.
It was almost certain of it.
Yet,
spatterings were the only whispers it had ever
heard of its existence.
Distant memories only scribed onto its keel,
faded paint its own cave drawings.


The other boats had been and gone.
News of their voyage
lost against the shores,
where the sand would lap up various tales,
keeping it all unto itself.
The beach was good at holding on.

The boat would sit there suspended for many moons to come,
or at least that's what it had thought.

(Inspired by Late – Nils Frahm)

Poetry

December Poetry: last day on the job

Leave a comment 
He'd hung up his boots,
unsure of where he fit against
the modern world.
Damn, he's not sure when he'd last felt one with it.
Time had a funny way of seeming real slow
but real fast all at once.
A puzzle piece led astray,
too far for whoever was putting together
the big picture
to lean over and grab.
He didn't mind the outskirts though,
where people were less,
fewer objects to fall into 
and even less things to eat you alive.

A hat and pistol,
two items that'd sure stuck by him
the last few decades,
and he by them.
Late nights spent cleaning out the barrel,
polishing the chambers,
yet he hadn't shot anything more than a rattle snake
since he'd first wrapped his fingers round it.
Even timid Tom down at station 302
had shot a mountain lion.
"Better to have it and not use it than the other way around" his daddy use to told him.
Suppose the old man was right.
He'd be smiling up there knowing so.

This lowly trash can seemed like the right place
to leave the two,
a whole heap a nothing
since he'd handed in his badge.
Not a tear in his eye,
he wasn't one for big feelings,
wasn't big on anything in particular
if he was being honest.
Life had all but drained away,
just in time to spend his retirement years.
Life was funny like that some times.
Days ahead were for sipping on a cold one
in the sun
with nothing else on his mind.
At least that was the plan.
He didn't know what to make of it all,
but that didn't bother him,
he'd have plenty time to dwell on it.

As he walked away,
the floor beneath him felt lighter as
a single tear started to form in his eye.
A childhood spent playing
cowboys and Indians
was his sole thought in that moment.

Just like that,
a drink on his porch didn't sound too bad after all.
Poetry

December Poetry: Sandy Wings

Leave a comment 
A bird stood in sand
is a confused creature.
Unsure of the waves ahead,
too tired to explore the grass beyond.
A sort of limbo.
Resting
while grains of sand 
slowly mount on its webbed feet.
A subtle weight that goes 
unnoticed,
yet soon becomes 
irritating.
Over time the bird would grow to hate the substance.

Its head doesn't twitch.
Unbothered by the wind
it could gently handle,
deciding to greet it's impact instead.
Peace was no longer part of its life,
a distant memory of it's nest days.
Even flight was lost.
Not a freedom,
but a disdain for vast heights
and even bigger drops.

The bird stood in the sand,
unmoving.
Music Explored

Weekend Finds + Favourites: 04/11/23

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An oldschool UK underground classic which I recently came across during the Channel U Documentary on YouTube. A sound I missed out on when I first moved to the UK in the early 00s. This sound would eventually break it onto the mainstream via tracks like Green Light by Roll Deep and Skepta’s Amnesia and Rescue Me, where kids outside of London would finally get a taste of what the UK underground had to offer. Although, if you ask a lot of artists today about that mainstream period, you’ll be sure to get mixed reviews.

The skit at the end of the track is also gold, spelling out the awkwardness of teenage experience that many have undoubtedly been through.

Another Oldschool Grime remix from Oakland, which is also on Sportify unlike many of the bootleg edits of today. A smooth RnB take on JME, Bossman Birdie and Big H’s infamous clip. Unlike the WIZE Edit version, this track takes the lyrics down a more relaxed route, not to take anything away from WIZE’s energetic take.

A track I just stumbled across, packing an absolute tonne of energy. Putting a HIP HOP spin on Headie One’s Drill classic, Golden Boot, it’s certainly one for any fans of the original. I’ll be waiting for the day this hits Spotify. Uploaded over a year ago, lets hope this rework gets the recognition it truly deserves.

Poetry

October Poetry: Tunisian Waters

Leave a comment 
The surface
was a series of small
mountain tops,
each less summitable
than the other.
A brief moment of existence,
a collection of fleeting moments.
The sun translated onto
a rippled ocean floor
where fish would embrace
the flashes of the big light in the sky.
Humans would try and mimic this,
falling short of truly acknowledging
it's power.
Stood in the shallow waters,
instead of swimming out
to where the earth's pull
became less obvious,
unable to enjoy
the feeling of flight.
Music Explored

Weekend Finds: 15/10/23

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Given we’re aproaching the anniversary of Virgil Abloh’s passing, I found myself heading back to a number of the many DJ sets he left with us to enjoy. I often find myself listening back to one of his talks throughout the year, finding it an immense source of inspiration as I try to understand the brilliant human he was. This track was from one of his Televised Radio sets, a series that he began during the first lockdown, livestreaming his mixes from IG live where he could be found spinning on a translcuent Pioneer deck sat atop a heavy canvas piece designed by Denim Tears. I will always find it sad that I never got to meet him or even witness one of his many live sets, a feeling I’m sure that many have felt and will continue to feel for decades to come. Regardless, we must be greatful for the all the “Free Game” he left behind.

This was a beautifully atmospheric track that he queued towards the beginning of his set. However his version featured a heart felt poem from Sonny Hall, an individual who a friend had put me onto a few months prior. Sadly, I cannot find that particular version anywhere, believing it to be one of Virgil’s personal editions. If you fancy giving it a listen then head to track 09 on this set at around 35:20 and you’ll understand what I’m on about. It’s also worth acknowledging Ryuichi Sakamoto’s piano playing throughout, another genius talent we lost to cancer.

Another producer steps onto the Grime instrumental clip scene in the form of 808mystic. Placing a different spin on Skepta’s famous Westwood session, this one provides an alternative energy to the Wize edits but still one worth adding to the playlist.

Probably one of the most human pieces I’ve heard in a long time. Well worth the 11 minute + run time, especially when you give yourself the chance to recognise how simple yet profound Simone’s lyrics were and still are.

Before I forget, here’s a track my 2018 Bristol-living self would have loved back in the day.
Poetry

October Poetry: The Human Towel

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Borrowing someone's towel is as human as it gets,
Each other's basic recognition that sleeping wet is simply no fun, 
Not to mention getting your clothes wet.
A premonition between the two that an intimacy will be shared.
The Human Towel exchange is a magical thing, 
Sparsely shared,
Especially now-a-days.
When I'm older I want my towel handovers to be fun. 
A nice moment shared when grabbing a 1998 Wimbledon towel from the other person,
A simple chuckle as they read the year on the frilly textile,
Before rubbing it all over their naked bodies like the bar of soap before it.
Share more towels,
If you can
Although not too many
As there are nasty things floating about.