Category Archives: Miscelanious

Kurt Vannegut on Boots + Music

Weisberg’s Night Rider is a display of ’70s flute at its finest. Pre the album artwork too, only makes the song that much better. If I’m ever cool enough to drop an album then best believe it’ll feature an old racer.

This song was too funky not to include. Came across it on a MAJ Brazilian reggae set where the lady doing the back-to-back kept gesturing a cobra with her hands. She seemed like good energy and this song was doing a lot of the sunny Friday afternoon that I found myself listening to it.

Here’s a Skepta and Novelist rework that captures the silhouetted MCs in what was the resurgence period for the genre. You can just make out the Streetz Iz Watchin’ cap that defined the North London artist’s mid-2010s era, as well as a young Novelist who at the time was championed by all the OGs. Here is the original set for those wondering.

The first two tracks came from the MAJ YouTube channel, as well as coming across another Mellow Grime producer in RONIN. These three songs weren’t available on Spotify, reminding me of how disappointed I get when actively searching for new music outside the platform’s algorithms.

Also here are some words about a pair of boots which really stood out to me while reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5:

"Those boots were almost all he owned in this world. They were his home. An anecdote: One time a recruit was watching him bone and wax those golden boots, and he held one up to the recruit and said, 'If you look in there deeply enough, you'll see Adam and Eve.'

Billy Pilgrim had not heard this anecdote. But, lying on the black ice there, Billy stared into the patina of the corporal's boots, saw Adam and Eve in the golden depths. They were naked. They were so innocent, so vulnerable, so eager to behave decently. Billy Pilgrim loved them.

Next to the golden boots were a pair of feet which were swaddled in rags. They were crisscrossed by canvas straps, were shod with hinged wooden clogs. Billy looked up at the face that went with the clogs. It was the face of a blond angel, of a fifteen-year-old boy.

The boy was as beautiful as Eve.

There’s a lot of religious symbolism which I haven’t broken down yet. If a boot is so shiny and golden, thus acting like a mirror in which that person can look into their soul. Whether or not that person is pure enough to possess that energy within is to be decided. Anywho, I’ll be looking out for more boot related sections as I read on. So It Goes.

Sticking with the abandoned footwear narrative, here is a cool video of someone putting together images of lost footwear they found in Thailand. It’s only available in 240p as it was uploaded about back in 2019, which in hindsight is no excuse as to why this should be such a low resolution. Perhaps it was an aesthetic choice, in which case I fully respect the creative license. A pioneer some might say, and with a name as cool as “Sill E”, I’m starting to think I’ve stumbled across this era’s Kubrick. You’ve earnt yourself a subscriber Mr E.

Pub Thoughts 1.0

From the chimes of salsa playing out of a somewhat disheveled speaker
to the bongs and bangs of a local spoons.
"What you saying, film night?"
A retiree suggests as he himself sways among
a rather mock-extravagant carpet.
The thought of a few grown men sitting around the Tele in any sort of regular capacity is an endearing one.
Another re-watch of an old western or Kung Fu dvd
that has got pint glass rings printed onto it seems to be round the corner.
I might even watch a film now.
Not with the three gentlemen, although that could be a good story.
Tinny phone speakers play out the beckons of a football commentator,
another person on a grass pitch has kicked a ball in the right direction,
it's what it really boils down to.
Although everything can be simmered down to it's most basic - what's the fun in that?
Romanticise everything I say.
Or at least almost everything.
A man peels off his high Vis jacket as he steps into the pub,
perhaps a late commute home from the office?
I hardly think he's just clocked off from another shift as a lolly pop lady.
I guess he'd be called a lolly pop person these days.
Lolly Pop ladies must have a strong sense of fulfillment,
protecting future generations on a day-to-day basis.
I regret my choice of seat,
The constant waff of urinal cakes are not aiding this semi-satisfactory Guinness.
I'll probably leave in 10.

Random writings: Training Day 34

Some of my best thoughts take place on trains.
That's not to say I can't think anywhere else.
Words come easier when you're not rooted to one spot.
A harmony with my ever changing mind.
I just saw a tractor going abouts it day.
The tractor doesn't care about what nikes are on the shelf,
but should it?
I'd be more keen to purchase one of it came with a sick pair of trainers attached the bottom,
then again I'm not the target market,
Nor could I afford one.
I was in a park yesterday and heard the wind rushing through the trees.
psithurism.
I had to Google that. I saw it on a tote back once,
Isn't that sad.
That snapshot in time was the most peaceful I'd felt that weekend,
gazing at the murky canal waters only gave me a minor snippet of that feeling.
I passed Stocky P
No one calls it that apparently,
a missed opportunity if you ask me.
Everything is better in life if you make it rhyme.
Not literally everything, especially not crime.
You see?
We're stopping at Crewe now,
I wonder what the charity shops are like.
Books rich with local history or live laugh love pillows,
Either would do at this point.
This train isn't as fun now that's it's stationary,
my thoughts are slowing down.
London Euston inbound,
Suitcase wheels against the ground,
people turning their head around...
I should stop now.

