But they ain't no smiles.
Monday 29 December 2008
Sunday 28 December 2008
If you want a trailer load, Ring.
A few weeks ago I walked about five miles down this road and all I saw was advertisement after advertisement.
Christmas, sun, sunburn etc.
Growing up in England you are made to believe Christmas is about the 0.03 % chance it's going to snow, shocking TV, family, and shocking TV. I have absolutely no problem with that, it's the 25th of December that I know and love, it just meant this years festivities could not have been more different.
Waking up in your Dads ex-wifes place is odd sure, so is a morning swim at Bondi. Being surrounded by hundreds of swimmers on the big day is definately not normal for a person conditioned to seeing nobody but family and close friends. I'm still undecided about this, but I have to say if I was going to swim again on Christmas day it would have to be at a slightly quieter location. The River Wey Anyone?
The afternoon gave way to a routine I could get used to rather more easily. Beer, food, rooftop, champagne, beer, food, beer, rooftop, food, wine, champagne, food, rooftop. Oh and sun, loads of sun. In fact the only difference from the norm was the sun. And I like sun.
The evening went that little bit further and all I'm going to say is that when I should have been watching Braveheart or playing Cranium I was in fact dancing to some god awful trance with a group of very happy, loving individuals who were on the whole twice my age or more. An enlightening experience, but maybe next year I'll be more up for drizzle and Beethoven like the good old days. Below is a picture of my two favourite Australians and a chihuahua, and the only other ex-pat on the roof. Is that what five Christmas's in Australia does to us lot?
Waking up in your Dads ex-wifes place is odd sure, so is a morning swim at Bondi. Being surrounded by hundreds of swimmers on the big day is definately not normal for a person conditioned to seeing nobody but family and close friends. I'm still undecided about this, but I have to say if I was going to swim again on Christmas day it would have to be at a slightly quieter location. The River Wey Anyone?
The afternoon gave way to a routine I could get used to rather more easily. Beer, food, rooftop, champagne, beer, food, beer, rooftop, food, wine, champagne, food, rooftop. Oh and sun, loads of sun. In fact the only difference from the norm was the sun. And I like sun.
The evening went that little bit further and all I'm going to say is that when I should have been watching Braveheart or playing Cranium I was in fact dancing to some god awful trance with a group of very happy, loving individuals who were on the whole twice my age or more. An enlightening experience, but maybe next year I'll be more up for drizzle and Beethoven like the good old days. Below is a picture of my two favourite Australians and a chihuahua, and the only other ex-pat on the roof. Is that what five Christmas's in Australia does to us lot?
Jim Jim Farm
In mid December I got a job working on a two hundred and fifty acre acre property in central rural Victoria for just under two weeks. A large bed and home cooked meals in a family home was just what the doctor ordered. I'd like to make it clear that I am now at a professional level when it comes to planting trees and mowing lawns, however as Hilary gladly pointed out with regards to my wall filling - "I'll never be a painter".
On the last night I went out and raided the strawberry patch, they were very good but it's humanely impossible that they didn't find out as I completely ruined the state of the nets covering them and gave up trying to fix it. I probably earnt a few strawberries though.
The last photo was taken at a magic moment, sat on a hill overlooking a group of kangaroos and the most clear rainbow I've ever seen. The photo doesn't do it justice, mainly because you notice the barbed wire fence before anything else. Click it! And yes, that is Robert De Niro. He's a country man now.
An actual update.
I have failed to update this with any useful information since the 11th December, this is rather shit. In my defense, my laptop charger overheated and consequently melted – locking all my wordings and photos inside of it. I’ve since learnt that technology is not to be trusted, even if it is one of those really amazing Apple computers that never crashes or breaks down or anything. So, I’m back to basics with an NHS biro I nicked off my mum and a notebook I think I may have also nicked off my mum.
Since Ze Great Ocean Road, and a hot, face swelled few days in the quite unexceptional Adelaide I swiftly jumped on a bus back to Melbourne over night. It has to be said there is something disconcerting about taking your time over eight days to travel from one city to another, only to do the return journey overnight, but Adelaide really wasn’t THAT great.
Once back in Melbourne I came to the following conclusions:
1. I am a pauper.
2. Christmas is soon.
3. Adelaide really is shit.
Between then and now I’ve worked at a farm property in Rural Victoria, stayed out in Melbourne suburbs with a local family and crashed in Fitzroy where I decided every single hostel should have hammocks instead of beds- No creaking, no tweaking, and no leaking.
