Nothing to lose with the Van Doos.

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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 Doos.' 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.

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 Beatles hair cut and wearing drainpipe jeans teamed with a fitted corduroy blazer; Simon looked like a mix between Brian Jones and Jarvis Cocker. 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.

The original trio of the 'Van Doos' consisted of Simon, Louis and Charlie, all Yorkshire boys with an affinity for the same type of music. The 'Van Doos' name came from a Canadian Military Regiment called the 'Royal Twenty Second', its nickname being the 'Van Doos' after the French 'Vingt Deux.' A name that struck a chord with all the boys.



The 'Van Doos' 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.






'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, proving the fact that the 'Van Doos' is developing as the London music scene changes.






'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 Doos' edge. A melodramatic sound delivered with toe tapping abandon.



'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 Doos' catalogue, a wisdom that only comes with age.

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 Doos' 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 Metallica!' Simon has always been and will always be his own man.

There is a passion in the 'Van Doos' 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 Doos' 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.


The 'Van Doos' will hopefully be playing at a venue near you in the next month or so, and with a digital release on Young and Lost's website, their sound will hopefully be hitting the mainstream very soon. So watch this space and listen to their myspace- www.myspace.com/thevandoos. They're a band that is going places, and hopefully I'll be there to witness their rise.

Jennifer Juniper rides a dappled mare.

Jennifer was hitting the ripe old age of 27. The anti wrinkle cream, which she has used since the age of 19, would have to be caked on in double amounts. Her back pains are getting worse and she complains about a lack of sleep. Jennifer has blossomed into a beautiful woman.

So we all went out for a bite to eat down Walthamstow Village, the only nice area in this section of London. 'Eat 17,' which has featured in Time Out's good eating guide, was our preferred destination. A lovely little restaurant selling English grub with a posh twist. I love Walthamstow Village, it makes me proud to be from this borough. Along with the dog track, now closed down, and Brian Harvey, who is probably running himself over as we speak, the Village has put us on the map, and it was a perfect place to go for Jennifer's birthday.

Most of the family were there. Kenny, the Ford clan's grandad, ex-sailor, ex-carpenter, was on top form. He opted for a medium rare steak and a dark rum, a true man's meal for a real gentleman. Born and raised in the East End, this man could whip up a wardrobe in the time you could brush your teeth. Always looking effortlessly handsome, Kenny wore a knitted jumper and trousers for the occasion. Famous for turning up at the Toby Carvery in a pinstripe suit, he has a style that no-one can match. A real pleasure when he makes an appearance, the man didn't let us down.

Young Alice and her hubby seemed to co-ordinate in nautical blue. An avid Tottenham fan, Andrew has had a bit of bother with the mother-in-law, who's a passionate gooner, but due to my allegiance to the mighty reds of the North, he seems to have slipped through the net. With Alice's hair getting blonder every day and tan getting deeper in that hot East End sun, Andrew is gonna have his hands full keeping hold of her. Having known her since she was 6 years old and witnessed her impression of Tina Turner on numerous occasions, the youngest Ford is always the life and soul of the party.

So after we ate, we were walking back to the car when we heard some rock and roll music blaring through the doors of the Queens Arms, and decided to take a peak. As you can see from the pictures above, the live music of 'Double Trouble,' who looked like a couple of scaffolders, was too much for Kate and Jennifer. Adam was tempted to ask for an autograph from the lead guitarist but was scared he would start a stampede, and I just sat as usual. It's good being a cripple sometimes. Least I never have to go to the bar.

It was a very important day coming up. A barbecue for 30 people at my house and also the start of the football season, perfect. We hailed a cab home and opened a bottle of wine to wind down. Five hours later we were still drinking in the front room as the sun started to come up. The mix of painkillers, wine, beer and anti depressants was a perfect cocktail for the 16 hour bender that was ahead.

So the girls got up after a couple of hours sleep and proceeded to cook tons of food and arrange the house so that the many people who were due to arrive could squeeze in. My job was to blow up the balloons. Another perk of just getting out of hospital. I decided to wear my liquorice all sorts knitted jumper and tweed jacket, I don't know why, maybe the lack of rest had affected my mind. We were all geared up for the day ahead.

