Welcome to SimonTalksRubbish! Monday 11.37am 25/9/2006
This past weekend myself and Chelsea, Anna's friend from uni, formed a performance art troupe called Pepper N' Eggs, a sort of offshoot from the Hack N' Paste Erotica unbrella which was formed by Anna and me in Cannes. We took a Pop Idol boom box and microphone to the streets and subway trains and buses of Williamsburg, dressed up in wife beater vests, chaps, circus trousers and Floridian cocktail shawls, sharing sexual innuendoes, drunken warbling and reading excerpts from Charlotte Bronte's 'Villette' with the general public. New heights of debauchery were accomplished. The following is an email from Eileen in Chicago who is coming to stay with me soon, can't wait!
"hey fuckface- i just bought my tix-arriving fri oct 6th @6p-sun oct8-@1p into la guardia. i'm pretty pumped. keep me posted! luv, your mom ps-i'll shove some heroin up my ass so we can get high" Tuesday 2.00pm 19/9/2006
Highlights so far have been as follows: numerous rooftop parties in Williamsburg and East Manhattan, a church converted into a club for the once a month Rubulad event, a crazy concert inside a circus tent on a pier on the lower east side featuring vaudeville punk band The World/Inferno Friendship Society, champagne breakfasts at the vegetarian bar/restaurant over the road from my current abode, catching up with Chris over pitchers of Bud for $7 and free hamburgers. Oh yes and Playgirl is a hoot. Today I got to choose my favourite sex story reader submissions (there are hundreds) to go in the mag, my pick being about a cheating housewife in the bayou who seduces a studly black cop "he looked like a big chocolate bar wrapped in blue paper", 'Body Heat' eat your heart out! Also got to review Justin Timberlake's new album but for the most part had to sift through dodgy reader submitted photos for the back pages, the worst of a disgusting bunch coming from a transgendered couple in Kentucky. Leggings and dildos abound. Yuck!
Friday 12.28pm 15/9/2006
Arriving in NYC with a suitcase with no wheels (they fell off) was a royal fucking pain. Thankfully I had a place to stay for the night so I made my way directly to Adam's place (who I studied with in Paris) in the upper west side before going to a rooftop party and getting absolutely bladdered. Yesterday I slept for ages, killing off the jetlag, and now I am staying for a week at Anna's place (who I did the Troma parades with in Cannes) down in the east village. Today Im going to pop by the troma headquarters to say hello before meeting the editor of Playgirl to discuss my internship. Oh yes, and all my film from Japan is ruined. One got chewed up and the other ended up in the washing machine. FUCK!
Monday 2.19am 11/9/2006 So here I am at 2am bashing away on a keyboard to get everything in to Disorder on time as Im kinda late on the deadlines what with intensive frolicking. My train leaves for Narita airport in four hours and still I havent anything packed, or had any shut eye. Last night was quite a surreal experience. I decided to give a copy of Disorder to a lady at Shinjuku station who looked like she could do with some English literature in this crazy country. I was about to get the last train back to Lee's place when she hit upon the idea that she be my 'fairy gothmother' for the night. Turns out her name is Claire and she is from Sheffield, and we soon hooked up with her American friends Missi and Nate. Despite being dressed to unimpress as your worst S Club Junior impostor, in tight-fitting green shirt with a glimmering hologram of a big goofy frog on it, I thought it would be quite an exciting holly jolly to have a dance with some Japanese goths. The whole whizz was organized by Brain Scan Laboratory, and the event was called Junk Baptism, featuring the band Despair who are supposedly the big cheese in these kinds of music circles. I really enjoyed the DJ's though, 666Fox (pictured), Margath Orgia and the really charming Taiki (Claire seemed to know them all and introduced me to them, lovely people) mashed up some heavy industrial sounds all going very hardcore for a short while before cooling off with a smattering of trance and euphoria towards the end. I've not heard anything quite like it and we all danced our socks off till 6am. The Chu-hai and some weird drink which contains something illegal outside of Japan may have helped. So yes, a fitting way to end my gallavant around this bizarre city. Maybe I'll come back sooner than I thought.
