Friday, September 30, 2005

Modernity Flavours

This one's for Jed
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
They left the house this afternoon clutching a sealey-bag full of milk. So many stories to tell. It's been a funny week or so. Blindy still hasn't gone to any festivals. Bankruptcy is threatening. Turmoil is raging. Coincidences burst open like crop circles. Coffee boils in a silver tall pot. Blood is mopped up. We are given the illusion that the world is small. Part of the ceiling falls in. Drinking Hommelbier in bed like parents without a Teasmaid. Dreams of a lustful rat.

Hey Tom, do you fancy forming a faux Tweemo band? I play a mean recorder.

So I suddenly thought; "Goodness me. What a lot of students there are about these days." And then I realised that term might have started. It has. I missed the 'Free Wine for Postgraduates' event. Savage. But then on the other hand, I'm beginning to wonder; to what extent am I actually a student? I'm (hopefully) doing at least one course this term, but it's a History Theory course, and it's not assessed or part of my course. And then there's 'Creative Writing Workshop'. Fun, but not really much help with doing an MA. And that's it. Oh well. At least I can start sewing leather patches onto my jacket now. I think I'm going to go for the elbows, despite a distinct sensation that it's 'been done'.

We totally failed to go to the fair. Fortunately there's much more to an evening than candyfloss and clear mints.

Maya has returned. Lisa has returned. To the George each time for these returns. Two more girls! Dashing Rosie's plans to only associate with boys (ideally in hot-tubs). Somehow about 50% of the girls we are friends with down here in B&H decided to travel the world this summer, but now as it becomes cold and autumny back here in England, they've returned to kick piles of leaves and wear cosy scarves.

My warm blue and blue jumper still has mud on it from February.

Monday, September 26, 2005

The crinkle of an unoiled wheel slowly turning in departure

Nostalgia P&B I
Originally uploaded by Rafael Fischmann.
The walls of my room are covered in blu-tack. Once, it held hundreds of photographs to my walls. One by one, the colours of the pictures fade in the sun, and they fall onto the heap of rags on the floor. If I try to stick them up again, the blu-tack is dry and doesn't last. Not like the sticky pliant blu-tack of the past.

Like leaves, as the colours change and the pictures fall onto the hummus laden ground. Like birds, flying south for the winter. (the greenhouse stuffed full of dying plants)

I spend this late afternoon wearing my autumn and spring clothing, still bearing February's mud. I type in names from the past, first listing those I have lost touch with. Shining light into dark corners in a lightning struck tower in the north. A list of favourite words.

Then, the names of those who seem little more than names. People I knew but never really got round to anywhere near 'keeping in touch with'. Tales of commuting and great voyages, of birds and dogs, of spring breezes in deserted southern conurbations.

We all wear our heart sunglasses and our hair in bunches now and again.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005


Kangeroo with a Joey in pouch.
Originally uploaded by Sul.
Sometimes I think I need to cut down on wayward excess. There's too much of it in my life. So I've had a few days off the booze. Marvellous. By 'off the booze', it's not some kind of six-month-on-the-wagon epic like I did a few years ago, merely being frugal and not drinking too much. There's nothing wrong with a bottle of cider on the beach in the late afternoon, shorely? So that's what we did yesterday, together with a picnic involving homegrown tomatoes and homemeade rice salad. Lovely. The sun set behind the Palace Pier and after yearning for a box of watercolours, we walked out on the sand that the retreating sand had left.

So what inspired this particular casting aside of the vice of fermented liquour? Well, apart from my increasing financial thicket, I thought it would make me more productive. It actually means I sleep a lot more. Not entirely sure what that's about.

