ROBERT SMITHS TEARS

BOUND FOR "THE ARSE-END OF THE WORLD"

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 23 Dec 2012 06:09:00 +0000

Farewell to Old England forever
Farewell to my old pals as well
Farewell to the well known Old Bailee
Where I once used to be such a swell
Where I once used to be such a swell.

Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ay,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay.

There's the captain as is our commandeer,
There's bo'sun and all the ship's crew
There's first and the second class passengers,
Knows what we poor convicts goes through
Knows what we poor convicts goes through.

Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ay,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay.

'Taint leaving Old England we cares about,
'Taint 'cos we mispells wot we knows
But becos all we light finger'd gentry
Hop's around with a log on our toes.
Hop's around with a log on our toes.

Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ay,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay.

Oh had I the wings of a turtle-dove,
I'd soar on my pinions so high,
Slap bang to the arms of my Polly love,
And in her sweet presence I'd die
And in her sweet presence I'd die.

Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ay,
Singing too-rall, li-oo-rall, li-ad-di-ty
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay
Oh we are bound for Botany Bay.

Now all my young Dookies and Duchesses,
Take warning from what I've to say,
Mind all is your own as you touch-es-es,
Or you'll find us in Botany Bay,
Or you'll find us in Botany Bay.

POLPO..SOHO...UH HUH...OH YEAH

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 23:58:00 +0000

A time honoured, old faithful London wheeze has always been to Wander Down Olde Soho Towne on a weeknight and get metaphorically battered (...and on this night...literally) with your supercool mates. Theres always a white haawwt no-reservation speakeasy or charcuterie bar just opened, more than likely rocking a postindustrialvintagehipsterchic vibe and the ubiquitous moody lighting.

I love the Venetian bacaro Polpo on Beak St, tucked away in the same rickety building in which Venetian painter Canaletto used to reside. Get in! It ain't no Colony Club but its the next best thing.

COCAINE KATE

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 23:11:00 +0000

Hot Dang!!! Got about a hundred posts to catch up on before my imminent departure from this green and pleasant land. Lets start with Miss Moss...disdainfully referred to as Kate Moist by the Highgate intelligentsia who suspect she lowers the tone - having the gall to impose her sordid rock n roll presence on one Samuel Taylor Coleridge's rickety old mansion.

I was first seduced by Miss Moss's entrancing features via Corinne Day's low-fi fashion photography in a 1990 issue of seminal style publication The Face. The cut glass cheekbones, dreamy wide-set eyes, pneumatic poutastic lips exposing a wonky vampire grin and heroin chic styling were a revelation after the boring glamorous razzamattazz perfection of the '80s.

Corinne Day's photographic style helped put La Moss on the map and signalled the beginnings of what would evolve into the riotous epoch known as Cool Britannia, soundtracked by Britpop, diseased by Tony Blair. These images appeared last year in a small show at Mayfair's Gimpel Fils Gallery celebrating Day's iconic and innovative photographic style. Day sadly died of a brain tumour aged 48.

The later images of old Mossy were honest and brave, graphically depicting a real woman looking every one of her 38 years. These enormous close-up shots were especially notable in our image-obsessed world, increasingly relying on the artificiality of Photoshop to make YOU feel insecure so you will BUY MORE SHIT. Don't believe the bullshit peeps. Even Kate Moist has crows feet. And don't they look charming.

OXFORD

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Tue, 09 Oct 2012 23:23:00 +0000

Montague Withnail: Laissez-moi respirer longtemps, longtemps, l'odeur de tes cheveux!
Ahhh, Baudelaire. Brings back such memories of Oxford! Ooohh, Oxford!!

I: [Voice-over] Followed by yet another anecdote about his sensitive crimes in a punt with a chap called Norman, who had red hair and a book of poetry stained with the butter drips from crumpets.

So much mythology surrounds Oxford, from the whimsical mutterings of Montague Withnail to Evelyn Waugh's glorious betwixt-the-wars tome Brideshead Revisited. Battling my way this summer through the multitude of international students and goggle-eyed tourists, I was lucky enough to spend one (admittedly draughty) night in the halls of the impressive Magdalen College (above).