Saturday 1.49pm 9/9/2006
The week has been manic. Went down to the city of Shizuoka on Wednesday to stay with the Dark Lord and his terrific girlfriend Masayo. Spent an absolutely ridiculous amount of time drinking far too much booze, the whole night turning into a whirlwind of a bar crawl, I honestly cannot remember half the places we went to. The feisty Masayo ensured James and I were thoroughly trollied by the end of the night by sticking us in a karaoke booth for two hours with unlimited gin! The following night we enjoyed a nice variety of horror movies with Asahi and Chu-Hai peach beer for company. And no guys, the Dark Lord has not changed, he is still his same sober self, except now has culled back on the previous prejudices he had against singing like a prat. Since returning to Tokyo I have made repeated trips with Lee to the 100 Yen Daiso Plaza in Machida, five floors of items all priced at a princely 50p. Crap purchases galore I tell you. Oh yes, and I have been savouring more weird cuisine, such as cow's tongue, chicken cartilage and the McDonald's Teri Yaki burger, although we won't go inquiring as to what was in that.
Tuesday 11.12pm 5/9/2006
What better way to celebrate one's birthday than to get stuck out in a mountainside ghost town after missing the last train home? Nikko is a workaday coach stop sort of place that is nestled in a picturesque valley under the looming Mt. Nantai. A bit like 'Dante's Peak' but without the cheesy locals and melting grandma. So it was here that I enjoyed the start of my 24th year. It was dinner for one as I cosied myself down by the creek next to the youth hostel with a box of sushi and a four pack of Asahi. The experience, of course, was ruined by marauding ants the size of Maltesers and a posse of dragonflies, an insect we should really stop moaning about the lack of back in England. Pretty, but a real pain in the arse. The following morning I trekked up the hill to see the beautiful temples and shrines, the Taiyuin-Byo being the best by far. This, however, was overlooked by the other visitors, lured by the bling of the Tosho-Gu (wow, it has a pagoda, big deal). I also stopped by the 'sacred stable' where I was lucky enough to catch the 'sacred horse' on his lunch break. Took a pic on my 'sacred camera' (from Argos). Posed for some naff photographs by the famous 'Hear no Evil, See no Evil, Speak no Evil' engravings. Passed on the two quid fee to see the 'Nemuri Neko' (sleeping cat) because it looked crap, plus I'm not going to let myself get ripped off by a glorified mog. Quaffed from a chozuya fountain which apparently you're not supposed to do, even if you're incredibly thirsty and there are no vending machines about. If you are the spiritual kind with profound affiliations with Ying Yang waffle, the type who gets all dewy eyed over peach incense, then maybe you might glean some sort of euphoric significance from all this guff. Alas for me it will serve only to spruce up the photo album. Perhaps they should have sign posted more things in English, because I couldn't understand a bloody thing.
Sunday 23.07pm 3/9/2006
Well lots of really crazy things have been happening since my last post, but I really don't have the time or the energy to describe too much of it. Most importantly of all, I am now a Godfather! Roberta's new baby girl, which I think she is going to call Alana (and hopefully not Aina, we both agreed that this sounds too much like 'anus' but I don't think she has ruled it out just yet), is going to be showered with gifts, walks to the park, short stories and Smarties by yours truly. Well if you'll believe that you must be very silly indeed. What is great though is that Roberta asked me this right after she squealed how much I reeked of alcohol when I went slithering into Millets last Friday after a night on the razz. Anyhoo, apart from that excellent news, I am now in Tokyo, isnt that amazing!? Lee and his lovely girlfriend Makiko are taking great care of me. They live in the pleasant suburb of Shin-Yurigoaka, Tokyo's equivalent of Surbiton. I'm telling you, coming here will take ten years off of you. Just walking around and trying to absorb everything which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever as if you were an incredibly stupid, retarded tortoise. When I arrived I thought the safest bet to fill an empty tummy would be to march into the nearest Maccy D's and order a McChicken Sandwich meal. Somewhere along the line there was a misunderstanding and I came out with three hamburgers, three fries and three Fantas. Being typically British I said nothing of the gaffe and made a quick escape. Being typically American I ate the whole lot. Since then Ive been doing some hard drinking with Lee and his work buddies. Don't remember much. Can't wait to see the photographs.