I flew to Sydney on the 24th, and the following forty eight hours were very, very strange. It was always going to be odd being in Sydney for Christmas as someone who’d spent the last twenty Christmas days indoors with close family, a fire place and The Snowman on the TV. However nothing prepared me for the day itself, more to follow.
The above will be further documented when I see it fit, and I’ve got the photos organised, but be assured I’m turning over a new leaf and will be updating this far more from now onwards…
Since Ze Great Ocean Road, and a hot, face swelled few days in the quite unexceptional Adelaide I swiftly jumped on a bus back to Melbourne over night. It has to be said there is something disconcerting about taking your time over eight days to travel from one city to another, only to do the return journey overnight, but Adelaide really wasn’t THAT great.
Once back in Melbourne I came to the following conclusions:
1. I am a pauper.
2. Christmas is soon.
3. Adelaide really is shit.
Between then and now I’ve worked at a farm property in Rural Victoria, stayed out in Melbourne suburbs with a local family and crashed in Fitzroy where I decided every single hostel should have hammocks instead of beds- No creaking, no tweaking, and no leaking.
I flew to Sydney on the 24th, and the following forty eight hours were very, very strange. It was always going to be odd being in Sydney for Christmas as someone who’d spent the last twenty Christmas days indoors with close family, a fire place and The Snowman on the TV. However nothing prepared me for the day itself, more to follow.
The above will be further documented when I see it fit, and I’ve got the photos organised, but be assured I’m turning over a new leaf and will be updating this far more from now onwards…
Thursday 11 December 2008
De Schoene Ocean Strasse.
The last couple of weeks have seen me out of the cyber loop as I've been van bound for 1000 kilometres on the road from Melbourne, along the Great Ocean Road, through The Grampians and on into Southern Australia towards Adelaide. The trip was as bizarre as it's going to get when you're crammed in an Ozzy Osbourne tour van with three Germans, tinsel, party hats and a Christmas Cd taken from the front of a magazine. You know you're not at home when you're listening to "I'm Driving Home For Christmas" whilst watching endless desert, hearing a German cover version over the top and smelling your cool box fail. Sleeping on remote rocky beaches, in eucalyptus forests with koalas, on cliff tops with the most beautiful sunsets and in rain forests with messy schoolies- every night was a spectacle in it's own right.
It has to be the last day of our journey though, that was the most ridiculously out of place. In trying to find a beach for the night we drove through the rural South Australian town of Meningie where all the main streets were closed for no apparent reason. Before long we realised what we had stumbled upon, the annual Meningie Christmas parade. You can't fault them for trying, but as Europeans we found it difficult to take the thing seriously. The parade was made up of a series of hatchbacks with balloons attached, the towns ambulance draped in tinsel, an orchestra on a trailer, the wags of Meningie in their Santa frocks, about twenty kids on motorbikes and a few advertisement vehicles dragging through the twenty nine degree heat for about fifty metres. To be fair, to belittle this whilst one of the Spice Girls is probably turning on the lights back home seems harsh.
The Parade did pick up to as we decided to join it in our Ozzy van, party hats on, Christmas CD booming. It was a fine line between us completely taking the piss, but because I don't think many of Meningies population know who Ozzy Osbourne is, it went down a treat. A few hours earlier I was coming to terms with the fact that this year was never going to really feel like Christmas, but after serenading a group of festive farts from the window I could feel that seasonal spirit again.
Merry Christmas!
It has to be the last day of our journey though, that was the most ridiculously out of place. In trying to find a beach for the night we drove through the rural South Australian town of Meningie where all the main streets were closed for no apparent reason. Before long we realised what we had stumbled upon, the annual Meningie Christmas parade. You can't fault them for trying, but as Europeans we found it difficult to take the thing seriously. The parade was made up of a series of hatchbacks with balloons attached, the towns ambulance draped in tinsel, an orchestra on a trailer, the wags of Meningie in their Santa frocks, about twenty kids on motorbikes and a few advertisement vehicles dragging through the twenty nine degree heat for about fifty metres. To be fair, to belittle this whilst one of the Spice Girls is probably turning on the lights back home seems harsh.