Magdalen remains one of the wealthiest and most traditional of Oxford colleges, where black tie is still worn in the great hall for dinner and each student retains the services of their own personal tutor for the duration of their scholarship. Alumni includes the likes of Oscar Wilde and Louis Theroux as well as the doppelganger of *a certain notorious child killer who shall remain namelss for fear of a defamation suit* (just Google it, he looks exactly like him) and equally evil current Tory Chancellor George Osborne. Just jokes Georgie, old chap. No need to sue, I'm afraid I've not got thruppence to spare what with all your austerity measures, you privileged ponce.

George....love's young dream?

The perfectly manicured quadrangles of Magdalen college were spectacular, as was the ancient stone architecture punctuated by medieval gargoyles and decaying golden archways (below). The easel randomly perched among the shadows seemed to just appear oasis-like in the middle of a production designer's wet dream. Whatsmore, the fine high-ceilinged room I kipped in (where students of Osborne and Wilde's ilk presumably 'slummed it') was at least four times the square footage of my entire London flat. Oh George! Why has thou forsaken me?

The infamous open-topped tourist buses pootle about Oxford's impressive town centre, the great unwashed masses admiring all the history, tradition and privilege they could never experience on a ticket they can barely afford. Not that we're bitter George.

The sweetest irony of all had to be seeing these right-on political posters (below) once so integral to the student experience in that antiquated pre-social networking fairytale world of yore. Presumably its all Tory Totty facebook groups these days, along with Spencer and Charles' real-time mad ketamine bender tweets. I mean...Marxism 2012!! George must really be tittering about that one.

THERES NAE ROLLS...IN BURNISTOUN

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Wed, 26 Sep 2012 20:31:00 +0000

Th' final series ay hysterics-inducin' buckin' stoat Glaswegian comedy program Burnistoun cam tae a sad end lest week. Th' genius 'at is th' Rabbie Florence an' Iain Connell partnership has gain it oan a high, thes bein' th' final series ay th' shaw. Fin' a mucker whose willing tae nip one aff fur ye an' watch these clips!

PETER GABRIEL

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 22 Sep 2012 02:22:00 +0000

'So' is still a great album. I love these pictures from his tender misspent youth. He originally wanted Dolly Parton to do vocals on Don't Give Up. Luckily he wasn't famous enough for her to agree. If he wasn't such a well behaved public school boy to leave Genesis to look after his wife and baby we would never have heard the genius that is baldie tax exile power drummer Phil Collins rockin' the mic. You can't hurry love Phil. But you can fax the divorce papers.

ARE YOU LOCAL?

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 23:15:00 +0000

FELL ASLEEP ON THE TRAIN, WOUND UP IN BLOODY NEASDEN

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Mon, 27 Aug 2012 12:28:00 +0000

Being a certified (and certifiable) anglophile, Pete Townshend's magnum opus Quadrophenia is one of my favourite films. I was excited to discover the actual greasy spoon featured in the film where mod anti-hero Jimmy eats with his rockabilly nemesis played by the one and only Ray Winstone was only a short walk across Murder Park from my 'Big, Brilliantly Candyass' (AKA the British Buggery Corporation) west London office.

So I retired to A. Cooke's famous Pie n Mash Caff on the Goldhawk Road in Shepherd's Bush one rainy afternoon with my assistant (he of the 'Buff Ting' fame) to sample their wares and lounge resplendent in some proper filmic history. Check out my homeboy posing below. I made him do it. You can tell by his pathetically insincere smile.

Anyway, said assistant (lets call him Virgil) and I sampled the classic English fayre of pie'n'mash, not a world away from that other classic English standby and my personal meal of choice, meat'n'two veg.

Said fayre was common or garden variety caff style...a greasy, meaty confection with a perfect sphere of delicious creamy mash all drowned in watery mint sauce and accompanied by a serving a thick mushy peas. You wouldn't want to eat it every day but its just the ticket on a rainy afternoon in Shepherds Bush as you debate the pros and cons of TOWIE vs Made In Chelsea.

