I`ts been a long time coming but here it is the column from me, Jim Doc (the one that gets paid zero dollar for retrieving the balls from the water Hazard after you dirty hackers have bruk up the fairways!)
A lot has happened since we said goodbye to 2003 and welcomed in 2004! Once hangovers had cleared and noses were blown or picked up off the floor, our sights were set on a certain date!
Friday 30th january 2004 will forever be remembered as one of, if not, the most important day in the history of British entertainment because this was the day "The Show" was born.
Now, in theory, as we all know, everything sounds great when you are hatching plans and bouncing ideas of each other, "it`s gonna be the best," "we`re going to the top"...
What were we thinking, i`ll talk you through it...
We hit the ground running into 2004 where upon the majority of our days were taken up with thoughts of how great "The Show" was going to be.
It was all in place, the venue hired, deposit down, bands confirmed, sound engineer booked etc, etc.
All that was left was the promotional aspect of it to deal with...simple!
Mr Burke and myself set a date, time and venue to get together and work out which avenues to take with regards to promoting our new up and coming club night.
We reached an agreement to over see everything and i mean everything!
With the help of a few friends and loved ones we would design the flyers & posters, we would target certain streets and shops around the East end of London, we would target galleries to get the art angle, we were ready to take over the East end!
We also came to a joint decision to distribute said flyers and make sure the posters would be pasted up on every wall, fence, window and any other available space we could find, for all to see.
Mr Burke and myself have spent many a day laughing at the misfortune of Max & Paddy (doormen of the legendary club in Peter Kaye`s Phoenix Nights).
The mention of these two guy`s leads me on to how i witnessed Paul and myself slowly turning into them!
Admittedly, too much drink and too much herb is bad preparation for walking around London with a bucket of paste and hundreds of posters but this was the only way we could build up the courage to do the job in hand.
We burst it! Out we went at 1am on a cold Sunday morning, prepared for all the drunken piss pots walking the streets, prepared because we were probably the most munted people in town.
We were on the streets for hours and were happy with what we had achieved, all except for the paste running out with still a few posters to put up.
The reason for this became apparent at about 4am when i realised i couldn't`t move anymore due to being paralysed by a complete head to toe covering of paste.
Future tip...try and put more paste on the walls and less on one`s self!
By now you will hopefully be aware of what a runaway success "The Show" has been, attendance is good, the bands are good and the atmosphere is one that you would find hard to match anywhere in the country.
The hard work that goes into making it a top night is so worthwhile mainly due to the people working hard behind the scenes and to the willing punters who make it to "The Show" and wig out.
At this point i would usually supply you with a little set list but every tune has been an absolute winner so i`ll mention a few just to whet your appetite.
So you wanna be a boxer--Bugsy Malone Soundtrack, wow! All we need is the splat guns to make this tune go down better than it already is.
The KLF--3am Eternal, a huge blast from the past, pulled out of the bag on the completion of myself reading Bill Drummonds 45, a top read.
The Stray Cats--Sexy+17, pre rock `n roll, post rock `n roll fucking rock `n roll.
The Knack--My Sharona, a pure punk pest of the highest order.
Bonzo Dog Band--Humanoid Boogie, leaves me speechless...massive tune.
I could go on but surely now the ball is in your court, keep being receptive and i`ll keep being held responsible for making your world a better place to be!
Lot`s of love and luck.
Jim (awaiting the summer) Doc. x
Patrick K 'Does' Amsterdam
I first went to Amsterdam in 1999, before I had moved to London and whilst I was still living in Blackpool. At the time Amsterdam made a big impression on me. I was amazed at the possibilities, mainly hedonistic that were available at a price. To me, the fact that I was in my twenties and living in a seaside provincial town I was suitably impressed.
I recently returned to Amsterdam, some 5 years later all of which had been spent in my adopted home of London. Unfortunately this time I wasn't as impressed. I found, and like everything on this site this is just one persons opinion, it rather small for a capital.
The main area flocked to by tourists I suppose is the small section that makes up the red light district. This consists of three main parallel streets with all the charm of Kings Cross filled by tourists staring blankly like rabbits in the headlights into windows offering various forms of human and animal degradation either in the form of DVD or in a far more real sense.
Unfortunately the shock value of seeing women selling themselves behind small windows in narrow streets lit by the red lights is only fleeting. Having seen it all before it unfortunately is now the norm, or at least to be more fair, it's certainly not the norm in most places, but the expected for this area. Unlike The Reapeerbahn in Hamburg the area doesn't exude the same feel of naughtiness mixed with a general element of fear. It certainly seems a lot safer than the average night out in Blackpool.
