Week 27

Hey chicks!
So i've just eaten a chicken Kiev that went off in the 80s and am watching a slideshow of pictures of young Voldemort put to Lady Gaga with my housemates and thinking, isn't life strange?
It's now going on to a jazz singalong of 'Dudley needs a grapefruit diet' so will make this brief:
never, ever take yourself too seriously.





So rather than spending the day
a. catching up on a weeks worth of Russian grammar
b. writing an essay on the Dreyfus affair
c. washing up any of our crockery so we can stop using disposables
I got roped into Fran's 'christmas craft day' which consisted of eating Quality Streets, getting pissed on cheap red wine and going ape shit with the glitter. All in all excellent progress.

This week we love...



Canal boating in winter- a survivors tale

Last week Alex Ressel, London artist and master of high culture asked me if I'd like to accompany him on a canal boat trip. With no idea of where we were travelling to or from, important university engagements lined up and absolutely no experience in boating, I accepted on the spot. You only live once, and fannying around canals like a beast from the Wind and the Willows seemed endlessly more interesting than learning to ask the way to the swimming pool in Russian. This is an account of our experiences.
Day 1:
Drove from London to Saun Junction where the Susan Mary was awaiting. Upon arrival we found out that the heating, lights and hot water weren't working, and learnt that while boat men take great pride in their expertise, they're absolutely fucking useless when it comes to fixing boats. Three different, although physically identical, boatmen squeezed their burly selves up and down the boat pointing out problems but finding no solutions although they all worked in the shipyard and one of them even remembered building the Susan Mary. Most helpful suggestion was to go to the pub. Followed expert advice and spent the evening eavesdropping on a congregation of racist old men in the local. One of many hilarious snippets:
*I get up to leave and put on my big furry hat*
Old Man 1: Oooh, I see you've been to Moscow!
Old Man 2: Mosques, bloody, bloody MOSQUESSSSssss. All over the country.
Old Man 3: We won't be allowed to drink beer soon...
Old Man 2: I was born in the twilight of the British EMPIRRRRRRRRE *unidentifiable gurgling sounds* Bloody fucking Mosques.

Classic. Went back to the boat, burnt mushroom pie, drank too much wine and went to sleep fully dressed (total of 7 layers including coat).

Day 2:
Filled up the tank and headed off on our epic adventure. Was very pleased to learn that manoeuvring a canal boat is extremely easy and calm. You only ever travel at 3 miles an hour so had lots of time to feel serene and smug about my tiller skills in between thawing out my toes and eating cheesy toast. The scenery wasn't too shabby either although the high banks sometimes meant you couldn't see the surrounding countryside but you get to see a lot of very cool industrial sites. Arrived safely in Gloucester and parked up in the Marina. Made the slight faux pas of crushing my foot in between the boat and the jetty in a moment of misplaced heroism but three layers of socks prevented any serious harm. Screamed a bit but it was too cold to even contemplate taking all my layers off to observe the damage so soldiered on and spent the afternoon seeing the sights of Gloucester. Began a game where we tried to spot people with no teeth but where soon distracted by the marvel that is the local newspaper. Second page news read: 'Fury as car boot sale in cancelled'
Fury. Not annoyance or even anger, fury. It came with a picture of a woman standing in front of a selection of fake pumpkins, shrugging her shoulders like 'well where the shit am I going to sell my tat now?' You've got to love provincial life.
Other highlights included:
. Robert Raikes' house: a lovely Samuel Smith pub which had a total of 5 rooms with fireplaces and an interior like a boutique hotel. Locals warned us that the place is in fact haunted, as Robert Raikes was the man who invented Sunday School and probably suffered ever since.
. The Guildhall: entertainment hall which contains my new favourite cinema. It was basically a little old concert hall with an extremely high ceiling and makeshift chairs with the cinema screened hung up above the stage and an old man operating the reels.
. Gloucester Cathedral: absolutely massive but weirdly friendly atmosphere. They'd obviously given up on intimidating people into religion and instead installed a gift shop and smiley grannies at the entrance. The local primary school was practicing their nativity play when we went in which, accompanied by the world's most god awful orchestra got me all excited about christmas. This along with very very impressive stain glass windows made for an uplifting excursion.
. 99p Store: Bought 4 hot water bottles and some foam swords. The man at the till challenged us to a duel but wouldn't give us a discount after we slaughtered him which was a shame. Excellent buys never the less.

Day 3: Woke up to find out engine wasn't working. Luckily enough the man in the boat next to us was a diesel mechanic but unluckily we were told that the battery was fucked and we'd have to buy a new one. Much faffing around sorting things out so ended up being stuck in Gloucester another day. Smothered our sorrows in purple gratin dauphinois.

