four-way photo

This is a photo taken by Corinna Psomadakis using a geek chic cool new camera she had recently purchased which employs a 4 shutter googly eye camera which takes four shots (I think), one after the other, giving the impression of movement across time - a very interesting photographic concept.

It just so happens she decided to debut her new camera on a couple of douchebag jokers - that would be myself and my best mate Charlie. After we had both accidentally bought the same boxer shorts, and by complete accident had both worn them on the same day, we decided to highlight this fact and Corinna decided to document it.

The outcome, I think, makes for a great photo.

Corinna is trying to learn more about photography, and you can check out her shit here:
http://larbage.tumblr.com/

celebrity babysitting

Whilst out for drinks on Saturday night, I got talking to a good friend about her latest 'babysitting' job. It transpired that she is on the cusp of earning a babysitting job with a very rich family. The exact type of family who are rich enough to pay a babysitter to go on an incredible holiday with them just so the kids can have someone to play with. This is not the first time I have heard had a friend who has somehow found a family who will pay them about £20 an hour to raid their fridge and watch The Simpson's in HD. Cristina's mother has regaled me with many stories of her college days in Malibu CA, where she would assist her living by looking after the kids of the rich and famous.

What is it with you people? Where do you find these ridiculous jobs? Is there some website community for uber-wealthy families and eager wannabe-nannies that i'm missing? 

It's all too good to be true, and I want to know who is dishing out these bloody jobs, because I want one. And before you go judging me for wanting to look after small children as a hobby, spare a thought for the kind and gentle King of Pop, who made a pretty good name for himself doing exactly the same thing. 

So this is an appeal (albeit a creepy one).

If you know a wealthy family / or are one,  are looking for someone who is great with kids, but better with a TV remote. Please tell them to get in touch. 

I won't touch diapers. Going rate is £10 an hour.

What happens now?

“It’s all over now, baby blue.” Words immortalised by folk singer Bob Dylan, but not true for Guus Hiddink, one of a handful of English football professionals still on the clock with the unfinished

business of this Saturday’s FA Cup Final to contend with.

 What about the rest of the footballers? At various points in the last month, they have finished their season-long shifts of physical torture. Now is their time for a well-deserved rest. All of the blood, sweat and tears of an English football season have finally come to settle on the hallowed turf. What happens now?

 Some of the most interesting things in football often happen when we aren’t looking – the things which Sky Sports doesn’t show. Who cleans the boots? How many pairs of fresh socks does Robinho need for every game? Who takes care of the ball boys?

 Football, from Liverpool to Luton Town, is a gigantic machine. It requires diligent minds and dedicated people behind every kick of the ball. You may not hear about them on the back pages, but it’s them we can thank for everything we love about football.

 The season may have all but finished for the footballers. And after Saturday’s game, the fans can also take their two month sabbatical and watch some Cricket instead. But in each and every football club in the country, armies of staff are already preparing. Cutting the grass of the training ground, drawing up new tactical boards and printing names on new football shirts. The football season never stops, it just goes quiet for a few weeks. 

Class of the Catalans - Champions League Final

Last night, in a smoky Irish pub in North West London, I watched a battle of champions. Kings in each of their countries, heroes amongst their people, it really was the fight of all fights. It's only football you might say, not worth romanticising. In this case, it deserves all the glorification we can give it. 

This was truly the biggest sporting stage in the world. The best players, from all countries and backgrounds, playing for the biggest accolade, in the most popular and widely followed sport in this planet's history. Unless dinosaurs played some form of shuffleboard we don't know about - it doesn't get much bigger than this.

And last night, Manchester United couldn't cope with the skill and craft of Barcelona. 

Alex Ferguson, manager of United for over 18 years, football sensei, could not overcome the tactical wits of a much younger Pep Guardiola, an infantile 38 year-old in his first year of management. And he can make no excuses - both managers have the same chess pieces in front of them. One manager's bishop may be stronger than the others, but the other may have a stronger castle - in the end they both have the best players in the world, it's just about how you play the pieces. 

For Barcelona, possession is 9/10ths of the law, and therefore you need to concentrate on stealing the ball from them to have any chance of winning. Ferguson employed his two most frenetic and hassling players, Rooney and Ji Sung Park, on the fringes of the game where they had no influence. 

Against Chelsea, Barcelona had already proven themselves to be frantic in defence, making mistakes under pressure and giving away costly fouls in the penalty box. Chelsea were unlucky not to have won at least two of four legitimate penalty calls. But where did Manchester United exploit this weak point? Where did they effectively dribble the ball into zones which would directly worry the fickle Barcelona defenders? In a game of this magnitude, even a world-class defender will do anything he can to prevent an opposition goal, even if it means the risk of giving away a penalty.

Manchester United may be champions of the Premier League, but this defeat will hurt Ferguson's pride more than any other. His wonder boys, with so much hope resting on their shoulders, were expected in February to achieve the unachievable and sweep all five major competition trophies. Now they walk away with just two. 

United will regroup, rebuild and Ferguson will dig deep and replenish himself for one final push. Before he does, he would be wise to take a look at the best team in the Europe, his conquerors. A team owned by their fans, who forego a lucrative sponsorship deal and donate their shirt to Unicef, whose players learn to play with pride and to play beautifully at all costs.

