Postcode Wars

There was a small misdemeanor in the back row of the cinema, that went unheard.
She fell to her knees and was willing to please, that unruly bird.
Well known to customers, young boys and middle aged married men,
She sold us her dignity for silver coins, you only need ten.

There was a hell of a melee, round lower Leyton way,
Where a group of pimps took the streets and the lives of two crackhead guys.
They paid the penalty, for mouthing off to the wrong fellas,
Shouting all foreign and supping on Stellas.

There was an unsightly ruckus at the back of the bus, down Chingford Mount.
Four hooded boys, having a brawl, a dirty free for all, with too many lead pipes to count.
Straight from Hall Estate, it was very dark and late,
While one unlucky chap fell to his fate.

There was a hell of a scrap across the London tube map, with all in anarchy and innocents needing to flee.
The place looks bare, nothing to see, just scared faces and an empty scene.

The Tramp's A Doll.

You've got some nerve, make me live on a curve,
Over the hill again finding the light,
Push me to the floor and say that I'm shite.
Ignore all my messages, making it hard,
Look through my shadow and give me a yard.
Won't touch me at night, won't leave me in the day,
Just grab on my coat tails and get in my way.
You've got some nerve, make me sing the blues,
But when I speak the truth you ain't got a clue.
Ignore all my messages, reading them twice.
Making it impossible just to live my life.
But when it's all said and done,
And you think it's a laugh,
You'll be left cast aside, the only one.
Left in the wilderness, wanting a friend,
While I'm riding high and I'm on the mend.

SE Scallywag

Why pull on my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?
You know you're a liar from a South London shithole.
You put on your war paint and get ready to fight,
Jumping through hoops, but try as you might,
You fall asleep on the N55, after a night with Charles at some East London dive.

You'll never fit in with the cool guys in the band,
Eyes so wide with a cigarette in hand.
But why pull at my heartstrings? Why tug at my soul?
You're a dirty liar from a South London shithole.

As you back comb your hair and pull up your tights,
You look like a hooker under a Dutch red light.
You play with love like an old violin, missing the notes and failing to sing.

You're a dirty liar with an SE postcode, looking for lovers to ruin and throw,
Throw into the drink from the Southwark bridge,
Looking for lovers to push from the ledge.

You're a two bob cunt, acts like a spiv, with nothing to offer, nothing to give.
You're a jumped up loser that bleeds us all dry, looking all lost with that glint in your eye.
So pull on your high heels and tug off that man, you're losing your mind, messing up your plans.

You've lost your mind and you have no plan.

Never Say Goodbye.

God knows I miss her, like a fallen dove,
She watched me grow from the corner, only disapproving love.
She remains prim and proper out to the faraway sea, gliding through the wind, coming home to he.

Sipping from a coffee cup, another drag to the bone,
A head full of grey thoughts, a head full of home.
Homeward bound, to the one she loves, the one she craves for, hasn't see or hasn't hugged.

Don't pray for her now as she closes those weary eyes, rests her aching body and takes her last sigh.
You may have to remember all of those happy times, but I'll just say hello and never a faint goodbye.

A change of scenery for Yard Life.

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, Peckham, but at the breathtaking scenery of St John at Hackney Church on Lower Clapton Road.

It may have been pushed back a week to the fifth of May, but that gets us past the April showers and into a bank holiday weekend where we have a Monday to rest our aching heads.

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!



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 their guitars, and perhaps most importantly, Mr Peter Doherty has booked his seat on the Eurostar. We've heard he's even having an early night on the Friday just for you lucky ticket holders.

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.

Get a cup of rosy, buy a vintage posy, have a nosy at the fine art, and then chill, drink until the music starts.

Yard Life is 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 RayBans. It's about passion, a love for music and most importantly having a good time.

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 DJs spinning 50s Rock and Roll, Electro and party classics, and of course, the original Libertine, Billy Bilo.

Guys, the venue may have changed, the date may have changed, but the message hasn't.

'London Loves Yard Life'

Check out all the latest news at yardlifefestival.co.uk

The Lauriston Loves Yard Life

A string of warm up gigs that get the mouth watering,

Talented musicians that get the ears ringing,

Tireless DJs spinning timeless classics that get the crowd singing.