Dave Hughes, aka the 'Budgie Smuggler,' turned up and instantly recognised the house from many years ago. As an awkward teenager, I had a party when the old folks were away. A few friends ended up sleeping in the front garden, one passed out in my bed and I woke up in the bath; those 3 hooch's really went to my head.

Outfit of the day went to Adam Mulhern. After his 'Thomas the Wank Engine' ensemble of a few weeks ago, he stole the show again in black bow tie, fitted white shirt and black skinnies. Hiding behind a pair of RayBan's due to a thumping headache, the man owned the barbecue. Producing burger after burger (Nottingham Chris had just arrived) his energy levels increased as the number of Carling in the bucket fell.

We were honoured that he lovely Miss Draper came to the do. Drinking vodka and coke in a wine glass, her Amersham class couldn't be suppressed. Calling me 'Philium' all day, which I may change my name to on depoll, I always get a bit morbid around her, which I apologise for. Now living in Leeds, I can report that she hasn't picked up a strange accent.

Cheeky Nottingham boy, Chris, a University friend of the middle Ford, became obsessed with my hat. Nicknamed 'Chrissy two burgers' for his ability to munch fast food in seconds, he fell asleep kneeling on the floor at about 4 o'clock in the morning. Rumour has it, Chris wants to move to London but has to man up if he wants to live in the big smoke. A lovely lad, if a bit of a lightweight, he's welcome back to my gaff anytime. Just warn me and I'll get the fridge filled up.

Even Stevey Ward turned up to the party. Having been banned from nearly every licensed premise in Chingford, and even friends houses for being a general pest, the lad was pretty well behaved. His karaoke performance was shocking, and the slurring of words increased with every jack and coke, but the dancing was inspirational.

All in all, the day went without a hitch, apart of the pissing down of rain all afternoon and the Chelsea score. The neighbours were probably fucked off, and the house looked like the shoe bomber had made an appearance, but I heard through the grapevine that Jennifer had a good time. And that's all that matters.

So, after 11 months, numerous operations, and a metal rod being shoved down my leg, I'm hoping I'll be able to walk again soon and get blogging properly. Thanks to everyone who came on Saturday, you know who you are.

Spare change guv'ner?

Dead End street with the Dead Royals.

'The Dead Royals' is a punk influenced band started by Al James, a fine Aussie fella who I met drinking one night at the Cock Tavern, Oxford Circus. I used to spend many a night there, chewing his ear off over vodka and sodas, and on some occasions woke up on his bedroom floor, feeling a deep hatred for myself.


Anyway, this guy has a passion for music. Hailing from Cairns, Australia, a relatively sleepy town, the man decided to sail the seven seas and come back to his spiritual home, England. I count him as a true Londoner. Talk about music, he'll know his shit. And with a love for the legend Iggy Pop, and a talent for strumming the guitar, I knew he'd eventually form a band that would make more than ripples on the music scene.

So it all happened about a year ago at a Stooges gig. Al met a guy called Keiran, they chatted, they drank, and they decided to write some songs together. A band had to be created. A friend called Gregg joined the party on drums and Nick plucked the bass. They were ready to hit the studio, and last August began rehearsing a few things they had written. They cut a demo, 'Broke,' last November, and have been furiously playing gigs around our great city for the last few months. Nick went missing in action, didn't answer his phone, maybe made it big in Hollywood, no one knows. So Tom came in. And the 'Dead Royals' as we know it were born.

Harping back to the raw guitar playing of the punk era, and dynamic presence of Iggy Pop's stage performances, the 'Dead Royals' are an explosion of energy, owning the room and its audience. For such a laid back fella, Al attacks his guitar with ferocity and immerses himself into all that he has written. The first verse of the track titled 'Strong' focuses on the struggle to be noticed and how your background can dictate what you will achieve in life. 'Take from me, what you will, take it, I don't care........... I was raised into tenancy, education made a fool of me, cause I'm from a broken family.' Describing all his lyrics as 'meaningful and equally powerful,' there is an obvious confidence in Al's words.