The old timer sitting behind Virgil was typical of the proper salt of the earth English regulars in for their midweek scran, and the dinner ladies brooked no nonsense whatsoever at the order counter let me tell you. The cafe recently successfully fought a compulsory purchase planning application to have the premises destroyed as part of a proposed 200-flat development. Suck on that, The Man! Read more about A Cooke's noble fight against the nasty slumlords here.

Just look at Virgil wishing he was anywhere but here, being made to pose like a tit under threat of imminent sacking. Nice oilskin jacket Virgil, ebay's finest, natch.

BATTLE

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 26 Aug 2012 21:55:00 +0000

The final destination in my triumvirate of delightful East Sussexness was the quaint village of Battle. Keane fans will of course recognise the above lanes name checked on Strangeland, the album Mr Tim Rice-Oxley titled after reading Tracey Emin's biography of the same name detailing her formative years growing up in the decaying seaside town of Margate. Word around the campfire suggests Mr Rice-Oxley senior was the local doctor in the village of Battle, now retired and no doubt living in English countryside splendour.

Battle itself was a stereotypically lovely English village, lined with pretty shops, friendly local people and idiosyncratic little scarecrow-installations celebrating British Olympic pride along the high street (below). When the sunny days seem to last forever in the summertime, a place like Battle, surrounded by incredible ancient architecture and the beautiful rolling hills of the South Downs really is one of the most idyllic places on earth. Virginia Woolf, Rudyard Kipling and Jane Austen to name a few have all resided in or written of the area's intoxicating ambience.

The main attraction in Battle and the village's namesake is of course it's famous 1066 battle grounds. Duke William of Normandy came, saw and conquered King Harold's English army on 14th October 1066 on these grounds, the Anglo-Saxons already spent, though victorious after defeating the Norwegian Viking invaders oop north near York.

Wandering the fertile green battle fields, soundtracked by an audio guide I would normally forego, I became utterly entranced by the emotive tales of the gargantuan clash between the Norman and Anglo Saxon armies. After several hours of intensive battle axe, crossbow, chainmail and shield combat in which Harold's army had initially maintained the upper hand with their shield wall, William eventually emerged the victor, Harold reputedly being felled by an arrow to the eye. What truly struck me as amazing was the fact that the actual sovereigns themselves were on the ground fighting - engaged in a physical battle which could only end in the actual death of both themselves and their empires. Can't imagine Prince Charles doing the same.

The wonderful Battle Abbey (below) dominates the village, built by William of Normandy as penance for the wanton destruction his army waged on the battlefield. Its ancient relics have historically constituted both monastic buildings and private residences and Keane played a few Strangeland tunes in the abbey which you can see here.

No jaunt to a village like Battle would be complete without a visit to the local tea rooms and The Pilgrim's Rest opposite the Abbey did not disappoint. Housed in a Grade II listed building, the restaurant encapsulated the typical English tea room experience, with ancient, rural timber architecture, an enormous central fireplace and beautiful historic fittings and furniture. The bespoke ice cream parlour in a rickety back room proved a real treat in the languid afternoon haze, as did the atmospheric front garden, overflowing with fragrant English roses and large succulent bumble bees. As they say with heroin, if the lord made anything greater, he kept it for himself.

BEAUTIFUL, BORING BEXHILL

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 19:13:00 +0000

Just west from Hastings, past rolling farm land and pastel beach huts along pebbled English Channel shores lies the sleepy seaside resort of Bexhill. It ain't half sleepy Mum. Positively geriatric to be honest, but I mean that in the nicest possible way...in fact the town is renowned as a lovely place in which our unappreciated forebears can see out their autumn years in peace.

There was something almost creepy in the air down in Bexhill, no doubt encouraged by the bruised skies littered with menacing clouds. It is a lovely, lovely place to photograph however, its desolate stillness an art director's dream.