It's Spring 2012, it's Hackney E9, but it feels like the 60s, and a fun loving time.

Tight jeans, tuned guitars, and loud amps in a packed East London bar.

The Cockney trendset spend their hard earned cash,

On hard earned spritzers at this free music bash.

Yard Life at the Lauriston fuses music and dance,

Up and coming artists looking for a chance,

A chance to prove their worth and their unrivalled passion,

To mix catchy tunes in a vibrant London fashion.

The lights are dim and the eye shadow dark,

Long haired lovers and musicians trying to make their mark,

On a crowd of faces, on a music loving room,

As the red lipped girls listen and the young lads swoon,

At the boys in the band, with G and T in hand,

As they tap their feet to the beat, those Yard Life bands,

Eliza, Pablo, and the NCG, plug in their guitars for a glimpse of what will be,

On April 28th, down in Hackney Town, where it's not about the money,

But about discovering new sounds.

Acoustic songs, a folk inspired drone, an Indie feeling with a Rock overtone.

I watched from the rafters like some sheepskin tearaway,

Took off my hat to hear the acts play,

To hear them sing, to watch them sway.

Taken back to a decade of pioneers,

When young guitarists were loved and always cheered,

Wherever they roamed, wherever they played,

And it seemed at the Lauriston this wouldn't fade.

It was a night to let the music do the talking, let the DJs do their work,

Let the records keep on coming, and let the bands flirt,

With the 1960s, with the dawn of Rock and Roll,

When London Town was swinging, and music was in our soul.

So with a tilt of the hat to Dylan, Hendrix and the Stones,

We check our emails daily, we check our 21st century phones,

For a ticket from Yard Life;

So just sit, wait, and smoke your cigarette to the bone.

An invite should be coming to the fresh new music event of the year

And I heard that a certain Peter Doherty might be there...........

So Let's hope for a warm and gentle summer breeze, and hopefully,

You'll meet me in London Town for music and tea.

Check out all the latest news on this brand new festival coming to Hackney Downs Studios on April 28th, at yardlifefestival.co.uk

Photographs by Kate Ford

Drowning men catch at straws

I may seem cold and pretend I'm not there, but when your head is turned I sit and stare;
at your smile that could melt me away, so many words but not sure how to say,
that I need you here and without your love I would jump and drown.
I'm not sure I can swim but my heart is too heavy and the worries are with me, there are far too many.
So stick by my side like my gold plated cane and talk me to sleep or I might go insane;
sick of the world, sick of the darkness, tired of the staring, cursed by the ghouls; old and luckless.

I may seem cold and pretend to be distant, but I promise one thing, without your kiss I'm gone in an instant.

I can't move my toes and my strides aren't as tight and I struggle to juggle or climb on my bike.
My head got messed up like that lorry's back wheel;
It's full of bad dreams, concrete and steel.
I can't catch that bus and I can't catch a break,
I can't see a future, like that trucker saw me late.
They dragged me to the court like I was dragged down the road,
I'm edgy and neurotic, I'm on defence mode.
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.

I'm gonna turn back the clock to relive my youth, to forget about the accident and to forget the truth.

Pill Popping Prossie

You're as game as a badger with loose morals and looser stockings,

But that smile on your face got the good time boys flocking.

He was alone with too much time on his hands,

Whilst you were surrounded by your infatuated fans.

But you had washed your hands of the good old days,

When you drank till you were drunk, but never had to pay.

You were an easy lay with money on the hip,

Popping pills, looking for your next trip.

So slip on your panties and cover your cheeks,

Tie up your bows and go catch some sleep.

You're a whore to money and a pimp to his soul,

Picking up dollars whilst he's on the dole.

You can use your charms and get what you want,

Get what you need but without having to flaunt.

Those loose morals and those looser stockings.

So go to him, cos they've all stopped flocking.

Whitechapel Wino

Caught up in the shadows,

Feral and all alone.

Despised by the London masses;

They stop, they stare, they moan.