Kieran, with his flowing black hair, and a strut that even Mick Jagger would be proud of, delivers each line with determination and clarity. As a foursome, this tight unit, with music running through their veins, live and breathe their craft. A night with the 'Dead Royals' will both stimulate and exhaust you at the same time.

So if you wanna listen to some music that has the passion of Sabbath, and the cleverness of Joy Division, hit up Al and the 'Dead Royals.' If not, go and have a pint with him down the Cock, either way I'm sure he'll be happy.

Spare change guv'ner?

When Harvey met Lola.

It was the talk of Walthamstow, the day that Harvey would finally meet Lola. People were rumoured to believe that there would be more passion in the room than beneath the covers in the big brother house. It would be the wedding of the year, a seven figure sum would be on the table for a picture of the first pup. Videos would be circling the internet of the first arse sniffing, some believed it would get more hits than 'One night in Paris.' Unfortunately, these reports were way off the mark, it was a game of cat and mouse all evening at Bridge End. Lola was indifferent to Harvey, and Harvey was indifferent to Lola. There were barks, nips and playing dead. Lola ate Harvey's food, Tom ate Lola's food. It was all a bit up in the air.

So the day kicked off relatively quietly in E8. Lola picked a somewhat Dickensian outfit for a day in the park. Teaming a white cravat with polka dot waistcoat, she looked elegant in the London rain. She was on her best behaviour, saving all her energy for the night ahead. At one point she ignored the flirtings of a six month old whippet. There was only one thing on her mind, Harvey, the pretty little King Charles Spaniel.

As the afternoon rain began to lighten and the sun slowly emerged from the clouds, Lola settled down on the picnic blanket in a mustard cardigan and flowery scarf. The contrast of monochrome neck piece and vibrant knitwear attracted the followers more so. A terrier was literally salivating at the mouth as he strolled by, a rough looking staff (from the towering estate yonder) bowled over and kissed his sharp teeth. Again, Lola was not impressed. Hackney boys just aren't her thing. She had a spot of lunch, stole some of my strawberry cheesecake and pilfered some wine, a little bit of dutch courage for the night's encounter.

Harvey welcomed Lola with a snarl, he was unimpressed. This was his territory. He had styled his beard and trimmed his hair, hoping this would be the beginning of a wonderful relationship. However, jealousy rippled through his bones. Being a cheeky bitch, Lola ran through the house, pissed on his lawn and nipped at his ears. Harvey retreated to the arms of his owners and proceeded to sleep the evening away. Any friendship formed would be on his terms, and his terms only.

Jason Barra, not wanting to be outdone by the lovely people of Southend, donned socks and sandals for the occasion. Add a pair of grey, Nike tracksuit bottoms and we have the style of a true Walthamstow boy. Harvey seemed embarrassed to be seen with his owner, and at one point tried to bolt it out the front door. Harvey was beginning to like Lola and her quirky ways and didn't want to be shown up by his landlord.

There was much dancing and merriment to be had at the Barra's. Lola did a jig, Harvey bum surfed and Steve had a fit. The evening was running very smoothly indeed. Everyone was talking about the sexual chemistry between Lola and Harvey. They just couldn't leave each other alone. Lola tried to mount Harvey, Harvey was playing hard to get; the OK! magazine deal was on. This was going to be bigger than Katie and Alex. A fly on the wall documentary was on the cards.

So I had a chat with Harvey, asked what he thought of my bitch. It was all positive. He thought she was pretty, had just enough junk in the trunk and had nice dog breath. He wants to meet her again. And Lola, well she'll hump anything. But there is some bad news, Harvey's had his balls chopped off and Lola's been spayed, so there won't be the pitter patter of tiny paws.

And the last word went to Mr Barra. He warned me that if Lola ever fucks around behind Harvey's back, he'll hunt me down and put a bullet in my head. But don't worry about me cos I've already put in a complaint to the fashion police.

Spare change guv'ner?

