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.