The other main selling point for most people going to Amsterdam is soft drugs and their free availability. Ok, this is good if you want this, but if you do you are probably as likely to be able to enjoy the same thing where ever you live, although not legally. Whilst the availability and the choice may not be anywhere as large the fact that you can sit somewhere and actually listen to something that you would want to, musically, has to be a huge bonus. At least for me.
It seems unfortunately that the music played in the coffee shops and bars of Amsterdam leaves a lot to be desired, mainly made up of pseudo hippy white boy smoking weed music and some bad European rock, this very quickly begins to grate. I would like to say as well to be fair we tried for two days to find an exception to the rule but failed miserably. The best areas that we found were when we got out of the red light district and walked further into town and enjoyed some of the more scenic areas where you could sit in a bar by a canal and watch the world go by, far more cultural.
Maybe that's just me getting old or my looking at it through a twatty London arrogance, your town' not as good as mine etc. But that's my opinion. If you want tat and chavs you'll love it, if you want to be scared a bit by the night out and want a form of excitement and adventure try Hamburg. If you want a great European city there are a lot more to choose from. In fact in terms of culture offering a sex museum, is anyone really interested unless in some ways it involves them? Or a hemp museum? See earlier point and even Anne Franks house was hard to find. Amsterdam - must try harder.
On the upside though there was a man walking down the street in yellow clogs and the availability to buy a ball of cheese bigger than your head, or in fact cheese clogs: - not sure if these are for eating or wearing, maybe for both if it involves long journeys, maybe on the UK train networks. But this is certainly not to be overlooked.
Apologies to Heidi and also The Harbinger for use of italics.
Patrick Kagoul Rocktober 2004
I recently returned to Amsterdam, some 5 years later all of which had been spent in my adopted home of London. Unfortunately this time I wasn't as impressed. I found, and like everything on this site this is just one persons opinion, it rather small for a capital.
The main area flocked to by tourists I suppose is the small section that makes up the red light district. This consists of three main parallel streets with all the charm of Kings Cross filled by tourists staring blankly like rabbits in the headlights into windows offering various forms of human and animal degradation either in the form of DVD or in a far more real sense.
Unfortunately the shock value of seeing women selling themselves behind small windows in narrow streets lit by the red lights is only fleeting. Having seen it all before it unfortunately is now the norm, or at least to be more fair, it's certainly not the norm in most places, but the expected for this area. Unlike The Reapeerbahn in Hamburg the area doesn't exude the same feel of naughtiness mixed with a general element of fear. It certainly seems a lot safer than the average night out in Blackpool.
The other main selling point for most people going to Amsterdam is soft drugs and their free availability. Ok, this is good if you want this, but if you do you are probably as likely to be able to enjoy the same thing where ever you live, although not legally. Whilst the availability and the choice may not be anywhere as large the fact that you can sit somewhere and actually listen to something that you would want to, musically, has to be a huge bonus. At least for me.
It seems unfortunately that the music played in the coffee shops and bars of Amsterdam leaves a lot to be desired, mainly made up of pseudo hippy white boy smoking weed music and some bad European rock, this very quickly begins to grate. I would like to say as well to be fair we tried for two days to find an exception to the rule but failed miserably. The best areas that we found were when we got out of the red light district and walked further into town and enjoyed some of the more scenic areas where you could sit in a bar by a canal and watch the world go by, far more cultural.
Maybe that's just me getting old or my looking at it through a twatty London arrogance, your town' not as good as mine etc. But that's my opinion. If you want tat and chavs you'll love it, if you want to be scared a bit by the night out and want a form of excitement and adventure try Hamburg. If you want a great European city there are a lot more to choose from. In fact in terms of culture offering a sex museum, is anyone really interested unless in some ways it involves them? Or a hemp museum? See earlier point and even Anne Franks house was hard to find. Amsterdam - must try harder.
On the upside though there was a man walking down the street in yellow clogs and the availability to buy a ball of cheese bigger than your head, or in fact cheese clogs: - not sure if these are for eating or wearing, maybe for both if it involves long journeys, maybe on the UK train networks. But this is certainly not to be overlooked.
Apologies to Heidi and also The Harbinger for use of italics.
