tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65322996231279690402024-03-12T16:07:43.277-07:00Albion Through The LensPJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-78782212037911259742013-05-24T08:04:00.001-07:002013-05-24T08:04:17.581-07:00Postcode WarsThere was a small misdemeanor in the back row of the cinema, that went unheard.<br />
She fell to her knees and was willing to please, that unruly bird.<br />
Well known to customers, young boys and middle aged married men,<br />
She sold us her dignity for silver coins, you only need ten.<br />
<br />
There was a hell of a melee, round lower Leyton way,<br />
Where a group of pimps took the streets and the lives of two crackhead guys.<br />
They paid the penalty, for mouthing off to the wrong fellas,<br />
Shouting all foreign and supping on Stellas.<br />
<br />
There was an unsightly ruckus at the back of the bus, down Chingford Mount.<br />
Four hooded boys, having a brawl, a dirty free for all, with too many lead pipes to count.<br />
Straight from Hall Estate, it was very dark and late,<br />
While one unlucky chap fell to his fate.<br />
<br />
There was a hell of a scrap across the London tube map, with all in anarchy and innocents needing to flee. <br />
The place looks bare, nothing to see, just scared faces and an empty scene.<br />
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<br />PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-90086067072001413212013-05-22T02:59:00.001-07:002013-05-22T05:09:27.558-07:00The Tramp's A Doll.You've got some nerve, make me live on a curve,<br />
Over the hill again finding the light,<br />
Push me to the floor and say that I'm shite.<br />
Ignore all my messages, making it hard,<br />
Look through my shadow and give me a yard.<br />
Won't touch me at night, won't leave me in the day,<br />
Just grab on my coat tails and get in my way.<br />
You've got some nerve, make me sing the blues,<br />
But when I speak the truth you ain't got a clue.<br />
Ignore all my messages, reading them twice.<br />
Making it impossible just to live my life.<br />
But when it's all said and done,<br />
And you think it's a laugh,<br />
You'll be left cast aside, the only one.<br />
Left in the wilderness, wanting a friend,<br />
While I'm riding high and I'm on the mend.PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-64392975781482894932013-05-21T06:54:00.001-07:002013-05-21T06:54:35.399-07:00SE ScallywagWhy pull on my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?<br />
You know you're a liar from a South London shithole.<br />
You put on your war paint and get ready to fight,<br />
Jumping through hoops, but try as you might,<br />
You fall asleep on the N55, after a night with Charles at some East London dive.<br />
<br />
You'll never fit in with the cool guys in the band,<br />
Eyes so wide with a cigarette in hand.<br />
But why pull at my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?<br />
You're a dirty liar from a South London shithole.<br />
<br />
As you back comb your hair and pull up your tights,<br />
You look like a hooker under a Dutch red light.<br />
You play with love like an old violin, missing the notes and failing to sing.<br />
<br />
You're a dirty liar with an SE postcode, looking for lovers to ruin and throw,<br />
Throw into the drink from the Southwark bridge,<br />
Looking for lovers to push from the ledge.<br />
<br />
You're a two bob cunt, acts like a spiv, with nothing to offer, nothing to give.<br />
You're a jumped up loser that bleeds us all dry, looking all lost with that glint in your eye.<br />
So pull on your high heels and tug off that man, you're losing your mind, messing up your plans.<br />
<br />
You've lost your mind and you have no plan.<br />
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<br />PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-35364377152250529622013-05-21T04:34:00.000-07:002013-05-21T04:34:32.039-07:00Never Say Goodbye.God knows I miss her, like a fallen dove,<br />
She watched me grow from the corner, only disapproving love.<br />
She remains prim and proper out to the faraway sea, gliding through the wind, coming home to he.<br />
<br />
Sipping from a coffee cup, another drag to the bone,<br />
A head full of grey thoughts, a head full of home.<br />
Homeward bound, to the one she loves, the one she craves for, hasn't see or hasn't hugged.<br />
<br />
Don't pray for her now as she closes those weary eyes, rests her aching body and takes her last sigh.<br />
You may have to remember all of those happy times, but I'll just say hello and never a faint goodbye.PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-34747917148019948762012-04-11T03:46:00.015-07:002012-04-13T04:46:19.177-07:00A change of scenery for Yard Life.<div><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It was looking as dodgy as a Derek Trotter promise, but back from the flames, Jen Lloyd has discovered a stunning new venue that could even be better than the last. Don't worry, it's nowhere near the Nelson Mandela Estate, </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Peckham</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, but at the breathtaking </span>scenery<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> of St John at Hackney Church on Lower Clapton Road.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">It may have been pushed back a week to the fifth of May</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"></span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, but that gets us past the April showers and into a bank holiday weekend where we have a Monday to rest our aching heads.<br /><br />Yard Life has been moved from the Hackney Downs Studios due to behind the scenes shenanigans that aren't worth getting into, but don't cry into your computer screens, the news is good and the festival is still on!<br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9X2OLArV5FNwlO9QzDv3mso0vGk-qoBr2FlLKtMZ1bASTQw58rTCw14n8nobNGnuvyo6nfkXuxYr2VpcN2w9qkUZrxUPyibLOiDBt6wEzvHmct3rbV8c6r4N_8frOQIlyidhyphenhyphenad89Ktn/s1600/st+johns.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 158px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730596111041165250" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9X2OLArV5FNwlO9QzDv3mso0vGk-qoBr2FlLKtMZ1bASTQw58rTCw14n8nobNGnuvyo6nfkXuxYr2VpcN2w9qkUZrxUPyibLOiDBt6wEzvHmct3rbV8c6r4N_8frOQIlyidhyphenhyphenad89Ktn/s320/st+johns.png" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The artists are still twiddling their brushes, Judy's Affordable Vintage Fair has packed their best tweed and lace for your pickings, the cakes are being iced, the tea brewed, the incredible musicians are stringing </span>their<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> guitars, and perhaps most importantly, Mr Peter </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Doherty</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> has booked his seat on the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Eurostar</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. We've heard he's even having an early night on the Friday just for you lucky ticket holders.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Doors open at 11am, and believe me, you won't have to pray for an action filled day. Come and stroll around the gardens and the concept stores. Ladies, and the long haired pretty boys in the band, get your faces put on in the powder room.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"></span><div><span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="font-family: trebuchet ms;" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3iYGRvSYtamZPx_1S_YiJMaszMQgbXyfqh05RfCt4PyDi47BAj_46TqIT7FWF72lRzJJxtkjFFNb2Pkg3hg1O9cTjCGN2Q5WLNHT-jUrj5LpvptkG08F6yEl8QbFCKdFo2dNjSlCuGuh/s1600/Hackney-St-John-cHURCH.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 320px; height: 225px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730595899074977074" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC3iYGRvSYtamZPx_1S_YiJMaszMQgbXyfqh05RfCt4PyDi47BAj_46TqIT7FWF72lRzJJxtkjFFNb2Pkg3hg1O9cTjCGN2Q5WLNHT-jUrj5LpvptkG08F6yEl8QbFCKdFo2dNjSlCuGuh/s320/Hackney-St-John-cHURCH.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Get a cup of rosy, buy a vintage </span>posy<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">, have a nosy at the fine art, and then chill, drink until the music starts.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Yard </span>Life is<span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"> dedicated to making as much money as it can for an incredibly worthy charity close to its heart. It's not all about egos, backstage passes, VIPs posing in their Hunter wellies and the battle of the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">RayBans</span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">. It's about passion, a love for music and most importantly having a good time.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">The line up is worth its weight in gold. Up and coming artists, musicians who are no stranger to the London scene playing for kicks and beer, but musicians who are worth paying to see, the Yard Life <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">DJs</span> spinning 50s Rock and Roll, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Electro</span> and party classics, and of course, the original Libertine, Billy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Bilo</span>.</span><br style="font-family:trebuchet ms;"><br face="trebuchet ms"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Guys, the venue may have changed, the date may have changed, but the message hasn't.</span><br face="trebuchet ms"><br face="trebuchet ms"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">'London Loves Yard Life'</span></span><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8hg0vbSEWrD8TPg8P_cX8oGEQLGLhro-X2mHciSS2i8JzaLxmaSIaxMgVHBBElsiDlZ4Ri6IfLW34hn2cACvvaIfsAQIRIJ35cYxnlzj7FOpNc-KYYnWLCBGcXen84oDJPHdzDahJOqJ/s1600/lineup2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 227px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5730095165829562050" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgE8hg0vbSEWrD8TPg8P_cX8oGEQLGLhro-X2mHciSS2i8JzaLxmaSIaxMgVHBBElsiDlZ4Ri6IfLW34hn2cACvvaIfsAQIRIJ35cYxnlzj7FOpNc-KYYnWLCBGcXen84oDJPHdzDahJOqJ/s320/lineup2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:85%;" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- ">Check out all the latest news at yardlifefestival.co.uk</span></span></span><br /></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-58429543101755418032012-04-07T10:39:00.010-07:002012-04-08T09:37:42.270-07:00The Lauriston Loves Yard Life<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzTseyCZe5WTyll3eVCNzk6Em1b6Atip8B-kWjq85w7w3-cE7r2U6GhYmJ7_JM2WdjbyYgNXY2rQqS-N7r8zrs34m7R6j7zRmTOOSpBPLiiLP2sHZbCnac1_KsLqAVU5u14H_GVo78qw-/s1600/yardlife.jpg"></a><br /><div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 287px; height: 190px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729052599167981506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoLxK-m0BTYZkgUCbto1Uq2vW0M5B-pqldGUhqUxIHfXItVl_-S3M8X8khlupuszetZc3CfOq22I5n8Cqcx9RyOdzkW_OIOzUfkeCwfv1Pr1OeEcn-cODJ-DWm7dbLkgUSlpQmeypArZru/s320/lauriston.jpg" /><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>A string of warm up gigs that get the mouth watering,</div><div><div><div><div><div>Talented musicians that get the ears ringing,<div><div>Tireless DJs spinning timeless classics that get the crowd singing.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's Spring 2012, it's Hackney E9, but it feels like the 60s, and a fun loving time.</div></div><div>Tight jeans, tuned guitars, and loud amps in a packed East London bar.</div><div>The Cockney trendset spend their hard earned cash,</div><div>On hard earned spritzers at this free music bash.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yard Life at the Lauriston fuses music and dance,</div><div>Up and coming artists looking for a chance,</div><div>A chance to prove their worth and their unrivalled passion,</div><div>To mix catchy tunes in a vibrant London fashion.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729051181759770866" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C8oo-fwPuY8P-YHtvCthof4XxZ71GrzHh8pYqI-01ljePWviFN1yuA7E9-J2cLPZZjk2lWwHOCGLBHH8n1xA0uqh1FuOCXmEnjEL6ed0OFDUv1lwCXzFSr11MHNGaVRA4IWwxK2CLqu6/s320/lauriston3.JPG" /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>The lights are dim and the eye shadow dark,</div><div>Long haired lovers and musicians trying to make their mark,</div><div>On a crowd of faces, on a music loving room,</div><div>As the red lipped girls listen and the young lads swoon,</div><div>At the boys in the band, with G and T in hand,</div><div>As they tap their feet to the beat, those Yard Life bands,</div><div>Eliza, Pablo, and the NCG, plug in their guitars for a glimpse of what will be,</div><div>On April 28th, down in Hackney Town, where it's not about the money,</div><div>But about discovering new sounds.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729051175757166034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3XpVD0Ja-qVc8S3pJbnFit1zsncASOktpTDp4VYo7m7aUjMV11vXRGKMo-7WLbm3zN0T15byyGEs3m6CBU3Fr5G9Chi-fkisws6Bjv7L7sJYlmK76aIvbY-mfHmruY_zUP8GdHAyVTbpx/s320/lauriston2.JPG" /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Acoustic songs, a folk inspired drone, an Indie feeling with a Rock overtone.</div><div>I watched from the rafters like some sheepskin tearaway,</div><div>Took off my hat to hear the acts play, </div><div>To hear them sing, to watch them sway.</div><div>Taken back to a decade of pioneers,</div><div>When young guitarists were loved and always cheered,</div><div>Wherever they roamed, wherever they played, </div><div>And it seemed at the Lauriston this wouldn't fade.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 240px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729051169048521698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtHLC0OsdGVz0-Dhl0NDpyJVxGXkHSIT0I3TeDwIyO2eG6Rxg-vzhzCrRlY4kgZ5qIl1WxezDa31jwLlM_ehkyktZIdd-YuxMXFfU_OmxDKx6eAH2PPALCA5kjqPb808YPDRH6I0PcPHAi/s320/lauriston1.JPG" /></div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>It was a night to let the music do the talking, let the DJs do their work,</div><div>Let the records keep on coming, and let the bands flirt,</div><div>With the 1960s, with the dawn of Rock and Roll,</div><div>When London Town was swinging, and music was in our soul.</div><div><br /></div><div>So with a tilt of the hat to Dylan, Hendrix and the Stones,</div><div>We check our emails daily, we check our 21st century phones,</div><div>For a ticket from Yard Life; </div><div>So just sit, wait, and smoke your cigarette to the bone.</div><div>An invite should be coming to the fresh new music event of the year</div><div>And I heard that a certain Peter Doherty might be there...........</div><div><br /></div><div>So Let's hope for a warm and gentle summer breeze, and hopefully,</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);">You'll <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);">meet me in London Town for music and tea.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);">Check out all the latest news on this brand new festival coming to Hackney Downs Studios on April 28th, at yardlifefestival.co.uk</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);">Photographs by Kate Ford</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame- color:rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469);"><br /></span></span></div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div> <img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 227px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729052937672981602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzTseyCZe5WTyll3eVCNzk6Em1b6Atip8B-kWjq85w7w3-cE7r2U6GhYmJ7_JM2WdjbyYgNXY2rQqS-N7r8zrs34m7R6j7zRmTOOSpBPLiiLP2sHZbCnac1_KsLqAVU5u14H_GVo78qw-/s320/yardlife.jpg" /></div><div> </div><div> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-37376264287733382092012-03-12T05:41:00.003-07:002012-03-12T05:54:54.329-07:00Drowning men catch at straws<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmqaooIiOSX9M-rWlc2mQAaFqQGB3q_-HFK2mvJrP7gvCm3x6qDdLk-mqRYKBIGsgOYw4J-WZvsnbKh9gjdhbBkvmWD3BKH5PHzX90MXnPpKVpqDCh6h_CSxaKFlqmFqZyvms6ANGd4SZ/s1600/Drown.