The Parade did pick up to as we decided to join it in our Ozzy van, party hats on, Christmas CD booming. It was a fine line between us completely taking the piss, but because I don't think many of Meningies population know who Ozzy Osbourne is, it went down a treat. A few hours earlier I was coming to terms with the fact that this year was never going to really feel like Christmas, but after serenading a group of festive farts from the window I could feel that seasonal spirit again.
Merry Christmas!
Koala.
I woke up a few metres from this incredible thing a few days ago. I don't think I've ever been so in so much awe of an animal, they look like they should be in Star Wars or something. He wasn't eating chicken nuggets this time round...
Thursday 4 December 2008
Smoking is bad for you.
The Australian health authority have their heads screwed on when it comes to visual communication if you ask me.
Thursday 27 November 2008
Ridiculous scenario number 12244.
If you have the chance to get silly with a German punk, one of those guys that dedicates their life purely to the opposite sex and wears waistcoats, and a "racist fighting man" from the Victorian bush then I'd advise you to go for it. At times the tension is terrifying, but the "what the fuck?" rewards are golden.
Monday 24 November 2008
Remember these little bad boys?
Nerds.
I think the British government banned them when it was decided they were a gateway drug for young children. They are still sold down under, and they still mess with your brain!
Sunday 23 November 2008
The night train to Melbourne, it's long.
If I was sensible then I’d have said my goodbyes at a good hour and got an early one, honouring my intention of getting a seat on the quarter to eight train to Melbourne. I am however, not sensible. Despite setting my alarm, waking up just never really happened for me and my phone was glaring 10.45 at me by the time I began to consider where I was, and where I should have been. So that was that, no rush, the train had left, three hours ago no less. I should have been speeding towards Victoria, staring out at the apparently stunning bush of southern New South Wales. In fact I was speeding my way to the shitter, staring out at the positively not stunning.
As the previous hours began making their way back to me I became a little bit more at ease with the situation. When you accidentally adopt a guy who found (or lost) “inner peace” in India, has infinite cocaine related anecdotes AND harbors a business plan directed at giving pornography in his own words “a sensual and spiritual makeover” inevitably, funny things do happen. The night was ridiculous and therefore perhaps at least partly worthy of its consequence, but I was still by now hundreds of miles from where I was supposed to be.
After considering a cheap flight down to Melbourne, I ended up with a seat on the night train after learning it would come at no extra cost after validation. A few moments later, something struck me. The only reason for catching a train as opposed to flying was to take in an Australian landscape that I hadn’t yet seen. A night train, as in a train that travels at night when it’s dark outside, great. A train fare is one hundred and twenty dollars, and a flight is seventy. A train takes twelve hours, and a flight takes less than two. Who or what catches this train? Me apparently. I figured that the train would be taking people to the towns along the way that were otherwise unreachable, but to see the trip out to Melbourne just seemed ludicrous. The decision was reached that I would be traveling with said town people, those who are afraid of flying and total fruitcakes.
In preparation for my restless journey south I spent the day moaning to others about my predicament and combating the pains in my head. I eventually found my appetite and learned my second lesson of the day - burritos and tacos are not the same thing. A few days beforehand I had the joys of decent Mexican food made known to me, and thought to go back for seconds. I was told to pick up “ten” with the knowledge that there was four of us eating. It wasn’t till I got back with the probably slightly heavy goods that I realised my mass error. Ten tacos was the idea, ten burritos was the outcome. I could barely manage one, but there were more than a couple of meaty friends to take with me on the journey at least.
Struggling with my burrito, I realised I should have been at the station fifteen minutes ago. I’d had all day to reflect on my stupidity in missing the train, and now it was probably going to happen again. With eight minutes to go, I decided to explain the situation to my taxi driver. With first-rate aggression, passion and stupidity the guy transformed himself into what I had come to expect from taxi drivers in Sydney - a complete fucking nut job. (So many of them are pinging their heads off on speed) Screaming at me, himself and most of Sydney, he couldn’t believe I hadn’t told him sooner. “You little fool, now we have a problem!” I was in silence as we cut up the road over and over again. Nearing the station we hit traffic so I paid and thanked what I’m going to say is perhaps the best taxi driver in existence. What followed was a textbook Home Alone. Negotiating the token Chinese tourist expedition, the business types and the by and large in-my-way general public I had caught sight of the train, and “validating” my ticket was never going to happen. The next ten or fifteen seconds is honestly an emotional blur but somehow, I appeared to be on a train. That shouldn’t have happened, but there I was.