Big Ben and a Pint of Guinness

Since moving to London, part of the proverbial dream has been to enjoy a cold pint of Guinness while taking in the bongs of Big Ben. It may seem silly to some, one not even worth having according to others, however, I look past this just as you should. Of course, it is not the dream, the one that keeps me up at night (perhaps it did on one occasion), those are somewhat more personal.

As I was heading home after hoovering down the tastiest of lunches in what I was told to believe, was the only Costa Rican restaurant in London, I suddenly realised how close I was to Elizabeth Tower. Having stopped at Westminster, I checked my watch and knew it would only be fifteen minutes until Big Ben’s hourly chime. I impulsively got off, narrowly avoiding the closing doors. I felt like I was the star in an action film, like if Jason Bourne was trying to maniacally hear the sound of a clock. Perhaps a plot suggestion for the kids version if they ever fancy rebranding.

Stepping out of the station, I spotted a pub, a mere hundred metres under the gaze of the Golden Tower. With less than fifteen minutes to settle myself and grab a pint of Guinness, time was of the essence (pardon the pun). £6.95 later and I was sat on the nearest seat possible, giving myself the best view of the historic building. Next to me sat a tourist couple feasting on a portion of fish and chips, an apt detail given the overall context.

Three police motorbikes would race past at 16:56, their sirens only adding to the anticipation, a piercing noise that risked swallowing up the moment I was here to witness. Luckily, things quietened down in the minute lead-up, an understanding among the crowd of people that they too were about to hear the oldest sound of London itself.

The chimes rang loud and clear, a noise that captured the attention of those below it, a feat it had proudly carried out for over a century. Caught up in capturing the video, I lost the magic of the first set of chimes, allowing myself to fully appreciate the deeper bongs that had long been a part of British culture. Whether it was on the BBC news at 6 PM or one of the many BBC archive documentaries, it was the first time I could remember hearing its magnificent chimes in person – a memory I shall never forget.

Now I can neither confirm nor deny that this is the exact pint glass I photographed alongside Big Ben. All I can say is that this particular glass of squash tasted a lot more refreshing than usual. Make of that what you will…

Big Ben and Stewed Eels

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.

My Favourite Vintage T shirt’s

I recently picked up a new vintage T shirt. Surprise, surprise. I suppose for those of you who don’t now me on a personal level, it would be a surprise. So lets just say it’s very on-brand for me. Seeing @thewonderfulflight post on their Instagram story one Sunday, that their “£10 pound rail was back”, I felt it only right to check it out. Having picked up about 15 or so vintage t shirts from this closing down sale in Middlesbrough only the day before, I most likely should have skipped his opportunity however I could not resist. I justified it to myself as a pre-gym pitstop, nothing more, nothing less.

I arrived about 20 minutes later, taking a leisurely commute on my trusty Raleigh Road bike, as it was a pleasant summers day. Seeing the rail outside, I confirmed with guy working the shop that it was in fact the £10 section. I scoured the rails and eventually found two t shirts I was fond of. One of them was this pale-yellow t shirt with this cool stick figure graphic in which the faces were monochromatic. Very hip. The other one which I slightly preferred was a very light-pink t shirt with a wholesome, lettering graphic on the front. “Coolest Grandpa in the World” it read. Or at least that’s what I thought it read. I’m all for ironic t shirt’s, and whilst I am pretty sure that I am not a grandpa, I thought it would be a whimsical thought for anyone reading the t shirt to have. Trying them both on, I confirmed I looked Andre 3 stacks and headed to the counter to purchase them.

One sweaty gym session later and I was headed to my friends for a takeaway. The meal was wolfed down in no time at all as I had built up quite the appetite. Eventually the fact that I had gone and purchased yet again more vintage t shirts had become the talking point. “ahh here we go, what did you get this time?” asked my mate, rolling his eyes back.