Day 4: Got up at the crack of dawn and set off at break neck speed to make up for lost time. Went through two electronic locks, operated two manual ones and manoeuvred two swing bridges as well. Felt like fucking pros. Unfortunately we also cruised through a stupid amount of ice (some of it 2 inches thick, felt like we were on the Titanic minus the soundtrack) and broke the exhaust. Result was a stupid amount of black smoke coming out the back of the boat and our speed reduced to crawling level which in turn meant we didn't make our target before the sun went down and wound up operating a guillotine lock in an unknown marina in the pitch black. Oh and it was raining. Somehow managed to tie the boat up, packed up all our belongings and scrambled up a muddy path to try and figure out where the fuck we were. You probably can't imagine how much this looked like the setting for a horror film, two youths with backpacks wandering around in the dark with nothing but a 3 LSD torch and no houses for exactly a mile in each direction. Amazingly enough we were not pulled into the woods by feral children but trekked in the dark for a mile and ended up in Eckington where we collapsed in a pub and ate sticky toffee pudding.

So after 4 days of being in minus temperatures, we were finally back to civilisation. I got home and took my clothes off for the first time in three days, not proud to say that I stunk like fucking stilton and my feet had gone this weird milky white colour from being cold and damp for too long. Also the toe nail on my pinky fell off (not entirely sure why) and the foot that got crushed by the boat is a bit black and veiny with a swollen ankle. Lush. On the plus side I still feel like I'm on a boat which is a similar sensation to being high and ceilings that I can't hit my head on have become something of a novelty.
A character building experience all round.

ps. If you want to get an idea of the kind of people I referred to as 'boatmen' perhaps you could subscribe to 'Towpath: Britain's fastest growing waterways publication' where you can read a 750 word article on the lost art of waving at passing boats. Amazing.

Waldeck- Ballroom Stories

Viennese producer Waldeck's new album invites you to "lose the spliff, get off the sofa and twirl your feet on the polished dance floors of the ballroom's and speakeasies of the late 1920s" and it really isn't an unreasonable request. Contagious but incredibly classy, the music is labelled as electronica jazz (whatever that might mean) and will make you dream of elbow length gloves and drinking gin in teacups. Waldeck explains that he is "fascinated by the lust for life and the character of this era. In those days women had long cigarettes and their only raison d'etre seemed to be the pursuit of pleasure. The swing music of the 1920s and 1930s was born of both high artistic quality and 100% entertainment". This isn't too say that it's all a melancholy look back, rather a modern take on an era that did so much right. Favourite track is 'Addicted'.


Mr Nice- Bernard Rose

One of Gloucester's few endearing features, the city's Guildhall was screening Mr Nice when we cruised into town and besides allowing us to sit in a heated room for an hour and a half, the evening was hugely entertaining. The film is a screenplay adaptation of Howard Mark's autobiography and follows his life from dorky Welsh school boy to elite British drug dealer. The part is effortlessly played by Rhys Ifans whose long limbs and shaggy hair almost make you believe that drug dealers could be these charming Oxford gentlemen who just happen to love pot. Other cast members include Chloe Sevigny who plays his submissive but gorgeous wife and David Thewlis who takes on the role of hilarious if not perverted and totally neurotic IRA terrorist Jim. The ensemble create a fun if probably fairly unrealistic account of the life of a drug dealer, but you'll leave feeling happy and with a little perspective on your worries about evading council tax/avoiding parking tickets/skipping lectures. Illegal without being bad ass.


The Boogaloo- 312 Archway Rd, London N6 5AT

Having been told that the toothless guy from The Pogues lived above the pub I was extremely surprised to see it described as "the sweetest little juke joint in the world!" The pub's mission statement is to "return to music's golden era, a time when boogaloo was hip, Elvis was king, Jack Kennedy as a poster boy and vinyl was all the rage" but the place isn't nearly as twee as it sounds. Actually it looks like a totally ordinary pub save for the strange quotes from random Irishmen painted on the walls (favourite being 'There are women who don't and women who haven't been asked properly") so I think the focus is just on good live music. They've also got a fairly impressive jukebox which contains 100 albums, all of which are at least 10 years old to prove that they are in fact classics and every month they ask a celebrity of some sort to choose their top 10 favourite albums. Coincidentally this include's Howard Mark's (see Mr Nice) selection:
1. Forever Changes- Love
2. Blonde on blonde- Bob Dylan
3. The Golden Hits of the Shangri Las- The Shangri Las
4. Follow Me- Amanda Lear
5. Between the Buttons- The Rolling Stones
6. Cruising with Ruben and the Jets- Ruben and the Jets (Frank Zappa)
7. Have Twangy Guitar Will Travel- Duane Eddy
8. Shaking All Over- Johnny Kidd and the Pirates
9. You Don't Know What You've Got- Ral Donner
And I can't find number 10.


Also...


Can't even imagine what goes through these guys heads.