The world ends in Southend.

So I was kinda interested in discovering whether the style and grace of a lot of Londoners had spanned its wings and ventured further afield. Past the suburbs of Walthamstow and Chingford, down the A406, through Buckhurst Hill and Loughton and ever speeding down the motorway towards the wonder that is Southend. It hadn't. They were at least 15 years behind the rest of us. Some, if not most, had no teeth. Weather beaten men in shiny leather jackets were gambling on the shitty fruit machines at 10am, some were on the john smiths. And for some reason, 70% of these Southenders were steaming around on mobility scooters. They were actually pulling up to the bar, parking up, jumping off and strolling to the toilet with ease. Yes people, Southend truly is Tower Hamlets by the sea. It's a shit hole.





Miss Kate Ford and I (she looks remarkably like the Pint Sized Snapper, who was spotted at the superhero convention) settled down outside a lovely pub called 'The Hope;' apparently an 18th Century Coach House, with as much charm as the Nelson Mandela Estate. I set up shop, hoping to spot the trendy amongst the crowds. There were no trendy people, there were no crowds. I remember as a kid, getting in the car for a day out by the beach. I thought it was brilliant. I would buy my bucket and spade, settle amongst the obese, shell suit wearing, mullet sporting Essex dwellers, and quite happily dig up the toxic waste and swim in the piss sodden sea.
I witnessed kids of this generation doing the same thing. Poor bastards.




Last year when I was bumming around the world, I stopped at a place in the middle of the desert called Las Vegas. Apparently stars such as Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley and even Barry Manilow have graced the towering hotels along the strip. In Southend, I could imagine Bernard Manning, Jim Davidson and Rick Waller donning their Sunday best to wow the locals. They would love it.




This gentile looking fella was on the hard stuff at 9.30am. Sporting a greased back look, brown fleece, leather look coat and Rockports, he was the pick of the bunch outside the Hope Hotel. With trademark homemade tattoos and a distain for people who 'aren't from these parts'; the Willie Nelson look was attracting the toothless women cruising by on their scooters. A true Southender to the core.




I spotted this guy and his Mrs sitting outside the pub (can you see a pattern emerging here) I loved his clip on aviator style shades, his native American tee straining to cover his ale filled stomach, blue plastic bag, retro tattoos and week long stubble. Obviously gasping at 9.45am, a nice pint was just what the doctor ordered.

Now, I would never mock a human being for having a disability. It truly is a dreadful thing to live with. But I believe I have the right to question people who zoom around on their scooters, only to get up onto their feet to change up a tenner for the one arm bandit machine. Have I missed an advertisement along the way somewhere? Is Southend the place to migrate to when our legs let us down?

An amazing return to form here for this lovely looking lady. The 'number 1 wag' top was the best item of clothing I saw all day. Teamed with peroxide hair, with roots growing through, and a couple of kids in tow, this lady caught the eye. I actually did some digging and rumour has it she was spotted leaving Jermaine Defoe's flat in the early hours of last Saturday morning.

So this guy was my most stylish man of the day. Tracksuit bottoms, Velcro sandals with socks, an ill fitting Ben Sherman style shirt, 80s specs and baseball cap. I caught him loitering outside the pub. Majestic.

So, I think I may have to travel back towards London to spot the style conscious amongst us, because I think the people of Southend worry about other things. After all, the scooters don't run for free, the dental bills are a nightmare and the bar tabs are sky high. So, if you fancy sharing a toilet with a random on a night out, or sunbathing under a grey sky, or paying over the odds for a bag of doughnuts, Southend beats the South of France every time. Maybe I'm just a cockney snob, but give me the big smoke any day of the week.

So, after a spot of crazy golf, a go on the 'Rage' roller coaster, about 6 pints, a greasy hot dog and a deep fried doughnut, I thought it was time to jump back in the supervan and get back to Walthamstow. I was disappointed. Southend, you let me down, you let my readers down, you let Essex down, but most of all, you let yourselves down.

Next stop, Selbourne Walk, E17. Be scared.

Spare Change guv'ner?