“Nah trust these are actually too cool” I replied, unzipping my bag, getting ready to show them. I prewarned them as I knew it wouldn’t be their cup of tea to begin with, letting them know I was in fact now certified as “The Coolest Grandpa in the World”. Holding the t shirt up so they could both read it, one of them shouted. “You know it says Coolest Grandma,not Coolest Grandpa”. My face dropped. They started howling. “No it doesn’t” I said in disbelief. I was in fact wrong. At this point the slightly pink colour of the t shirt made a whole lot more sense. Was the irony of the slogan stretched too far? I wondered. It had gone from faintly unbelievable, to unrealistic. A rather large difference if you ask me. Was I going to get approached by those rabid street interviewers asking me for my pronouns? I better start practising my “they/them” response asap in that case. The t shirt was still wholesome and now tapped into a feminist vibe which I was most evidently here for. I loved my grandma too; she was quite the character and am sure she would have appreciated me wearing this t.

I now sit here typing this out in the exact pro-Grandma t shirt that I have been describing. I have accidently slept in it and have worn it on my train commute back home. I feel like I have fully embraced the t shirt and it has embraced me back. It’s a work in progress but I think we’ll get there with persistence and gratitude. Luckily, I didn’t bump into any interviews on the journey home, although I did see a few people staring at my torso area. I was ready to put down my copy of Jack Keroauc’s On the Road, blurting out the pronouns I had practiced earlier. Apologies, I am just being silly at this point but the point still stands, this is most definitely my favourite t shirt at the moment.

A Hike at Edale with my 15 year old Phone

All Photos taken on the Sony Ericsson Cyber-Shot (2008)

I went to Edale again. It had been almost a year since my last visit. I was supposed to go with a friend but because she fell ill, I had to travel Solo (I’m not talking Han). I knew the journey there all too well. Board the train to Sheffield that leaves Manchester Piccadilly every hour at ten-to, 45 minutes later and you’re there, slap bang in the Peak District. A short walk from the train station and I found myself on the same route that I had walked before. It was a fair, old trek from what I remember clocking in at about 15KM’s but the weather was perfect, so I was here for it.

Whilst Ascending I got a call from my mate in London. The Daily call to talk about the curses and blessings of life seemed all too familiar. The subject of this conversation revolved around me convincing him to pay for my night out in London with some of his illustrious and well-paid friends. The exercise seemed futile and resulted in a strong no, however it helped me forget about the ascent, so proved useful. As I got to the top, it was very evident that my t shirt was soaked through with sweat. There hadn’t been much of a breeze so cooling down was proving particularly challenging. I tied the t shirt to my backpack and decided to let it dry off in the suns heat. This worked well as by the time I was ready to descend Jacob’s Ladder it was nice and dry. Making my way around the circular trail above, I recalled the footsteps and particular rocks that I had passed by a year before.

It had been hatching season from what I could see as all the flying ants were crawling about the rocks. They didn’t prove to be much of a nuisance in the end, making only for the occasional swat of the hand. Not having done much trail running in the months previous I only dabbled in that form of exercise on the hike. I was cautious of not twisting an ankle as the lack of practice could have rendered them weak. To make the walk harder, I decided to hold off on any food or beverage until I had hit the 10KM mark. Making up to the point of ascension was nearly 5KM so doing another 5K seemed manageable.

Once I hit the 10KM mark I immediately stopped for a heavy gulp of water, a cliff bar and a very timely banana. Whilst trying to enjoy the view and the recently consumed nutrition, I became a local hot spot for the flying ants so decided to go on my merry way. I still couldn’t quite see Jacob’s Ladder so I asked two on coming hikers if they had ascended that way. They replied with a kind “Yes” and after bit of map-pointing later, we established it was about another 3KM.

A quick 3KM later and there I was once again, at the top of the Ladder. I had just missed two mountain bikers who had begun their descent. I would poop bricks if I had to descend by bike, it certainly wasn’t for the faint hearted. Making my way down, I let myself gather some speed as I’d recently found out that stopping your momentum too much on a downhill section was quite bad for the knees. This seemed to work well because not 5 minutes later, I raised my head up and realised I was at the bottom. Strava seemed to back up my quick descent too, receiving a shiny Gold Medal for my quickest descent to-date. Sure, I was far off first place but that was nae bother.