Thursday 23.02pm 24/8/2006
This week has consisted mostly of a lot of shifts at Eurostar, going to see the terrific 'Snakes on a Plane' with Henrietta in Hammersmith (you can read my review here!), haggling over an interview with Robert Englund aka Freddy Krueger (finally succeeded today) and pretty much going nuts over my flight to Tokyo next Wednesday. As for next month in NYC, so many opportunities have popped up thanks to my friends out there that I'm baffled as to what to go for. I could be a waiter in a sushi restaurant, a barman in a punk/rock club, an intern at Playgirl magazine or a production assistant on Helen Hunt's (the geologist with the big spam in 'Twister') new movie. All a bit crazy, and yet more is to come, but I don't want to jinx anything by committing just yet. We will just have to wait and see.
Sunday 1.22pm 20/8/2006
This weekend has been spent indulging in Beneluxury with Ronnie. Eurostarring it first class (blagged, naturally) to Brussels on Thursday morning, we drank plenty of Hoegaarden purely on principle because it is very cheap there. Bought some Tin Tin paraphernalia, ate waffles and saw the Manneken Pis. Next up was a visit to see Bonnie in Maastricht (pictured), who had been doing an internship in an artist's squat aka the legendary Landbouwbelang factory, home to Demotech. Got very stoned indeed. The town is nice enough, full of expensive shops and tall people with Tango tans and mullets. Bought a DVD starring Penelope Ann Miller and Bon Jovi for two euros, utter crap, but Penny is in 'The Relic', therefore validating the purchase. Friday night was spent in the company of Stef in the pretty Belgian city of Namur. Drank lots of beer in a nice alcove bar under the glowing citadel. After a few too many beers Ronnie felt the need to hush several conversations by making any jokey connection she could to King Leopold and the Congo. We then all chowed down on some very disturbing kebabs. Next day got utterly screwy-eyed on complimentary Johnnie Walkers in the Eurostar business lounge, before drinking a silly amount of yet more free drink on the train. Despite having a free weekend/backstage pass offer from Pippa for the V festival, I turned it down to join Maria and her chums in Clapham that night for her leaving do. She is off to Manchester, forever apparently. Another Kent Uni pal bites the dust :(
Wednesday 23.09pm 16/8/2006
WARNING: MEGA RANT ALERT
The Isle of Wight's socio-geographic structure is very much inverse to that of the rest of England. The capital, Newport, is glum, culturally stagnant, and bursting with chavs. The coastline, however, is speckled with some of the most disgracefully insular toffee-nosed communities this side of The O.C. It wasn't always like this, but that is what it is now, and none of my previous visits have confirmed this with such certainty as today's, it being the 75th Anniversary of that hallowed seaside snob magnet, The Seaview Yacht Club.
My grandmother often complains of this town's decline into Chelsea tractor hinterland, and never before have we tutted in such precise and aggressive unison. Let me begin with last night. I arrived off the catamaran and went straight to the pub with my cousin Richard. The subtle beauty of an evening by the sea, such as the gentle slapping of waves against the rocks under a glittering full moon, was not to be found here. Instead we had a public-school twat in a fedora sporting an appalling attempt at designer stubble, accompanied by some sort of 'nu-hick' folk band, belting out that Docklands i-pod classic, Maroon 5's 'This Love' with all the rythmic conviction of a scratched 'Onka's Big Mocha' LP (if such a thing deserved to exist). The place was teeming with braying Olivias, trying their damndest to strike a convincing balance (and failing miserably) between the self-deprecating, utterly faux allusion to royal significance of Zara Phillips, and the tousled, care-free sass of Joss Stone. Then there were all the Ollys and Tobys and Harrys, stupid cunts in rugger shirts uhm'ing and ah'ing over unlit cigarettes and warm pints. It was all a bit like sitting amongst the cast of 'Jaws 2' wishing that the events of the movie were in fact about to happen, the irritating actors the actual characters in the script.
This afteroon was the yacht club's kid diving competition, and a flotilla of motor boats (nobody here can actually sail) packed with rich kids gathered around the slipway to hoot and hooray at this stupid gaggle of kow-towed six year-olds in Petit Bateau trunks flopping pathetically off a diving board five centimetres above water. All this under the gin-blurred eyes of over-zealous mums and dads, muttering to each other from up on the club balcony how fat and ugly the other children are. Thankfully, one chubby sap was a tad eager in his running jump, and broke the board. Gran and I took our leave.