HOLIDAY!!!

As the world works itself into a big fuss over a maybe/maybe not pandemic to rival the 17th Century bubonic plague, I couldn't really care less.

It seems a shame that in plagues of the past, they were a little more creative with their name choices - the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century striking fear into the history books and the schoolchildren who read them. This time around, someone almost jokingly decided to call it Swine Flu, almost as if Pig Flu might not have a serious enough ring to it.

Do you think they decided to name it swine flu because you can't regularly find 'swine' in restaurants and therefore people can blissfully continue to order pork casseroles and bacon sandwiches when they go out to eat? I have to admit, i'd be scared shitless right now if they had called it Sausage Flu.

Without offending those poor souls who have contracted this unfortunate condition and suffered its effects, i'm still completely fearless. Why? Because i'm off on holiday.

I've heard you can get great deals to Mexico right now, but i've decided to go a little further afield. The longest flight i've ever taken - 14 hours spread across two flights. The west coast of America here I come.

I'm too excited for words. I've not had a holiday in ages, have been working hard across various jobs for nine months, trying to make life work in London on a shoestring. Finally, I can take a couple of weeks, see a bit of the world I've never seen before, take some photos and eat some delicious food (swine excluding).

Will keep you updated with some photos and stories along the way. It's time to become an American. If I meet Obama, that would be crazy. But goal number one right now - a regular streetside corndog and a budweiser, as soon as I step off the plane.

My local Pub

Just had a Saturday morning session at my 'local'. It's a great thing to be able to say that you have your own 'local'. The phrase refers to the pub that's about two minutes from your front door, and even though it's probably tacky as hell, and the seating is moth eaten, there's a sense of pride you wear each time you go in there.

I can only imagine it's a bit different in America. If you don't live in a big city, they seem to have a problem putting drinking holes on every street corner in the suburbs. It must have something to do with their kids having such lovely white teeth.

To say "i'm off to the local" has three great implications:

1. It officially means you have your own abode, a place where you live, with neighbours and some annoying lady who peeps through her curtain. It's your area, your home, and that's great.

2. This sense of ownership is a step up on the adult ladder. You're no longer 12 years old and saying "i'm just off to my local....street corner to hang out on my bike". Now you can drink beer and not orangeade.

3. It's nice to go somewhere that's not your home, but that you still feel at home when you go there. If that makes sense?

A proper old man's pub, named after an American wooden-hulled ship - the oldest commissioned ship in the world today. The clientel is bizarre. Some bloke goes in with a sort of silver chain wig on and wears a leather jacket, but seems completely normal. A bloke with a pony tail runs a poker game on Sundays and Mondays in the upstairs bit. There's no quiz machine, no jukebox, none of that post-modern drinking apparatus that seems to be the habit of a new generation of young hedonists. Just simplicity.

Plad chairs. A straightforward selection of lagers and bitters. A few mixers, and the classic triumvirate of crisps - ready salted, cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. People go there to enjoy a drink and maybe if they see someone they recognise, they exchange a few words.

Greeks have something similar with the Taverna - the Hellenic "local". In the villages and suburbs, you'll see men playing backgammon, sipping away on a mythos, gossipping in between dice rolls.

The local is a great way to tie together a community, and a fantastic excuse to go drinking on your own. If you have a local - get in touch and i'll come round for a pint.

To Do: Visit the Local more often.

The Darkness - what a band. Remember? Just me?

I love music, but i'd never clearly say that my tastes were ever consistent, refined or educated. I like what I like, and tend not to listen to anything which might reasonably be caught in a grey genre area. I'm not a genre person either - I like bits of lots of different things.

Basically - like religion - my taste in music is one of life's great mysteries. Faith is required.

And it is with great faith that in around year 2002, I devoted myself to the most cringeworthy band ever to have topped the charts - The Darkness.

They were a sort of mock 70s guitar-worshipping band that produced an album of pure mock-rock. A sheep could have written better lyrics, and the riffs (???) were so unnervingly tacky that the whole mixture, when combined and strapped with leather jeans and tatoos of snakes, produced a result that was not far short of a miracle.

I loved it like i've never loved any band before - one jam after another. I bought two t-shirts at two gigs I went to. The first time I saw them live was with my friend Chris Parrott. It was a dank, cold December night in Manchester, and Chris and I met up at the pub around the corner from the Carling Apollo, for our little music man-date. If we hadn't been so clearly obsessed by The Darkness, we'd have been ashamed that we were the only two people amongst our friends that saw a bizarre attraction in these jokers.

They enjoyed their fifteen minutes of the fame, and i'm glad that I was at the front to watch it unfold and then fold back up again.

Strangely, I'm sat in a coffee shop and one of their heroic ballads came on, so I just had to sit down and write myself a little trip down memory lane.

This blog post is to all those people who like a band for some very bizarre and unexplainable reason. Nobody else gets it, even though you wish they really did. Many years later, when you've matured and lost the t-shirt, you might look back on that obsession with a smile, knowing that you loved a band nobody else did - they were yours and they were brilliant.

A treat for all of you. Ladies and Gentlemen - The Darkness. RIP.