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; width: 290px; height: 320px; text-align: center; display: block; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5718990590520905298" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmqaooIiOSX9M-rWlc2mQAaFqQGB3q_-HFK2mvJrP7gvCm3x6qDdLk-mqRYKBIGsgOYw4J-WZvsnbKh9gjdhbBkvmWD3BKH5PHzX90MXnPpKVpqDCh6h_CSxaKFlqmFqZyvms6ANGd4SZ/s320/Drown.jpg" /></a>I may seem cold and pretend I'm not there, but when your head is turned I sit and stare;<br />at your smile that could melt me away, so many words but not sure how to say,<br />that I need you here and without your love I would jump and drown.<br />I'm not sure I can swim but my heart is too heavy and the worries are with me, there are far too many.<br />So stick by my side like my gold plated cane and talk me to sleep or I might go insane;<br />sick of the world, sick of the darkness, tired of the staring, cursed by the ghouls; old and luckless.<br /><br />I may seem cold and pretend to be distant, but I promise one thing, without your kiss I'm gone in an instant.<br /><br />I can't move my toes and my strides aren't as tight and I struggle to juggle or climb on my bike.<br />My head got messed up like that lorry's back wheel;<br />It's full of bad dreams, concrete and steel.<br />I can't catch that bus and I can't catch a break,<br />I can't see a future, like that trucker saw me late.<br />They dragged me to the court like I was dragged down the road,<br />I'm edgy and neurotic, I'm on defence mode.<br />But I can't see it getting better, I can't see the light, but I'm ready for the marathon and always up for the fight.<br /><br />I'm gonna turn back the clock to relive my youth, to forget about the accident and to forget the truth.PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-75717260291692595112012-03-08T08:01:00.005-08:002012-03-08T08:24:49.746-08:00Pill Popping Prossie<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCgB3LPuWgdA6qPqRh33iKFNnntE2Y7RmBwAUd88Zim6PY0rvgvkPi7ctiyivKWrTfBL-fbRFMpIYeoSVPo1JItqFz6F1FMctvfw3563xHsrJwbfVSVsiGjcZijkh_NM0ZBW1WDN3GTdT/s1600/1950s-pin-up-girl.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 239px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717560670436393650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCgB3LPuWgdA6qPqRh33iKFNnntE2Y7RmBwAUd88Zim6PY0rvgvkPi7ctiyivKWrTfBL-fbRFMpIYeoSVPo1JItqFz6F1FMctvfw3563xHsrJwbfVSVsiGjcZijkh_NM0ZBW1WDN3GTdT/s320/1950s-pin-up-girl.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWXi_dCkMudfLY6ycVGBPUyD8R9WN0gzMJkzRsDiV2Pke7J6tr_p5U7_tWATNUVQDYnB5TeKg0-8nQRq_aNgR0f5VDR5HkEy3bQ0BfurJh8mWjG6C4TekgWKnDYntNtI_dqEH_EFlaGilJ/s1600/victorianprostitute.gif"></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>You're as game as a badger with loose morals and looser stockings,</div><br /><br /><div>But that smile on your face got the good time boys flocking.</div><br /><br /><div>He was alone with too much time on his hands,</div><br /><br /><div>Whilst you were surrounded by your infatuated fans.</div><br /><br /><div>But you had washed your hands of the good old days,</div><br /><br /><div>When you drank till you were drunk, but never had to pay.</div><br /><br /><div>You were an easy lay with money on the hip,</div><br /><br /><div>Popping pills, looking for your next trip.</div><br /><br /><div>So slip on your panties and cover your cheeks, </div><br /><br /><div>Tie up your bows and go catch some sleep.</div><br /><br /><div>You're a whore to money and a pimp to his soul, </div><br /><br /><div>Picking up dollars whilst he's on the dole.</div><br /><br /><div>You can use your charms and get what you want, </div><br /><br /><div>Get what you need but without having to flaunt. </div><br /><br /><div>Those loose morals and those looser stockings.</div><br /><br /><div>So go to him, cos they've all stopped flocking.</div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-75583869636724046542012-03-08T06:57:00.008-08:002012-03-08T07:35:29.584-08:00Whitechapel Wino<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf_YJ2eL5FkLK1gH-2gYWgAx-_AM8M_vh_sicK8bTXy7UTFtggTmfKpAgzB3YtaBoAK6ZdDpI8ur8gjeY9m2KSITB3dOjjoaDT6MccqYgCplBZjGitrNnK6GC0yWpiJ5YtEh4BI9Ct5y3/s1600/Poverty-in-Victorian-Britain-712591.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 259px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717548666013383346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibf_YJ2eL5FkLK1gH-2gYWgAx-_AM8M_vh_sicK8bTXy7UTFtggTmfKpAgzB3YtaBoAK6ZdDpI8ur8gjeY9m2KSITB3dOjjoaDT6MccqYgCplBZjGitrNnK6GC0yWpiJ5YtEh4BI9Ct5y3/s320/Poverty-in-Victorian-Britain-712591.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div>Caught up in the shadows,</div><br /><br /><div>Feral and all alone.</div><br /><br /><div>Despised by the London masses;</div><br /><br /><div>They stop, they stare, they moan.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Like a pigeon with a limp,</div><br /><br /><div>Like a stray with a bone.</div><br /><br /><div>Overlooked by many;</div><br /><br /><div>Refused a shilling loan.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Struggling to make ends meet,</div><br /><br /><div>To stay upon his feet.</div><br /><br /><div>Wrapped up in a blanket, keeping in the heat.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A Whitechapel wino, not a friend to his name;</div><br /><br /><div>Gin and scraps he lives on, to support his tiny frame.</div><br /><br /><div>And as the smog engulfs his backyard,</div><br /><br /><div>And as the Bow Runners chase him on.</div><br /><br /><div>I don't know where he comes from, I don't know his name.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 206px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5717542211239160530" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7XL1S4vhebQePZ1FDPH6WACEvXczFzIzJa4xwFl6-15THh8fYWFvmY_k07LObxcAIwWbJsfeKQKQ_MMRt0IOF2af_zU6c4gLgjcWVouQH3bgpMr7GXctcoW_bedpViwt30Tpv3n1Z2r9m/s320/homeless.jpg" /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Sitting by the fruit stalls,</div><br /><br /><div>As the gentry swan on by;</div><br /><br /><div>No emotion on his face,</div><br /><br /><div>He neither smiles, laughs or cries.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>Living by the opium pipe; </div><br /><br /><div>Can only numb the pain.</div><br /><br /><div>It may hide the heartbreak, </div><br /><br /><div>But won't keep out the rain.<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Staring through the Inn window;</div><br /><br /><div>Sprawled upon the frosty street.</div><br /><br /><div>An hour feels like a day;</div><br /><br /><div>A day feels like a week.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div>A Whitechapel wino, no belongings to his name; </div><br /><div><br />Gin and scraps he lives on; his tiny body lame. </div><br /><div><br />And as the smog makes him breathless, </div><br /><div><br />And as the Bow Runners chase him on. </div><br /><div><br />I don't know where he comes from, I don't even know his name.</div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-34136383447030716022011-11-02T06:04:00.000-07:002011-11-02T08:07:31.057-07:00Die Freche Muse, a poem.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ8bH8ZWDk-xM52-aPeNIHnU0HqdxImAVKEujOrTeYSVWaI7IGKCKsOIC1zdr2ikHTfyx-5vMdnp60FD-WNzwRQGiKDRCDsiVtw7fVBZ3FG2IBaWH-i_yn6nRQOWjY25rbRTYz0keIkUR/s1600/philhalloween9.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384494812572322" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizZ8bH8ZWDk-xM52-aPeNIHnU0HqdxImAVKEujOrTeYSVWaI7IGKCKsOIC1zdr2ikHTfyx-5vMdnp60FD-WNzwRQGiKDRCDsiVtw7fVBZ3FG2IBaWH-i_yn6nRQOWjY25rbRTYz0keIkUR/s320/philhalloween9.jpg" /></a><br />With a chill in the air, the ghosts roaming and the presence of ghouls, we put on our makeup and set off to Die <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Freche</span> Muse.<br /><br />Two stunning girls from a different decade, draped in pearls and velvet, not willing to fade,<br /><br />Into the walls or out of sight, a room full of drinkers dancing into the night.<br /><br />So I tip my bowler and straighten my pin, lower our morals for a night of sin.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVYlaD_Vux2YYYERA-cSyEPLryUM2aAIpShTkzoPpkNP91dv-S51obPPgCq5Bvnx-DUCD54hfiH3VZzLqKqkVVtJxphlw3527MPFIkoTLq4BlkzVsknprAb_bzdLMvAWLu9-pJyZnLcV-/s1600/philhalloween8.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384483515068082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRVYlaD_Vux2YYYERA-cSyEPLryUM2aAIpShTkzoPpkNP91dv-S51obPPgCq5Bvnx-DUCD54hfiH3VZzLqKqkVVtJxphlw3527MPFIkoTLq4BlkzVsknprAb_bzdLMvAWLu9-pJyZnLcV-/s320/philhalloween8.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We arrive at the Ritz on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Kingsland</span> Road, a warm public bar stuck in East End mode,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>With a large landlady and larger drinkers, large gin and tonics and large whisky chasers,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>the clientele were zombies and most were legless.<br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhtFyhL_0-MjZpiAbUe3ZSLwcyz9nhwh6hQWX5clPZZKWK9UAXiuHHWAdtHs6q7L6C87PEQoFsTDEiqNiYKaLnrWDPVYZ_ruU1WVI8dBgT-a9xFCweNjv_KFk3lswN3a3zxvo_zyN6rWB/s1600/philhalloween7.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384479954948978" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvhtFyhL_0-MjZpiAbUe3ZSLwcyz9nhwh6hQWX5clPZZKWK9UAXiuHHWAdtHs6q7L6C87PEQoFsTDEiqNiYKaLnrWDPVYZ_ruU1WVI8dBgT-a9xFCweNjv_KFk3lswN3a3zxvo_zyN6rWB/s320/philhalloween7.jpg" /></a><br />Dressed in Sunday Best, stilettos and lace, an air of the 20's, of glamour and grace,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Filled the room as I smoked my cigar, I dreamed of a day so distant and far,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A day when men wore top hats and carried canes, a day when white horses galloped through lanes,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The lanes of London shrouded in darkness, and old pub doors hiding drinkers and wasters. </div><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKD6yGiizZNxDOOsfd_S2ikb1_GE2zeGcXdiJI74ABG_3DmBwcUAXxU5RqC0Y9HdFQeNaIiC-FXm1rQmtXilfxDT1p-xl2onG4W8b2hMGm61gYzOOQOYFJcUC_uGaZZBxQkHLl8iVwFLN/s1600/philhalloween6.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384478931381474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkKD6yGiizZNxDOOsfd_S2ikb1_GE2zeGcXdiJI74ABG_3DmBwcUAXxU5RqC0Y9HdFQeNaIiC-FXm1rQmtXilfxDT1p-xl2onG4W8b2hMGm61gYzOOQOYFJcUC_uGaZZBxQkHLl8iVwFLN/s320/philhalloween6.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJzhq3J6Rbz1Aff8LzoUICK6lcpkHy6bDjAFh4mRJEH9V-qYBOiJGcMjHZRKSpyTt1rnQH3QmRwmg2Y8fTa26J48Im3hBblZxZ-m4dZNKrLL1oDnk9FPmse3GcS6izfnVmtsZReAoQ1Pg/s1600/philhalloween5.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384136176058498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUJzhq3J6Rbz1Aff8LzoUICK6lcpkHy6bDjAFh4mRJEH9V-qYBOiJGcMjHZRKSpyTt1rnQH3QmRwmg2Y8fTa26J48Im3hBblZxZ-m4dZNKrLL1oDnk9FPmse3GcS6izfnVmtsZReAoQ1Pg/s320/philhalloween5.jpg" /></a><br />I took my girl in hand and smoked her to the bone, took my mask off slowly so I didn't feel alone,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>In this place called Dalston, east of the city, full of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cambridgshire</span> types, trying to look pretty.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But they smell of daddy's money, even when dressed like a tramp, and the posh Indie boys, with wrists all camp.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPSXmZoDdbnDCXCnNNbud16VLYDLJG9UN9haEGY3zNqrFb1pLMMN-_l39fjzDj1-76IwmnvVqYkA50fpeGZerbjP2hqC_9bi3b-PnznG0umjg4lEpEnVaEiSJ3-rsXxWPGXeVz2sW5KqP/s1600/philhalloween4.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384135345317714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmPSXmZoDdbnDCXCnNNbud16VLYDLJG9UN9haEGY3zNqrFb1pLMMN-_l39fjzDj1-76IwmnvVqYkA50fpeGZerbjP2hqC_9bi3b-PnznG0umjg4lEpEnVaEiSJ3-rsXxWPGXeVz2sW5KqP/s320/philhalloween4.jpg" /></a><br />We stuck together, we smoked together, we drank together and climbed the stairs together. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We listened to the French, and the poshest of posh fighting over a bench.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We danced together, smuggled in drink together, fought together and made up together.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We argued with the foreign taxi man, as he spoke exotic languages just because he can.</div><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE21p1WpR5_4oRk8GCPHv5duMNHH3xcFVP-6ysDcXwsXzbzci5VSDvPthv0Pqr-ILDrqMLlUt2t8aofdXFNjG5C71LnKjNGfnGFXNkwbmKB2qFp5wejYY9deb9miyw9inCBZ2OR-hMWjC_/s1600/philhalloween3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384118350475330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE21p1WpR5_4oRk8GCPHv5duMNHH3xcFVP-6ysDcXwsXzbzci5VSDvPthv0Pqr-ILDrqMLlUt2t8aofdXFNjG5C71LnKjNGfnGFXNkwbmKB2qFp5wejYY9deb9miyw9inCBZ2OR-hMWjC_/s320/philhalloween3.jpg" /></a><br />A suitcase full of knocked off booze, drinking in the toilet just to beat the queues,</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Of East End wannabes talking with a ghetto slang, middle class ponces in middle class gangs.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>But all suited and booted and rooted to our spot, we necked the wine, then we necked the lot.<br /><br />We played the piano and we tripped the wires, we broke glasses twice and put out the fires.</div><br /><div><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcW3rK1ivFJX5Jmwb3ZOViOkTbJjj-xspIhMtMfC8ZsFVWACDuTmceHqxgXsrYMu-uMwZSAdMe13UbKEQKqg9H2O9c0DdRVAODDALYzZz3vTcn3H6FhcZATzujGQ1_iC3-Zudrn6U53aH/s1600/philhalloween2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384117831679426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFcW3rK1ivFJX5Jmwb3ZOViOkTbJjj-xspIhMtMfC8ZsFVWACDuTmceHqxgXsrYMu-uMwZSAdMe13UbKEQKqg9H2O9c0DdRVAODDALYzZz3vTcn3H6FhcZATzujGQ1_iC3-Zudrn6U53aH/s320/philhalloween2.jpg" /></a><br />And lived happily ever after, just like those fairy tales, when good beats evil, and the haunting men always fail.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We removed the masks and the curls and the lace, and woke up in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Walthamstow</span> in a different era, a different place.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWxwDEF3M1z6vmdHb7N79bbdiqsyXZmwTgghA2EHaP6fZw34EQ2ph-h_wVHzHVcrebnQiOUWEs7JT5qGqudlx6frwcQmXOCxZBIrMfc3NLQLAYJGYM8S85WCkU5tpcBjN0LNBGfQb53lY/s1600/philhalloween1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670384115750401458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDWxwDEF3M1z6vmdHb7N79bbdiqsyXZmwTgghA2EHaP6fZw34EQ2ph-h_wVHzHVcrebnQiOUWEs7JT5qGqudlx6frwcQmXOCxZBIrMfc3NLQLAYJGYM8S85WCkU5tpcBjN0LNBGfQb53lY/s320/philhalloween1.jpg" /></a><br />So, as we danced, and we sang, and we argued and we ran, climbed the rickety old stairs to a different land.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We drank, and it flowed, and we smoked everything down to the bone.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>And we awoke with a head full of dreams and booze.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Had we really been to Halloween Die <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Freche</span> Muse?