Saturday 4.32pm 12/8/2006
At last! My first summer in London has finally ceased its swelter. The gloom and chill has returned, accompanied by the familiar billows of raw steam coursing down Putney High Street (Flames Kebab House) and puddles packed with floating cigarette butts. London has re-morphed back to its original state. Unfortunately, this has meant the teenage chavs who gut the neighbouring council estate have now relocated their night time skullduggery back into the relative warmth of our stairwell. I don't mind the occasional tirade barked from behind tightly screwed up hoodies. Sometimes they are a treat to behold. When sober, they are mostly unoriginal and so 1995 "oi, batty boi!", but when they manage to muster up the energy to string together a sentence under the thick fog of crap hashish, they can spout some real humdingers, such as "sort out 'dem shiddy rip fuck jeans, dey look lahk ah skirt!" or "get back in da big bruvvah house, innit!". Every week the coppers drag them away, and every other they come crawling back. Poor fucks. On Friday night I went to see old school pal Paul's band Ulterior with Julia (whose latest bite of news is just too outrageous to deserve spoiling on here) at On the Rocks, a muggy little showroom-cum-sweatbox in Shoreditch. From the gist of things it sounds as though they are on the verge of greatness, but then so is everything around Hoxton these days, just as things were ten years ago, as if almost every name, artist, band, group, collective is forever on the brink of something exquisite, yet they all end up disappearing between the pages of iD, never to be heard of again. The only people that would have the foggiest idea what it was all about in ten years time from now would be the magazine and PR puppets who seem to populate these kinds of places with a sober and suspiciously whimsical relish. In fact you could imagine that this club would be the type of place Patrick Bateman would frequent, just because it would be so easy to bang one of these 'chicks'. In any case, a storming set was performed, but alas I had to leave early due to work engagements.
Thursday 15.37pm 10/8/2006
Apparently there's all these bomb alerts going about what with some Qu'uran-wielding popinjays taking ethnic cleansing into their own hands, without success thankfully. Tomorrow I'm on at 5.30am at Eurostar, should be fun.
Sunday 10.34pm 6/8/2006
Last night the Eurostar gang went out for a meal at a Turkish restaurant. Mental note for future reference: never eat mousakka before a night out on the lash. Things came to a head at Eve and Olivier's rooftop house-warming, where the Turkish delight and a can of Stella did not mix well. Got rather tired of all the beer and beef mulch I was having to tote around inside a bloated belly, and was a bit of a whingeing killjoy as a result. Still, t'was a good night out and it was nice to venture out into Elephant & Castle without getting mugged. A few days ago I visited Isa in her studio atop Gipsy Hill, a fascinating little cubby hole stacked to the rafters with old Boney M LP's. We have decided to go to Paris in a fortnight to film a little horror movie starring ourselves. Mwahaha.
Wednesday 11.36pm 2/8/2006 Just two more weeks until 'Snakes on a Plane'! Henrietta sent me a text this morning proposing that we book our seats in advance (well, duh) and of course this will be the summer blockbuster we've all been waiting for. What with 'Stormbreaker' proving to be a pile of unbelievably rubbish shite, expectations are, naturally, as low as they were previously.
This week has been rather mediocre. Yes there was considerable drinking, but I was not in the best of company. Met some old acquaintances who, thanks to some questionable beginnings in careers such as consultancy and politics, have had their characters soured as a result. In short, City jobs rendered them very uncouth.
Anyhoo, can I just say that Britain should wake up and see that Big Brother's Pete is clearly exploiting his disability (Tourette's Syndrome) to spruce up his diary room visits, with the all too frequent screech of 'wanker' and 'meow', which is very distasteful. Let's have some support for Susie, who lends a much needed touch of big bosomed class to the Big Brother house! A fine woman who has no chance of winning whatsoever. These friendly serpents (above) are for you, my dear.
