onionbagblog

To the Museum of Youth Culture!

It makes sense that MOYC is located on the outer fringes of Camden along St Pancras Way. It’s not my favourite part of town but you don’t want a museum celebrating teenage rebellion stuck on the outskirts of Eltham.

I had been led to believe through various online pieces that MOYC is nothing but a poky cafe with a few artefacts adorning the walls. Think those shitty Hard Rock Cafes from the ’90s but this time with a generational divide having been breached.

This was far from the case. I didn’t have time to enter the cafe upstairs but the main exhibition space down below was bloody brilliant.

The reason for visiting was the God Save the Queen’s exhibition, curated by the Up Yours Collective. As the name suggests it’s the untold story of the role played by some genuine trailblazing females during the Punk Wars.

As the blurb for God Save the Queen states, this isn’t a subcategory of punk: It’s the history itself.

Much of the exhibition has been curated by Celeste Bell, who is the daughter of the amazing Poly Styrene.

There’s also significant input from Lauren Estelle Jones, who was able to borrow extensively from her old man’s archive, the Mick Jones Rock and Roll Public Library.

Punk and nepotism shouldn’t work but God Save the Queen is all the better for having these close family connections.

The main focus for the exhibition is some stunning photos of the main players, captured in all their young, naive, inexperienced, yet still threatening demeanour: the likes of Chrissie Hynde, Vivian Westwood, Pauline Black, Siouxsie, Debbie Harry and Patti Smith all feature.

Many of these shots come from the camera of Dennis Morris, who, along with Don Letts, has become something of the unofficial but still authoritative source of capturing punk on camera.

What I liked about the exhibition was that it stayed clear of all those retrospective clichés. It also celebrated some of the figures who were far more than bit-part players but often get overlooked.

We’re talking the likes of Soo Catwoman and Jordan. Both display a complete don’t give a fuck young teenage attitude in those early shots.

There’s so much to look at in the exhibition and it’s easy to get distracted. There’s plenty of DIY slogans on the walls, along with other artefacts such as original copies of the Sniffin Glue fanzine. The presentation is even punk in its random anarchic display.

A full on sound system shows videos curated by female artists. There were a few tech issues during my visit but that didn’t get in the way of the powerful imagery.

Celeste Bell concludes by adding

“Curating my mother’s archive proved how important it is to protect female countercultural history. Through Up Yours Collective we’re taking that legacy out of the archives and putting it where it belongs: centre stage. Bringing this vision to life through both exhibition and joining iconic street punk on stage is an incredible full-circle moment.”

Up Yours, etc.

Blimey, Essex Road, NW1 doesn’t look or feel like being in London. The underground station was absolutely deserted on a midweek morning. There were no ads and the old Network Rail signage was still up. It felt like being a bit part player in some Patrick Keiller early 90s film.

Walking out of the Overground and down towards the City end of Essex Road was also remarkably quiet. The shops were open but no one was around.

This felt most odd. It’s an unremarkable high street that connects Angel with the outer edges of Dalston.

It could have been Streatham High Road, Clapham High Street or even the Walworth Road. You have your usual mix of charity shops, nail bars, and the odd quirky local business.

But Essex Road was absolutely empty. You try walking down Walworth Road on a midweek lunchtime without bumping into anyone.

The reason for the rare excursion north of the river was for a pre-planned trip to the wonderful Flashback Records. R and I dropped in here around fifteen years ago as part of a Way We See It photo shoot. It was a rare find even then when it comes to secondhand vinyl and CDs.

I didn’t know where to start with my crate digging when I first walked in with R. There was so much selection, so much choice.

Fast forward to 2026 and I didn’t know when to stop. I had a budget which far outstripped the many piles of CDs I was starting to build up.

Whoops.

Flashback is very much an old school record shop. It has that curious smell of vinyl and plastic inner sleeves mixed in with the often unique aroma of the clientele that secondhand record shops seem to accumulate.

I think that’s a polite way of putting it.

I could have closed my eyes and been back on the shop floor at Selectadisc anytime in the early 1980s.

I started flicking away through the extensive CD racks. Captain Sensible was playing over the shop speaker system. It was a most pleasant way to spend an hour or so whilst simultaneously testing the patience of my non-music buying shopping partner.

I had made the usual mistake of too many cups of tea in the morning. I entered Flashback with serious toilet issues. There wasn’t a lot of scope along Essex Road in the public toilet department.

Flicking through the CD racks was a strange way to distract my mind and shift my attention.