<br /></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-32904358748941655142011-05-02T06:50:00.000-07:002011-05-02T07:25:35.902-07:00Lola on the sands.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZA_kVJUgfJWvGWAKMZQcqOXrQwCPYfvuULfCKwlWAwQ3_CTyH9GKWzYa-s1IBpE_diMbN88vYG_0Zikn_oNYCnRXlKwGrRHc52dWCtEFxmPDylwTJy44mvnY61rj5yCx1Ar4p2slgKbim/s1600/lola1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602117124135188786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZA_kVJUgfJWvGWAKMZQcqOXrQwCPYfvuULfCKwlWAwQ3_CTyH9GKWzYa-s1IBpE_diMbN88vYG_0Zikn_oNYCnRXlKwGrRHc52dWCtEFxmPDylwTJy44mvnY61rj5yCx1Ar4p2slgKbim/s320/lola1.jpg" /></a><br /><br />She'd never been to the beach before, she'd never felt the sand between her pads. It was time to take little Lola to the sunny shores of Kent; to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Margate</span>. So we packed up the old Fiesta, filled up the tank, bought the daily papers and set sail down the M25. Lola was excited but anxious; the car usually means a trip to the vets for a claw clip or an injection, but not today....... today she'd be eating ice cream with the rest of the fatties.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2jQ4n6YJ0ku39bWh6XICf59VkVGS49mCVGgliGRzkgUrIgqImHq3PyGE6v_C0gAUyDulMpuUyIbUIU2PJNMHgV4mWwkli6B-zdejbv7W_GfrAqzbIbN_6z1YoPOB2Q8ltyijLR3Ofj_6/s1600/lola5.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602117122191052258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC2jQ4n6YJ0ku39bWh6XICf59VkVGS49mCVGgliGRzkgUrIgqImHq3PyGE6v_C0gAUyDulMpuUyIbUIU2PJNMHgV4mWwkli6B-zdejbv7W_GfrAqzbIbN_6z1YoPOB2Q8ltyijLR3Ofj_6/s320/lola5.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So I bought a 99, which now costs about £1.50, Jennifer had a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cornetto</span> and Lola had a Mini Milk. She bit through it like a pissed up fella going through a kebab, it was a sight worth seeing. She was hot to trot and on the prowl for a well off Kent guy. Unfortunately, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Margate</span> was as dead as Bin Laden....... even the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Primark</span> looked like it was going out of business. But this wasn't going to dampen our day. We strolled down to the beach front hunting down a gentleman beagle that would steal little Lola's heart.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9lwjUpjw7D7AtQq1ENo2xMrJ-N-UIl4LADY8D_8o570F9t1jXD3AX3S7-Q24cXBe-avuhB7KcC2mVDNRXJcLrfxHCt0NdciShDIwVKK2taffXNh67GByEMJI0u0mHWG5WMp4a_Ip64ze/s1600/lola4.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602117114039424066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO9lwjUpjw7D7AtQq1ENo2xMrJ-N-UIl4LADY8D_8o570F9t1jXD3AX3S7-Q24cXBe-avuhB7KcC2mVDNRXJcLrfxHCt0NdciShDIwVKK2taffXNh67GByEMJI0u0mHWG5WMp4a_Ip64ze/s320/lola4.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuraw4gHoYhCYWqJSKWSTdiCmR4l6V1uImHm9MCMOi7qIKpR-f8WjJUZMnw6uzwD3yxMTgJVYHl7SxhqyYmWxy2NIELxTUcH5bkcgwXK141aXjG86XWCjUIjgYq9KeKJhONa9w9IML9fR/s1600/lola3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602116751988093922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuraw4gHoYhCYWqJSKWSTdiCmR4l6V1uImHm9MCMOi7qIKpR-f8WjJUZMnw6uzwD3yxMTgJVYHl7SxhqyYmWxy2NIELxTUcH5bkcgwXK141aXjG86XWCjUIjgYq9KeKJhONa9w9IML9fR/s320/lola3.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I'm always a bit wary of letting her roam free, as I have had many close calls in which Lola has run for the hills, only to be waiting at the front door when I have been searching <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Epping</span> Forest high and low for the cheeky bitch. There were also some evil looking bastard mongrels roaming the shore, so I kept her by my side and hobbled across the golden sands.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>She paddled once but seemed to hate the sensation of the ice cold salt water lashing against her paws, so spent her time digging holes in the sand. We were having more fun than Del Boy and Rodney on the Jolly Boy's Outing and didn't want the day to end.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEvyL0WWQncCk3NQne2U45uG2hSB-H5gqSKdjr5lpz6MMD1vG8AOJJ-mH-HosANHoqKW5SHrrEEbKJ6Vd8lYjY_oYVeSHf_su2qGgfpaBClKq1uEG4WMOABVQLKnaize2aqd1w69wvw6X/s1600/lola2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602116742896545810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDEvyL0WWQncCk3NQne2U45uG2hSB-H5gqSKdjr5lpz6MMD1vG8AOJJ-mH-HosANHoqKW5SHrrEEbKJ6Vd8lYjY_oYVeSHf_su2qGgfpaBClKq1uEG4WMOABVQLKnaize2aqd1w69wvw6X/s320/lola2.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Even a miserable prick like myself couldn't help but smile as the sea air swept through my badly trimmed hair. Jennifer jogged across the beach playing catch with the pup and I limped behind, like one of those old, fat Essex boys with a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">hanky</span> on his head; it was a picture perfect scene.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFj15aLKuUdpfn2RXOKHqHDJNCve_Mh3w4is7dvLfy3YKDhjLNt-Uz1llPHGIUImWIVKaKMBbmMRRTsK7VZPHUEjCI21o92z8J8b3MXcTtfMyhstJrts65kj22BJWeNx2m4qeTBu7bP5AP/s1600/lola6.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602116744868375122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFj15aLKuUdpfn2RXOKHqHDJNCve_Mh3w4is7dvLfy3YKDhjLNt-Uz1llPHGIUImWIVKaKMBbmMRRTsK7VZPHUEjCI21o92z8J8b3MXcTtfMyhstJrts65kj22BJWeNx2m4qeTBu7bP5AP/s320/lola6.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Like most English beach towns, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Margate</span> has a bad rep. Rundown hotels, shit pubs, crappy arcades and half dead residents. However, I was liking the vibe and with rumours of an upgrade along the front, Lola will be visiting again soon, perhaps with a little sister in tow........ you never know.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrVgwZREk9onqmWTZS6AdkRvWt7Aqgp9TYLhYvvz_dX6EssMvcH1Is8CxBehZ8hDbrzArVz1rtKV4gXQypDwt9kUQQ7YvbrHLdqOcsGY0jW_x0dEX9C6aQTcZPKlWXv1E7TQvbqYdDPH1/s1600/lola7.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602116739855798338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrVgwZREk9onqmWTZS6AdkRvWt7Aqgp9TYLhYvvz_dX6EssMvcH1Is8CxBehZ8hDbrzArVz1rtKV4gXQypDwt9kUQQ7YvbrHLdqOcsGY0jW_x0dEX9C6aQTcZPKlWXv1E7TQvbqYdDPH1/s320/lola7.jpg" /></a><br /></div><br /><div>We danced along the shallow water, the metal in my leg rusting with every splash, Lola shaking in the fresh Spring breeze. We knew it was time to go home; back to the big smoke, where the only fresh water is found in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ching</span> or the Lea Valley Viaduct.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hug2jSo2rSZYdhA1ehRpBx66vGTlktuy5_alZvi86OhTTeR07iYgaw6rAcAXVTYbWtpt2H1qoVjJ-dwpSAxunbB6IIxg1G5k4mQ026nx_ERiQkQnZEjoWK4n9aK0kqIOTUaJZHAZC32c/s1600/margate1.bmp"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602116737128171442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_hug2jSo2rSZYdhA1ehRpBx66vGTlktuy5_alZvi86OhTTeR07iYgaw6rAcAXVTYbWtpt2H1qoVjJ-dwpSAxunbB6IIxg1G5k4mQ026nx_ERiQkQnZEjoWK4n9aK0kqIOTUaJZHAZC32c/s320/margate1.bmp" /></a> <br /><div>A quick family portrait amongst the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Margate</span> crowds and a short stroll to the top of the hill took us back to the old Fiesta, sitting shimmering in the sun. She fired up gracefully and powered off towards the East End of London, hoping to return to the sea on another clear English day.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Next stop...... <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bognar</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Regis</span>.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-73913582246978352022011-05-02T05:15:00.000-07:002011-05-02T05:53:28.523-07:00Billy Byron continues.........The silence was deafening. It had never been so quiet on Galleon lane. The wheels on Billy's chair were covered with the deep claret stain of fresh blood as he slowly edged towards the bathroom door. He pushed the handle, it was jammed shut. Billy pushed harder, but he barely had the strength to get out of bed in the morning; so the door did not move. He kicked it with his remaining leg; once, twice and then a third time. It jarred open and a sea of blood swept across the landing; the smell of death was overwhelming.<img class="gl_clean" border="0" alt="Remove formatting from selection" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>At any other time Billy would have shied away. He was a broken boy since the day he had lost his leg; but on this occasion he felt a flush of bravery. Billy wanted to see more. He rolled across the swamp of blood and peered behind the sink towards the bath. It was full. The water was twinkling under the bathroom light. The ripples hypnotised Billy. He moved closer. Under the surface of the warm, tranquil water, Billy could see thousands of gold coins. He could not see the bottom of the tub, it seemed to go on for miles. He focused his eyes to try to see the chipped porcelain at the base of the bath, but it was not there. Just thousands of sparkling coins floating through the undercurrents.</div><br /><br /><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602100314508715058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ORV80RxOcVuyrhHyk6ub0l_QbkV4zUWfrHKuiDIljfvY6c3onpM-AwKatWY2NShAPTDKdHSdte1-PhQKmhcnYda1KuDY6CUuZy2P4tar_2b5UO1gzcZeZ-gnEkUIoHYRtDfHmzN156JG/s320/deep-water.jpg" /><br /><br /><div>Billy had not bathed since that warm Autumn day of the lorry attack. He never looked at the stump where his leg used to be. He would clean and dress it only occasionally and his mother would get upset whenever he said that he didn't care if it rotted away; slowly eating at the rest of his body so that he no longer existed. He felt no better than the dust on his bedside table. Dirty and useless. But at this eerie moment, Billy had the urge to dive into the inviting bath water. He began to rip his clothes off, not caring that they teared and ripped. He pulled his fragile frame from his throne and dragged himself onto the side of the tub. He could feel the warmth of the water massage his dry skin. He let go of the side and slowly fell in backwards. But he did not feel afraid. The water welcomed him in; the coins were still shining as he fell deeper. He kept falling. The weightlessness seemed to take all of the pain away; Billy felt alive again. </div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-67452992281577257252011-01-19T12:01:00.000-08:002011-01-19T12:57:30.331-08:00A bit more of Billy Byron.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcTn-3LgesBBB5xrnM4TnVJ4VNmGP6PolFOCnF2p7YiRxbfE9WkpIpnjqK6rO261xtPlAK67ZTEFVaMNTjIUNPCGqTggWFwAhka20VBntDX1IzglFzd6eS86NQhdGDbYChQNQbS5_J1FN/s1600/creepy+door.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563998423357271314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgcTn-3LgesBBB5xrnM4TnVJ4VNmGP6PolFOCnF2p7YiRxbfE9WkpIpnjqK6rO261xtPlAK67ZTEFVaMNTjIUNPCGqTggWFwAhka20VBntDX1IzglFzd6eS86NQhdGDbYChQNQbS5_J1FN/s320/creepy+door.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Billy slowly rolled himself over to the doorway of the large open landing. It was still dark, so he went to turn the hallway light on... click... click. The bulb had blown. He rolled himself over to the main light in his bedroom and went to turn the lamp on... click... click. The bulb had blown. Billy began to panic; he had been having panic attacks since he had been discharged from the hospital. Panic attacks that paralysed his body with fear. His breathing would get heavy and his eyes would well up with tears. Billy wanted his mum... anyone he recognised... he felt alone and vulnerable.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy turned towards the door, something had shot past his room towards the bathroom. The curtains in the hallway were swaying gently as if something or someone had brushed past them. He heard a whispering; a low, deep voice that seemed to beckon Billy towards the upstairs toilet. Billy wheeled his cold body towards the landing, he squeaked as his chair moved across the wooden floor.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As he got closer and closer to the bathroom, the darkness of the early morning hours seemed to wrap around his aching body. Billy began to feel trapped and breathless, as if the air around him was strangling the life away from his battered soul. He could feel someone watching him, his eyes darted from side to side. Billy could see eyes staring from all corners; then he heard a whistling from the bathroom. The door was closed, but the light was flickering between the gaps in the frame. Billy could swear that the light had been switched off just a few seconds ago. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He cautiously mumbled his mum's name under his breath, but there was no answer; the whistling continued. He mumbled her name again, no answer; just whistling. So Billy shouted the name one more time....... the whistling stopped and a shadow swept across the room, then a splash of water echoed across the tiled walls. The water began to seep through the gap under the door; it trickled towards Billy's chair. Then Billy looked towards the floor... there was a strange smell, a smell that Billy recognised from his first days of school; when the bigger kids would slap his face for his lunch money; a smell that reminded him of the days when he would bang his nose whilst running away from the bullies on his old estate; a smell that took him back to the day when that possessed lorry had ripped his leg away from his tiny frame. It wasn't water edging towards his wheelchair; it was blood. Hot, sticky blood; as red as the eyes of the demons that were haunting his dreams.</div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-5453425479432364382011-01-09T10:31:00.000-08:002011-01-10T13:29:59.120-08:00Busy doing nothing.I was on FaceBook earlier and suddenly I thought, fuck, I used to write a little blog a few months ago. This was during a period in my life when I had fuck all to do, apart from turn the TV on at about 11am, after a 12 hour sleep, to watch re-run after re-run of Frasier, Everybody Loves Raymond, The King of Queens and Scrubs on Comedy Central. They were good days..... when a phone call from an Asian guy trying to sell me insurance was greeted with so much joy because I was becoming somewhat of a recluse. A withdrawn weirdo.<br /><br />So after a two month break, in which time I have started a job answering phone calls from disgruntled internet customers who tend to call me a prick because their new jeans didn't fit, or cry down the line at me moaning that their Christmas was ruined because there was a rip in the pants they had bought for the uncle they hadn't spoken to all year, or threaten to commit suicide because their parcel turned up 15 mins later than expected, I am back on BlogSpot, filling you in on what I've been up to. And basically that is............... fuck all. So lets begin.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560261386920985522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs2kWhZofB_aoedVfSm05EZ6zwduhMyD1kSRJblDVujP5wDR1wODib05GDgeBAW3yw61Jf4nYtc5Y5Ot8Slb4i33s-x2UGc63aJ3WwYXyobqzPUCW1lxmoeRyXSn0PCzENiXuVmdtpZPqh/s320/phil+afro.jpg" /><br /><br />I can't remember when I did it but I decided to get a perm. So I drove down to Morrisons in my Nan's Ford Fiesta, bought a £5.49 kit and asked the Mrs to get working on it. It was delightful. Mates laughed at me in the pub, Old timers gave me strange looks down Leyton Orient and I even got called a cheap Justin Timberlake, or Bill from Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, or Bogus Journey; whatever that film was called.