On Sunday, me and Anna went to go meet up with Alan, aka Mad "Alan" Two-Partings, aka Acid Alan and the Wack Daves, aka Greebo Al, usw, usw. A pint of fizzy beer in the Great Eastern, and then we took Alan home, for he is currently homeless. We sat around on the roof terrace smoking cigarettes and having a glass of cider. And then, somehow, we ended up doing lines of MSG. Yes, monosodium glutemate. Andy had asked Alan to give him some drugs, and expressed great surprise when Alan didn't have any. "What do you mean? You're Alan! You're on drugs all the time!". So Alan supplied a dubious white powder which turned out to be MSG.

This is way cool. I've never tried ingesting pure MSG through a rolled up note before, and I don't think I would if Alan hadn't thought of it first.

Another reason why I reckon a bit of a detox is necessary. (On a side note, the effects are a brief spell of being reasonably dizzy, followed by, um, absolutely nothing at all. But it's really really addictive, as you may imagine. Wicked.)

Friday we went to the Bake. More funking and illicit gin smuggling. We went to a party afterwards, stopping to get snacks. Declining the sandwiches, which looked notably undesirable, we bought a tin of soup and cooked it up at the party. I think it probably went well with my chef whites. Apart from bumping into an old schoolfriend (like, really old. Like, 15 years ago old.) the party was fairly uneventful. Unlike the following night, where we went to what seemed like a normal house, only to discover a massive underground basement covered with 'graffiti' art and a band playing down there. Lots of hippies stumbling about wearing 'freak-out-gear'. Jed is determined to get him some freak-out-gear. DJ Tea and MC Cake played their second set since Andy's return, which was up to our normal standards with the decks not working and me being a bit lost for words. Absolutely incredible, in other words, with an acoustic version of "Stuck in a box with water and rats" and other such delights.

Last night after the picnic we went to go see Why? at the Hanbury Ballrooms. Jed left his tickets at the Happiness Consultants and had to buy some more. The Hanbury Ballrooms is a big upside down bed and the first band (called S J Esaul or something along those lines) were an excellent distorted quirky string trio, followed by some live electro-rock-dance from a band called The Chap. They were pretty cool even though their Mogue broke down. Mot entirely my kettle of fish but pleasant enough. Then after great delay and tuning up, Why? and band came to the stage, and despite their occasional forays into sentimentality which had me mildly grinding my teeth and curling my eyebrows, they played some incredible quirky-indie-hip hop with the innovative approach to conclusions we have come to expect from this particular quintet. However, the real fun started about half an hour in, when the band discovered that as they had started so late, the time left for their set had drawn to a close. There then followed an incredible dialogue/argument between Why? himself and the man from the Hanbury Ballrooms, where they quibbled over details, agreed on an acoustic set, "Can the drummer have a shakey thing?" "We have an acoustic guitar". About a minute into the first acoustic song, the drummer abandoned his shakey thing, and started clapping, which was joined by many members of the crowd. Then he got a bit over-excited and got back on the drums. "Can you stop him doing that" asked the Hanbury Ballrooms man. "I'm not even working tonight". "Neither am I", replied Why, "I'm just chilling." "Ywah," replied the sound guy, "but you're getting paid." The acoustic set continued, and we strolled home, eating bananas.

Dumb and Explicit

With a bleary sigh, you rise from the bed,
Hair unintentionally windswept, you raise your wuthering heights.

The chilled wooden floor pre-empted,
By the inviting womblike slippers,
The staircase awaits you.

The kettle filled,
The mug cleaned and waiting,
With expectant teabag.

To the door, for the milk,
On the doormat, (a woven thatch affair),
Lies a black cuboid of folded interflora cardboard,
Two bottles of red-top,
And the Herts Advertiser.
But we are lactose and news intolerant this morning.

A single red rose,
If only a poet was present.
Your mind travelled like a narrative to Morocco.

There, amidst a bustling market,
Your sweetheart, heady with the aroma of travel,
Pined for your beauty,
As you hold it to your chest,
Aching for his presence,
Vases hadn’t crossed your mind.

* * *

He yawns and stretches, sleep in his eyes,
And scans the ruffled zone,
As she stirs, and tangles the bedclothes,
A single string of beads circles her neck,
A parody of modesty.