As expected the train was more or less empty, I was riding with three others, the first being an Aussie townsman who didn't do a great deal. He just snored, missed his stop, woke up in Melbourne, went a bit mental, and got back on the train. I would have gone a bit mental but then again he shouldn’t have been snoring. The next of my companions was an elderly Hispanic gentleman who was rarely audible, but it didn’t stop him ripping the piss out of me when I told him why I was on the train. He was a non-flyer, so I told him that the joke was on him, as he’d have to keep making these ridiculous journeys if he wanted to get anywhere. To that, he chose not to understand and dropped dead, into a sleep.
The third and final one of my crazy train fellows was surely the best. A living embodiment of that lunatic cat woman from The Simpsons, an actual lunatic cat woman. She had in tow seven cats of assorted colours, sizes and noises, all of whom she assured me, she loved very dearly. “They come everywhere with me, they love these train journeys.” I nodded and asked her why she was taking this horrible train. She muttered something about the “bastard airports” and told me she felt safer with her beloved friends by her side. If you asked the cats the same question I’d find it hard to believe they would give the same answer. With every sentence the woman got madder and madder, and this climaxed when after feeding her children with cat food, she proceeded in feeding her self with the same stuff. Enough was enough and it was time to shut my eyes, I did somehow manage to get a few hours despite the odd confused meow and before I knew I was waking up to Melbourne.
As the previous hours began making their way back to me I became a little bit more at ease with the situation. When you accidentally adopt a guy who found (or lost) “inner peace” in India, has infinite cocaine related anecdotes AND harbors a business plan directed at giving pornography in his own words “a sensual and spiritual makeover” inevitably, funny things do happen. The night was ridiculous and therefore perhaps at least partly worthy of its consequence, but I was still by now hundreds of miles from where I was supposed to be.
After considering a cheap flight down to Melbourne, I ended up with a seat on the night train after learning it would come at no extra cost after validation. A few moments later, something struck me. The only reason for catching a train as opposed to flying was to take in an Australian landscape that I hadn’t yet seen. A night train, as in a train that travels at night when it’s dark outside, great. A train fare is one hundred and twenty dollars, and a flight is seventy. A train takes twelve hours, and a flight takes less than two. Who or what catches this train? Me apparently. I figured that the train would be taking people to the towns along the way that were otherwise unreachable, but to see the trip out to Melbourne just seemed ludicrous. The decision was reached that I would be traveling with said town people, those who are afraid of flying and total fruitcakes.
In preparation for my restless journey south I spent the day moaning to others about my predicament and combating the pains in my head. I eventually found my appetite and learned my second lesson of the day - burritos and tacos are not the same thing. A few days beforehand I had the joys of decent Mexican food made known to me, and thought to go back for seconds. I was told to pick up “ten” with the knowledge that there was four of us eating. It wasn’t till I got back with the probably slightly heavy goods that I realised my mass error. Ten tacos was the idea, ten burritos was the outcome. I could barely manage one, but there were more than a couple of meaty friends to take with me on the journey at least.
Struggling with my burrito, I realised I should have been at the station fifteen minutes ago. I’d had all day to reflect on my stupidity in missing the train, and now it was probably going to happen again. With eight minutes to go, I decided to explain the situation to my taxi driver. With first-rate aggression, passion and stupidity the guy transformed himself into what I had come to expect from taxi drivers in Sydney - a complete fucking nut job. (So many of them are pinging their heads off on speed) Screaming at me, himself and most of Sydney, he couldn’t believe I hadn’t told him sooner. “You little fool, now we have a problem!” I was in silence as we cut up the road over and over again. Nearing the station we hit traffic so I paid and thanked what I’m going to say is perhaps the best taxi driver in existence. What followed was a textbook Home Alone. Negotiating the token Chinese tourist expedition, the business types and the by and large in-my-way general public I had caught sight of the train, and “validating” my ticket was never going to happen. The next ten or fifteen seconds is honestly an emotional blur but somehow, I appeared to be on a train. That shouldn’t have happened, but there I was.
As expected the train was more or less empty, I was riding with three others, the first being an Aussie townsman who didn't do a great deal. He just snored, missed his stop, woke up in Melbourne, went a bit mental, and got back on the train. I would have gone a bit mental but then again he shouldn’t have been snoring. The next of my companions was an elderly Hispanic gentleman who was rarely audible, but it didn’t stop him ripping the piss out of me when I told him why I was on the train. He was a non-flyer, so I told him that the joke was on him, as he’d have to keep making these ridiculous journeys if he wanted to get anywhere. To that, he chose not to understand and dropped dead, into a sleep.