<br /><br />The Mrs even started comparing me to O'Brien, that bitch Maid from the 'Downton Abbey' series on ITV. Needless to say, it didn't last long.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 239px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560261382909225346" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9mTSZ0otTd16K5KRg6PCkLSwJ670WqQTbwkv3Oe3v-qpVBmxn36Z-0Yc5veevClUko3uKTtIKFXME-lT71PaHJ-vAL-7NbcZxdVXPB_OOV1CzmW5YXrwtgjOs4efsH-bys9LQWI7Kd0DQ/s320/philcandle.bmp" /><br />I remember a couple of years ago, days used to consist of waking up in some random city on the other side of the world, packing up my rucksack, popping into some knock off Irish Pub in say, Ho Chi Minh City, visiting a few temples then jumping onto some rickety old bus to a small village just past the border in some exotic land. Now I spend my life putting wax on my finger and nose and burning it so that it looks as though I'm on fire...... or going to bed at 9pm cos I have to be up for work at 6am to listen to stupid people moan about stupid things.<br /><br /><div><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560261374405276226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsDK6c4Q1kqxbAnL-pxuSl96nwmwtn_2sgJIuVaY_I5KRzkoIoHjGXkZUQiOCLosyzihBujz4QCVN4zRYNUS5_KEC1ip1gNQILJJ0qx5xrddCD7mxd3G7SlS3uArTM2fpFurLDvYbuPYtf/s320/philchristmas+tree.bmp" /><br /><br />At least Christmas was just around the corner! And what a lovely Christmas it was. Here, still with permed hair, I dressed up as some sort of tree and hobbled to Matt and Joey's festive party. With two beers in hand, and balls hanging from all orifices I proceeded to dance, (which didn't go down well with my fucked up leg) get most of my mates naked and generally make a messy pest of myself. A true stain on London.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560261369958042498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOrD4Gi015u6OHiXdstHNS0aMCTCHuuHMiH_cQV4VWuGw74-ii_q28ItnAzqxER3SFBni-hEMg_LA4GGc-_so56AMt4Bd4bDKEqhBYCg-4IwgDKj0LMN7NHBcx6aKOEgxDYTJ-tRH3UR0U/s320/philpissing.jpg" /></p><p></p><p>I had some sort of moment as I was going for a piss one night, a moment of extreme darkness and self loathing. The hair had to go, I think the straw that broke the camel's back was Stevey Ward calling me Ray Parlour. It was about time I didn't look like that gyppo c**t. So I shaved it all off. Brutal. I hadn't had a shaved head since the Chavvy days of the late nineties/early naughties. When I bowled around Chingford in Evisu jeans and sparkly ear-rings. It was time to go back to my roots.<br /></p><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560261359919872146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMWAlGDDq-uOuNSZCW6snBqXl2_GHByBpOthXBZKrCVp_kT2rXg5jnVWspfB1oBykmB1KQLdDnp9zKhVrWwdP4qKWs1K_hnVcV3sEE9clvrU7VhiH0ZBYYwljIm9tcTk0JOsiW0JRXQ91i/s320/philbong.jpg" /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560260476264432690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSz1iqCHVJ3fIqocldohvyJltaFqZVr55zPVzVnOdzHKJIvctko1y61b6bX_oHNO6BinFUSi3vGf3HNinkdYIhaf7t01M4wJyugVEBtoYC5DVQfyvBSLQn-tanZeDVVb-jPy6DBn1_w9aU/s320/philbong2.jpg" /><br /><br />My head is a lot colder than it used to be. I have given myself a goal, a goal that I think I can achieve. I'm gonna grow my beard and keep my hair at a number 1. I want to look like one of those mugs who posts videos of themselves on YouTube telling other mugs to kill the infidels and kick off a Holy War. I might even start wearing a burkha to work.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdEd7MR1dn18kexEY1WpMYz0d9QtKTjhBSeqDcDv6eYSXZ94ewR2Mu_c1r8dX4bIryq6ASa9yy1cxoWLkXhRhbc2AQGePFCwybCQiFGgS8zr4w7O2oBuKJjt1lK-vPdszBlJQFiYCW_lG/s1600/philkateads.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560260474323988562" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirdEd7MR1dn18kexEY1WpMYz0d9QtKTjhBSeqDcDv6eYSXZ94ewR2Mu_c1r8dX4bIryq6ASa9yy1cxoWLkXhRhbc2AQGePFCwybCQiFGgS8zr4w7O2oBuKJjt1lK-vPdszBlJQFiYCW_lG/s320/philkateads.jpg" /></a><br />New Year's Eve was somewhat of a love in down Bethnal Green Working Man's Club. We drank cherry Lambrini served by a fat tranny, listened to an 83 year old crooner belt out the Frank Sinatra hits and generally had sporadic threesomes. It was a great night, with great people.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsa_KcRbQ6b6SHKSh5Vh3M6O14h8vVh8aFZePOGFtPDTlvcva9cdZjM0HVQ7KSlcZxqSTdLtWu7ngBxlU5MM_Iaj8rw8cQmZFCRNHwQsRNeVzyV9XE_5DCGj7oE4i0SZO71sZJiU-htIb/s1600/philandjennewyear.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 234px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560260467912546930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqsa_KcRbQ6b6SHKSh5Vh3M6O14h8vVh8aFZePOGFtPDTlvcva9cdZjM0HVQ7KSlcZxqSTdLtWu7ngBxlU5MM_Iaj8rw8cQmZFCRNHwQsRNeVzyV9XE_5DCGj7oE4i0SZO71sZJiU-htIb/s320/philandjennewyear.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpdPdCoAyVKOzdRS19XN9s-LRBFQYUTBc6U4VwhrSUdRgRM6XBMj3PYxFbdyR0LfNBm3DlBiLEYap9leYvPS1T4q_mMesg-t4MrvqWhGKUYp1BbyTtkd-jy7fktEc5bWG1_5avYhyuYoI/s1600/phildancing.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560260464953213570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGpdPdCoAyVKOzdRS19XN9s-LRBFQYUTBc6U4VwhrSUdRgRM6XBMj3PYxFbdyR0LfNBm3DlBiLEYap9leYvPS1T4q_mMesg-t4MrvqWhGKUYp1BbyTtkd-jy7fktEc5bWG1_5avYhyuYoI/s320/phildancing.jpg" /></a><br />Once again, against the will of my many doctors, I danced a little bit too much and felt the pain in the morning.... one day my leg will just snap off, but at least the ConDems might help me out with some benefits if I've only got one leg. Rant over......<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjzdrAA2Ehs0i3cxDwU9wasklW4qLSrwbo4qxkkTcZ-nmoq2GCZf0JFlVFmIc9CpK2lLo7noCySI0g9Z2pkb59dVNq1aNoDo9S4hHdL5_-w4lrHhCn_SQXt8PIud8NWaxVPmdquPiHoHX/s1600/philandadskissing.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5560260463857719074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUjzdrAA2Ehs0i3cxDwU9wasklW4qLSrwbo4qxkkTcZ-nmoq2GCZf0JFlVFmIc9CpK2lLo7noCySI0g9Z2pkb59dVNq1aNoDo9S4hHdL5_-w4lrHhCn_SQXt8PIud8NWaxVPmdquPiHoHX/s320/philandadskissing.jpg" /></a><br />It's been a whirlwind of a couple of months busy doing nothing. But I'm back and the StyleCouncil blog is back. So get your mother fucking reading glasses back on.</div><div></div><div>The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.</div><div></div><div>Spare change guv'nor?</div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-8877512709376285792010-11-05T04:43:00.000-07:002010-11-05T09:13:51.454-07:00The East End Thrift Store Part Deux.So the East End Thrift Store had a new delivery of capes, sweaters, shirts and dresses. We thought it would be rude not to go down and take a look. A free bar was the main reason we went down there though. We stopped at the Blind Beggar on Whitechapel High Street, had a few beers, ordered a cheese board, played pool, had a couple of arguments then strolled down to Assembly Passage. I also knew there would be some trendy looking kids lurking about, so took my photographer, Pablo, along with me to snap some fashionistas. I wasn't disappointed.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1E1I0BmNA1juDATdqoPKxFdgUhxnAih0aFJE86phC5C2O0iKD6opUQnTz1B4CDqxy-CehZ-eQmlx6Z41i13qy5BtUeEwYIXHaeVG9lNaGyhGSOr-OecXGuBxEtrrNk61tVoF0FBbwehej/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1468.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034923933809762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1E1I0BmNA1juDATdqoPKxFdgUhxnAih0aFJE86phC5C2O0iKD6opUQnTz1B4CDqxy-CehZ-eQmlx6Z41i13qy5BtUeEwYIXHaeVG9lNaGyhGSOr-OecXGuBxEtrrNk61tVoF0FBbwehej/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1468.jpg" /></a><br />This young lady seemed to coordinate her outfit with the Bow Wow at her feet. Bobble hat, Body Con dress, over sized leather jacket and matching tights with vintage boots. A great look for the upcoming winter months. Even her pup couldn't keep his eyes of her.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFvXyqdkXpGQfgZZQ36lngLsCXxLAEItKIYPcDmTZIjCVKhL2MFUFzZEPZTaEE1mBSpwtpw1jdRqn2H2mItKEe7wyhJYXqq3Rat5rx24ieNYDcTBx4mCXDxjsucnmgFj6xlu1z3aGN4PO/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1467.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034448716775554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRFvXyqdkXpGQfgZZQ36lngLsCXxLAEItKIYPcDmTZIjCVKhL2MFUFzZEPZTaEE1mBSpwtpw1jdRqn2H2mItKEe7wyhJYXqq3Rat5rx24ieNYDcTBx4mCXDxjsucnmgFj6xlu1z3aGN4PO/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1467.jpg" /></a><br />The massive scarf wrapped around her neck, with a khaki long coat and red hair. The crazy curls, distressed denim jacket, grandad jumper and black tights. Two looks that stood out from the crowd. Showing her support for our forces with a paper poppy, and the customary beers in hand. They deserved to be papped and posted.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwZC5ldyPSSIli8mX0fLahpK3OqpeXgxQLwpWNknkm1s78wb6MXjPyODsKo8nJEurjvuPt9Q7876m2eJr9nTO6mc_RkOUrUkaI2QS1BKGTcj4g_NE7wGC6Hpa25Z-zaDitO7pM7VughUY/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1466.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034438711536386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAwZC5ldyPSSIli8mX0fLahpK3OqpeXgxQLwpWNknkm1s78wb6MXjPyODsKo8nJEurjvuPt9Q7876m2eJr9nTO6mc_RkOUrUkaI2QS1BKGTcj4g_NE7wGC6Hpa25Z-zaDitO7pM7VughUY/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1466.jpg" /></a><br />Colour! A true statement outfit. Oxblood boots, red tights, a lacy<span style="color:#ffff00;"> </span>yellow dress and mustard tweed jacket with hair in a bun. Grandma chic. You couldn't help but look at this girl as she scanned the rails for bargains.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjla3PLxaHxxoV4E4aO1CClrEUHX1-JG-wJu4UmlClfSdtyS4wF-0DSwDiriXxGupRznNxJfJaJ1tZdnVvQyfmluQ2hSEwCPACzxSoDN-pQWQ0ad3nPc8MEBgl9Wo5u1XxTlc6aEM8a1CN/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1465.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034434715725122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjla3PLxaHxxoV4E4aO1CClrEUHX1-JG-wJu4UmlClfSdtyS4wF-0DSwDiriXxGupRznNxJfJaJ1tZdnVvQyfmluQ2hSEwCPACzxSoDN-pQWQ0ad3nPc8MEBgl9Wo5u1XxTlc6aEM8a1CN/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1465.jpg" /></a><br />Geek chic is still alive and kicking. A good mop of hair, fitted coat and checked scarf with skinny jeans and an air of authority. Another stylish lad photographed by Pablo for Style Council.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEvFTLlf2AxEUid8sRr6vdhB-rsUCJXAveaeYP2-77W9gVF3Z920yxC3f_qm8XefBwTHULI11qgckXRypacaBz7L-czVFNgrlLgXxoIZBxeyxQRNglU5LjYJ-VJID2N95Q06mZF6UuCn-/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1464.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034430627169458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqEvFTLlf2AxEUid8sRr6vdhB-rsUCJXAveaeYP2-77W9gVF3Z920yxC3f_qm8XefBwTHULI11qgckXRypacaBz7L-czVFNgrlLgXxoIZBxeyxQRNglU5LjYJ-VJID2N95Q06mZF6UuCn-/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1464.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This lad had a real grungy look going on. Skin tight jeans, denim shirt, checked scarf, distressed biker jacket, NHS specs and beanie hat. Another winner in the style stakes.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7I8qFB3pfpz_1UQx6TcMJbginGfK2VlvWwU9oz_F_FMjq0g2vwL2CRQTcKZKGyn3mwOjpwEa7HEawL9fPv6cwuhyl03TlQk34N6GV-k_83ch4mS0_M9gZsxyj8Fjx4wiZsnfJlUGnrTd/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1463.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536034421302096210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP7I8qFB3pfpz_1UQx6TcMJbginGfK2VlvWwU9oz_F_FMjq0g2vwL2CRQTcKZKGyn3mwOjpwEa7HEawL9fPv6cwuhyl03TlQk34N6GV-k_83ch4mS0_M9gZsxyj8Fjx4wiZsnfJlUGnrTd/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1463.jpg" /></a><br />Layers, layers, layers. You can never go wrong when teaming denim with a flannel shirt, a pretty dress, large necklace, silk scarf in your hair and headphones hanging at your side. The type of gal you wanna have a chat with and find out what she's up to. A cute look for a vintage shopping trip.<br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvKmcvDDz5aUY-ctU2b9miEOEnx236WGW-66lU1RHhIKq7i30R8uINYWeA0f5ARax_COXcSvuTMykJUuspMoCOr7dxxge5FXNVonwm_iLReCk94ELew_moQQfMvu4eF9Yj3Y5kC2tf0Nu/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1462.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536032495392607778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhvKmcvDDz5aUY-ctU2b9miEOEnx236WGW-66lU1RHhIKq7i30R8uINYWeA0f5ARax_COXcSvuTMykJUuspMoCOr7dxxge5FXNVonwm_iLReCk94ELew_moQQfMvu4eF9Yj3Y5kC2tf0Nu/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1462.jpg" /></a><br />The owl sweater won it for me. I love silly novelty jumpers, very Flight of the Conchords. Teamed with a tatty looking coat and tight jeans and this guy has that messed up look down to a tee. Another find by Pablo my photographer, he never lets me down.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26wWaG4m91pNyDFiYUkF8KmjNMNrQ-xE9-48XTmpsGB9cXoBsL1ZyMQs2qHCt5RHKQCfp2pRG1Xw6pLMXZ6V1HubsCVcsf0Xrxbk-MsSAqzsWOkJ-INF7S7BQnRVJYS917uqj5mcjKyfx/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1461.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536032473080686386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj26wWaG4m91pNyDFiYUkF8KmjNMNrQ-xE9-48XTmpsGB9cXoBsL1ZyMQs2qHCt5RHKQCfp2pRG1Xw6pLMXZ6V1HubsCVcsf0Xrxbk-MsSAqzsWOkJ-INF7S7BQnRVJYS917uqj5mcjKyfx/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1461.jpg" /></a><br />Cute brogues, cream tights, a pencil skirt, delicate top, chunky belt, sheepskin coat and a flowing scarf. A head turning look for the cold nights drawing in. The broach is a nice touch to an understated look.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7J34G_CRwzmVLwsLzcatk03t1JIw8EUb6dYPqAYB76G1uPKvDDknRpNQeJRHgXyfIVruEw5rgBHtv0B-IAxhjgh_Lk6-SK201gJ-nXmlyLLUluUfpPdS7WxMVfPtaVjTjjt9CLe76V4qs/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1460.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536032462491291330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7J34G_CRwzmVLwsLzcatk03t1JIw8EUb6dYPqAYB76G1uPKvDDknRpNQeJRHgXyfIVruEw5rgBHtv0B-IAxhjgh_Lk6-SK201gJ-nXmlyLLUluUfpPdS7WxMVfPtaVjTjjt9CLe76V4qs/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1460.jpg" /></a><br />Looking like Serge from Kasabian, this lad proves that you can put on your nan's fur coat and still look Rock 'n' Roll. Add a delicate scarf, two day old stubble and skinny jeans, and the look screams 'I'm in a band!' Doubt he's as well off as the boys of England's biggest band.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sB2t7ieLrsqYIQpJPCQFgbNTQkp1opfSQrGUL-20NN9lcfX_sM3IBLO9ICnTF1AoChMo2NrhKVUf3ZVwNB7lWmX14kOnAFioo1ZbTVhrxfIb3TWkVBgj08obZ1wTIbP38AVDCiYl80s8/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1459.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536032443037825330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3sB2t7ieLrsqYIQpJPCQFgbNTQkp1opfSQrGUL-20NN9lcfX_sM3IBLO9ICnTF1AoChMo2NrhKVUf3ZVwNB7lWmX14kOnAFioo1ZbTVhrxfIb3TWkVBgj08obZ1wTIbP38AVDCiYl80s8/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1459.jpg" /></a><br />One all in black and t'other in fur, tights and ankle boots. Two totally different styles, but two totally eye catching looks.</div><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwnayRFo_Ejlh_D4Cz9wXGfHalQr1trCg29hhESCLzwb1fl3MpeMMqmiSVcrfEBe4KgjdssFqViAXXv-27wS6z9AcPpDdzOeIxS7CdZbOeYfQMhXth6_o79_NkM_UWu2XzGKCRT2NdG9/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1458.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5536032434043168338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjozwnayRFo_Ejlh_D4Cz9wXGfHalQr1trCg29hhESCLzwb1fl3MpeMMqmiSVcrfEBe4KgjdssFqViAXXv-27wS6z9AcPpDdzOeIxS7CdZbOeYfQMhXth6_o79_NkM_UWu2XzGKCRT2NdG9/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1458.