Caught up with foreign bodies,
He thinks of you sitting alone under the apple tree,
A guilt rose,
Say it with flowers.

Monday, September 12, 2005


St. Albans Market
Originally uploaded by CSsmith.
So I'm in the fair city of St. Albans. After planning this visit for a while we call Annie Hell to persuade her to postpone her trip to Dorset by a day. She does so. She also informs us that this weekend is St. Albans Heritage Weekend. So after getting Friday off work, we prepare for our visit.

Andy has managed to damage my other two housemates who were about, and Daniel wraps himself in a blanket, is pale, and shivers through various films. Tom rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and goes to work. All indie club and no wholesomeness makes Tom and Daniel twitching and weak.

So after making sandwiches me and Anna go to the train station and set off on the Thameslink to St. Albans. A two hour train journey later and we're back in town. Much of this train journey is taken up plotting an itinery of what sights of St. Albans we can see. Now Anna has spent the last couple of months surrounded by the ex-pat Albanian community in Brighton, and therefore the sight of H&H and The Horn the moment we step off the train (something I had forgotten) is an incredible one.

Back to Parkinson Manor, where we hang out with my family (big stacks of frozen food fly everywhere), eat food, stumble about, and then head out to The Beehive (a St. Albans landmark, certainly). We're late. Paul Pepper and Annie Hell are propping up a small table. We go sit in the garden. Catriona and Zoe Gannon are there, and Annie tells us a story of how Simon's boss boked up all over the floor and wall and ledge of O'Neills the other day. Apparently people kept slipping over on the boke, grabbing the ledge to steady themselves, and the rest was history.

Simon and Becky and Simon's Boss were in fact there, but we didn't really get to talk to them. Dirty Liz turned up and told us an amazing story about how she had an entire skeleton painted on her in UV and danced in front of a flourescent light. This guy called Rob turned up. Apparently Annie is an underachiever. Bottlefed! Simon tried to get some ham, on wholemeal bread. Sadly it was not to be.

Afterwards, me, Anna, Nicky P and Paul Pepper went back to Annie's house to drink honey ale. That was cool. And then back to Parkinson Manor to sleep.

Saturday Morning and it's Heritage Day. A Continental Breakfast later, we set off to call for Annie Hell and go for a slightly disappointing glass of Perry in the Lower Red Lion. Then we eat sandwiches at Annie's, chase a rabbit in the Forbidden Area with a net on a stick, and go up the Clock Tower. Despite dire warnings, the 50p fine is waived due to Heritage Weekend. Up the 93 steps, observing the two bells, and then on the top of the Clock Tower. It's cool. We can see the whole of St. Albans, which truly is a sight to behold. We stand, breathtaken by the view of the Finest Cathedral City there ever was. The sweeping vales of Cottonmill. The Tudor Splendor of French Row, with the market spreading around it like so much blue and yellow torrents of rapid flowing water. St Michael's Village elegantly curling itself around the Abbey like a resting weasel. Fleetville, coyly raising one eyebrow over the ridge of the hill. This is something everyone should see before they die.

So then we go to the Abbey. There's a service going on, so we have to be quiet, but we see the Shrine to St. Albans, the First Christian Martyr, the Rose Window, and the picture of St. Alban having his head cut off and his executioner's eyes falling out. Outside the Abbey, we wander through Verulamium Park to see the Russian Ducks and the Big Concrete Square, before visiting the Oldest Pub in England, The Fighting Cocks. There we see children encasing each other in wooden blocks and drink turtles with sake. Swiftly we then head back to Parkinson Manor, but stop to visit Gokan, who tells me about my forthcoming assasination, and the shame I have brought onto my school and family. We eventually get home to eat vegetarian lasagne before heading down to Sopwell Lane to visit such local establishments as The Goat, The White Lion, The Garibaldi and The Beehive. Annie Hell is wearing a very soft maroon jumper that turns out to actually belong to Anna, but was stolen at White Noise. We drink a variety of ciders. Paul and Robbie may go to Japan next month with Tommy Withie.