The third and final one of my crazy train fellows was surely the best. A living embodiment of that lunatic cat woman from The Simpsons, an actual lunatic cat woman. She had in tow seven cats of assorted colours, sizes and noises, all of whom she assured me, she loved very dearly. “They come everywhere with me, they love these train journeys.” I nodded and asked her why she was taking this horrible train. She muttered something about the “bastard airports” and told me she felt safer with her beloved friends by her side. If you asked the cats the same question I’d find it hard to believe they would give the same answer. With every sentence the woman got madder and madder, and this climaxed when after feeding her children with cat food, she proceeded in feeding her self with the same stuff. Enough was enough and it was time to shut my eyes, I did somehow manage to get a few hours despite the odd confused meow and before I knew I was waking up to Melbourne.
Thursday 20 November 2008
Monday 17 November 2008
Emiliana Torrini at the Metro Theatre
An adoring crowd soaked up Emiliana Torrinis unique brand of heartfelt and incredibly fun folk pop tonight at the Metro Theatre in Sydney. Torrinis sugar sweet voice and tight band, coupled with a series of hugely entertaining anecdotes made the show a true spectacle. It all got a bit much for a girl in the first few rows who in fact fainted midway through the sublime Gun. Needless to say, Rough Trades cutsie Icelandic Londoner stopped, got the girl up on her giddy feet and had her escorted to safety.
I never wanted to be a music critic so I'll leave it at that, and only urge you to do the right thing and have a listen.
http://www.emilianatorrini.com/
http://www.myspace.com/emilianatorrini
Sunday 16 November 2008
Sydney
After five days, I still cant put a finger on what makes Sydney Sydney. My Aussie virginity was softly eased from me just five days ago so to start slinging around observations purely relevant to this city would be wrong. That said, one thing is clear. Never have I been in a city of such huge diversity and scale, and felt so unbelievably laid back. You could put it down to the sun, but it's been cloudy. You could put it down to Rolf Harris, but he isn't welcome here anymore.
It'll take some more traveling to work out what is unique to Sydney in terms of character. But, as an introduction to the country that I could never quite picture city-wise at least, it couldn't be more accommodating in it's power to relax. It would be a horrifically disrespectful crime to conclude that this melancholy atmosphere is merely down to "what happens when you combine Britain with the sun". I'm one hundred percent sure there is so much more to it than that and uncovering this inexplainable calm is going to be a great journey I know.
Melbourne is imminent and it'll be interesting when I can start picking up on qualities and quirks local to the city alone, not the country.
Photos/stories/general updates are slow, because I'm generally out and about. That said, please check back regularly for some Hong Kong chunks and stories more specific to down under.
It'll take some more traveling to work out what is unique to Sydney in terms of character. But, as an introduction to the country that I could never quite picture city-wise at least, it couldn't be more accommodating in it's power to relax. It would be a horrifically disrespectful crime to conclude that this melancholy atmosphere is merely down to "what happens when you combine Britain with the sun". I'm one hundred percent sure there is so much more to it than that and uncovering this inexplainable calm is going to be a great journey I know.
Melbourne is imminent and it'll be interesting when I can start picking up on qualities and quirks local to the city alone, not the country.
Photos/stories/general updates are slow, because I'm generally out and about. That said, please check back regularly for some Hong Kong chunks and stories more specific to down under.
Thursday 13 November 2008
The Rabbit Man.
It's fine, because this guy doesn't just have really good hair. He also tortured, mutilated, and sexually assaulted seventeen rabbits and a guinea pig.
Dark.
Wednesday 12 November 2008
....I found a plug socket behind an airport bin.
Hot Pot could well be the best thing I've ever eaten.
A huge bowl of boiling soup sits in the middle of the table. You are then continually brought as much food as you can stomach for you to cook to your own taste in the soup. The beef and mushrooms in particular were off the scale. Eating in Hong Kong is about as brilliantly communal as it's ever going to get and this is a prime example.
Long live Hot Pot.
Flight cancellation = prime nause.