Patrick Kagoul Rocktober 2004
The Show March 2004
Well where do I start? Usually with this phrase, yet again great bands, great music and great fun had by all. But what do you expect?
The Proles put in a fantastic set, and out of the 3 times I've had the pleasure of seeing them recently this was the best. I'm still humming 'England' now, so there's the proof, fantastic old skool indie and then turning it up a notch with a bit more rockier sound.
Monkey Nuts followed and kept up the tempo keeping everybody dancing with some of there now trademark infectious ska.
Unfortunately letting themselves down a bit off stage with some rather poor behaviour, your not diva's yet and that sort of thing won't win friends or influence people. Take note, too good a band for that.
Monkey Nuts followed and kept up the tempo keeping everybody dancing with some of there now trademark infectious ska.
Unfortunately letting themselves down a bit off stage with some rather poor behaviour, your not diva's yet and that sort of thing won't win friends or influence people. Take note, too good a band for that.
 |
| The Crowd: March |
 |
| A Prole |
 |
| Some More Proles |
The Harbinger part 1
Speed Dating
Roger Harbinger investigates the new coupling phenomenon that is
speed-dating. He sends back his report:
Gentlemen,
I have to say I was nervous. Getting back out there had been a strange
obsession for me ever since my wife blew-up, and I was feeling
under-prepared and jumpy. The idea of a date, always daunting, was
complicated by the knowledge that I would be meeting ten women tonight.
This would be more than just a clammy, edgy first date ……. This was
speed-dating!!
Speed-dating is an increasingly popular way of meeting new people.
According to the party-organiser's blurb "the new way to meet compatible
singles, make new friends, and connect".
My secretary and first wife Marjorie had her usual carte blanche in
dressing me. I had on a pastel cerise pink jumper tied in a loose knot
around my neck, dress-down corduroys and, of course, the lucky white
winkle-pickers. My attitude to fashion has always been …. stay loyal to
the 'dandy look' - on average it will be somewhere in the region of
'fashionable' every fourteen years.
I made my way to the venue. It was at the Eastern end of town, a place
full of asymmetric hair-cuts. The bar was busy downstairs, but
fortunately the upstairs room had been hired for this special event.
Offered 'grass' on entering the establishment, I was quick to hush this
man. "We've had crazy-paving since 1987," I said, almost in
commiseration, and pressed on into the bar room.
The thudding bass was an insult to the senses. Considering the amazing
ease of composition allowed (and encouraged) by modern recording
technology, consumers must be wary of the right equipment falling into
the wrong hands, I thought to myself as I mounted the stairs. It would
be a relief to get into a more conducive environment. Something
altogether softer.
When I arrived upstairs, I was given a scorecard, a pen and a badge by
Herod, the party-organizer. An entrepreneur of the first-order, he began
holding these 'connexions' parties in 2002, and now demand is so high,
he holds 4 gatherings a week. After each date the idea is to mark on the
scorecard whether or not one would like to see the lady again. It seemed
a clinical way of playing with fate, and I noticed that the pens were
not unlike the cheap stubby biros one finds in a bookmakers.
My first speed-date was with Renee, a stocky French-Canadian, with the
build of a tight-head lock and the most marvellous eyes. A wonderful
blue, like lapis lazuli. She explained that she is new to London, and
that the conveyor belt of men this venture provides is eerily similar to
a dream she used to have back home in Vancouver.
"Hendrix, I believe, spent time in Vancouver." A good opening gambit I
felt. Discover origin, find common ground. I continued, "Despite our
obvious polarity; him - purple velour flairs, unkempt afro, LSD; me -
narrow cut bespoke, side parting, Laudanum. We were firm friends in late
60's Seattle". I was rambling here and I knew it, but there was so much
I had to say to her in those three minutes. She lurched away from the
table at only one minute and forty seconds. I had to show her how much I
wanted 'us' to work "I'm intending to frequent Vancouver's nudist
beaches in search of voluptuous bisexual women this summer!! Rennee!!
Darling …." But, she was gone.
I slumped back in my chair. People were staring at me, and I was
flushed. I felt immediately that I should sit up or even stand ….. tall
like a tree. But still the staring eyes. Blank looks from the blank
generation.
But in this scenario redemption is always just round the corner, for,
here in front of me, thrusting her hand in my direction, was date number
2. "Antonia" said the name badge. "Hello Antonia" said I as I grasped
her hand and shook. "Lovely to meet you, Roger" she purred. She was
extremely tall, at least a head taller than me, with a thick mane of
treacle hair down to her waist. It was happening again. I was falling
for her. Can a man stumble from one infatuation to another so quickly?