We bid farewell to Robbie, Paul and Annie Hell outside the Beehive, and we lose Nick as he sets off in search of a Chicken Roll. When we get home me and Anna share a can of Boddingtons and I rant at her through rose tinted spectacles about the past.

Sunday is much more relaxed than the dramatic pursuit of Heritage that took place yesterday, and after breakfasts and Birth Certificates, we fail to muster a walk in the countryside, but do stroll around the Wick, the local conservation area, full of squirrels and big old trees and teenagers and dogs. We place some miscellaneous objects in the attic, and stroll to the station via Hatfield Road. Anna goes and looks inside the Rats Castle, whilst I cower outside, and we buy some Fudgy Wudgy's from Londis. Our plans to drink a half in The Horn before the train comes are dashed due to it not being open until seven, and so we pop into the Robin Hood for a pint of ale and some live jazz and sharing the last cigarette. We then go to the station where Anna sets off to Brighton. I go home and eat a Linda Mc Cartney Small Vegetarian Pie with roast potatoes and gravy, as my family wrap the chicken. Some kind of cheesecake for pudding. Most classy, I'm sure you will agree.

The Legion of Filth, St. Albans Supergroup, perform at the Horn Redbourn that evening. Despite their name, they're a prog-folk affair, but do feature the Shakin' Stevensons, with their shaky eggs and maracas, Richard Groves, Simon Who Plays The Drums With a Lighter, and some guy playing the bass. Becky has lost her voice, and Simon is planning to buy the lease on Tolmers. Chikinboy goes off to mainline, but we're used to that now. At the last minute, Chris Ennis turns up with Temujin in the back of his car, so I do actually manage to see Tem during my time in St. Albans. We go to H&H and eat chips. It actually turns out that Temmy "1000 Miles" D reads this bloggue fiasco. So hello Tem!. They get whisked away again, and I go home to amble around the Manor.

It's now Monday, and this evening is The Armoured Core night at the Horn Redbourn, which means much of the pounding electronicka variety from Sleeve Hancock and his cru. Most exciting. I am preparing a smiley face t-shirt to go with my white gloves and glowstick in anticipation.

And then down to Brighton again tomorrow. What a most excellent weekend.

St. Albans! Weekend away!

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Sex, Drugs and Poetry...

So last night it was poetry night. I've gone on about poetry night before. However I don't think anything entirely prepared us for what events this night would contain. I got home at about half past ten on Monday morning, only to see Andy twitching about on Tom's bed. A pint at lunchtime and Tom was chewing his arm. It was going to be one of those days.

Let's put it like this. Drugs and poetry really really don't mix. I was fifth in the line-up. Many people were there. Andy (making bitter cynical comments from the balcony.. he really doesn't like poetry). Little Tom with his head in his hands. Tay excited about Leffy. Anna sporting bus inflicted wounds. Sam with newly shaved head and tight black vest. Anna and Victoria with a shoe box full of beer, and Rosanne with the former contents on her feet. Et Ketera. Many others. So up I go, and I perform a poem about flowers and one about generes. They go down pretty well. Most chuffed. I think this is where I made my first mistake because about five minutes later, I go out on the balcony, and Andy offers me this massive line of recreational horse tranquiliser that he's prepared on some kind of newspaper. Like a fool, I don't consider this a foolish thing to do. Dear god.

More poets go on, I might have a poem in Latest 7 magazine but I really need to do something about that, and then suddenly I become really confused. Darn. And then, to cap it all off, they announce that I've won. Somehow I find myself going up to the microphone for some kind of twisted acceptance speech. Now this isn't usually the norm. In fact, I don't think they ever really have acceptance speeches. This doesn't stop me muttering incoherently into the microphone at the bemused audience, who are probably at this point thinking; "How the devil did this guy win". Deary deary me.