I can't deny my pilgrimage to Bexhill was in part based on seeking out the dreamy East Sussex places mythologised on Keane's Strangeland album. The 1935 De La Warr Pavilion (above) features in the record's art work, and the Sovereign Light Cafe, pictured below is the title of the album's lead single. Incredible how a number 1 album can be inspired from such seemingly dreary landscapes. Steven Patrick Morrissey said it best when it comes to evoking the essential Britishness of these desolate seafront views. Everyday is like Sunday. Everyday is silent and grey...

HASTINGS, EAST SUSSEX, OLDE ALBION

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 22 Jul 2012 11:17:00 +0000

Poor old Hastings. It has such a reputation for chavvism, drugs and benefit culture, not to mention an intangible weirdness about the place that no one (from London) can ever seem to properly articulate. True - its remote location, trundling transport links (just beyond a 'reasonable' commute to London) and cheapish property mean that a percentage of the population remain an unemployable blight on the landscape. The historic seafaring charm of Hastings remains evident in some parts however, especially in the Old Town and along the glorious aqua seafront past St Leonards heading west towards Bexhill. So its off I go to the edge of the English Channel as soon as this rumoured redundancy kicks in and its an artist's life for me...well for about 6 months or until I turn into Old Gregg.

"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford."

— Samuel Johnson

"Why, Lady, you find no woman, at all intellectual, who is willing to stay in London. No, Lady, when a woman is tired of London, she moves to Hastings; for there is in London nothing that wallets can afford."

— Robert Smiths Tears

Stick that in yer pipe and smoke it.

LONDON SCHOOL OF ECONOMICS

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 20:45:00 +0000

The London School of Economics has an internationally renowned reputation, reinforced by its impossibly high fees (we're talking £54,000 for an MBA peeps) and vast range of respected alumni/guest speakers including Mr William Clinton and Robert Smiths Tears, who will no doubt be added to their Wikipaedia page (via some notorious expose in The Sun) in years to come.

My summer school course entitled 'Marketing Strategy' included the expected cufflink-and-suspenders sporting suspects and ego-driven type A personalities shuffling for Professor Chakravarti's humble attention all week. Nice people on the whole. Apart from being highly-remunerated capitalists looking to make serious ROIs or at least syphon a decent measure on their company's dime. Yes yes oh yay.

I'm attempting (and no doubt failing) to be humorous. I'm not going to discuss the course as you can familiarise yourself with the basic principles by purchasing a book on marketing fundamentals for £14.99 (£8.74 used) on Amazon. What I will remark upon is how lovely the rooftop view was and how delightful apt the waiters were with their natty bow ties, indecipherable accents and presumably, below minimum wages.

The Seniors Dining Room as they call it, in the shambolic Old Building had an eccentric ambience one would imagine from an institution with the history and reputation the London School of Economics cultivates. Ratty standard lamps, original paintings featuring old fellows and dusty old tomes on economic and social theory placed nonchalantly in the rickety old book cases completed the atmosphere.

I entertained myself by gathering the following statistical data on the demographic make up of my fellow student cohort :

British people : 0

ipads : 4

frameless-framed spectacles : 6

Doctors : 2

MBAs : 13

cufflinks : 3

suspenders : 2

business shirts : 17

embossed business card-wielding networkers : 4

straightie 180 masters of the universe : 18

rock n roll gunslingers from the hip world of media : 1

Conclusion? The UK economy is still f****d. Unless you're a banker. Get out while you still can peeps.

REALITY CREEP

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Fri, 29 Jun 2012 22:12:00 +0000

An actual tramp, Holborn, London, 2012. Product placement by Pret-A-Manger.

Gavin Turk, Bum, 1998. Image courtesy Inspector Google.

Life's sweet irony...how I love you. In the same week I attend the Marketing Strategy Summer School at eminent academic institution London School of Economics, (alumni: pants man JFK and tobacco connoisseur Monica Lewinsky), I receive the possible news that me and my media crew MAY be facing redundancy. Ironic in that my faithful employer, an internationally recognised media organisation with a short name and a long roll call of Liferesque employees contributed a very tidy sum toward my course fees. The lord giveth, it seems and the lord taketh away.

