25 June 2005

More alcohol

In between my Friday nights I do have a hardworking sober life, but who wants to hear about that?

So last night was the beer festival in Lewes, with 50/60odd ales on tap and a Town Hall full of happy people. You never see angry real ale people, I've noticed.

Drink was taken, shite was talked, fat people with socks and sandals and big bushy beards were spotted and quietly mocked, and a storming time was had by all. And having spent the last couple of hours quietly moaning and watching Wimbledon the votes are in for the top 3 festival beers, as voted for by, well, me...

1. O'Hanlon's Port Stout, 4.5%. A ruby-black gem, according to the leaflet they gave us. No argument from me. Makes Guinness seem like a mass-produced over-advertised con. Which it probably is but in a world full of lager what are you going to do? I might have to move to Devon.

2. Downton's Chimera Raspberry Wheat, 4.5%. Wins the best name, too, but this was a light, refreshing draught with fruity overtones and other pretentious qualities. It might well have had a long hoppy nose but I can't remember.

3. Harvey's Tom Paine. A dark powerful beer that isn't for the faint hearted. You can keep your Kronenburgs and your vodka/red bulls, thanks. Named for the very cool 18th century radical whose pamphlets inspired both the American and French revolutions and thought both the Monarchy and the Church were shit. Cheers!

Mod out.

17 June 2005

The perfect Summer drink

Tonight I will be mostly drinking Tuscan Mules...

Take some Tuaca. Add the mule (ie ginger ale and lime), get involved with crushed ice if your kitchen is up to it, and paradise awaits...

There's a company in Brighton who have the importation rights so we see a lot of it around these parts. That's reason number 32 for living here, by the way.

Mod out (for the evening).

14 June 2005

The King of Pap

It was with a heavy heart I watched the news this morning about wacko getting off (don't misconstrue that now...).
It's not that I wanted an innocent man to go to prison, I just really hoped they'd convict him and he'd be put away for ever, with the knock-on effect that no-one would ever play any of his fucking awful music ever again. Since Rockin' Robin it's been one long squeak-filled shower of shite, and ever more expensive videos covering up for the lack of musical ideas. And all that crotch grabbing. It's just not right.

Maybe he isn't guilty. Maybe every parent in southern California is in it for the money. Who cares. I just wanted all his fans to feel betrayed and sick. It would have made me laugh...

Mod out.

13 June 2005

The Difference is Why

I've just returned from London, where there was work to do and curry to eat and friends to see. And hear. And while I had fun I also spent way too much energy fending off the bad psychic vibes all around me. From the incessant branding and advertising to the smell and the dirt. None of this is new, everyone knows London is all these things, but I didn't notice it getting to me until I had a psychotic need to tell everyone to fuck off about midnight last night. Not the best policy for Coldharbour Lane at any time, of course.

But the noodles were good (and cheap), and going to the British Library was as cool as ever this morning (they'll give me any book I ask for! The power is mine! woohahahaha...) but my god it's nice to be back by the seaside again. If I lived in London I'd murder someone in weeks. Or at least get in a fight. And lose.

In other news, welcome to the rantiest of bloggers, Mr Falling Carefully off the edge of any given metaphor. He makes us all seem sane and rational, so kudos for that.

Mod out.

06 June 2005

Johann Cruyff

Continuing (allegedly) on the football theme, I caught a favourite Super Furry Animals lyric on the train tonight. From their obscure but winningly out-there tune "Smokin'" comes this gem:-

"Gonna manage my time just like Johann Cruyff
If we do it together we've got meaning of life"

So. How does one manage one's time just like Johann Cruyff? It's bothered me for a while now, and I have a few options which seem suitable...

1. [The SFA's approach]. Write good tunes, always appear stoned and terminally Welsh while effortlessly churning out another genius album/dvd/remix project and slowly take over the UK pop landscape by stealth. Huzzah!

2. [Only if you're Dutch]. Captain your country to the World Cup Final while playing some of the best football the world has ever seen. Wear orange. Beat defenders so skilfully that they name a turn after you. Later in life, chainsmoke while guiding Barcelona to many trophies.

3. [The mere mortals approach]. Enter a local newsagent. Pick up a pint of milk, drop it, and then flick it with your instep between your legs onto the counter. This may take time and much training, but assuming the proprietor doesn't start shouting at you and accusing you of having carnal knowledge of mental patients, it will pay off. Instant karmic kudos. You may now chainsmoke.

4. [The zen approach]. Don't do anything as crude as actually kicking a football (or a pint of milk). Instead ask yourself at every tricky juncture "What would Johann Cruyff do?" I myself favour this option, and it's amazing how many times bringing on an extra holding midfielder has helped me catch the train in the morning, or complete the crossword. I also find reverting to a 4-4-2 formation works wonders for the washing up.

Johann Cruyff is 68.

Mod out.

02 June 2005

The hangover's nearly gone...

OK, so I exaggerate, but I definitely needed the 2 days off I'd booked, last Thursday was a washout, I just watched the video of the match again to make sure it happened (it did), and Friday I just bought 3 newspapers and went home to read all about it. Sad but true.
A week on, I can just about relax into it. The nagging feeling of other clubs winning every-fucking-thing has gone, replaced by an almost beatific sense of the restoration of the natural order. I even got to seriously take the piss out of some Man U fans this afternoon, which hasn't happened for a while.

As a result, nothing's bothering me really, hence the lack of blog. But here's a few things that amused me about the whole farrago, first Xabi Alonso's comment - "I'm enjoying this triumph like a child. The secret is that Liverpool is as strong as a pine cone". Uh-huh. Righto. This must be some Spanish metaphor to do with forest fires or something...
Secondly, here's Jamie Carragher - "I'm on a bender for a week". Bless him.
And apparently Milan Baros dented the trophy by dropping it on a grand piano. While singing songs from West Side Story.

...that last bit might not be true. In other news, I got a nice little booklet today in the post from Mr. isthisyou with some random but carefully thought out images of his logo around town. One caption reads "You have a duty to improve your surroundings", which is presumably why some prankster created these posters, very much to the point...

And this one for that matter...

We are surrounded by geniuses, and they aren't the ones busy being famous. Mod out.