Jed passes on one of his jogs to see Tom and Andy and Daniel and Tom sitting around in the North Laine with a CD case and more lines of horse drugs. Havoc. Poetry. All sloshing around all over the place.

We go back to the party but somehow me and Anna end up on the roof of the Children's Hospital. It's quite traumatic climbing a fire escape in a state of confusion. Not to mention dangerous. What the devil were we thinking?

So back to the party where Andy becomes some kind of thrusting Frank Black and I pretend to be a rabbi.

Monday, September 05, 2005


New Glasses, Shaky Hands
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
a) eating cheese off the sharpest knife in the house b) jazz devil c) cheap coleslaw featuring extra ingredients d) lemon and lime marmalade - less than the sum of its parts e) "hey ma. where are my teeth?" f) the death of the resurrection of the death of metal g) O. Mandy. You came, you gave, without taking. h) "moments" i) a profound disturbance of memory j) hoops or beans k) + G confusion

"They had to close the kitchen, you know..."

The Rat
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
I've been getting so behind in this bloggue marlakey lately, and am struggling to keep up, which is quite a distressing situation. Pictured here is our lovely rat, which met a sad end last weekend. The only solution is to take temporality in a stern iron fist, throw caution to the winds, and abandon any pretense at chronology. So here goes.

The other thursday began with going to meet Andy and Alice for coffee in the Dumb Waiter, but as Alice moved to the Red Roast Coffee Shop in Kemptown, confusion ensued, and we all ended up missing each other. A cup of tea later and me, Anna and Alan found outselves sheltering under the canopy of the next-door shop as the rain poured down. Anna set off to work and me and Alan made a dash to the Great Yeastern, where we found Andy after all that time. Rosanne was at work, and as Becky, Annie Hell and Lou Carpy turned up, it became quite an Albanian Convention. We sat in the Yeastern and smoked cigars and Nicky P arrived. Alan suggested that he might be able to get us a gig that evening.

A gig! The return of DJ Tea and MC Cake! This sounded pretty exciting. Alan set off to call Really Tall Thom (or Des, as he seems to call himself these days), whilst we went to the Bombay Aloo to eat absurd amounts of Indian Vegetarian Cuisine. After food, we returned home to make further plans. Meeting Tommy and Dom at the Park Crescent, and noticing how Dom looked uncannily like Steve Martin, we drank pints of ale and I labelled 20 DJ Tea and MC Cake Special Free Sponges. Andy kept buying me shots of some kind of ginger-based spirit. Many other people turned up, including the Albanians, Dave the Machine, and Amy.

(Now if this bloggue was anything like as chronological as it should be, then you, dear reader, will already know of the events that took place on the previous friday. Little Tom, my pomeranian-loving housemate, had a 'beautiful moment' with Amy at The Bake whilst watching Big Daddy Moochin'. However, he had cancelled their prospective date on Monday in favour of a documentary about taxidermy. This sort of behavious would be considered rude in many people, but for Tom, quite rightly, taxidermy comes first. Needless to say, Amy was not incredibly happy about this state of affairs.)

Alan had told us to turn up before twelve, in order to play at about half past 12 or 1. So we arrived, together with the big bag of sponges, the rat, and the chicken head. Only for the bouncer to insist that first Dom, then Andy, and then in fact all of us, were too drunk to go into the club. "What do you mean?", inquired Andy. "We're performing tonight." Unmoved, they suggested that we go and get a cup of coffee and then try again. So Tea and Cake and fans all wandered down to the 24 hour cafe, where we had a cup of coffee and Daniel and Rosie ate a steak and kidney pie. Returning to the club, we were still not allowed in. Andy was not too happy, and threw the Tea and Cake sponges at the bouncer. There then ensued an improptu DJ Tea and MC Cake acoustic set. We then left, feeling like we were stuck in a box with water and rats. In a good way. Best gig we've never played. Tom arrived as we were outside performing the acoustic set. On to the Pav Tav, where, as Andy put it, "they would let you in if you had a needle hanging out of your arm". Fortunately Daniel had left his needle at home, and the greatest risk was the Rat, which was mistaken for a living rat by the staff, and nearly caused me to be thrown out for bringing live animals into an indie club. "Do people often bring animals here?", I asked. Apparently, the answer is yes. "Someone once brought a rabbit along", replied the bouncer. Brilliant!

