“McSweeney may be gone from Downing Street, but Labour Together’s alumni remain ensconced in high office – Home Secretary Shabana Mahmood and Communities Secretary Steve Reed among them. Labour Together’s record of law-breaking, deception and harassment of critics and independent journalists is well-known.”
aka Made in Lambeth
via Morning Star
A pair of LUSH Nike Air Max 1/97 Sean Wotherspoons. GEDDIN!
I’m not normally a sneaker head. But I couldn’t resist these. I first clocked them on a dude at the chemists whilst I was waiting for a prescription. I discreetly took a snap, and then Chat GPT filled me in with the details later.
I was hopeful of maybe £50 for a second hand pair. Multiply that by at least ten, and you’re in the right ball park figure.
OUCH.
But OF COURSE there’s no way I’m paying that. I did manage to source a pair at a fraction of the average selling price. The only downer is that the tread is pretty much fucked.
No worries. I’ve found an online company that can repair this for £50. Let’s see what comes back.
I probably won’t wear them. But that’s not the point, is it?
Some more G Force goodness, all the way from the Fair City. I’ve been LUSTING over a G Force original gilet for some time now. I’ve only ever seen a couple of the BEAUTS from the old Hockley shop appear online.
I did win one on eBay last year. And then the dickhead seller pulled out, claiming that she had sold it elsewhere, minutes after she bumped up the price on Vinted.
Hey hoe.
But wait! What’s this? Mr G Force posed on Insta last week some pics of some of the new gilets as part of the Re-engineered range. Oh LOVELY. I’ll have a bit of that please.
The deal was done, and then this G Force 2026 style cashmere dropped in the post. It fits perfectly, and with good timing as well. Spring and early summer are made for gilets, right?
PONCE. And proud.
To The Odeon! …in Sunny Colch on Monday afternoon. This is becoming something of a regular visit for me as part of the cheap as chips start of the week routine. £5 for a film on the big screen? Would you like to add food and drink before you check out? Would I chuff.
The grubby fiver film screenings do have their drawbacks. They attract a certain type of clientele. That clientele isn’t quite me just yet. But I do fear that I’m getting there. Sitting next to me for the screening of Glenrothan was a 60 plus couple. I now know more about than I would care to about Mr and Mrs Chatty.
They talked LOUDLY over the adverts. Fine, I’m cool with that. And then also the trailers. This got on my tits ever so slightly. One hour into the film and they still hadn’t SHUT THE FUCK UP. This was simply unacceptable. I bet they put their feet up on the train seats as well.
Having spoilt the first half of the film for me, I was determined not to let them get the better for what remained. I politely asked them to hold back on their general chit chat until they got home.
“FUCK OFF, YOU CUNT.”
What a charmer. But it did have the desired effect. The conversation ended, and they chose to actually take in what they had also paid a fiver for - which was a half decent film in Glenrothan.
But seriously, SOME people.
There’s a growing genre in cinema that I’m calling Local Hero 2.0. It’s essentially feel good films, usually centred around ideas of national identity. The genre can border around the fringes of Farage flag waving shit. But then it also cuts back with some more progressive ideas, both in terms of the script and appearances on screen.
And so joining the likes of Fisherman’s Friends and The Ballad of Wallis Island, here we have Glenrothan. It’s Brian Cox’s directional debut. He also takes up the role of Sandy, one half of the local Scottish whiskey distillery, alongside his rock ‘n’ roll brother, Donal.
The plot involves Donal losing his Blues club over in Chicago, and then having to confront what he left behind in Scotland over four decades ago. We’re talking family relationships, personal relationships, notions of identity etc.
It sounds pretty heavy stuff, but Local Hero 2.0 always allows for some strong humour. There’s a couple of lol lines - possibly more in the first half, but I couldn’t follow the full dialogue thanks to Mr and Mrs Chatty. The ending wasn’t sign posted, but it was a happy one.
Glenrothan is the type of film you see on a Sunday evening, and not a Monday lunchtime. Given my Sunny Colch Odeon experiences of late, Im not sure that you should see any film on a Monday lunchtime tbh.
We watched Saipan on Sunday - the Roy Keane Mick McCarthy spat of a film that attempts to capture the moment when the Man Utd star walked out of the Republic of Ireland’s training camp on the eve of the 2002 World Cup. It was originally released at the cinema in January. The film has already found its way as a freebie viewing on Prime. Make of that what you will.
It’s a slow burner, for sure. The entire film is centred around will he or won’t he walk away from the tatty team training facilities in Saipan? Given that we already know the outcome, the limited appeal is more in the dialogue and double headers between Keane and McCarthy. Both men give a sense of holding back and hiding away their feelings, right up until the epic profanity ridden fall out in front of the rest of the players.
Steve Coogan as Mick McCarthy just about gets away with it. He’s always one facial tick away from Partridge, but whatever character he plays, you always get authenticity. Éanna Hardwicke as Roy Keane is mean and moody. His simmering performance is captured more in what isn’t said, than any actual dialogue.
There’s plenty of cliches to keep the non-football crowd entertained, including a Britpop soundtrack that not only gets on your tits, but also feels slightly out of sync with the actual period itself. There’s no need for any spoiler alert: Keane walks, the Republic reach the last sixteen of the World Cup.
