Thuggery new and old

I have a Facebook account, although I'm not quite sure how the bleedin' thing works right now. But if anyone reading this knows anything about adding themselves to my paltry one friend so far, then fabulous. A quick tutorial wouldn't go amiss neither, so I can begin to network with gusto. As if to make sure my head wasn't turned by crazy thoughts of social interaction, and progression, and Bebo and RSS Feeders, I then witnessed a racist fight in my local corner shop, JSK Minimart. Thug erupted over white lightning, uttered racist cobblers, followed by harassed owner grabbing a plastic baseball bat, shputing expletives and then, strangely, throwing a packet of crisps at him as he beat a retreat. Now that's interaction how it used to be done. All this Facetalk bobbins ... isn't it all a bit CB Radio?
Listening: Glen Campbell - Wichita Lineman; Dee's Trojan Ladies comp (amazing stuff); The Decemberists (their grimey sea shanty album The Crane Wife lasts exactly the length of my journey from Hull to Barton on bike, and is perfect for splashing through floody puddles to); The Cribs; Costello, Cramps, lots of Jim Naughtie on Radio 4

Brown Wednesday

And so the "work of change" begins. Thanks, then, Gordon, for immediately making me think of The Scorpions "Winds Of Change". I expect there'll be plenty of whistling in the weeks ahead from yer Darlings and yer Balls. But at least Brown has the gravitas and ability to operate above and outside of the spin. On another note, who would ever assume that Tony Blair would spend the last but one day of his coiffured half truth term with Arnold Shwarzenegger, talking kindergarten crap. At this rate, you'll need a passport to get into Glastonbury and Michael Jackson would be penniless. Oh ... yeah.

Rufus Wainwright sings

I don't know about you, but I thought this piece of Rufus cabaret at Glastonbury was fabulous. High camp, showbiz and giant balls all thrown into an ersatz tumbler.

Up a gum tree

You've gotta feel sorry for our crotchety old sub Tom. Yesterday, his car was submerged in water when the Lud burst its banks. Undeterred, he phoned the AA and got himself to Millets, where he snaffled the last pair of £7.99 wellingtons. He came back to the office. And waited.And waited. And subbed the odd page. And waited. At 9pm (yes, I know) he was told by the AA that they couldn't get out to see him. So he trudged to the car, only to find it knee-deep in water. Then, he left the wellies in the passenger seat and called a taxi. Returning to the car today, he found it had been broken into and the wellies stolen. The vagabonds had ignored everything else. It could have just been some kind of gum-induced envy. But I know that Tom will be scouring the feet of every n'aer do well for weeks to come and a right melee will ensue if he discovers the wellingtons he never got to bed in.

From the Blitz to the shitz

Louth was on flood alert today (59mm of rain in an hour - rattly old weather ed). We knew this because every 15 minutes the old siren last used in the Blitz was cranked up and released upon the town, wailing its deathy banshee screech upon us all. Those worst affacted were the OAPs living near the River Lud, and can only imagine what it must have been like hearing that sound again. Be nice to report a solidarity in the face of godly adversity, but the floods just seemed to bring out more nutters, semi-naked and fuming with bulldogs, to the town. On the way into work a woman on a bike was cycling up to passing cars and uttering short sentences: "Cars. Two.Feet.Of.Water.Turn. Around. Nowwwww." The forebringer of apocalypse on two wheels. Later, Martin, the office madman, said that if I couldn't get home, he'd let me sleep with him. I ran for the car and applied the gas.

Leave before the Lights come on

It wasn't Glastonbury, admittedly, but our weekend involved a tale of two very different Yarkshire cities. On Saturday, a stroll through "our manor", Spring Bank West, which seems to be morphing into a close approximation of East Berlin in the 1970s. Two Polish women blocked the doorway of Polski Smak with their eastern Blok via western Hull earrings and confrontational, no fixed address perms. In the myriad of "antique" shops that line its eastern drag, a young white wanna be Eminemmer stoops to light a fag inside the shop, caring little for the vintage bedroom cabinets. In an alley close to Dee's house, we spot some grafitti proclaiming that "democracy is the illusion of government". Full marks for spelling awarded, we then spot rats in an abandoned children's playground, yards from Hull's sunset strip of bars and eateries.
On Sunday, and perhaps because of the aforementioned, we decamp to York, for walks around the walls, this lovely installation of candles in a decommissioned city centre church, and ice cream, laughing, in the rain.

Bat For Lashes - Whats a Girl To Do

Here's my favourite new discovery from Glastonbury (not counting CSS covering L7 like some bizarre mathematical conundrum). This is Bat For Lashes. It starts off like incidental music from Columbo, with some 60s atmospherics, and the video is all Wicker Man meets Girl On A Motorcycle. Lovely.