Is speed-dating healthy!?
We were still clasping each other's hands, and I was sure I felt a small
twitch of her right ring-finger against the palm of my own hand. This
set my mind racing. And as we both sat down I began to puzzle why she
should have given me that signal.
For the uninitiated, a single twitch of the right ring-finger when
shaking hands is a classic Masonic 'check'. "Are you one of us?" she
appeared to be saying to me.
"Why mix business with pleasure?" I asked.
"I'm sorry?" replied Antonia. Her brow furrowed, but she lost none of
that breathy composure. She clearly didn't want to talk about the lodge
right now; three minutes isn't long enough, I knew. And anyway, it would
keep. We small-talked for thirty five seconds, a slalom of trivia. In
this telescoped three-minute romance though, anything is possible, I
thought.
"You are fighting a liar in my heart", nerves had sprung this
unfortunate spoonerism upon me ….."lighting a fire in my heart" I
quickly countered, but our three minutes had elapsed.
A succession of nubile things came and went. I shimmied and winked my
way through them, beginning to rather enjoy myself. There was Ania,
daughter of the Polish ambassador's naval attaché, Rita from
Sawbridgeworth, Andrea with the Mohican, elfin Janette, Roy (joined the
wrong queue - but a real sweetie, we're going to see each other again)
….. I was dizzy with it all.
Chrissie was 'girl number 10', and she passed me a note telling me all
about herself, explaining that she wouldn't be talking. Her jaw was
wired - a result of an accident she'd had while water-skiing. The note
explained that without speech she was having difficulties meeting
people. I cried when I read it, but they were tears of happiness such as
you read of in books. Speed-dating was providing a real service for this
woman, and others like her.
Antonia had been my favourite. Something about her length and sheer
masculinity had appealed to me; and I was acutely aware of the whiff of
constabulary all about her. That handshake, the Doctor Marten shoes.
Police officers, and even their daughters, are great catches. They
benefit from startlingly low insurance premiums. Something screamed at
me "Never fall for them!! Remember your first fiancée, Cecelia. You
started to like her, and it all went wrong. Since you left her in
Melbourne everything's fine. Ok, Pickles doesn't get fed so often and
the Wisteria is drooping in the hanging-baskets .... but, I mean, come
on man. THEY'RE JUST A DISTRACTION".
I chose not to recall any of the ladies. As an undercover journalist, my
remit wouldn't allow further interviews with anyone present, and I stole
away from the event, innocence intact, enriched by the experience. Home
to Marjorie, a glass of Advocaat, and 'Weatherview'.
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
Roger Harbinger investigates the new coupling phenomenon that is
speed-dating. He sends back his report:
Gentlemen,
I have to say I was nervous. Getting back out there had been a strange
obsession for me ever since my wife blew-up, and I was feeling
under-prepared and jumpy. The idea of a date, always daunting, was
complicated by the knowledge that I would be meeting ten women tonight.
This would be more than just a clammy, edgy first date ……. This was
speed-dating!!
Speed-dating is an increasingly popular way of meeting new people.
According to the party-organiser's blurb "the new way to meet compatible
singles, make new friends, and connect".
My secretary and first wife Marjorie had her usual carte blanche in
dressing me. I had on a pastel cerise pink jumper tied in a loose knot
around my neck, dress-down corduroys and, of course, the lucky white
winkle-pickers. My attitude to fashion has always been …. stay loyal to
the 'dandy look' - on average it will be somewhere in the region of
'fashionable' every fourteen years.
I made my way to the venue. It was at the Eastern end of town, a place
full of asymmetric hair-cuts. The bar was busy downstairs, but
fortunately the upstairs room had been hired for this special event.
Offered 'grass' on entering the establishment, I was quick to hush this
man. "We've had crazy-paving since 1987," I said, almost in
commiseration, and pressed on into the bar room.
The thudding bass was an insult to the senses. Considering the amazing
ease of composition allowed (and encouraged) by modern recording
technology, consumers must be wary of the right equipment falling into
the wrong hands, I thought to myself as I mounted the stairs. It would
be a relief to get into a more conducive environment. Something
altogether softer.