Thursday 7.05pm 27/7/2006
Last night I finally got to see Ronnie sing. The venue was the DFID (Department for International Development) bar, an old working men's club type place with orange swirly carpet and tiny slat windows. Drinks were cheap (�2.30 doubles) and the air foggy with sweat and fag fumes. Ronnie's Parliament pals were there, including prize plonker Matthew who is such a socially inept manor-born moron that within thirty seconds of sitting with Ron's mum he started a conversation topic with "I mean, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not racist or anything..." Anyway, there was some excellent crooning to be had and Ronnie has a beautiful voice, one I haven't heard in the six years I've known her until now. Afterwards we all stumbled to that magnet of sin, O'Neill's in Leicester Square. Luckily I found a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels in the gutter outside, so there was no need to purchase booze once inside. Ron's mum didn't look too impressed, but had a few sips regardless. Fell asleep on the night bus again. Must stop doing that. Now, what has come to my attention recently is the alarming increase in mobile postboxes around Wandsworth. I am talking, of course, about women in burqa's, and it is just getting out of hand. Especially what with all this heat it just pains me to think how sweaty and awful it must be under those veils, they must look like shrivelled up prunes when they peel off at home. I was standing next to one in Oxfam the other day and she was practically leaving a snail trail about the place. Why can't we ban these oppressive bin liners?
Tuesday 3.15pm 25/7/2006
The bottle of wine that Youssouf rather kindly gave me last week looked far too tantalising to be left on it's own any longer last night, so I stupidly glugged the whole lot before hitting the Roxy with Alex and Kerstin to see Taylor's DJ outfit 'The Cassette Pets'. Next thing I know Im kicked off the nightbus at 4am in what eventually, after much confused stumbling about the place, turned out to be fucking Fulwell. This beats previous records of waking up in Strawberry Hill and Kingston as being the furthest away from home I've ended up after a night on the sauce. Now I am off to a yoga class before going to see 'Strombreaker' with Henrietta, a civilised day of leisure at last.
Friday 11.03pm 21/7/2006 Good News! Threats of police action bore fruit at last, the package of books has been returned! Albeit tarnished with a suspicious gelatious smear across the bottom which I can only assume is mayonnaise, but at least none of this made it between the pages. That would be rather worrying. But then I hardly think a kitchen sink kiddie-shitter would want to masturbate over a book about buckling and swash. You never know I suppose.
That annoying posho rock-a-noodle Johnny Borrell was on the telly tonight, strutting his stuff to Razorlight's pretty unoriginal new single. He obviously picked the wrong night to steal a show, because Big Brother's Nikki was there, not doing anything of note, but her presence commanded the cheers and gaze of the entire audience. Nice try, Johnny!
Oh yes, so the screening of the Dogme film 'Gypo' was a real success, I loved it. Rula Lenska's gravelly croon sent shivers down my spine, and the whole thing was set in lovely Thanet. How I pine for those Canterbury days of yore!Tuesday 3.48pm 18/7/2006
Yet more annoyance today. Amazon have sent my books on piracy and Haiti to number 24 for me to collect, as I wasn't in to answer the door. Problem is the inhabitant of 24 is an alcoholic divorcee with about ten children who I have never seen leave the flat. The door only creaks open on a blue moon when rubbish is chucked out. I have tried and tried and it is just no use, she will never answer the door. I want those books back. I couldn't give two shits how mentally unstable that pitiful, gin-sodden Camille is, they're my bloody books and I'll break and enter if I have to. Other news: Tonight I am going to a preview screening of England's first Dogme effort! It stars Rula Lenska! Why is this so exciting? Answers to follow...
Monday 0.09am 17/7/2006
Oof. Clearly, having my bag pinched has led me to drown my sorrows at being such a carefree dunderhead - in chardonnay. But in any case, there is one good thing about not having any access to cash hidden away behind cancelled Visa cards. You have plenty of time to indulge in the library of shite that is YouTube. What with Sunday being a holy day and all that, it's only right to knuckle down and invest one's thoughts in what really matters, to think of those things we rarely find time for, like all those more unfortunate than us, that relative who died yonks ago, all that gory stuff you see on the news, and... Bucks Fizz music videos, Power Rangers clips, trailers for Friday the 13th movies and Paris Hilton's new single! Seriously, go to YouTube and indulge, you won't regret it!
