Planetjord.

I've got a show starting up on Radiowave next week. It'll be a world music show in the most literal sense– a different week, a different country and its music. I'll have Stuart The Crank in with me most weeks to provide his own twisted and hilarious take on the sounds and tales of the world. The prospect of sourcing the material for these shows is an exciting one, as this is very much an experiment: I vaguely know how it's going to begin and I have no idea how or where it's going to end.

You can listen to the show here, on Thursday afternoons from 4-5.

The opening show sees us jumping the stream into the exotic climes of France, where Serge may or may not kick things off.

Bestival

I finally scanned in some photos from this legendary weekend in September. Blessed with amazing weather, a boat, the word "please", an annoying sword and the mighty Kraftwerk, it was an unforgettable three days on the Isle of Wight.

There are some more photos here.

Light at its best

Thank you, UVA & Massive Attack.

R.I.P

Billie Jean live in Trafalgar.

I will be the first to agree the Michael Jackson had in fact died many years ago. And so, there was a man who had already stepped into his lunar shoes. Hops told me that this wasn't a chance meeting, and he's performing to Trafalgar Square most days, this one happening to be a very hot one in June - a great day for moonwalking in leather.

For a one man band he had his work cut out, but the crowd was inevitably there. I just wonder if he's still there, or if he's been propelled to stardom in the wake of his mentors public passing.

Yannis & Julian

Sitting around by the river, Munster.

Munster

Swimming the dog.

Guy Fawkes

Fawkes, weakened by his torture, was the last to climb the ladder to the gallows, from which he jumped, breaking his neck in the fall and thus avoiding the latter part of his execution.

Brothers

In the Ems, Westphalia.

Falmouth

I approve.

Mindy of Tullarmarine

A bit mental - she had that thing on for life as she was unable to beat the addiction of messing with a skin infection.

Opera House

Oysters.

In the Garden

Me just before leaving for home on the bike and Julian cutting the grass in style.

The Kordts Lake

Stunning morning dips.

Mulhiem

Punks occupy a disused factory for a night of live acts - along with a severely good atmosphere.

Family Camping

I joined Julian; his dad Ludger; his son Phillip and a group of childhood friends for a bit of camping next to a river in a forest. A very impressive rope swing was built, a huge eel was caught and a lot of good beer got drunk. I carved my name in the same tree that Ludger had made a mark on about thirty years ago with his first girlfriend, and then I found a tree with a hunters watchtower on it - a great place to have a drink and a think.

Beer Pong

A night of beer pong in the dusty old barn, aided by the kind scotch flavoured donations of Margit, Julians step mother. That stuff is wrong.

Hello

This has been out of action for some time - before I went to Munsterland it seems. Anyway, as I'm emigrating down to Falmouth for study at the end of the week I probably won't see you ever again so I may aim to continue this as a visual diary, and maybe even a place to put up some moving images.

My laptop is well and truly buggered and I'm still wondering how on earth I will get my photos and words out of it - most importantly the photos and words covering my summer in Germany and briefly The Netherlands and Belgium. I did take a trusty disposable over there though...

Kordt Reunion.

I'm heading across to Amsterdam tomorrow to be greeted by Julian and friends - at long last I can stare at the Prozzies in the window and see the Van Gogh sequence that apparently moved my father to tears. Then to the Rhineland with the punks!

African Tapes

I just came across this beauty, Awesome Tapes From Africa - a Brooklyn based blog that has gone about sourcing a constant catalogue of African music, uploaded from tape. Whilst I was out there a few summers ago I had a hard time finding any decent stuff that wasn't either a shoddy CD rip or buried beneath Celine Dion. I guess I wasn't looking in the right places, and it's annoying that I've only got my hands on the stuff whilst sitting in my pants in Surrey with a laptop, but there you go. The latest entry happens to include some old Accra based highlife which among other things, happily reminds me of Al Hasan - the giver of drums, um bongo and dangerous motorbike rides.

Awesome Tapes Of Africa

Guilfest

The beautiful Guilfest went down once again over the weekend, though 2009 was a rather different affair in the sense that I would be up all night, supposedly not under the influence, actually getting paid. Yes - a free ticket, a wage, and a 12 hour shift ending no earlier than nine in the morning. To be perfectly honest, these shifts would not have been possible without the power talking; granary eating Jack Davis - I got him on board in the nick of time and it was a life saver, rarely would I be without a distinguished insomniac known for his stupidly loud and endless talking. We spent our nights in the company a walkie talkie, a chair or two, a pair of fluro tabards, and of course the wide eyed, red nosed Cabbio - a wanderer who we took in on many, many occasions.

Our inhumane shifts meant that a great amount of music wasn't going to be seen, but we managed to catch Brian Wilson in the rain. Absolutely brilliant, Brian Wilson, in Guildford, in the rain. He still sounds amazing, and what a staggering collection of hand movements - could there be an act more perfectly suited to our towns festival?....Our incredibly bizarre festival experience came to an end at some point during Monday afternoon, when myself, Jack and our toxic assistant almost simultaneously collapsed into a sleep deprived, cider poisoned coma at the lovely old White House, quite simply the best job ever.

Michael Jackson Forever.

The King of pop music - Michael Jackson, destroyed by the King of pop culture - the people.

29/08/58 - 24/06/09

Mini Skirts

The old Bristolian responsible for this garment was quick to passionately shout out the remainder his filthy catchphrase as I regurgitated it in hysterics. Ten points for not giving a fuck though.

The British Dental Industry.

Is no more, apparently, thank god for that. Bateup did - a clip on Marks blog confirms.

Horray for route canals.

Hector lost in deep space.

Another forgotten, sodden and perhaps cancerous empty space of Surrey. In Slyfield there were chef trousers for the taking, Byfleet had wood. This one? Odd photos, everywhere.

St Vaast

A nostalgic overnight channel crossing in Cohort saw us reach the charming and time trapped fishing town of St Vaast in Normandy for the Saturday market. Amazing seafood followed, along with a sighing of an old fashioned performing clown who, from what I could see, had been adopted by a group of Italians and their holiday spending money. Mr Clown was last seen taking a lonely ride on the town merry-go-round to a chorus of rapturous cheers and camera phone flashes.

Like I remember from my childhood, these cut off northern french towns always seem to play host to a teenage scooter gang or two. I was once to be intimidated by their dockside skidding antics but this time I stood firm, until I saw the gang that had once tormented me in my younger days had grown up and now ride the mean Peugeot animal pictured above. You cannot escape the St Vaast wheelie collective.

Notting Hill

Dalston

The rape fields.

Bristol