This got me thinking about Technology Creep. Its what we all suffer, whether we like it, acknowledge it or even realise it at all. Its that rush of anxiety you experience on the morning commute when you realise in a hungover stupor you've left your iphone charging at home next to the iron. But you're more panicked about the iphone. How will you tweet in real time that funny joke your hipster colleague told at lunch and pass it off as your own? What if an invite goes out on facebook and you can't be the first to Yes, I will Be Attending it? Technology Creep, sir.

Certain humble colleagues of mine have been discussing this and related phenomenon for years now. How the odious onslaught of technology is changing the world at an impossibly rapid rate. An undeniable advantage on many levels. A different kettle of fish when your employer's entire business strategy is reconfigured internationally in a desperate 3-5 year plan to compete with the internet and emerging markets. Globalisation Creep, sir. Being a highly-skilled-migrant hailing from the New World with an LSF qualification no less, I should be ok in the cold, hard, new dawn of unemployment. But many of my British colleagues lacking the same advantages won't.

Lifestyle Creep is a financial term defined as 'an improvement in the standard of living of people as their discretionary income rises either through an increase in income or a decrease in costs, to the extent that luxury goods turn into necessary goods'. Clearly a phenomenon thats been happening for decades in western economies. Except we're not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. The reality of the UK's 'squeezed middle' remains depressed wages, increasing costs, and in London at least, astronomical property prices. Poverty Creep sir. Most of us are getting poorer in real terms and the bandwagon pulled out from the kerb bound for the BRIC countries when we we all busy watching turgid bile like The X Factor.

Which brings me to our gentleman pictured at the top of this post, captured on my lunch break today from the LSF course, in Holborn - a central London area defined by its high concentration of straight world academic institutions of the legal, financial and business ilk. An incredible example of product placement created by some altruistic onlooker placing their Pret-A-Manger Brie & Bacon on Artesan (to give it its proper corporate title) artfully bottom right of the shot? This could be be the perfectly ironic anti-advertisement for the Olympics Lord Coe and Boris Johnson have been beavering away for years to conceal. What price in real terms for local people this vile spectacle (the Olympics, not the bum)? Are Pret-A-Manger one of the primary corporate sponsors? Is this even a genuine bum or a piece of performance art echoing Gavin Turk's life-size wax model 'Bum' exhibited at The South London Gallery in 1998 (pictured above)? Art...or arse? Or a genuine human being, down and out in (Paris and) London...glibly stepped over by busy worker bees distracted by their smart phones rushing back to the office in a vein attempt to avoid imminent redundancy? Reality Creep sir. Now where the f*** did I leave my iphone???

BUFF TING

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 16 Jun 2012 00:14:00 +0000

Today I learnt from the hip, young, gunslinging East End gentleman I sit next to at the workhaus the meaning of the phrase "buff ting". It really made me titter listening to this co-opted Jamaican patois being delivered in cracking style by my white, ginger barneted, plimsoll wearing, Patrick Bateman worshipping born and bred London colleague.

Allow the Urban Dictionary to enlighten you :

If a thing is buff (ie attractive), it is a buff ting. 'Ting' being London garage slang for 'thing'.

Err, that bird down Twerton Park was a right buff ting.

Not to be confused with a buftie. A term more familiar to my Trainspotting generation...

One who displays homosexual tendencies whilst not actually being a poof.

See all they Italians that live in Glaaaasgow, they're all bufties.

	BUFF TING
	BUFTIE You got that? Though obviously Sir Moz's 'not actually being a poof' status is up for debate.

WE'VE GONE ON HOLIDAY BY MISTAKE...LAKE DISTRICT

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 03 Jun 2012 11:09:00 +0000

Easter this year involved rambling around Cumbria's spectacular Lake District, marvelling over some of the most romantic scenery England has to offer. Being a complete amateur, my first walk was the 'gentle' Orrest Head, an easy 20 min ascent from Windermere village over the rolling hills surrounding the district's largest body of water, Lake Windermere. Affording the impressive view pictured above (top), the scene proved an instant panacea to my soot-addled, gin-blossomed, poverty-stricken London soul. You can see why famous Lake District rambler and author Alfred Wainwright characterised the view as 'an introduction to a dream'. Further south down the lake sits the larger town of Bowness, the starting point for another fabulous and easy walk, to Biskey Howe and Post Knott, pictured above (bottom). What these names mean...I know not. I did get chatting to a family on the walk however who, upon hearing my accent reminisced about their Christmas visit to my Antipodean home village, trying to remember the name of the beautiful cafe they visited there, Bygone Beauties. Well worth a peep if you're ever in those parts!