Tom dancing wearing the chicken head. The rat disappearing onto the dancefloor. Amy comes up to Tom and slaps him around the face for preferring taxidermy to her. We leave the club and sadly on the way home, the rat gets into a fight with Andy and Tom and is badly injured, with two missing legs and fire damage. Feisty, my wayward sister is.

Somehow I ended up having a massive fight with Andy in the street. I'm not sure how it happened, but suddenly the two of us were throwing each other through the air. Much pain ensued. Anna got bored of the fighting and took my glasses and keys and went to get some folofel. People were leaning out of the window of the Travelodge across the street and cheering because of the over-the-top nature of our scuffle. For some reason, flying through the air and landing on the street didn't seem like it would cause pain. Also I got to climb stuff. I love climbing things. Deary me.

Back to the house where Andy passed out in his clothes and shoes again.

Saturday was also an eventful day night and then day. It was Andy Kiraminski's birthday, but firstly, me and Anna get up and stroll into town, where we buy a big squashy bag of misu and some pocky. The pocky tastes of banana milkshake. We meet up with Andy and Tamsin and Tom and their dog and Alice and Ed, and drink tea in the street in the North Laine like the Brighton hipsters we truly are. I trip over in the street and bump into Nicky, who is also sipping coffee in the street like the deadline-battling MA Freudster that she is. More wandering in the streets for illegal doughnuts and then an epic stroll along Hove Lawns to see Andy K, who has plans for great Barbeques. Sipping cider and rescuing lost Miso, me and Anna go and get food for barbeques and warm clothes. We cob on at Waitrose with 5 corn on the cobs all encased in the softest of leaves. Back to the barbeque and it is getting darker and we cook some cob and then Debs calls up. Debs, queen of email and permaculture is in a small car with some miscellaneous Israelis and making her way from Exeter to Brighton to come see us all.

As it approaches quarter to ten, everyone sets off to Andy K's house, which is actually Doctor Booth's house. More about that later, for at this point young Debs calls up, having reached Brighton, and me and Anna go to find her. A tiny white car filled with Debs and chain-smoking Israelis, and the six of us squeeze into the car for a tour of the residential streets of Hove. Finding Maison De La Booth, nobody is in, and it turns out that everyone has popped down to the Albion for a pint. Quite a loud and unusual pub, we decant some of the cider from our massive bottle of scrumpy into half-glasses, and talk about creating some prejudiced poetry-nights.

I take advantage of my new status as a Rabbi to perform some basic duties, and then back to Doctor Booth's house. Now Doctor Booth is a legendary gentleman, a real genuine medical doctor, and he lives in a most classy house in Hove with a wine cellar and a hot tub. We are sipping cider from long stemmed wine glasses, whilst many people about us get loaded on various heinous chemicals. I'm a bit wary, having stayed clear of most heinous chemicals for over a year, but in the end the 'ambience' takes over, and Tommy spikes me with some kind of powdery substance. Me and Anna are sitting out on the street when Antonios, her Spanish friend, pops up. It's always quite funny when someone spots you sitting on the street looking a bit puzzled. You almost expect to ask them for change or spare hats. Daniel Taylor turns up and asks for cigarettes to cheer up a distressed middle-aged woman they have found in the street.

Back into the house, and Rosie is soon cavorting in the hot-tub in her underwear with many scantily clad boys. Which is more or less her element, it would seem. Ha.