Unfortunately, the walk back to Edale seemed to drag on as I would usually have run this section in order to make it for the train. However, I had time to kill, which meant a pint at the Ramblers Inn. I had always walked past the pub but never stopped for a libation. My casual drinking days were few and far between but today seemed like a perfect day for a pint of cider. “Pint of water and a pint of cider please mate”. He looked at my ‘Another happy climber’ Frog T shirt and proceeded to pour me my liquids. Waiting for my drinks, a man seemed to struggle keeping control of his dog. He’d lost the lead at the top of Mam Tor and wasn’t exactly keen to go rushing back for it. I didn’t mind and neither did the other people dotted about the pub. The dog was just having a nose about as it was designed to.

I sat down alone and sank the glass of water so as to not finish the cider off too quickly. It didn’t work. Although I was no longer as thirsty which was nice. With time to spare, I strolled to the Train Station which was literally round the corner. The sun was setting as I sat down on the gravel platform. Another successful hike, another solo hike. A few hours to think and gather my thoughts. It was quiet up there on the hill tops, which reflected the current noise levels in my head.

The train ride back was fun. All the windows were open, so the breeze was more than pleasant. There was another curious dog lay down in front of me. He would scan the carriage, but I couldn’t make of what he saw. Sometimes I wasn’t sure of what I was seeing myself. I could see it but often wouldn’t give it much more than a fleeting thought. I’d save that for the more important things, like where would I hang up my 6ft, French Lord of the Rings poster. A thought that frequently crossed my mind these last few weeks. I suppose I’ll stop wondering once I’ve figured it out.

I was at Piccadilly now and my thirstiness has subsided into hunger. I headed to Ancoats Square thinking a Rudy’s would sort me right out only to change my mind. A burrito seemed more fitting. Wolfing down this burrito with a two-litre bottle of sparkling water whilst trapsing along Oxford Road, was the last image that stayed with me that evening. The Bus didn’t really seem with today’s trip, so I walked home instead. I headed for the shower and hit the hay. ‘A good day wasn’t it’, I thought, drifting off to sleep.

Click here to check out another post full of pictures taken on the Sony Ericsson Cyber-Shot

Wearing the “Pars’R’Us” T to Holland & Barrett

I was in Holland and Barrett earlier buying some vitamin D tablets with my mum. Whilst getting my Clubcard out, one of the ladies behind the counter asked me, “what does ‘Pars r us’ mean?”. The way she asked me in her classic southern mum voice made me chuckle. I hesitated for a moment as I wasn’t sure what angle to approach the question with. Do I try and give her a mini lesson in the history of Grime? Would she even know what Grime is? Do I reference Tempa T? Do I tell her Westwood taught Tempa’s mum how to par on her knees … in the alleyway? These were all of questions that rushed through my head during those 3 seconds that I clambered for an appropriate answer.

In the end I just said “It’s a reference to a niche music genre from the early 2000s” to which I didn’t get much of a reply. I think I may have gotten a, “ah okay” at best. I felt like perhaps she wasn’t satisfied with the answer, feeling like I was holding back but ultimately, I didn’t think she’d have resonated with the full answer. “It’s a play on the Toys’r’us logo. Pars mean insult basically” I added. Once again, I refrained from adding Westwood’s specific example of parring; she wouldn’t have benefitted from such an image. I left the shop wondering if she would ever stumble across the Next Hype music video and think “I’ve seen that T shirt!”. In fact, I wonder if they’ve got a white board in their staff room similar to the one in Westwood’s Office with their par count next to their names. “Linda | 34 Pars”. Either way she was ‘today years old’ when she came across one of Grime’s best bootleg T’s.

westwood pointing out Peter’s rediculus Par count compared to Tempz’s

Manchester Through The Sony Ericcson Cybershot (2006)

I bought an old Sony Ericcson Cyber-Shot off of Depop in the first Lockdown. The Phone arrived and it felt very nostalgic. My cousin in Peru used to have one. I remember he had Cristiano Ronaldo as his background. He was a big football fan. I bought it so I could use an old mobile phone to stay in contact with people if they needed to reach me without all the hassle of other apps constantly sending me notifications. Turning the phone on, I realised that you needed a SIM card for it to work. This led to me umming and arring for over a year, letting the phone gather dust. One day I finally went into an EE shop asking about a getting a pay-as-you-go SIM card. The lady said they didn’t offer that service anymore and that I could pick one up from Poundland. She was right. £1 later, I had a SIM card ready to pop into my old Sony Ericson. A waited over a year for that. You don’t ask, you don’t get.

I later then discovered the novelty of the camera’s phone. Marketing back in the day surrounded the idea that this mobile was in fact as good as your point and shoot. Boasting a solid 3.2 megapixels, I decided to give it a crack. So here are some shots I took up whilst back in Manchester.