The rugged idyllic charm of Windermere was a total delight, matched by the genuine hospitality and warmth I encountered from the locals who went out of their way to make me feel welcome. On the winding bus route through wild landscape from Windermere to Penrith (where of course, I was planning to demand the finest wines known to humanity, then threaten to fire the old lady at the Penrith Tea Rooms), I met a very nice couple, Pam and Don who later drove back to Windermere to treat me to a delicious ale at their lively local pub in the next village of Ings. Don was off to climb a fell with his buddy while Pam and I hit the charity shops of Penrith after putting the world to rights at the atmospheric cafe inside the grand George Hotel. The Penrith Tea Rooms presumably having been closed down by Withnail & I.

The local hoodlums of Penrith clearly have a penchant for shoplifting whats more....

Watch Withnail and I's Penrtih tearoom anarchy below :

The Cumbrian natives seemed utterly attached to their dogs and Pam and Don were no exception, their friendly creature Topsy accompanying us like a treasured family member on our expedition to the Watermill Inn. This eccentric little watering hole actually included its own brewery on the premises (below), a smattering of amusing local personalities and of course some very fine ales indeed.

PEOPLE ARE ALWAYS ASKING ME IF I KNOW TYLER DURDEN

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 26 May 2012 23:15:00 +0000

One of the greatest scenes from seminal counter-cultural macho fest Fight Club has got to be the one and only Tyler Durden burning the crap out of Ed Norton's hand with caustic soda in a male-bonding initiation ceremony so hardcore its almost homoerotic. Durden of course turns out to be Norton's merrymaking alter-ego and this is his first lesson in the very sexy dangers of soap production.

"this is your life and its ending one minute at a time..."

It was this brilliant scene I had in mind when I attended Melinda Coss's soap production course today in lovely, leafy Walthamstow. Melinda couldn't quite reach the same heights of hotness as Tyler Durden but she proved to be a wise old owl, having decades of soap making experience including a stint learning and teaching the craft in Africa. Melinda (above) and her lovely crew of ladies explained the delicious chemical reaction which occurs when caustic soda mixes with oil to create soap, like water into wine...(maybe not that good). Hence the requirement of the heavy duty industrial safety chic items below.

Melinda's course gave an excellent run down of the fundamental history and principles behind soap making as well as two attempts at the actual process, very messy and requiring an exacting precision to get the measurements correct. We made a basic batch with ylang ylang essential oils, then a batch experimenting with different colour pigments to create some pretty pastel swirly effects. It proved to be somewhat of a labour of love producing our own bespoke soaps...and it feels creepily satisfying to pour your heart and soul (not to mention risking third degree burns and potential blindness) into creating an object your lover will ideally be rubbing enthusiastically over his/her genitals at some point in the future. For more information on Melinda's courses check this link.

CHRISTINE KEELER

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Fri, 25 May 2012 22:48:00 +0000

My quintessential '60s British moment has always been the Profumo Scandal of '63, rather than the awful 'swinging sixties' hippie zeitgeist that followed. The notorious affair had all the hallmarks of a classic gutter press story...glamour, politics, international espionage, suicide and underage call girls all played out within the inner circle of the upper echelon of conservative British politics. These were the bunga-bunga parties of the early 60s, Christine Keeler's innocent beauty tempered by the cynical cock-teasing power of a young woman entirely cognizant of her female potency, particularly entrancing to powerful middle-aged Tory stiffs.