I thought I did rather well in terms of limiting my spend. I walked out with The League Unlimited Orchestra remix album, some Weller orchestral piece that I didn’t even know existed, and the fourth Aztec Camera album, Stray: £15 all in.

The next day I realised I’ve already got the Aztec Camera album, natch. I really should get round to combining my somehow unworkable double system for finding away CDs back at base.

It’s not exactly Love Me Do, is it? There’s a sense of shock, for the sake of it. I kinda get all the personal angst and wanting to let it out, but some moments are best kept to yourself. Christ, she can’t half shriek. Art or arse?. The jury isn’t even out on this one.

⭐

Another Thursday, another rollout with the Forty Plus cycling group. I made my way over to the usual rendezvous meet up over in Witham.

BUT OF COURSE I was running late. I’m always running late. I know I need to leave the house at 7:30 am in order to meet up with the rest of the group.

One more cup of tea at 7:30 am and blimey, it’s 7:45 am. This ain’t gonna work out, is it?

Oh dear.

No worries, I pressed on, heading through Fingringhoe (stop sniggering), across Tiptree, and then around the outskirts of Witham. I knew I would have miss the rollout by five minutes or so.

So there I was, making plans for my own solo ride for the day, when VROOM VROOM, a couple of Forty Plus riders sped past in the opposite direction.

Hang on.

I did a 180° turn and managed to catch their back wheel. A few friendly words were exchanged.

It turns out there had been a slight change of plan. The usual 9:30 am Witham meet up has now been changed to 10 am at Tiptree to accommodate riders such as myself that come over from the other side of the half town, half city.

I had just cycled through Tiptree…

The Forty Plus group are a friendly lot. Destination Tiptree was reached once again. We picked up another half a dozen riders.

A fair pace was then set as we pressed on towards Tollesbury. The route included one particular lane that must have been a mile or so dead straight. A fellow friendly rider pointed out to me it was an old wartime landing strip.

We made a plenty of turns here and there. The route seemed to involve circumnavigating Tiptree at every available opportunity. I’ve nothing against Tiptree, but y’know.

Morning tea was then taken at Tollesbury. We met up with some other riders who had already found their way over to the cafe. The tandem count for the morning was doubled.

The various Forty Plus tribes then departed and went their separate ways. There was a ferocious headwind for me as I headed back inland.

My own route there very conveniently took me in the general direction of the gym. I took the opportunity to head straight to the spa and fall asleep for an hour.

92km for the day.

Chapeau!

Words can’t describe how bloody awful this album is. That screeching guitar solo in the opening track, it did me bloody nut in. I bailed.

⭐

This is such a melancholic album. What’s surprising is that the uplifting tracks all appear to be written in the minor key. It’s very difficult to listen to it with fresh ears, as these are all standards: Norwegian Wood, Nowhere Man, In My Life - pure pop classics that tilt towards that crossover when the Beatles became slightly druggy.

It’s surprising to see that Help was the album released before this, and in the same year as well. Rubber Soul is a great stepping stone onto Revolver, but it’s also far more than that. Whenever exploring the Beatles, Rubber Soul somehow gets overlooked. That’s a shame. It stands up there with some of their finest moments.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐ ⭐

Not a lot happened at the Sailing Club Monday evening table tennis social. There was a foggy walk down there. This added to the atmosphere as we approached the quay.

Once you get down past a certain part of the town, then the street lighting just dies on you. I think this is supposed to be Weird Wiv atmospheric.

But wait! What’s this?

Guiding us the final 500 metres or so was an abundance of Christmas lights already on show down by Toy Town.

A little bit early for festivities, Sir, etc.

We made our way upstairs to the Sailing Club. As ever there was a committee meeting taking place downstairs.

I had been tipped off earlier in the day by one potential committee member that she may come and join us upstairs if it got a little bit too stuffy downstairs.

It certainly was stuffy upstairs but not in a ceremonial kind of way. We had the heating on full.

That’s what I love about these table tennis socials. I can save money at home and spend my evening TWATTING a ball back and forth with like minded folk.

I stormed to my first win. I was pretty unplayable.

I’ve got a new serve which involves standing to the extreme left of the table and then just hitting the ball incredibly hard and low down the left corridor.

It’s not exactly a trick or deceptive shot. As soon as I take up my stance, then my opponent knows exactly where that ball’s going to go.

But I seem to have the knack of judging it just right so it lands right in the corner on the extreme left hand side.

Gotcha. Pow. Right in the kisser.

The next game was a little elongated. We went to 20-20 with the first to 21. You need two points to win and go clear.

I lost, natch.