Hong Kong is an amazingly crazy place, more on that when I'm cotching in Sydney. In other news I've lost my wash bag for a perhaps record breaking third time in seven days, so any toothbrush, toothpaste, soap or razor donations are more than welcome.
I'm currently listening to a rather non plussed old American man shouting at a most probably innocent receptionist.
"What kinda god damn airplane port is this anyway?"
Yes, he said airplane port.
Hong Kong, I'll be back.
I'm currently listening to a rather non plussed old American man shouting at a most probably innocent receptionist.
"What kinda god damn airplane port is this anyway?"
Yes, he said airplane port.
Hong Kong, I'll be back.
Sunday 9 November 2008
Unicycle hockey practice.
On Fridays at ten, a handful of people old and young meet at the Jordan YMCA roller rink in Kowloon, Hong Kong. What brings them together? Their shared passion for uni-cycling, and playing hockey.....at the same time. If you've ever tried to ride a unicycle, you'll have some kind of idea of how utterly ridiculous this persuit is. If you havn't then give it a go, in two hours of falling and sweating, three metres was a personal best for me.
The rules are pretty much the same as ice hockey, and they play with ice hockey sticks too as it happens. Martin Turner, a key head and fellow ex-pat tells me that the sport does by no means just exist in Honk Kong, it's worldwide. The best teams are in Europe, particularly in Germany and Switzerland where they actually have leagues set up. This has to be one of the most bizarre sights of the sporting world, I can't think of much else that comes close.
Less than twenty four hours after getting off the plane I certainly didn't expect to be clinging to the side of a roller rink, dripping with sweat trying to manuveur a one wheeled bike whilst having a 9 year old cantonese girl firing tennis balls at me for a laugh.
The rules are pretty much the same as ice hockey, and they play with ice hockey sticks too as it happens. Martin Turner, a key head and fellow ex-pat tells me that the sport does by no means just exist in Honk Kong, it's worldwide. The best teams are in Europe, particularly in Germany and Switzerland where they actually have leagues set up. This has to be one of the most bizarre sights of the sporting world, I can't think of much else that comes close.
Less than twenty four hours after getting off the plane I certainly didn't expect to be clinging to the side of a roller rink, dripping with sweat trying to manuveur a one wheeled bike whilst having a 9 year old cantonese girl firing tennis balls at me for a laugh.
Thursday 6 November 2008
香港
I'm currently lying in what is most definitely an oriental sized bed, trying to temp my body into some sleep with a 6 pack of Tsing Tao beer. Hong Kong is great. It is also sweaty. I've had a little walk around -visiting Kennedy Road where I lived for a little while as a kid. A little bit of nostalgia is always good, especially after fourteen years and 5980 miles apart.
Walking through Victoria Park earlier at around ten I found myself face to face with a man who can't have been a year under eighty practicing T'ai Chi alone in a dark corner. He caught me having a stare and majestically turned his back on me, although I don't know what his problem was - it's not as if it's meant to keep you fit is it?
Early morning is the time to witness the people of Hong Kong and their relationship with T'ai Chi at its finest, so with any luck these Tsing Tao's will start to kick in.
Walking through Victoria Park earlier at around ten I found myself face to face with a man who can't have been a year under eighty practicing T'ai Chi alone in a dark corner. He caught me having a stare and majestically turned his back on me, although I don't know what his problem was - it's not as if it's meant to keep you fit is it?
Early morning is the time to witness the people of Hong Kong and their relationship with T'ai Chi at its finest, so with any luck these Tsing Tao's will start to kick in.
Tuesday 4 November 2008
Monday 3 November 2008
Tonights dinner.
This morning, as I was having a cup of tea at the bottom of my garden, I spotted this fat Rainbow Trout. I downed the tea, ran inside to fetch a landing net from the attic and returned to the river bank. On the first attempt the fish escaped but I kept my eye on it and waded across to the other side where I made this beast mine. Sainsburys are going on about being able to feed your family for a fiver, how does nothing sound?
Friday 31 October 2008
We've all heard it before, but there really has never been a better time to support your local.
Bens Collectors Records is a serious gem.
Tucked away just off the high street in Guildford, I've become pretty attached to this place over the last few months. It's everything a record shop should be - friendly, ever changing and diverse.
When you walk around Guildford it's almost impossible to find independent stops still in business and it makes you realize what a special place Bens is. Independent record shops are disappearing thick and fast, losing out to the obvious high street music chain. But still, after 17 years, Ben's is open and better than ever. The range of music on sale is phenomenal, I cant remember ever leaving without a smile on my face.