Like a pigeon with a limp,

Like a stray with a bone.

Overlooked by many;

Refused a shilling loan.

Struggling to make ends meet,

To stay upon his feet.

Wrapped up in a blanket, keeping in the heat.

A Whitechapel wino, not a friend to his name;

Gin and scraps he lives on, to support his tiny frame.

And as the smog engulfs his backyard,

And as the Bow Runners chase him on.

I don't know where he comes from, I don't know his name.

Sitting by the fruit stalls,

As the gentry swan on by;

No emotion on his face,

He neither smiles, laughs or cries.

Living by the opium pipe;

Can only numb the pain.

It may hide the heartbreak,

But won't keep out the rain.

Staring through the Inn window;

Sprawled upon the frosty street.

An hour feels like a day;

A day feels like a week.

A Whitechapel wino, no belongings to his name;

Gin and scraps he lives on; his tiny body lame.

And as the smog makes him breathless,

And as the Bow Runners chase him on.

I don't know where he comes from, I don't even know his name.

Die Freche Muse, a poem.

With a chill in the air, the ghosts roaming and the presence of ghouls, we put on our makeup and set off to Die Freche Muse.

Two stunning girls from a different decade, draped in pearls and velvet, not willing to fade,

Into the walls or out of sight, a room full of drinkers dancing into the night.

So I tip my bowler and straighten my pin, lower our morals for a night of sin.

We arrive at the Ritz on Kingsland Road, a warm public bar stuck in East End mode,

With a large landlady and larger drinkers, large gin and tonics and large whisky chasers,

the clientele were zombies and most were legless.

Dressed in Sunday Best, stilettos and lace, an air of the 20's, of glamour and grace,

Filled the room as I smoked my cigar, I dreamed of a day so distant and far,

A day when men wore top hats and carried canes, a day when white horses galloped through lanes,

The lanes of London shrouded in darkness, and old pub doors hiding drinkers and wasters.

I took my girl in hand and smoked her to the bone, took my mask off slowly so I didn't feel alone,

In this place called Dalston, east of the city, full of Cambridgshire types, trying to look pretty.

But they smell of daddy's money, even when dressed like a tramp, and the posh Indie boys, with wrists all camp.

We stuck together, we smoked together, we drank together and climbed the stairs together.

We listened to the French, and the poshest of posh fighting over a bench.

We danced together, smuggled in drink together, fought together and made up together.

We argued with the foreign taxi man, as he spoke exotic languages just because he can.

A suitcase full of knocked off booze, drinking in the toilet just to beat the queues,

Of East End wannabes talking with a ghetto slang, middle class ponces in middle class gangs.

But all suited and booted and rooted to our spot, we necked the wine, then we necked the lot.

We played the piano and we tripped the wires, we broke glasses twice and put out the fires.

And lived happily ever after, just like those fairy tales, when good beats evil, and the haunting men always fail.

We removed the masks and the curls and the lace, and woke up in Walthamstow in a different era, a different place.

So, as we danced, and we sang, and we argued and we ran, climbed the rickety old stairs to a different land.

We drank, and it flowed, and we smoked everything down to the bone.

And we awoke with a head full of dreams and booze.

Had we really been to Halloween Die Freche Muse?

Lola on the sands.

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 Margate. 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.

So I bought a 99, which now costs about £1.50, Jennifer had a Cornetto 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, Margate was as dead as Bin Laden....... even the Primark 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.

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 Epping 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.

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.

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 hanky on his head; it was a picture perfect scene.

Like most English beach towns, Margate 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.

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 Ching or the Lea Valley Viaduct.

A quick family portrait amongst the Margate 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.

Next stop...... Bognar Regis.

Billy 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.

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.

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.

A bit more of Billy Byron.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Busy 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.

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.




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.

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.





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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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......

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.

The tale of Billy Byron will also be back very soon, so stay on the edge of those seats.

Spare change guv'nor?

The 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.




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.

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.

Colour! A true statement outfit. Oxblood boots, red tights, a lacy 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

One all in black and t'other in fur, tights and ankle boots. Two totally different styles, but two totally eye catching looks.

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.

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..........