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>A tweed blazer, flat cap, burgundy DM's and skinny jeans; this guy could be your grandad, but he isn't. Looking every inch the gent, simple but effective.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So I woke up this morning and realised that I had spent ninety quid on a pair of loafers, three jumpers and a cape. A bad mistake considering I don't get paid for three weeks and I have fuck all money anyway. To forget about my spending spree we went and downed a few drinks at the White Hart, jumped on the Central Line and had a couple of poached eggs on toast at home. A perfect end to a lovely evening.......... </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-56486670080979448562010-11-04T06:32:00.000-07:002010-11-04T07:03:36.667-07:00Untitled VI<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRgY_RR5G5zF8VzAx9N4zcKqXs3rUh3xbK2FctshAVY2pU3XhK45fNsPkwZhoIcMCxf5XLQngbzD_GpGUDmjRh2NitbSHvA3I_53RHSs0jozaHlGK2989j0kzY5_Qs-ibygsJ6xMFYzWW/s1600/bloody-hands.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 246px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535693958369178034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzRgY_RR5G5zF8VzAx9N4zcKqXs3rUh3xbK2FctshAVY2pU3XhK45fNsPkwZhoIcMCxf5XLQngbzD_GpGUDmjRh2NitbSHvA3I_53RHSs0jozaHlGK2989j0kzY5_Qs-ibygsJ6xMFYzWW/s320/bloody-hands.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>The door slammed shut and the house rattled as if it had been awoken from a dream. Billy peered out from his warm duvet towards the hallway. His mum had left for work. She had returned to her teaching role a few days ago and had left Billy alone for the first time in months. In some ways Billy was relieved, but there was an underlying anxiousness that he could not shift. He looked down at his leg then peered across to the stub on the right side of his body and sighed. Another day of boredom and another day of wishing he was dead.</div><div><br /> </div><div>Billy lifted himself onto his wheelchair and rolled towards the bay window that overlooked Galleon Lane. It was frosty outside and the air was still dark from the night before. He scanned the road for life but could only see a few women walking hand in hand with small children; obviously taking them to school. Billy frowned; he missed his friends, he missed riding his bike to Parkside Primary, he even missed his teachers. With one hand he turned his chair towards his shabby single bed. Times were hard; his mother hadn't worked in months, she was getting ill and no money was coming in. There was even talk that they may lose the family home. Billy didn't care; he knew someone up there was punishing him. First the accident, now this. He was happy to live on the streets with all the crackheads, whores and runaways. He didn't see himself as any better than them. He was an outcast as well; people would piss on him in the street and spit at him as he rolled by. That's what he thought anyway.</div><div><br /> </div><div>As Billy pulled himself back onto his cold bed he heard a creaking outside his bedroom door. Then he heard a shuffling. Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy thought it was Gil, the manky old cat from next door that came into the house from time to time, hunting for mice. But this sounded bigger than a cat. It sounded almost human. Creak, shuffle, creak. Billy began to feel scared. He had been having vivid nightmares about the man who had ripped his leg away from him. The man had been chasing him, with a look of murder in his eye. His hands were covered in blood and he was tailing Billy. Billy's feet were getting heavier and heavier. Then he looked down, he was chained to the floor. The man had caught him; Billy was doomed. A brick smashed across Billy's face and he was blind. He couldn't see what the man was doing to him but the pain was intense. He was dying. The brick was pounding down on him. Smash, smash, smash. Billy was dead.</div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-80453532361618823572010-11-03T06:23:00.000-07:002010-11-03T07:49:05.764-07:00When the Legoman turned up, he stole the party......<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7voSxq7gnPta6pjtc04VbAaggJDMs5vecAXmR_eVrItXobfPcCoKPY3Oq0snnD-ZlNk7eVNQIJVMyFLA3X2IB2sZz5vBgVaBZ7DkReyjFfJIgfl7b4aN8egGLp_7QtT4okV-4-wACmi6/s1600/legoman13.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315991289422994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO7voSxq7gnPta6pjtc04VbAaggJDMs5vecAXmR_eVrItXobfPcCoKPY3Oq0snnD-ZlNk7eVNQIJVMyFLA3X2IB2sZz5vBgVaBZ7DkReyjFfJIgfl7b4aN8egGLp_7QtT4okV-4-wACmi6/s320/legoman13.jpg" /></a><br />It was a short journey up the M1 to Northampton. We played Pure Garage on the ghetto blaster and drank cheap booze to get ready for the Halloween spectacular at the youngest Ford's twenty bedroom student house. At one point Mr <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mulhern</span> had a spot of road rage and raced a car that we thought were undercover coppers. Luckily they were not. It must have looked strange to passers by as they peered into our Ford Focus, four slightly pissed Mexican candy skulls rocking out to Artful Dodger on the fast lane of the motorway.<br /><div><br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX01NDSaQrwGBfSCitiYDRjeg_qZFTZ8pYpzaahPIKRNi4hAkH3ZZpK4h6oy8wo_NHbINPQtgjstWB3S_wyBkBoT74yhVpCZD4b7P2nkcKVbW-G2HeROlXRVZoqwmqJvcUzXJV9K8UWC8p/s1600/legoman11.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315830982937506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX01NDSaQrwGBfSCitiYDRjeg_qZFTZ8pYpzaahPIKRNi4hAkH3ZZpK4h6oy8wo_NHbINPQtgjstWB3S_wyBkBoT74yhVpCZD4b7P2nkcKVbW-G2HeROlXRVZoqwmqJvcUzXJV9K8UWC8p/s320/legoman11.jpg" /></a><br />There was no contest in the best dressed at the do. Alice, as a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Legoman</span>, smashed the competition out of the water. Even a sexed up Queen of Hearts and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Pit stop</span> girl couldn't compete with the red tied classic toy that bounded into the kitchen. Even the cardboard box feet couldn't halter her triumphant rise to the top of the Halloween fancy dress league. </div><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkhKs2_Yh0Dz503SmBH3RMynfnNT-eR7faPDRN34DZBscOGO9iBOAg4aFohlS4717XwkP9qGw5AK36A1wQxYomNqGIhS8D778ZGa-wYqAjPgxV7DaV0q3WgfmBjKM62Fa7CAhhni5j_UF/s1600/legoman4.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315386692867282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFkhKs2_Yh0Dz503SmBH3RMynfnNT-eR7faPDRN34DZBscOGO9iBOAg4aFohlS4717XwkP9qGw5AK36A1wQxYomNqGIhS8D778ZGa-wYqAjPgxV7DaV0q3WgfmBjKM62Fa7CAhhni5j_UF/s320/legoman4.jpg" /></a><br />As the night went on, Jennifer's face remained perfectly painted while I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">sweated</span> most of mine away. When it comes to organisation, working out tax refunds, tidying her bed, packing her suitcase or painting her head like a skull, Jennifer 'Anthea Turner' Ford is a cut above. She even wants our wedding to be sponsored by a chocolate bar in appreciation for her hero.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtnSdV_tMc7pIgmvQE79SFGpTFFOFMqyIALBgvN_2kduYBbCoFuSgDPRadZCEqmpoKzH1zv3c2Hnk1jcefy1WxaSesBU2qimKZAn2py98nSvb-cfcZ-V-S1BGizJxoGXo4_iHE0hp6cnd/s1600/legoman8.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315379713318882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTtnSdV_tMc7pIgmvQE79SFGpTFFOFMqyIALBgvN_2kduYBbCoFuSgDPRadZCEqmpoKzH1zv3c2Hnk1jcefy1WxaSesBU2qimKZAn2py98nSvb-cfcZ-V-S1BGizJxoGXo4_iHE0hp6cnd/s320/legoman8.jpg" /></a><br />The middle Ford seems to be taking after her older sister in the perfect face painting stakes, looking effortlessly haunting in this picture. Mr <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mulhern</span> had trouble because of his <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">ZZ</span> Top beard so managed to look more like a panda than a skull.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVzHgv79w5RoABOVaV36PXObBc7_Zf8OyOOrZUD_NBa20HDRm2gzxYOt5BFi468vTO6_NVQM7PUBsD3WpgvL6Tym6E1U3UabGC_G3pDMKLRbViEIm9P8I-GXzcs9uEdil74qiDRnSdLvP/s1600/legoman1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315374922100402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSVzHgv79w5RoABOVaV36PXObBc7_Zf8OyOOrZUD_NBa20HDRm2gzxYOt5BFi468vTO6_NVQM7PUBsD3WpgvL6Tym6E1U3UabGC_G3pDMKLRbViEIm9P8I-GXzcs9uEdil74qiDRnSdLvP/s320/legoman1.jpg" /></a><br />The wine and the love was flowing as the evening went on. Apart from a rough bird with white powder dripping from her nose, who accused me of using my walking stick as a fashion statement and not a necessity, everyone seemed to be getting on. I spilt a beer over her mutton face and went and bought some rose tequilas to calm down. Jennifer practised a golf shot with my stick, perfectly breaking the bottom of Kate's wine glass, threw her <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Iphone</span> across the bar and began dancing to the Halloween beats. It was getting messy.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYfBT85c0qnFSuhP0V_49_FqJ0y7bBDACwv-LjhcLTGT3lPbC7KNGCgMEy2cZwWEdmsGP3yp7PcsFBKJfVKlWEfeCdeCmFCpjXt4dT5LbDGJjuOyIShntIuZc2AbJ7SB5avdWbSXBTJzr/s1600/legoman6.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315371845030834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyYfBT85c0qnFSuhP0V_49_FqJ0y7bBDACwv-LjhcLTGT3lPbC7KNGCgMEy2cZwWEdmsGP3yp7PcsFBKJfVKlWEfeCdeCmFCpjXt4dT5LbDGJjuOyIShntIuZc2AbJ7SB5avdWbSXBTJzr/s320/legoman6.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVFxH9sIulbQyyYpTDcsJDKfBtcVZVkVXKFifTnyhuWzjEnboKRwxq3ldO-GHmHFR9p_LbCai1a0PiSpIsCk_fEDCnsXVCBvCxmV99uIiDnKfFFSgc40sarIUTrzm02V5NObQfOedPuAr/s1600/legoman7.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535315364557539314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGVFxH9sIulbQyyYpTDcsJDKfBtcVZVkVXKFifTnyhuWzjEnboKRwxq3ldO-GHmHFR9p_LbCai1a0PiSpIsCk_fEDCnsXVCBvCxmV99uIiDnKfFFSgc40sarIUTrzm02V5NObQfOedPuAr/s320/legoman7.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Legoman</span> outfit was getting a lot of attention. Super Barbie turned green with envy and the skull candy people tried to beat him up. The crowds at the bar had all eyes on the large yellow toy, a pumpkin humped his leg and the bouncers tried to samba with him. Shame there was no prize for the best costume at <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">MoMo</span>................... because that coked up bitch who accused me of being a ponce would have won it for her whore outfit.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rKYxXtFjNKhs4Nz2bWkPbevrbLB2D0oQEzS4t2OMu9SAfaDYnEJKDj_2qdEaEggGvOpjls9DeUACF2GzrqSRb1cjAqpNYLxG9EAsP0XJJDU2pY2xjbPf_BMx_ryg4dNUKAhBTt05r3um/s1600/legoman3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 238px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535314332089771074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9rKYxXtFjNKhs4Nz2bWkPbevrbLB2D0oQEzS4t2OMu9SAfaDYnEJKDj_2qdEaEggGvOpjls9DeUACF2GzrqSRb1cjAqpNYLxG9EAsP0XJJDU2pY2xjbPf_BMx_ryg4dNUKAhBTt05r3um/s320/legoman3.jpg" /></a><br />Then the love that was in the air got everyone hot under the collar. My face began dripping even more and my permed hair seemed to be getting frizzier as the hours shot by.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQubayypXL4O6cwvsFgjLW9Fc1shEnB5wa5YADp49jdVn1H5phIit4cvDPw8i96hi8dsudYKAQ5fzpZrc3zvJGAE17k3QXlXjYG-aMZCMqBuDezlcp5MYQOvCkByFzxyilvAsTdtReEqDc/s1600/legoman2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535314317892709746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQubayypXL4O6cwvsFgjLW9Fc1shEnB5wa5YADp49jdVn1H5phIit4cvDPw8i96hi8dsudYKAQ5fzpZrc3zvJGAE17k3QXlXjYG-aMZCMqBuDezlcp5MYQOvCkByFzxyilvAsTdtReEqDc/s320/legoman2.jpg" /></a><br />Jennifer preferred me with the Lego head on and kissed me for the first time of the night, and Kate and Ads began smooching in the corner. She was just warming him up for later that night when he would be sharing a bed with me. The next morning Mr <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mulhern</span> admitted that he found it almost impossible not to spoon me as I slept with my nose to the wall.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4Rx-QJnY3V-qbugSnS3eTYpCHDWk5Ac5vHFeNwl_5Vn-fM563xFEjklroXLQkslDfJKkmNcl3e65EPBj3Yj5HhE6EaWmWaphsfKuniKn78GFxXaZ4eYiLjqIcrIesA8pKwwtTrDDCQBO/s1600/legoman5.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535314311721263650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo4Rx-QJnY3V-qbugSnS3eTYpCHDWk5Ac5vHFeNwl_5Vn-fM563xFEjklroXLQkslDfJKkmNcl3e65EPBj3Yj5HhE6EaWmWaphsfKuniKn78GFxXaZ4eYiLjqIcrIesA8pKwwtTrDDCQBO/s320/legoman5.jpg" /></a> </div><div>The hugging and the kissing was getting ridiculous. The little Ford was sandwiched between myself and Mr <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Mulhern</span>, aka, Thomas the Wank Engine, and the Queen of Hearts and Super Barbie got a bit frisky on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dance floor</span>. It was time to go home. </div><div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZGvnRKzuAvpHKkAZXisKmVRNQKrfDdsgwC7wAgyrP9w4VXc4SXJuKB7wLr1k2QYG_-3YNboUMisD77Qsh5dP0QYgdqiKCaPeJYRBaRmKvb6W6T5gHu2YGeDNNCt0fWGEgGSINC7G1xoT/s1600/legoman9.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535314310892512754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyZGvnRKzuAvpHKkAZXisKmVRNQKrfDdsgwC7wAgyrP9w4VXc4SXJuKB7wLr1k2QYG_-3YNboUMisD77Qsh5dP0QYgdqiKCaPeJYRBaRmKvb6W6T5gHu2YGeDNNCt0fWGEgGSINC7G1xoT/s320/legoman9.jpg" /></a></div><div></div><div>So we stopped off at the kebab shop; Jennifer nearly had a fight with a girl who was eating cucumber from my chips in pitta, and Adam got his balls out to lighten the situation. It didn't work. However, our cockney accents seemed to frighten the little blighters off, and the possible fight never happened. </div><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjun71jXpGQk2UCJuPVXMt7FUcoBYjjq4pqcccRKIhP4a33KpPH4hzXV7_QjjeudgLcUvNblTN0zhZu0rneilS9lG9iNdRUzhrI74liLJKiZYw4nDmehR5NNV7RrGre_j73P5pHVMffkjiK/s1600/legoman10.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535314301573837122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjun71jXpGQk2UCJuPVXMt7FUcoBYjjq4pqcccRKIhP4a33KpPH4hzXV7_QjjeudgLcUvNblTN0zhZu0rneilS9lG9iNdRUzhrI74liLJKiZYw4nDmehR5NNV7RrGre_j73P5pHVMffkjiK/s320/legoman10.jpg" /></a> </div><div>So thank you Miss Ford for a very eventful weekend. I would kiss you all over that cheeky face of yours if you weren't up north. Oh and thanks for the breakfast, even though Carol finished it off...........</div><div></div><div>Spare change <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">guv'ner</span>?</div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-91081872353950066562010-10-24T04:17:00.000-07:002010-10-24T04:44:25.073-07:00Untitled V<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOby2p9NVLoWFNDhrRXPeK3y1Q5PaQXVWfKKvcGiKx2UNlNICN3c_5_kqlAg3cjsrcy7v6jUF6RcdooOk4gzHqgqkgQP_0O8gAv0QONtJlJD_LOKylSsNHI5uQocLouN1MVoMme13O3576/s1600/prehistoric+fish.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5531577025803841554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOby2p9NVLoWFNDhrRXPeK3y1Q5PaQXVWfKKvcGiKx2UNlNICN3c_5_kqlAg3cjsrcy7v6jUF6RcdooOk4gzHqgqkgQP_0O8gAv0QONtJlJD_LOKylSsNHI5uQocLouN1MVoMme13O3576/s320/prehistoric+fish.jpg" /></a><br /><div>The air outside was cold and unforgiving. It was mid November and the frost was starting to settle on the tall Victorian houses along Galleon Lane. Children were running along the slippery streets, seedy looking men were walking to and from the corner shop, some with bottles hidden in brown paper bags and others with rude magazines tucked under their armpits. Billy was staring out of the small window of his bedroom. He was slumped in his wheelchair and fiddling with the lucky penny his grandfather had given to him before he had passed away. Billy had been home for almost a week and hadn't left the comfort of his tiny room; his tee shirt was grubby, his trousers creased and his hands dirty from the wheels of his chair.