I've been talking to Ben a bit over the last few weeks and he's been letting on that bills are sometimes hard to pay, making what he's doing even more remarkable. The value is incredible. Endless vinyl is waiting to be found for as little as a pound, and the Cd's on sale are also massively cheap. It's amazing that he's prepared to offer music so cheaply to people and put himself on the line in doing so. Ultimately, he's doing what he truly loves and that really is all that matters to him, so everyone's a winner.
Today I got myself a couple of collectable Bowie twelves for under a fiver, and for all the skateboarders out there - if you hurry you might still get your hands on this:
Shops like this need all the support they can get and when you consider the warmth, knowledge and fun Bens Collectors Records offers, there really shouldn't be anywhere else to buy your music from in Guildford and beyond.
Ben's Collectors Records
5 Tunsgate
Guildford
Surrey
GU1 4BT
Phone: 01483 301165
E-Mail: ben@bensrecords.com
Tucked away just off the high street in Guildford, I've become pretty attached to this place over the last few months. It's everything a record shop should be - friendly, ever changing and diverse.
When you walk around Guildford it's almost impossible to find independent stops still in business and it makes you realize what a special place Bens is. Independent record shops are disappearing thick and fast, losing out to the obvious high street music chain. But still, after 17 years, Ben's is open and better than ever. The range of music on sale is phenomenal, I cant remember ever leaving without a smile on my face.
I've been talking to Ben a bit over the last few weeks and he's been letting on that bills are sometimes hard to pay, making what he's doing even more remarkable. The value is incredible. Endless vinyl is waiting to be found for as little as a pound, and the Cd's on sale are also massively cheap. It's amazing that he's prepared to offer music so cheaply to people and put himself on the line in doing so. Ultimately, he's doing what he truly loves and that really is all that matters to him, so everyone's a winner.
Today I got myself a couple of collectable Bowie twelves for under a fiver, and for all the skateboarders out there - if you hurry you might still get your hands on this:
Shops like this need all the support they can get and when you consider the warmth, knowledge and fun Bens Collectors Records offers, there really shouldn't be anywhere else to buy your music from in Guildford and beyond.
Ben's Collectors Records
5 Tunsgate
Guildford
Surrey
GU1 4BT
Phone: 01483 301165
E-Mail: ben@bensrecords.com
Thursday 30 October 2008
HELLO
I have decided to start blogging proper.
Next week I'm off to Hong Kong and then I'll be heading down under, I guess this will be a way for me let people know what i'm up to and if i'm still breathing.
It's a bit drab on this page I know, but hopefully soon I can decorate it with some interesting photos and tales.
In the run-in to my winter voyage i've been working in a number of pretty nuts jobs through an agency. Last night I worked in a Sweet factory! No, I never knew Guildford had a sweet industry either, but there you go. Putting labels on boxes isn't amazingly fun, but every 10 minutes or so I go for a wonder and help myself to a gobstopper or a mini egg.
Every job has its perks...
Next week I'm off to Hong Kong and then I'll be heading down under, I guess this will be a way for me let people know what i'm up to and if i'm still breathing.
It's a bit drab on this page I know, but hopefully soon I can decorate it with some interesting photos and tales.
In the run-in to my winter voyage i've been working in a number of pretty nuts jobs through an agency. Last night I worked in a Sweet factory! No, I never knew Guildford had a sweet industry either, but there you go. Putting labels on boxes isn't amazingly fun, but every 10 minutes or so I go for a wonder and help myself to a gobstopper or a mini egg.
Every job has its perks...
Monday 20 October 2008
Sunday 19 October 2008
Born everywhere, raised in Britain.
A child from virtually every country on the planet shares their views on growing up in Britain.
Caroline Irbys new article in The Guardian - "Home from home".
Good stuff.
Tuesday 14 October 2008
Sunday 12 October 2008
Friday 10 October 2008
Monday 6 October 2008
The Zoo
"We're animals. We're born like every other mammal and we live our whole lives around disguised animal thoughts."
BARBARA KINGSOLVER, Mammals
Monday 29 September 2008
Yashica
I found an old roll of film in a box.
These were taken on a well used but amazingly healthy 1972 Yashica my Dad gave me. This must have been in two thousand and three of four. The kickflip was insane, Sam is sick.
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