When I arrived upstairs, I was given a scorecard, a pen and a badge by
Herod, the party-organizer. An entrepreneur of the first-order, he began
holding these 'connexions' parties in 2002, and now demand is so high,
he holds 4 gatherings a week. After each date the idea is to mark on the
scorecard whether or not one would like to see the lady again. It seemed
a clinical way of playing with fate, and I noticed that the pens were
not unlike the cheap stubby biros one finds in a bookmakers.
My first speed-date was with Renee, a stocky French-Canadian, with the
build of a tight-head lock and the most marvellous eyes. A wonderful
blue, like lapis lazuli. She explained that she is new to London, and
that the conveyor belt of men this venture provides is eerily similar to
a dream she used to have back home in Vancouver.
"Hendrix, I believe, spent time in Vancouver." A good opening gambit I
felt. Discover origin, find common ground. I continued, "Despite our
obvious polarity; him - purple velour flairs, unkempt afro, LSD; me -
narrow cut bespoke, side parting, Laudanum. We were firm friends in late
60's Seattle". I was rambling here and I knew it, but there was so much
I had to say to her in those three minutes. She lurched away from the
table at only one minute and forty seconds. I had to show her how much I
wanted 'us' to work "I'm intending to frequent Vancouver's nudist
beaches in search of voluptuous bisexual women this summer!! Rennee!!
Darling …." But, she was gone.
I slumped back in my chair. People were staring at me, and I was
flushed. I felt immediately that I should sit up or even stand ….. tall
like a tree. But still the staring eyes. Blank looks from the blank
generation.
But in this scenario redemption is always just round the corner, for,
here in front of me, thrusting her hand in my direction, was date number
2. "Antonia" said the name badge. "Hello Antonia" said I as I grasped
her hand and shook. "Lovely to meet you, Roger" she purred. She was
extremely tall, at least a head taller than me, with a thick mane of
treacle hair down to her waist. It was happening again. I was falling
for her. Can a man stumble from one infatuation to another so quickly?
Is speed-dating healthy!?
We were still clasping each other's hands, and I was sure I felt a small
twitch of her right ring-finger against the palm of my own hand. This
set my mind racing. And as we both sat down I began to puzzle why she
should have given me that signal.
For the uninitiated, a single twitch of the right ring-finger when
shaking hands is a classic Masonic 'check'. "Are you one of us?" she
appeared to be saying to me.
"Why mix business with pleasure?" I asked.
"I'm sorry?" replied Antonia. Her brow furrowed, but she lost none of
that breathy composure. She clearly didn't want to talk about the lodge
right now; three minutes isn't long enough, I knew. And anyway, it would
keep. We small-talked for thirty five seconds, a slalom of trivia. In
this telescoped three-minute romance though, anything is possible, I
thought.
"You are fighting a liar in my heart", nerves had sprung this
unfortunate spoonerism upon me ….."lighting a fire in my heart" I
quickly countered, but our three minutes had elapsed.
A succession of nubile things came and went. I shimmied and winked my
way through them, beginning to rather enjoy myself. There was Ania,
daughter of the Polish ambassador's naval attaché, Rita from
Sawbridgeworth, Andrea with the Mohican, elfin Janette, Roy (joined the
wrong queue - but a real sweetie, we're going to see each other again)
….. I was dizzy with it all.
Chrissie was 'girl number 10', and she passed me a note telling me all
about herself, explaining that she wouldn't be talking. Her jaw was
wired - a result of an accident she'd had while water-skiing. The note
explained that without speech she was having difficulties meeting
people. I cried when I read it, but they were tears of happiness such as
you read of in books. Speed-dating was providing a real service for this
woman, and others like her.
Antonia had been my favourite. Something about her length and sheer
masculinity had appealed to me; and I was acutely aware of the whiff of
constabulary all about her. That handshake, the Doctor Marten shoes.
Police officers, and even their daughters, are great catches. They
benefit from startlingly low insurance premiums. Something screamed at
me "Never fall for them!! Remember your first fiancée, Cecelia. You
started to like her, and it all went wrong. Since you left her in
Melbourne everything's fine. Ok, Pickles doesn't get fed so often and
the Wisteria is drooping in the hanging-baskets .... but, I mean, come
on man. THEY'RE JUST A DISTRACTION".
I chose not to recall any of the ladies. As an undercover journalist, my
remit wouldn't allow further interviews with anyone present, and I stole
away from the event, innocence intact, enriched by the experience. Home
to Marjorie, a glass of Advocaat, and 'Weatherview'.
Roger J Harbinger QC Bar (retd.)
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