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Billy had been having strange, twisted dreams since he had arrived back on Galleon Lane. He was drowning in the darkest depths of the Pacific Ocean. Prehistoric snapping fish were tearing the flesh from his bones and huge sea dragons were chasing him across the watery globe. He was desperately swimming, in all directions, searching for a safe haven. He was scanning the horizons, screaming for help, splashing helplessly as the beasts attacked him, wave after wave; snap, snap, snap. Then suddenly, in the distance, he saw a small island, about the same size as his bathroom. It was empty, glowing in the hot sun and beckoning Billy towards its dry shore. Billy was swimming furiously, getting closer and closer to his sanctuary. He stumbled onto the sand to find a large tin bath resting underneath a drooping palm tree. It shone, it glimmered invitingly and it called for Billy; so he crawled towards it. </div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-35436643070162922362010-10-22T05:50:00.000-07:002010-10-22T06:19:04.983-07:00Untitled IV<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyC1TysKgETPU4x21iZrFEKuYYwCLOLqbIOU8Ohp78cxEcMwBr6O_LQWVoIx1O2mqURX5S8jYGmVj92UPaJKIV70kCKfY9s5uLt7L7GcTxF2EKWXH_ttoIRCa9GwV348ezxmdw5pZKh2kL/s1600/evil-pirate-pictures1.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 220px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530859218633567282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyC1TysKgETPU4x21iZrFEKuYYwCLOLqbIOU8Ohp78cxEcMwBr6O_LQWVoIx1O2mqURX5S8jYGmVj92UPaJKIV70kCKfY9s5uLt7L7GcTxF2EKWXH_ttoIRCa9GwV348ezxmdw5pZKh2kL/s320/evil-pirate-pictures1.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Captain Billy Byron looked out across the cool, clear water. The sun was falling through the clouds as another day was near its end. He smiled; it had been another adventurous but satisfying day. Gilbert, Billy's trusted parrot, hopped along the wheel of the towering ship, jumped onto Billy's shoulder and slowly nodded off into a deep sleep. Billy stood up, his cloak rippled in the light wind, the gold around his neck clanked and clinked as he picked up his silvery sword, and his wooden leg thumped, thumped across the slippery deck. It was time for him to retreat to his sleeping quarters; Billy knew he had a big day ahead to prepare for. After all, every pirate needs his beauty sleep.</div><div></div><br /><div>It had been eight months since the accident and Billy was a shadow of his former self. He spent his days cooped up in the small bedroom of his mum's terraced house. He hadn't been to school or spoke to his friends for just under a year. It was 9.04am, Billy's alarm was humming to the sound of the local radio station, and he was ignoring it. He was hiding underneath his duvet and cursing to himself, he hated the morning. He hated waking up and remembering what had happened to him.</div><div></div><br /><div>He could hear his mum downstairs preparing breakfast and moving from room to room, picking up magazines and polishing dirty surfaces. She had tried to tempt Billy from his room with freshly baked double chocolate chip cookies, extra creamy porridge with sticky honey and homemade cheeseburgers with the curliest of curly fries, but nothing had worked. He wanted to be alone.</div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-62871419196281004082010-10-20T07:22:00.000-07:002010-10-21T02:59:20.609-07:00Untitled III<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrS63C6CNjkPAIEisZUFGo1wJLWIM5pX8ok7Jn1N5dy37FXjF1y_iS3VlKrhX1N7GC6tigcmU_yMuWyFCsO1YAgHz9FevVKQ9HcKItBKmf8g7OYmxnq_pR3t219nOuW4_3CTIhYxoN3gh/s1600/hospital+ghosts.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 225px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530141759623494882" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWrS63C6CNjkPAIEisZUFGo1wJLWIM5pX8ok7Jn1N5dy37FXjF1y_iS3VlKrhX1N7GC6tigcmU_yMuWyFCsO1YAgHz9FevVKQ9HcKItBKmf8g7OYmxnq_pR3t219nOuW4_3CTIhYxoN3gh/s320/hospital+ghosts.jpg" /></a><br /><div><br /><div>Week eight bought with it a flicker of hope. He heard whispers in the corridors, he heard his name echo through the halls and there was a rumour that Billy would be going home.</div><div></div><br /><div>He had been through painful physiotherapy, he had been introduced to his wheelchair; or his throne, as he liked to call it. Billy would pretend to be a wise old king; looking down on his subjects as they begged and fought for his attention. However, the nightmares were still constant and terrifying. The ghosts and ghouls were haunting him, their beady red eyes piercing his troubled soul. The janitor in the hospital was taunting him, whispering that he would kill him when he was asleep. The tall surgeon, who had chopped off the remainder of Billy's leg, mocked him whenever Billy's back was turned. He would tell his doctor friends that Billy's leg was on the mantle piece at his country retreat; pickled in a large glass jar for generation after generation to stare at.</div><div></div><br /><div>Billy hadn't showered for nearly two months, his hair was getting long and matted and he refused to wash. His mother would beg Billy to brush his teeth, wipe his chin or even change his underwear, but Billy refused. He was ashamed of what he had become and felt no need to pamper himself with the cleansing and drying of a body that he despised. The anger inside him was bubbling, and the ghouls and ghosts that had once haunted him began to talk to Billy softly and respectfully. And he began to listen to them. He agreed with their whisperings; everyone was mocking him, everyone was looking at him and everyone was laughing.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-34660223850992335092010-10-14T04:00:00.000-07:002010-10-14T04:23:11.483-07:00Untitled II<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_26cz-eN8rfE-1XWMZ6AaR8u51PNiaSpHP8BREnNOYIph4_D7RyDgaKTl4Pk8SH6eZipAoD1TQbnNrQurHFoWRnRTuFvvwRexPuZBz06kJKJLubaYm396-APGsRC_Pxt_2KC_ce-bx_5/s1600/EvilNurse.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527860703228535362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7_26cz-eN8rfE-1XWMZ6AaR8u51PNiaSpHP8BREnNOYIph4_D7RyDgaKTl4Pk8SH6eZipAoD1TQbnNrQurHFoWRnRTuFvvwRexPuZBz06kJKJLubaYm396-APGsRC_Pxt_2KC_ce-bx_5/s320/EvilNurse.jpg" /></a><br /><div>Billy opened his eyes, he was in a place that he had never seen before. Large white washed walls, the beep beep beeping of futuristic looking machines, and the humming fan whirling overhead. He was hooked up to various metal boxes, displaying flickering numbers, the ups and downs of wavy lines and the pump pumping of fluids and gases. His head was heavy and empty, and the room was moving from side to side. He was dizzy.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>He felt like a character in a black and white movie, strange women and grand looking men were walking past the large window to his left. He could not hear them but made up the conversations they may be having in his head. How Billy was doomed, how his body was a mess and how he would be thrown out to sea for the sharks to feed on his useless remains.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As the weeks went by, the strangers became friends, they comforted Billy and dressed his wounds, but Billy was still locked in his own little world, only answering with grunts and hand gestures. He would close his eyes and wish the clock could be turned back, he asked God for help and would try to deny the situation he was in. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>They had tried to save Billy's leg, the large men with masks covering their faces. They had taken bucket after bucket of blood, they had stuck needles in his groin, his hands and his one functioning foot. They had removed skin from his thighs, muscles from his back but nothing had worked. It was as though his body was rejecting any chance of a recovery, as if it was Billy's destiny to have one leg. So there it was, his future laid out before him, the path chosen, Billy was to be a cripple from the age of thirteen. A wheelchair bound freak. He thought he would join a circus where customers would throw pennies for him to dance.</div><div></div><div> </div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-15333582179248057272010-10-13T03:02:00.001-07:002010-10-13T03:35:19.723-07:00Untitled.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDi7q_lHmWhE1t88VwAa_B7uDO_BTbXGXUsTa0pSFeAFft5NJUiKVQeR6nBNq2K72KG_3vN0SMlEVIx0H5142am4Veunz-GKjR38qh4KAnfnoWePRHGIAvsK3CQt8zq69sYjpCljtDe24K/s1600/vultures.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 258px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527476934382257474" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDi7q_lHmWhE1t88VwAa_B7uDO_BTbXGXUsTa0pSFeAFft5NJUiKVQeR6nBNq2K72KG_3vN0SMlEVIx0H5142am4Veunz-GKjR38qh4KAnfnoWePRHGIAvsK3CQt8zq69sYjpCljtDe24K/s320/vultures.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><br /><div>At 8.21am on the 25th of September, Billy had been riding to school on his new BMX. He rode to school everyday and felt good about it. His teachers were always promoting healthy living and good eating, so riding to school was his exercise of the day.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As Billy turned at the junction where his favourite park and takeaway restaurant, 'Popeye's Chicken,' met, he noticed a lorry switching lanes beside him. The lorry was a beast of a vehicle, angrily changing gears as it got nearer and nearer to Billy. The huge front grill was nipping at Billy's leg, its lights flashing and squinting as it steamed down on the poor boy. He was cornered, Billy's eyes were full of fear, he knew that the lorry had won.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The sky turned black as the pain struck through his body, creatures from his darkest nightmares burrowed into his brain. The gremlins, wardrobe monsters, witches, three headed crazy eyed dogs and slobbering giant slugs. It was intense, wave after wave of hurt, like a punch to the stomach, over and over again. Punch, punch, punch, punch.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The table was cold and uncomfortable, strange people surrounded Billy as he was falling in and out of consciousness. The pain was unbearable, Billy's thigh was throbbing, but he felt nothing below the knee. A large needle kept pounding into his arm, and the tall strangers around him became blurry and alien like. Their voices were muffled and low. Billy was scared; his arms were shaking and his eyes were flickering with fear. Flashbacks of the crazed lorry jolted through his bones, its large teeth-like grill and the steamed windscreen, as if it was overwhelmed with anger. Then he remembered. A tear fell down Billy's cheek. He remembered being scraped from the pavement, like the leftovers from a Sunday roast. And he remembered his dismembered leg being left behind, perfect picking for the vultures that were circling inside his shattered mind.</div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-81078719774243123652010-10-06T07:34:00.000-07:002010-10-07T10:18:04.004-07:00Everyone's mad in Mad-chester.Fuck Inter Milan versus <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tottenham</span> in the San <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Siro</span> in a couple of weeks, the big game was happening at Boundary Park last weekend. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Leyton</span> Orient versus <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Oldham</span> Athletic in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">N Power</span> Football League One. A truly great <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">occasion</span>. So me, Ads and the two women in tow, jumped into my N reg Ford Fiesta <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ghia</span>, sped up the M6 with a box of twelve doughnuts and checked into the beautiful <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lansdowne</span> Hotel in the heart of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Fallowfield</span>. A hotel with as much charm as a pissed up northerner in a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wetherspoon</span> pub. But for twenty quid a night each, who could complain?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524950491846745970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNomf1qLU0aPdovvazAnNssJ-rXwADmDGh83gAswdlNlePSJwTrr0HsyHVFCBHn3VROEk3VHHJ0JiOlFZ443arqKy4Lics0Q69mz-c3Zgg8PWuw3AEh4i-SlH6Zgmcc9uvCz8xb2X-Mq8r/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1376.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br />Whilst me and Ads were witnessing a great 1-1 draw at the beautiful ground of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Oldham</span>, the girls were meeting Mrs Daley's kid for the first time; a boy by the name of Teddy Cameron. As you can see by the pictures he went down a storm. Meanwhile, at Boundary Park, the one hundred <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Leyton</span> Orient fans who had made the 200 mile trip up north, were getting offered out by about two hundred <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">scally</span> boys dressed head to toe in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lacoste</span>. I love English football.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoQb-iROyMcA1XxwWkPVS_TLEht0hskj0lyqQB7g52XoXFe9EyND_BWTnm77Pz0WMcjP-pGwbcWhyphenhyphennaXD_DrmEx9Jnb6jWKShoem8IGCPpI5eKWf8o7XUTdNA6RgEoZz0Xn7SHE5N9U-i/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1377.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524949996792732258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZoQb-iROyMcA1XxwWkPVS_TLEht0hskj0lyqQB7g52XoXFe9EyND_BWTnm77Pz0WMcjP-pGwbcWhyphenhyphennaXD_DrmEx9Jnb6jWKShoem8IGCPpI5eKWf8o7XUTdNA6RgEoZz0Xn7SHE5N9U-i/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1377.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xIR-2hBzmjkXcVktEsNAWzSG-eBU_r_wAmp_behHqDfpB53efVSjxwWRewRt9P6KcXM3DJAmVZM7MvUd07fnjB2_f0Aoue6yuGUiVN4LgpJ4kHIC-DfklvMhMtsP_KHofS71oyVd4hAK/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1380.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524949980502056146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5xIR-2hBzmjkXcVktEsNAWzSG-eBU_r_wAmp_behHqDfpB53efVSjxwWRewRt9P6KcXM3DJAmVZM7MvUd07fnjB2_f0Aoue6yuGUiVN4LgpJ4kHIC-DfklvMhMtsP_KHofS71oyVd4hAK/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1380.jpg" /></a><br />Teddy was probably making the girls quite broody by this point; especially after three bottles of wine and sixty cigarettes. However, with me being unemployed and with a dodgy leg and with Ads living upstairs in his in-laws loft, I don't think the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">pitter</span> patter of tiny feet will be heard in Hollywood Way anytime soon.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSOtbpwQduKHIML0aGJD8ckNpe6JcFoNcsCuY5Ge9-GD48IBTLxDBZDpWYNKKvbD_s2-S-t-4-2Uyf7cmdS0-Iiu1EAhA9i3bMjzl2ZqkLg3mKxJpInee-OB_Rs5-iblZj3KF34Uo3pYV/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1388.