Sunday 9.50pm 16/6/2006
A most confusing weekend has just passed. It all began on Friday night during a drinking session with Taylor at The Archers pub in Aldgate. You could say it all went tits-up around the fourth whisky. Distraught at the news that Nikki was evicted from the Big Brother house, I left my satchel unattended to dedicate a Nikki-themed tribute to the tune of a Rachel Stevens/Alice Cooper medley on the karaeoke box. Meanwhile a thief nicked my bag. Which had my passport in it. Saturday's trip to Paris with Kerstin and Anna was duly cancelled, along with my credit cards. The following day a man called Hussain from a corner shop in Haggerston got in touch to say the bag had been handed in, albeit considerably lighter. Nevertheless, hurrah! I promptly put the Paris trip back into action. Despite this, many problems arose, one being that Hussain barely spoke a word of English and it took fucking ages to find him. No matter, we all missed the last Eurostar to Paris anyway, and crawled tearfully to the NFT to soak up beer, white wine and a bottle of Cava. A few hours later and we were in the Bethnal Green Working Men's Club doing the charleston to fifties jive, off our heads. Ended up scoffing omelette with Bex at Lynnie's place before crashing out. So there you have it, an utterly unplanned weekend that actually, after starting off rather crap, was quite joyous. And what was stolen from my bag you wonder? A Frank Delaney book I was five pages away from finishing, a DVD of John Waters' 'Cry Baby', a memory card and camera containing all my photographs from the set of 'Poultrygeist', four euros, a �5 Marks and Spencers voucher and a bullet keyring I bought at Ypres ten years ago. But what really grinds my gears is that the curmudgeonly voleur will, quite frankly, never grasp the cultural value and significance of these items. What a waste!
Saturday 8.37pm 8/7/2006 Last night was Alex's birthday, and lots of booze was chugged in and around the Soho area. Had a dreadful night's sleep at Lynnie's, a lady reared with no respect for etiquette or even the most basic of hostess skills. Lying curled up half naked with a copy of Heat magazine for a pillow beside the host's occupied bed is not how one treats their guest. But then Big Brother's Nikki was on the cover of aforementioned 'pillow', so that's alright, then. Today I did a few hours cover at Millets and got to hang out with Roberta again which was rather nice, and for some odd reason she has become pregnant. She also dropped a comment that the sprog-in-waiting will refer to me as 'Uncle Simon', which was deeply distressing. Yet ultimately this was of no concern, as the enormous pustule on her forehead that took five minutes to burst was the talk of the day, the contents squirting all over the changing room mirror. You had to be there. As for tonight, I am staying in. A bottle of 1euro wine and a plate of muck, topped off with one hour of Big Brother (and guaranteed Nikki-gurning) and some Family Guy to pass out to.
Thursday 2.55pm 6/7/2006
At long last I have cleared out my back catalogue of accumulated literature after finally having read them all. Out goes the Lawrence Block collection, those dusty old Poirot's and the Lovecraft omnibus. 'The Amethysts' took yonks to get through, I don't know what all the fuss is about with that one. Screw Orlando Bloom, now I can feast my pies on some bonafide swashbuckling to get me through the summer swelter, with Tim Powers' 'On Stranger Tides', a book I have been itching to get my mitts on for the past year. Then there is a travelogue on the perilous paradise that is Haiti in 'Bonjour Blanc' by Ian Thomson. How excellent it would be to live life as a pirate on the Caribbean! Of course, there would be all that scurvy and starvation and smallpox and leprosy and stuff, but still!
Wednesday 1.39am 5/7/2006
A bit slack on the blog updates recently. You can blame my internet service provider, who packed up shop and vanished down the shitter. But on to more pressing matters. It has been a year since the London bombs, and the UK's media has clubbed together to harp on about the 18% of muslims who think the 7/7 dynamite jockstrap brigade were martyrs. Add to this a whole lot of hoo-ha about Friday's one minute silence 'in memoriam'. I mean come on, let's put things in perspective here. At least we're not wasting away, making do with our own stomach lining fora Sunday lunch, having our neighbourhoods ploughed into the sand or being blown to smithereens at the beach like the tens of thousands of unfortunate folk in Niger, Zimbabwe and the Gaza strip. We're safer here than we could ever be anywhere else. It's time to stop whingeing and fretting over our own self-importance. Fuck the newspapers and the scare-mongering. Death, murder and suffering is everwhere. It always has been and always shall be. We are all immortal. Get with it, get used to it, get over it.
