Stealing stories.

“I have stolen ideas from every book I have ever read. My principle in researching for a novel is ‘Read like a butterfly, write like a bee’, and if this story contains any honey, it is entirely because of the quality of the nectar I found in the work of better writers.” - Philip Pullman on His Dark Materials (a rich, powerful, magnificent work).

“I’d made myself believe that I was fine and happy and fulfilled on my own without the love of anyone else. Being in love was like China: you knew it was there, and no doubt it was very interesting, and some people went there, but I never would. I’d spend all my life without going to China, but it wouldn’t matter, because there was all the rest of the world to visit.” - Philip Pullman, The Amber Spyglass, p466.

Naked inquisition

My 3yr old nephew jumped on me this morning, and after rolling around on me for a short while, asked; ‘What do you look like naked?’. Well. I told him when he was older I’d take him to the National Gallery and find him an accurate representation.

Whispers

So the guys over at the BBC’s ‘Culture Show’ reckon they can hear what Bill Murray whispers into Johansson’s ear at the end of Lost In Translation; “I love you. Don’t forget to always tell the truth”.

I took the above photo of a photo in Paris around this time last year.

Members club.

“Remember, no vagina wants to be a member of a cock that wants her as a member.”

 A classic Vice DO.

Good News!

Fortune cookie, NYC or TO, c.2003-5.

Hot air. And then some.

The mundane and mediocre chainstore-riddled landscape of London’s suburbs cracked asunder before my eyes today and brought a smile to my face. I’m always hungry for sights and sensations that change my perception of my environment.
I followed a (real, live) camel from Richmond carpark to the green, and as I crossed the bridge on the way home, a steam engine passed underneath.

Now, the steam engine is one of my favorite things in the world, but only when in motion - static they’re as interesting to me as parked cars. I’ve only witnessed them twice, both in Richmond station. Though ‘witness’ doesn’t adequately sum up the experience. These raucous machines are angry behemouths; monsters from another age - when the first one charged, enraged, along the platform it scared the shit out of everyone (what else has the power to do that these days?). It came from nowhere, howling like a banshee and filling the station (which is no mean feat, as it’s open air) with steam and fumes. The second time, today, it’s cry shook the bridge and it’s fumes filled my lungs. I was reminded of something I’d once read by the founder of Honda - as a boy he’d run out onto the tarmac of the road to smell the petrol, freshly-bled from the sports car blazing away into the distance - he likened it to ‘perfume’. There’s something genuinely primal about being in the presence of such a fossil-fuelled force, unlike anything electricity can muster short of lightening - a storm on tracks, if you will. Immediately I felt two things acutely - the reason children in old news-reels and movies always run alongside them, cheering, and the burning in Turner’s lungs as he painted his masterpiece, Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway:

In other news; I’ve been hiding away recently, writing 10,000 words of museum and cultural site recommendations for a travel website that in four days time is to become a direct competitor. D’oh. I’ve also been staying in to save money, as I’m thinking of leaving my job soon, which I’m relaxed about - but I just realised that if I go, a couple of folks in Thailand have to go too - and that I’m not so happy about.

Escape.

I can’t remember where I took this but it’s nice to know there is one out there somewhere.

Hello Marilyn

I’ve been day-dreaming about what I’d like the next two years of my life to be like.

This is what I’ve come up with - two bourbon cokes, a whiskey sour and a coupla friends; dancing to the sound of a phat, phat cymbal:

And this is what I want every phone call I ever make again to be like. Hello Marilyn:

Don’t like brands?

Then burn them.

Booooo - That is how the French treat their women.

Weird day.

After escaping the cross-atlantic clutches of my new boss (who manages to motivate me to the same extent lions motivated Christians in ancient Rome), I fled to a discussion at Tate Modern. “The changing face of art and audience”. Hold on to your seats, folks. Unfortunately, as these things often do, it spiralled into mild navel-gazing over issues too far-reaching for a panel of 5 with 90mins, however it was interesting (and depressing, in a way) to see just how naieve some people are in British creative organisations, about the importance of online metrics and recordable usage statistics, etc., and to find out only about 2 in every 100 Brits watch Cultural TV programmes. And they’re mostly over 55. I guess that makes me the odd one out.

Now, half an hour along the Jubilee line from Tate Modern on a Thursday night gets you to The Luminaire, which won the NME’s ‘best UK live venue’ at about 10pm. It’s a great, intimate space (with SUPERB flyers - see below); very similar to King Tuts Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow (nominated also), but with more of a 50s lounge vibe. It’s noticably clean, and the stage features a domed ceiling and disco ball directly above the band - a nice touch, as the reflected globules of light fall across the audience and not the band but behind it. I’d not been before, yet I could tell I was going to like the place when before I’d even stepped foot in it I spied a sly thigh and kneehigh sock through the tiny window behind the ticket clerk. It belonged to one of a pair of willowy, raven-haired mods by the name of The Tall Poppies, and pleasently tall they were. And harmonious. Later a French duo appeared - the guy a spitting image of Caligari’s Cesare - the girl managing to take being French, long brown hair, a lowcut dress and base guitar and …. (incomprehensibly) not come out being anything like the sex bomb that this equation warranted. Though she did shake her legs adorably whilst playing. They were called “John & Jehn”, and as my buddy pointed out, one could well imagine them repeating those names to each other whilst locked in a really creepy kind of coitus after the show. Any doubt as to their place of birth was quashed by Jehn’s refusal to do an encore because, well, she just didn’t feel like it

I spent the train ride home overhearing the sound of a recorded video on a passenger’s phone, of her friend trying to feed her baby ice cream.

Weird night.