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524949967996143714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSOtbpwQduKHIML0aGJD8ckNpe6JcFoNcsCuY5Ge9-GD48IBTLxDBZDpWYNKKvbD_s2-S-t-4-2Uyf7cmdS0-Iiu1EAhA9i3bMjzl2ZqkLg3mKxJpInee-OB_Rs5-iblZj3KF34Uo3pYV/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1388.jpg" /></a><br />We met the girls in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wetherspoons</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Didsbury</span> Village, they were all half cut; Jennifer in particular. She was very smiley and very loud, two sure signs of a messy afternoon. After getting chatted up at the bar by a rough looking bird named Kate (who showed us the tattoo of her ex-boyfriend's name on her tit) Me and Ads settled into an evening of drinking Fosters and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Jager</span>. I can't touch the Stella (us southern fairies have far too delicate stomachs for that muck)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjeDKHr7-nGCDsyofIvB9xRpdTefXbF5NHou1G8fDrGwWssGeBIS2q_mwGtj8InxqoOJ5dA_J4kt5VpiuHExJRQiaoycT-xRaPMQMwml5z9WahkVnJBKBteVB0Vm4F3A2z2tK6pZE7pHe/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1391.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524949962991309490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNjeDKHr7-nGCDsyofIvB9xRpdTefXbF5NHou1G8fDrGwWssGeBIS2q_mwGtj8InxqoOJ5dA_J4kt5VpiuHExJRQiaoycT-xRaPMQMwml5z9WahkVnJBKBteVB0Vm4F3A2z2tK6pZE7pHe/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1391.jpg" /></a><br />The lovely <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">blond</span> lady on the right is Mandy, an old Uni friend of Jennifer's. She was drinking copious amounts of Vodka and Diet Coke, before talking about cocks and her old job working in a sex shop. She is a lovely girl who looks much younger than her years, and who apparently can make one hell of a cake. Oh, and she's a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">Scouse</span>, but don't hold that against her!</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>We decided to crawl along a few of the pubs and bars of East <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Didsbury</span> sinking <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">JagerBombs</span> and generally making pests of ourselves. The Nelson Inn was my favourite. Jennifer boogied on the non existent <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">dance floor</span>, I got my pigeon chest out, Ads put on some Johnny Cash, Kate sank about three ciders and Mandy talked about cocks. The night was getting off to a flying start.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27OzQFh_lUT2eA7VWj60pMr9t0H3qPx4QUxTj5k9Wq6LpNIdBmrsPja7Jha6AFN0z53eE37_pnB_jiYyhLq4J3xGb1NO1O-BkYmxHJdPmemAdck217ZAkwimOoPci3ouTzvsjZAAFrwJf/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1393.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524949956133931890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27OzQFh_lUT2eA7VWj60pMr9t0H3qPx4QUxTj5k9Wq6LpNIdBmrsPja7Jha6AFN0z53eE37_pnB_jiYyhLq4J3xGb1NO1O-BkYmxHJdPmemAdck217ZAkwimOoPci3ouTzvsjZAAFrwJf/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1393.jpg" /></a><br />So our weekend in Manchester was bringing back many memories of our Uni days. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Particularly</span> the amazing act that Mandy had mastered of making her tits grow in front of our very eyes. It also went down a treat with the drunk <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">Burnage</span> boys drinking at the bar. We decided to line our stomachs with a proper meal so ate some free monkey nuts in the Dog and Partridge, then stumbled on into the night.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gSjt9yvzrneQVsGdknFEuQ3y8ItnlhX1CXSznUfA3SMZEgUGzpougKCdZ9DQiO4l8F9JW8-9BqE_QlgL0hcbndb0inBKES5gOw-p43tTS5uA7dANPcZ6mgJqQf8AwOjgNk-TNy6JK797/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1401.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524947820924685922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gSjt9yvzrneQVsGdknFEuQ3y8ItnlhX1CXSznUfA3SMZEgUGzpougKCdZ9DQiO4l8F9JW8-9BqE_QlgL0hcbndb0inBKES5gOw-p43tTS5uA7dANPcZ6mgJqQf8AwOjgNk-TNy6JK797/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1401.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9bXEcl8qXCwvUMA7KU4NIh3Tk0Ytcuini8QniMLt2VmYdG-1FDpgUD7uqmH5dls1GmlhN1d1SLLOzNpdDl8ou7WDbffe_lSXAlI_4_SS3hoKTaVZLkerQ7F-G9UVZouGiEhG1Zf7lnm4/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1407.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524947817364102818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs9bXEcl8qXCwvUMA7KU4NIh3Tk0Ytcuini8QniMLt2VmYdG-1FDpgUD7uqmH5dls1GmlhN1d1SLLOzNpdDl8ou7WDbffe_lSXAlI_4_SS3hoKTaVZLkerQ7F-G9UVZouGiEhG1Zf7lnm4/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1407.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Outside the Sanctuary, I was getting pretty pissed off with Jennifer because she wasn't paying me enough attention so licked her face a few times. I think she liked it. Mandy composed a song called 'Is that my wine?' The rest of us made up a few verses, which attracted the attention of a former Drum 'n' Bass <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">MC</span> sipping vodka on the table next to us. He proceeded to rap at us for the next half an hour. And I'm not being sarcastic here, but he was amazing. I don't know his name but I will be looking out for him. Or maybe I was just pissed. We'll never know.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHqT7RjNxxrir5OiyAJYSyHRUqGhOYRGZrBQCYHZ_YC5sKcU6yJlKAJxbwdv9DK38g-przPgE5IOkllW8sWPb62_ejeYoCmQPnEobl8nx1Q3GdaYq7vY4nhZRV_WP61oiKFx3U0-kiyMD/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1413.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524947807422003394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKHqT7RjNxxrir5OiyAJYSyHRUqGhOYRGZrBQCYHZ_YC5sKcU6yJlKAJxbwdv9DK38g-przPgE5IOkllW8sWPb62_ejeYoCmQPnEobl8nx1Q3GdaYq7vY4nhZRV_WP61oiKFx3U0-kiyMD/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1413.jpg" /></a><br /><br />The above picture is the album sleeve for Mandy's debut record 'Is that my wine?' featuring Thomas the Wank Engine and the Ginger Nut. Early readings have it hitting the Top 100 alongside that gay 'Joe' from the X Factor and the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">Blazin</span>' Squad. It really is a beautiful anthem.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWmbUi0kD3alAHdOuZI-AqNtbnfsH-MxpG_7ROzIPEq12Wn1WgxOyOpqZNVJN1MKVcFhCcOl5n3TJX9T41Hi_NeSsq_5IsdK_0Drgh4N-u-tp4kEFWHrIf2jFckA4YDGIDlH_JRfOOhdW/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1414.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524947802176912130" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsWmbUi0kD3alAHdOuZI-AqNtbnfsH-MxpG_7ROzIPEq12Wn1WgxOyOpqZNVJN1MKVcFhCcOl5n3TJX9T41Hi_NeSsq_5IsdK_0Drgh4N-u-tp4kEFWHrIf2jFckA4YDGIDlH_JRfOOhdW/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1414.jpg" /></a><br />Jennifer didn't really enjoy the song. She's more of an East 17 type of gal.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-n1VB9cnFhL3YDYT9RiGZIcX8gCDSjp7YaT-Xdh20AsM6w8PVtJ4EX9brnjAPWNr9ua9JRSc2UKohsKS9qk-5ydKavcoYZ0FblrviRfWs_3XX-APCk_KbLsRl4f8fvBHLmNkLrSOF9-bp/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1417.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524947796178558034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-n1VB9cnFhL3YDYT9RiGZIcX8gCDSjp7YaT-Xdh20AsM6w8PVtJ4EX9brnjAPWNr9ua9JRSc2UKohsKS9qk-5ydKavcoYZ0FblrviRfWs_3XX-APCk_KbLsRl4f8fvBHLmNkLrSOF9-bp/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1417.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCI3gFfgL_JF0qxYhkEpimFzsYo4OlHO1R87-hVBs_XnIMA4PYSJh71j9aldRS6aKggbORKDUm4oPK1lGWCQddcieermFqBFnQF5zDmo3nGxyRyRi8qe0CvM0p4tg1CjlN3OYIcVNhgxp/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1421.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524945618524896930" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCI3gFfgL_JF0qxYhkEpimFzsYo4OlHO1R87-hVBs_XnIMA4PYSJh71j9aldRS6aKggbORKDUm4oPK1lGWCQddcieermFqBFnQF5zDmo3nGxyRyRi8qe0CvM0p4tg1CjlN3OYIcVNhgxp/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1421.jpg" /></a><br />Seven <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">JagerBombs</span>, a few bottles of wine, a lot of beer and a couple of bottles of vodka later, we were all ready to go to Happy Days to eat fried food. It was at this point when the lovely Mandy proposed to me in style; over chips in pitta bread. As you can see from the photo below I was overwhelmed by the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sparkly</span> ring. I of course said yes, told Jennifer to fuck off and mentally prepared myself for moving up north to live in the pissing rain. Then I had a change of heart......... until.............</div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlN6i8pDHHZHfYZbHaLN3H_JhgsmCiiorT1lo0qXpYUdKyYLSFon1Fojt-NnDfeFt0hSSl3D9gA8KAAWEHhxxIOf35jZ4-iQya5QqMxY2UdxRQsezJibl_jAUfmV9GcqxKj-9yDx6JmYu/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1432.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524945611813392290" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHlN6i8pDHHZHfYZbHaLN3H_JhgsmCiiorT1lo0qXpYUdKyYLSFon1Fojt-NnDfeFt0hSSl3D9gA8KAAWEHhxxIOf35jZ4-iQya5QqMxY2UdxRQsezJibl_jAUfmV9GcqxKj-9yDx6JmYu/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1432.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><div>Mandy tongued me. The deal was done. I was going to be Mr Foley-Smith.</div><br /><div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBe3zSvTnVaxCU_G3C6013EuHoD5AYX6METha3mroDFu0Drfy_PqU5WriU6gKE2UOp-MqjcAeoxx-AgXO7FoAFGHuTSOtySNhisxvvzKIqIy6m2OB7pWh9e7jPB1HPexq-nivq0Lq13sm_/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1433.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524945601983577250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBe3zSvTnVaxCU_G3C6013EuHoD5AYX6METha3mroDFu0Drfy_PqU5WriU6gKE2UOp-MqjcAeoxx-AgXO7FoAFGHuTSOtySNhisxvvzKIqIy6m2OB7pWh9e7jPB1HPexq-nivq0Lq13sm_/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1433.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXEXIrAqhqhYlGQOn1iNatnK4ca3IA_xpwI_KXtuW5PEN7xUSV1DylhfF9KtlN9_kQUd3PL90cuZuIWDkLeCKrcMU4wzN5lHbxiz75lCuQ9pUcXJUnZh751mT4HPqdWj2bjW3hDnE5GY9/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1439.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524945594069302802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXEXIrAqhqhYlGQOn1iNatnK4ca3IA_xpwI_KXtuW5PEN7xUSV1DylhfF9KtlN9_kQUd3PL90cuZuIWDkLeCKrcMU4wzN5lHbxiz75lCuQ9pUcXJUnZh751mT4HPqdWj2bjW3hDnE5GY9/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1439.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>As Adam was finishing off his second pizza, a young northern lad peered through the door looking somewhat confused. We proceeded to sing <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">Leyton</span> Orient songs at him, tell him that London was better than Manchester, and finally order him to stop getting so angry. We were being overly charming. The guy was a bit indifferent to us.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYwHOaI4U89bt045wfFQbfUuLwNv2LiaarfAX92y5I8F5vHQFttPsQZMHQ3si7dpmi4t9Cx1sPyI8tkjkkP4b6ANQvUu5WXWz5Jai2Gws1-eoum7UBanoy1YW4pJNTbGTYf2PyTQm-Tb5/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1446.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524945581116503234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsYwHOaI4U89bt045wfFQbfUuLwNv2LiaarfAX92y5I8F5vHQFttPsQZMHQ3si7dpmi4t9Cx1sPyI8tkjkkP4b6ANQvUu5WXWz5Jai2Gws1-eoum7UBanoy1YW4pJNTbGTYf2PyTQm-Tb5/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1446.jpg" /></a><br />If you are reading this out there Mr Manchester, I hope you are well and that you find out your purpose in life. You really were a confused individual.</div><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwj-vfeFhdMbbXdO-y6C5KcfEVuRmhS-gHKNo84BDJdtsgl22oZI5ogIUzm-KZdY2Ez2UCWxdfP3um9HXPExEpzG6arp4Cx0hNZSgt6BCS0CMizfYXY_07jMTwP8UTqg1A9TOeh9IhTbp/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1449.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524943386748964466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwj-vfeFhdMbbXdO-y6C5KcfEVuRmhS-gHKNo84BDJdtsgl22oZI5ogIUzm-KZdY2Ez2UCWxdfP3um9HXPExEpzG6arp4Cx0hNZSgt6BCS0CMizfYXY_07jMTwP8UTqg1A9TOeh9IhTbp/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1449.jpg" /></a> </div><div></div><div>So the guy stumbled outwards muttering naughty words under his breath and left us to dance the night away in a takeaway shop run by people who clearly hated us. Ads finished off his third pizza and we all voted on one for the road in our hotel bar. The bar was staffed by the receptionist who kept running between the two with obvious <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">disdain</span> in his heart. We sank Smirnoff Ice, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">VK</span> Blue and beer, only taking a breath to chat to some overly friendly Scottish guys who wanted to friend Kate on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">Facebook</span> as if their life depended on it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNkOgXUm3-BijZL_togpz3Wwxqu_6vcrP_n87GclURlPIhFrGSNAoZEa93jjDSMBL4YZYcUKpbxFIkVE41p-rFxOyN8wbl0wH0k4rEF8JvXyy6H_seFUO8mWJ8yG1uYl8h3VXTJ_1Qrvt/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1453.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524943381360973810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBNkOgXUm3-BijZL_togpz3Wwxqu_6vcrP_n87GclURlPIhFrGSNAoZEa93jjDSMBL4YZYcUKpbxFIkVE41p-rFxOyN8wbl0wH0k4rEF8JvXyy6H_seFUO8mWJ8yG1uYl8h3VXTJ_1Qrvt/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1453.jpg" /></a><br />Then something <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">creepy</span> happened. It was as if someone up there had sent us a sign. The ironing board (as you can see in the photo above) turned angry. He was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">looking</span> at us saying 'GET OUT OF MY BAR.' So we did. Kate gave out her email address to the weird looking Scottish bird and we staggered upstairs, trying to pick locks along the way, all the way to bed.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-I7kLgFQYa3UXVcFHjcU2vFZgR3TN35aJ3WHzRWAJ0KdSyoRYy_uJNnZan2MgkAWy0KTM10rzd9QIlrrzOr3gXk81uwWecnKFjtB6dBgO6m50_mdgLa8y_yfv590IVoHC5bwQrjh4jie/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1454.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524943375385720642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6-I7kLgFQYa3UXVcFHjcU2vFZgR3TN35aJ3WHzRWAJ0KdSyoRYy_uJNnZan2MgkAWy0KTM10rzd9QIlrrzOr3gXk81uwWecnKFjtB6dBgO6m50_mdgLa8y_yfv590IVoHC5bwQrjh4jie/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1454.jpg" /></a><br />The night ended with an X Factor Omnibus and some video recording of things I can't quite remember. I think I may have thrown Adam's pants out the window, after that it went blurry. I hope he was gentle with me.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOxDsk0mpuh2cK3zDFoYLw3yLO3zi4yY-qg2IZL8-8VCE5TzRw2Raq7Y0XATQIzrUXULsMiHmF-Oe5phCmKwV_sbbK-K7v0-uWrUPDEe233DVVOOhuaoXTM2zY4rfFXlTt1ymITmehhKz/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1455.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524943368529590898" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQOxDsk0mpuh2cK3zDFoYLw3yLO3zi4yY-qg2IZL8-8VCE5TzRw2Raq7Y0XATQIzrUXULsMiHmF-Oe5phCmKwV_sbbK-K7v0-uWrUPDEe233DVVOOhuaoXTM2zY4rfFXlTt1ymITmehhKz/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1455.jpg" /></a><br />The trip back to London was eventful. During breakfast, in which I had deep fried battered prawns, my head felt like it was starting to explode. I was itchy and scared. I went outside for some fresh air to discover something was trying to escape from my head. I was coming up in hives all over the shop. I freaked out, we went to a pharmacy, they told me to go to a doctors, I didn't. We decided to drive back to London and risk it. Ten minutes later, the hives had gone. It was a miracle!........ Then Kate threw up all over the M6. Quite a lot. The next three hours were a blur. But the good news is, that we got home, watched X Factor and then went to bed.</div><div></div><div>Spare change <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">guv'ner</span>?