Eventually we give in and join the folks in the Hot Tub. Sipping wine from long-stemmed glasses in a hot tub as the heady rush of chemicals and clove cigarettes washes over us. It's almost too decadent, but we manage to handle it. The Brothers Machine are there, and eventually Rosie persuades them and Daniel Taylor to also get in the hot-tub. Rosie has actually lost any ability to make coherent speech, and keeps ranting on about things that we assume only she can see. The most beautiful moment is when she assumes the character of a racist old man, and starts to go on about "the little darkie maids". Andy turns up with a big bag of records, and a plan to go to a free party at Devil's Dyke. By the time we find out where the party is, it is about five in the morning. As the night goes on, the steps down to the garden become increasingly slippery, and every quarter of an hour chimes with the sound of someone else tumbling down a set of metal steps in a flurry of broken glass and spilled wine.

Eventually they manage to motivate us all, and we find ourselves in a series of taxis setting off to Devil's Dyke. We arrive with two of Andy K's friends, me, Anna and los siblingos Machine. Andy K is there as we arrive, but he sets off over the horizon at quite a pace, sure that he can 'hear the party in the distance'. We follow at a more sedate rate, for what turns into a lovely stroll in the countryside as the sun rises and the dew seeps through the holes in the soles of my shoes. Across the rolling hillside, suddenly we see a massive free party on the hillside. As we get there, that familiar sound of pounding pounding dark twisted breakcore. Andy is on the decks, playing heavy twisted electronic music and ranting like a madman as many crazy ravers get on town to the sounds. Laurence is there with a pink feather boa, and the Machines have huge amounts of more heinous chemicals. Rosie and Daniel are nowhere to be seen. Dressed as a character in a Beckett play, we get on down to Andy's wrong sounds, waving cobs in the air like glowsticks.

Andy rocks a heck of a lot of Pims in an attempt to sober himself up. The Machine Brothers perform a machine dance, which out-Jeds-jed in the field of choreography. The sun is properly up. Andy bites a girl who has a camera and then passes out. A girl drives up in a car and rubs suncream on his face. I'm feeling quite clearheaded and Daniel arrives from a van where he has been with Rosie who has completely departed from any sense of reality whatsoever and passes out in the van. Me and Anna swap shirts, leaving me with a tight green affair, and Anna in my 'dream' top. Then Tommy and Graham feed me a series of consonants and I become really confused. Wandering around with the valley spinning around me, Anna in the distance dancing to some kind of techno music looks like some kind of crazy Japanese daytime raver in her tweed trousers and my Dream top. We roll around on the floor in a state of great confusion. It's all very colourful and we find Tommy and friends once again. Rosanne finally emerges from the van. It's now eleven o clock, and this is the point at which she points out that she has to be at work in an hours time. We're in the middle of a valley in Devil's Dyke, probably over an hours walk from the bus stop. We gradually get round to leaving, and go for a walk in the countryside to the bus stop. The day is beautiful, but making out way across steep hilly fields in the blazing light begins to take it out of us.

Me, Andy, Daniel and Rosie decide to climb down and then run up the other side of a massive steep valley. Sitting outside Devil's Dyke pub with massive glasses of water, Rosie has s series of messages from her workplace, culminating in her shift being covered. As we get on the Open Top Bus with water flying everywhere, and as the bus starts my hat flies off my head and disappears back down the road. Thankfully a kind man places it in lost property at the pub, and Tommy retrieves it the next day. Home to sleep deeply, and then down to the Alleycats all dayer, where Rosie and Daniel wander about in a trance-like state, and we get to catch up with Visuals Tim and Ollie Gimp. Most excellent.

Anyway, this narrative is trailing off a bit, but it's a start at getting back into blogguing. Ah well. To follow, amongst other things, Blindy goes to the Shambala Festival.

It turns out I left my telephone and camera at Doctor Booth's house, so sadly we didn't get to see Debs again before she returned to Exeter. Apparently she's thinking of moving down here. That would be cool.