Ole, ole, etc.
He’s so London, he’s so South, etc. Transpontine soul floats all over geography. There’s no mistaking where this album was recorded, despite the generic Geography title. It’s laid back S ldn, and not the SHOUTY SHOUTY version that sometimes boils over in the summer. A half decent spring moment captured, ahead of the more livelier days ahead. Enjoyable, if a little bland.
⭐ ⭐ ⭐
The local muntjac deer have already had a nibble on my strawberries. BASTARDS! We were warned about this. The strawbs are the only crop that we’ve got on the go. It’s not been a good start with the muntjacs already having made a move on them.
It’s not all bad news, mind. Sunday afternoon revealed a wonderful view through the nearby allotment boundary hedge: the local cricket club thrashing around in the Sunday League: Cricket, possible strawberries and cream. I could get use to this.
A frustrating first half. You don’t say. Burnley rocked up at the World Famous with the game plan of boring the arse off everyone watching. This included their travelling fans. Slow hadn’t clap for Burnley. Bugger off back to the Championship please, and never come back.
The first 45 minutes felt more like a pre-season than a potential relegation decider. The injury to Murillo was a worry. And then just before HT - oh ffs Forest. Conceding a goal at home just ahead of the break is SO Forest. The crowd fell flat. The players headed back down the tunnel with much work to do.
I’m not sure what Pereira said back in the dressing room, but BLOODY HELL. His tactical change of playing Jesus alongside Chris Wood was a little left field. Switching MGW out to play in what appeared to be a wide No. 10 role seems to have invented a whole new position in tactical formations.
OK - here we go: Hands in the Ear hashtag, multiplied by three. A fifteen minute hat trick for MGW was quite incredible. It had nothing to do with Burnley being bobbins. The pick of the bunch was the header from outside the penalty box. SHOUT OUT Ryan Yates for a bloody decent delivery.
Which all means that MGW is now our top scorer this season across all competitions. There’s all the more irony in that his hat trick today puts #lolspurs in deep, deep shit. At the end of the day, we always win, etc.
This has far from been a fun season for Forest. But when it clicks, it’s a joy to be a Forest fan. This week is a case in point, with a major European semi-final to look forward to, and the team edging ever closer to PL history. I hope anybody’s not stupid enough to write us off.
A Sunday morning gentle roll out on the Brompton to kick start the day. It’s been a while since I last treated the mini-wheeler to a ride around the Estuary Wilds lanes. Logistics has meant that the Brompton is my current - and only - ride of choice. Scaffolding back at base has imprisoned the other bicycles, blocking off the back passage.
Hey hoe. I knew there was a reason as to why I held on to the Brompton, despite limited commuting opportunities these days. It’s such a pure, unrestricted ride. I may only have two gears, but I didn’t feel like I needed any more throughout the 25km loop. The Brompton rides beautifully.
I also enjoyed the freedom of riding a Brompton with no luggage. Over the past fifteen years or so, I have used the Brompton whilst balancing my back and forth lifestyle between S Ldn and the Estuary Wilds. Half my life has been transported during each journey, with front and rear bags carrying life’s essentials (MacBooks, cameras, cheapo Lidl BOOZE.) Not so today.
It was a little chilly shortly after 9am. I needed the three layers to get me around the route. There had also been some unexpected overnight rain. Not so much of a surprise was the succession of close pass dickheads. I clocked half a dozen. Sadly I didn’t have my camera mount on the Brompton to capture them.
I decided to focus on more pleasant aspects of the ride: the bluebells still going strong along the verges, the very dignified tourer rider who was laden down with four bags on his bicycle; the squirrel who chanced his luck and almost made an ill-advised bolt to dive through my Brompton spokes.
I’d forgotten how much the Brompton can be. Maybe I should keep it as the default bicycle of choice over the summer months?
And so farewell Andy Kershaw. I was very saddened to hear of his death. I admit to not knowing that he was seriously ill. He seemed to be the type of character that was always there - cutting his broadcasting teeth on Whistle Test, being the wonderfully rude and inappropriate host at Live Aid, his out of place Radio 1 show, transiting to Radio 3, and then even finding a new home in the DIY world of podcasting. But alas, no more.
His random podcast over recent years is actually far better than his wonderful Radio 3 shows, before he got the boot at the Beeb. Kershaw finally found a platform where he didn’t need to hold back and could Tell It Like It Is. In the murky world of post-legacy media, this can often be a euphemism for right wing nut jobs going off on one. But not for Kershaw. If anything, the opposite was true.
Sure, he was flawed at times with a complicated personal life. Who isn’t? It was quite something to be able to rebuild his career, despite both the BBC and the tabloids seemingly doing all that they could to hold him back.
At the core of his dogged determinism was the music. It wasn’t his ego or even financial reward; he had no shame in passing around the begging bowl on his podcast, pleading literal poverty to keep the lights running on the random pods. You sense that he felt it was his mission to get the music out there and share his love of it with others.
I’ve been introduced to many amazing artists thanks to Kershaw. The podcast title of Andy Kershaw Plays Some Bloody Good Records was true to form. What we now broadly know as World Music reaching a larger audience is largely down to Kershaw. His knowledge was vast.
And o farewell Andy Kershaw. He didn’t give a shit, right up until the end.