This unsettled me slightly. The other games were a little hit and miss.

We finished off with some rather comedy inducing doubles. For some reason I have developed a reputation as not the type of player you want to serve to in doubles. I can land the ball on the other side of the table and isolate the server’s playing partner.

We walked back with more extreme fog and more Christmas lights. I made a mental note to get mine out on Christmas Eve.

Yep another G Force cardigan. Collectors will be collect, right?

If it moves buy it. I’m not on an unlimited budget but the rarity of this original early 90s G Force knitwear is starting to become scarce. I do feel that I’m fuelling some kind of inflated buyers' market.

Here we have a rather simplified G Force design compared to some of the usual extravagance. It’s a rather smart blue number with some orange trimmings.

I wasn’t sure at first. The measurements didn’t quite stack up. The chest size is fine and so is the arm length, but it is rather short around the waist down.

That’s the style. There are only two ways with G Force: a little short around the waist or FUCK OFF huge full on tent style that almost comes down to your knees. No messing, no middle ground.

It arrived in perfect condition. This is a piece of knitwear that is 30 to 35 years old. There are no stains or holes to be seen. It was packaged up perfectly.

I also like the fact that I might have paid something of a premium price, but it’s being sold by Mind. It’s good to know that a charity knows the market and what the value is.

Will I wear it? Yeah sure. I’m starting to wear G Force now as my everyday look and not just for getting tarted up.

Yep, I’m becoming a full time PONCE. Nothing wrong with that.

To the Sunny Colch Odeon! …on Monday afternoon. Screening as part of the cheapo cheapo grubby fiver deal was the new John Malkovich film, Wild Horse Nine.

But first of all we had to overcome a mountain. That’s a mountain of popcorn.

It was most disheartening when rocking up at the Sunny Colch Odeon to find the entrance door stacked high with what must have been sacks full of popcorn that were at least two metres in height.

Peering behind the mythical popcorn curtain was a real heartbreaker. Whaddya mean they don’t make it themselves on site at the Sunny Colch Odeon?

That’s awful lot of popcorn to eat - or even throw around the cinema, as is the case with the Cheapo cheapo grubby fiver deal.

Whatever.

I don’t want to come across as some kind of cinema snob but a John Malkovich film doesn’t attract the usual type of audience that you get on these cheapo cheapo outings. There were a fair few studious single males dotted around the cinema.

I knew little of the film. Thinking back I think I did hear a review on the Robert Elms show at the weekend, but I didn’t make the connection with Malkovich and what we were about to witness.

Except sadly I didn’t witness that much of it. I fell asleep during the trailers, natch. That takes quite some effort, dozing off when a loud as fuck PA system blasts out the latest Marvel universe crap.

I vaguely remember seeing the British Film Board rating for Wild Horse Nine, and then drifted in and out for the first half hour or so,

Which was a shame because the bits that I did pick up on were rather captivating.

I did manage to shake off my lethargy just as the film picked up. It meant that I had missed out on most of the setup, but fast forwarded straight to the action.

This is a film where Malkovich is absolutely captivating. There’s not a lot of action taking place. It’s all about the dialogue. The scripting was superb.

It’s difficult to describe the plot, even with the barest of detail, without giving too much away. Basically it’s a bromance movie as two CIA agents go on a week’s jolly to Easter Island.

Malkovich’s character is elderly; you can see where this is heading.

It’s a rather remorseful film. There’s plenty of looking back via the dialogue rather than through flashbacks. This works incredibly well. The storytelling and use of language carries the entire film.

And then somewhere towards the final quarter or so, SHIT THE BED. Blimey it’s only the old timer Tom Waits popping up to make the most memorable of cameos.

As ever Tom Waits plays Tom Waits. But I could watch the old soak on the big screen all day. I really do miss his all too rare film outings these days.

There are a few sideways plot changes in Wild Horse Nine that you aren’t expecting. There’s a great historical narrative with JFK also being involved.

There that’s as far as I’ll go with the spoilers.

This was a great American film. I mean not a truly great American film, but something that is certainly worthy of a second watch - unlike Digger, which was absolutely shite last month.

The Stones Out of Touch sounded bloody ace as the end credits rolled two hours later. That’s something I’m not going to fall asleep to.

This album has got such a rhythmic flow running throughout. The way the bass just bounces along and carries each track. The music more than makes up for the lack of lyrics. Who needs words anyway? It’s proper space cadet territory, which is basically all sorts of prog and psychedelic shit brought up to date for a contemporary audience. It does get a little tedious in places mind.

⭐ ⭐ ⭐