This is a stack of film reels in the back of one of the finest venues in Bristol: The Cube Cinema. Nestled in the back-roads behind Jamaica Street and King Square, The Cube is volunteer-run, and a lot of love goes into its upkeep, organization, and programming.
Over the years I have been to see many bands and films there, as well as to the occasional birthday party. I first went there in 2000 (I think) when a friend of mine was volunteering. Back then you had to walk through a Chinese restaurant to get into the cinema.
At the back of the theatre is a cosy projection room filled with stuff like that stack of reels in the header photo and this faintly lewd health and safety diagram:
I was there for a gig that night – I think it was Twocsinak’s album launch. Twocsinak is the alias of cunning Joe Grounds who can be seen here at various stages of the evening:
a. before the gig:
b. during the gig:
c. after the gig, smoking a cigarette:
d. on his merry way home:
Can you guess where this nifty image comes from?
I love the expression on her face. I never knew urinals could be so stimulating.
I swear this is genuine.
Answer to follow…
They must have really good glue in Homebase Acton
My local corner-shop steps up its new high-pressure marketing strategy
The arabian gentleman prefers English, don’t you know
Things are tough down Chelsea. There is a sale in the dinosaur shop to boost business
My (excelllent) local Irish butcher spreads the luck for a pound a pop. I thought it was just cress, but the butcher assured me I was wrong even though he was clearly drunk
Ahh, the bullshit singers, the bullshit voting, the bullshit commentary on the bullshitness of the singers and voting. The joke is stale.
I love the name. It was obviously decided upon when television was all fresh and exciting, and using the suffix ‘vision’ made the contest seem fresh and exciting too. Now every eight year old has their own tv. The medium is about as exciting and ubiquitous as clothes. But you get the impression that the organizers still love the name for its connotations of optimism, its visionary idealism. And we think that is wretchingly cheesy, like the contest, so we are all happy.
But as a vision of Europe today, the competition reveals some disturbing truths. Old habits die hard, and the old eastern-bloc lip-service to Russia seems to be getting stronger each year. Ten years ago, Russia was languishing. Now it is the petrochemical bully of Europe, and don’t we all know it. Russian oil millionaires are buying up high end real estate from Hampstead to Cairns. Putin’s aggressive economic expansionism seems to be increasing in momentum. He saw that Russia’s oil resources were the key to her resurgence as a European and world power, and it seems he was right. Now that is a vision for Europe
Anyway, tangent aside, I felt really sorry for the UK entry. If you know me, you know I loathe pop-dance music, but I was genuinely shocked at how good Andy Abraham was. He is literally the first ever act on the show I have ever seen that could sing professionally.
A good way to get rid of the slavish regional voting would be to have two rounds of voting. Divide Europe into regional blocks and have them vote for a regional representative act in the first round. Then in the second round would be the vote between the acts of eg. Western Europe, South Eastern Europe, Northern Europe etc.
It is all rather degrading isn’t it? Almost as degrading as writing so much about the fucking Eurovision song contest. I don’t care at all actually. Really.
This is the element of a heater in the One-Stop Thali restaurant in Bristol. The One-Stop Thali, for those of you who don’t know it, is a kitsch little indian diner in the heart of a pretty area in Bristol called Montpelier.
Montpelier ‘came up’ a few years back, mainly due to the influx of students who wanted a bohemian alternative to Clifton, with a a strong community feeling (and was not quite as dodgy as St Paul’s). I don’t know what the people who already lived in the area felt about this influx. But I can guess. Now the area is being invaded by young professionals, due to the grand regeneration of Bristol city centre. I believe the bohemians are quite unhappy about this invasion of outsiders.
Anyway, I was having breakfast in the Thali one grey hungover morning, and I liked the look of this warm glowing honeycomb, which was the only source of heat in the room. You can imagine what the other breakfasters thought of me photographing and filming a rotating heater. I can suggest: ‘idiot’; ‘retard’; ‘fucking outsider’; or a combination of the above.
The hangover was caused by my friend Ollie’s house party, summarized in this photo:
There is grass under the sofa. Not because someone had lugged furniture into the garden, no. Ollie had gone to the trouble of turfing his bedroom, for some reason. I think there was a sports theme to the party and Ollie wanted his bedroom to be like Wimbledon.
Well, it it seems as good a place as any to start.
Have a gander at tomrowland.co.uk If you haven’t seen my website already. If you are time-poor and reading this through a pair of binoculars then just look at the favicon up there in the url address bar.
All there is to say is that I will be using the as a place to upload things that I do in my life, much the same as any other homepage, really. I hope that I keep it (and this blog) updated regularly and frequently, as much for myself as anyone else.
The ten images which make up the main page are all cropped from photos I have taken somewhere or other. Each photo has a story behind it. So, for want of anything more obvious, and a rather understocked archive, I am going to blog these narratives. Hopefully this will give the homepage a little more life.
As yet, the site is somewhat under-populated with content, as far as I am concerned, but hopefully that will change steadily.
Please comment on anything as kindly or ruthlessly as you like, no matter how well you know me. Bloggers do not hold back on their comments, so there is no reason why their critics should either.
I am going to regret writing that.
Here’s how to be a domestic goddess: get a film crew to do your bloody washing up for you