<br /><br /><br /></div><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2lxj6_aByNH6pLdLWmjclu7vzgOIO7aqMWslKLVD_9MOsDOJO9NZ4j7dKCkv12NO9r6yoIasOmXbemdQ8hsSB88elTZyUxxp6Ib8YQgjukQnAhZtO9h9hHCgIVdXPZAW7glG_5xAQMGy/s1600/travelling+and+blog+pics+1456.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524943358715131218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO2lxj6_aByNH6pLdLWmjclu7vzgOIO7aqMWslKLVD_9MOsDOJO9NZ4j7dKCkv12NO9r6yoIasOmXbemdQ8hsSB88elTZyUxxp6Ib8YQgjukQnAhZtO9h9hHCgIVdXPZAW7glG_5xAQMGy/s320/travelling+and+blog+pics+1456.jpg" /></a> </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-13759781815555818752010-09-22T06:15:00.000-07:002010-10-04T03:51:21.024-07:00What was I thinking? Shit outfits through the ages.When I was about 18 I was the biggest <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">chav</span> this side of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Walthamstow</span>, and that's saying a lot. I used to wear fake diamonds in my ears, put a flash of bleach through my spiked gelled hair, go on a sunbed 16 times a week, listen to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ja</span> Rule, wear Reebok Classics, go out looking for trouble........ I could carry on. I was Essex through and through (even though I have always said I hate Essex boys) I think I was spending too much time in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Chingford</span>, which truly is the toilet bowl of 'North London.' It's not in London, it's Essex, and I don't care what anyone says. By the way, if any of that description above reminds you of anyone, then they are a dick, and if it reminds you of you, then you're a dick.<br /><br />University changed me a little bit. I laid off the sunning and started to listen to proper music. Music with a guitar. Music with deep lyrics. Music made by people with a bit of talent. The DJ Luck and MC Neat tapes were thrown away and Bob Dylan began to sing on my Walkman. They were better times. I was no longer shouted at in the street because I was trying to look like David <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Beckham</span>. They were happier times.<br /><br />Then I started to dress a little bit weird. Maybe I was trying to hide my many insecurities by looking like a twat. I really don't know. Anyway, as I was going through <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">facebook</span> this morning I noticed a few outfits that were absolutely awful. So maybe you <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">chavs</span> out there, with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">diamantes</span> sparkling in your ears, can laugh your tiny little meat head brains out at some of the shit things I've worn.<br /><br />Let's begin.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 170px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726877541137218" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1S8szVBk2D2obfyYbCO2vtvp2Ak4PhBYkBPnCy6ncGMFvAglp5ltO87ccjHjZfnQuP3UVkA9VmqozbxkBP6zFaPyUAHpugF9HKtbg6i-ihctBj0fByFTjdvsB-WNp0DC99LvQyRTERko2/s320/phil1.jpg" /><br /><br /><br />This beaut of a jacket was bought down <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Carnaby</span> Street in a shop called 'The Face'. I think it cost me about £200 (yes, I know, I was bent over and raped) I wore it to a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Topman</span> party thinking I was the next Daniel Craig. The tube journey from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Walthamstow</span> to Oxford Circus was a long 22 minutes. Children were crying on their mother's laps, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">rudeboys</span> actually laughed and left me alone because I was such an easy target, people on their way home from work looked at me with disgust (their taxes had paid for this lovely blazer) I think I had about 7 pints in the Goose for dutch courage. Needless to say that was the only time I wore that jacket, a kid bought it off me for £125 a few months later (it felt good raping someone else)<br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726653057934370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7sIuMzNTn00HRDVKYR4x7XzFf-TZEY8Mak_T4wEDKYOcaZwAr64XqJ5uSB0tvlS2FR_tYZDH2rnRtqehOfNXA2ryW-MpjSsvf5-1lVyJpyyssSKCvaoZPtFVhyphenhyphenwEC58SvoGskj4Nm95dW/s320/philbad7.jpg" /><br />This is when I went away to Europe for a few months. I truly thought I was a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">hippy</span>, I wasn't. I didn't brush my hair, I didn't shave, I put a massive orange headband on, I bought a cotton '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">hippy</span>' bag, I smoked roll ups, I had my hair braided, I wore a lot of beads, I slept in a van, I drank cheap lager. I was a prick. However, to this day I really do wish I grew up in the 60s. I would love to have been a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">hippy</span>, but my mum isn't a wayward artist, my dad isn't a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">stoner</span> who makes a living by playing music on the corner of Hoe Street. They are teachers. Boring I know.<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726654570167362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNiZzgXKLkIcYU59NFyPsUYi9NAZx_9qGpffAE9XUloTm4L6XMbs9spdEhAXmaVWB8LNJ5zrB8unldzJZ22GsEvv6aC6kQsLUJe3ZmInt3jjrhNp1N1wkh15aj3TtMZxURKy0O1jg7HwPU/s320/philbad5.jpg" /><br />Wow. Big hair, very big hair. I think I may have just seen Russell Brand in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Highgate</span> a few weeks earlier. I really don't know. Anyway, I coated the hairspray on, I back combed with a ferocity that hasn't been seen since the early 80s. Looking back, I think it was a mistake. I remember turning up at the pub to cries of laughter. My head looked massive, maybe it matched my ego. I shocked out this look for a few months, until one morning when I woke up and looked at the back of my head in the mirror. Balding. The Bobby Charlton comb over had to go. I miss it every now and again.<br /><p><br /></p><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726644638486658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3djC-G1xkVsJfouMVf-TNtlYi6eXCefYc_bCIFyBz7X16L3WJZeinn-lzxcaeXFKJc1KBL0CzHNpbQoyJIrY1gYZVa9JfsVjW1gjZz29WcRa9bU0xgVGBkfNHiiLWcteFFJAUB3U3kSyg/s320/philbad3.bmp" /><br />This look was during my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Carnaby</span> Street days. Days when I didn't eat. Well, maybe a bowl of soup here and there. No, I'm not pretending to be one of those druggie pricks who says 'Ah man I was so wasted all the time I used to live on cigarettes and alcohol.' I just didn't eat. Anyway, the tight jeans, very low tee shirt, shit waist coat, with shit hair and lots of eye makeup really does look horrendous. I'm about the same size as the girl mannequin next to me. Oh, and the white <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">cuban</span> heeled <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">beatle</span> boots! Well, I'd probably still wear them today but I have no heel and an ankle the size of Vanessa <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Feltz</span>, so I couldn't pull them on. Fucking lorry. Shame.</p><p><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 238px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726641702163506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikcSEIq529idWWw9R6wg43_ge5Li_vvDUujxZq1QzWgkZCADR6vG-Y4pWo28kilVpa8HlSq5mjtXtK2XsZpnnKSz8GPdvyuHWxDMR230x1u7pElL_a_bWyPtBeyms3ANRD9K5DsWLmUJ7S/s320/philbad2.bmp" /><br /><br />We're getting near to the end of my portfolio of shame. Above is when I arrived in Bangkok, looking somewhat <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">malnutritioned</span> and eager for a hiding of a guy heavier than 9 stone. The '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">McShit</span>' size zero vest was not a comment on capitalism or the global domination of a fast food restaurant, I don't know what it was for. Teamed with white jeans and too much pubic hair, this photograph represents all that I was, a bit of a bell end. Had a good time in Bangkok though; not many propositions off <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">prossies</span>, but to be fair, I did look overtly homosexual.</p><div><br /><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519726635526261586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8dGwWLH2SclpjfFrfoluUI2Iqwc_fvGgRUlaUORu4LfWMYgkMjM-1p-ve49TgrbvPxkQzhDVKoduH2YfbdIxXEaDH2smGZBxsorAgL1_g3Z0jIhYGFa1UyN745EG9dCwVddR77kPMgS_h/s320/philbad4.bmp" /><br />And to finish off the gallery, here I am looking like a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">chav</span>. Like many trendsetters do when harping back to the 60s Mod look or the 80s Glam look; I'm reliving my 90s c*nt look. Horrible bright blue shirt, cut off jeans (and probably a pair of Patrick Cox Wannabe backless shoes on my feet) this photograph finishes off my blog very nicely indeed. Girls, form an orderly queue.<br /><br />Thanks for reading. Anyone got a job for me? I'll gut pigs, I'll test suppositories. Anything.<br /><p>Spare change <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">guv'ner</span>?</p>PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6532299623127969040.post-55094544555217095552010-09-19T05:13:00.000-07:002010-10-09T11:50:55.782-07:00Nothing to lose with the Van Doos.`<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518598701970697058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhv1YE_BTYqvu_Vd6sHDqqJDdaAgKK7UVafJeS24f8hqDZNmiuNOGeZfkKpaT9dkVptLEw_3sOcdgE0PKw-CvQw8f-9Sz5QIHJFucbjltJehyKU3ms4RoCBUNlnCKanxU1ryXp7mOWKRV2Q/s320/simonsigma.jpg" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>We've all heard that age old story before, young musicians moving towards the bright lights of New York City, kids from Maine travelling through the Wild West to settle at the golden shores of LA. All of them chasing a dream, a dream to be somebody. It was similar circumstances with the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>.' A trio of lads from the sleepy hills of Yorkshire, packing up their lives' in their rusty Volkswagen Beetle and cruising down the motorway to the fresh air of the big smoke, London Town. And they are chasing a dream, a dream that I think will come true.</p><p> </p><p>I first met Mr Simon Hutchinson in a pub just off Oxford Circus. He was an interesting chap with a glint in his eye. Sporting a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Beatles</span> hair cut and wearing drainpipe jeans teamed with a fitted corduroy blazer; Simon looked like a mix between Brian Jones and Jarvis <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Cocker</span>. There was an aura around the lad; guys wanted to chat to him, girls liked to look at him. We chatted over pints of Alpine, talked about sixties music, smoked cigarettes and generally got on very well. A Fine Art graduate and down to earth guy, I knew I wanted to keep in contact with the lad and hear some of the songs he was writing with his band.</p><p> </p><p></p><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 228px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518598711231286994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgAPJ-A5Uf9salPwVDOdwhDjrUm-n4ygqMWZKTc1gP8thXgmhdx8hwpzWJLd0Ap5DsS4QdSNbVlXVQM_3V8FpzVtzqHbDXSqE5VzW8S3j9i9qUF_m_cOmuNOdspfEDz7Dbm62JsrBppF0J/s320/van+doos2.jpg" /></p><br /><br /><br />The original trio of the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span>' consisted of Simon, Louis and Charlie, all <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">Yorkshire</span> boys with an affinity for the same type of music. The 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' name came from a Canadian Military Regiment called the 'Royal Twenty Second', its nickname being the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' after the French '<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Vingt</span></span></span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">Deux</span></span></span>.' A name that struck a chord with all the boys.<br /><br /><br /><br />The 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span>' has a gritty edge to the demo tracks they have produced. A sound that is very different to the many average bands floating around the airwaves today.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Under the Noise' merges a psychedelic background with a more mainstream vocal front. A sound that shows a maturity and evolutionary quality in its construction, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">proving</span> the fact that the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span>' is developing as the London music scene changes.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />'Tenterhooks' has a more rock 'n' roll feel to its melody. 'And when you stop moving, I stop moving too, you put me on tenterhooks.' The indie pop of yesteryear seems to have been updated with a 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' edge. A melodramatic sound delivered with toe tapping abandon.<br /><br /><br /><br />'Goodbye Love' has a blues undercurrent lifted by the presence of Simon's voice. A slowed down piece commenting on a lost love that 'hypnotised' Simon under her spell. The song comes to an abrupt end, much like the failed relationship being written about. 'Goodbye Love' adds a depth to the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' catalogue, a wisdom that only comes with age.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 318px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518598703941688946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJTUwaVUvxuIL7xF0WXM6mGmUdMj8Yw_-9ohFGnUdPTVS8-8lLV9hLBEz8BxuYQ3TXLSsKEaTfX3ABU93eZtz1EaPRiUyB-YqgZK7NgunWRFekOSc4GAjgEUZMLKJQTjuomSfvE7DPSLpA/s320/van+doos.jpg" /> </p><p> </p><p><br />Most up and coming bands like to state influences and harp on about bands that 'changed their lives' as they were growing up. Simon, on the other hand, cannot pin point a particular musician that inspired the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' sound. 'I just want to write good songs. Trends in music come and go but a good song will always be a good song, whether it's Abba or <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Metallica</span></span></span>!' Simon has always been and will always be his own man. </p><br /><br />There is a passion in the 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span>' music. A drive to succeed and a willingness to do what it takes to hit the big time. As Simon argues; they are individual and forward thinking. The 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span>' do not harp back to an era when the spirit of rock 'n' roll was alive and kicking; they are pushing the boundaries and taking huge steps forward. I for one will be checking their gigging schedules and will be trawling the pubs and bars of East London to hear them perform.<br /><br /><br />The 'Van <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Doos</span></span></span>' will hopefully be playing at a venue near you in the next month or so, and with a digital release on Young and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Lost's</span> website, their sound will hopefully be hitting the mainstream very soon. So watch this space and listen to their <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">myspace</span></span></span>- <a href="http://www.myspace.com/thevandoos">www.myspace.com/thevandoos</a>. They're a band that is going places, and hopefully I'll be there to witness their rise.PJ_Francishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579989752719819888noreply@blogger.com0