London's Mayor Gallery in Mayfair featured these photographs from Keeler's personal collection at a small show in 2010. Classically beautiful studio portraits cut with seedy Soho bar glamour shots were balanced out by the fresh-faced naiviety of our herione playfully sunbaking in the rolling pastures of Albion. She must have loved these particular images herself, and my favourite is the one of Keeler tucking into a home-cooked chicken dinner on her first night of freedom from Holloway prison (below). The saucy minx. These photographs seem to symbolise some kind of end of an era of post-war British innocence, the beginning of the breaking down of conservative social conventions into the repugnant maelstrom of acceptable behaviour we take to mean civilisation half a century later. Keeler looks like shes having so much fun. Just good clean good time girl fun. Hooray!

FUCK YOUR BLOG

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Thu, 17 May 2012 23:38:00 +0000

Anyone who knows me knows I maintain an unhealthy obsession with born and bred Battle boys and maudlin pop ivory-tinklers Keane. I came across this fote below on the band's website, taken by drummer Richard Hughes (whose clearly been indulging in my favourite pastime of guerilla manbagging) on his US blog featuring their own performances plus a variety of hipsters and generally atmospheric shots from Texas's SXSW festival. I'm not normally enamoured of American sartorial style, but lets face it, this guy's manbag seriously epitomises 21st century post-ironic coolness. I'm seeing 'the chaps' play again next month, and a Keane show is a religious experience equalled only by the likes of seminal indie fops Richard Ashcroft and Sir Stephen Patrick Morrissey. People sometimes take the piss out of Keane for being southern posh nonces (read...'middle class') who dare to write epic, emotional, piano-based tunes about their feelings. These people are twats. Click here to see a very funny example.

FRIEZE ART FAIR 2011

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 13 May 2012 05:47:00 +0000

Really keen to crack on with TOMORROW'S fine reportage from the black lungs of Londinium TODAY but just a couple more art related ones I'm catching up on from last year...do forgive me. Rewinding back to October last year for the Frieze Art Fair in Regents Park, I think in its 9th year now and increasingly reeking of rank commercialism as each year passes. The fair is just that - a huge commercial enterprise enabling more than 500 international galleries to hawk their wares in overcrowded marquees crawling with hipsters, art students (at least those that can afford the admission price) and various London ace-faces hoping to get their sweet mugs featured, drunk, at the opening in the Standard Evening's magazine.

Being a nit-picking little so and so, I thought the calibre of the work on show was disappointing...and again proved the art rule I swear by that you need to syphon through 90% of utter tosh in contemporary art to discover the 10% that truly, and often for reasons only know to yourself, resonates. The work pictured above (all artists featured in this post unknown as I was sans notebook...apart from Gavin "The Man" Turk, bottom pic) did just that, its initial shock value giving way to a general low-level creepiness and fascination with a situation that the majority of people would normally never have the misfortune to experience. The work is probably taking centre stage right now in the Saatchi/Nigella dining room, affording privileged guests like Rebekah Brooks and Dave Cameron the opportunity to drink Baileys from a shoe and suck Nigella's creamy eggnog off the toes. Hooray!

Having a healthy sense of smut, a feminist bent, appreciation for glorious architectural monuments, a taste for appendages, an Eastern European fetish, a long and tawdry history with British indie music and a well documented love of my man Gavin Turk...may I now present a selection of my favourite pieces from the Frieze.

THE YBAs AT 50

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 12 May 2012 17:19:00 +0000

Yes, The YBAs, those Publicity-Obsessed Marketing Geniuses...sorry, artists...have come of age and some guy called Jeremy Cooper has cashed in on a book all about them in this mid-career stage of their working lives. Having not read the book or listened at all to him (or the publisher's 'PR representative') gasbagging at the launch, I'm not sure whats in it (though I assume its some mildly interesting interviews)...but the party was refreshingly low-key and hipsterish at the Bethnal Green Working Mens' Club in East London.

Presumably Tracey Emin was too busy talking to the taxman about poetry (and entirely legal, Tory-sponsored tax avoidance loopholes) to attend such a humble event, with Damien Hirst no doubt locked in negotiations with one of Charles Taylor's henchmen regarding his next shipment of Liberia's finest commodity. However, the ever reliable, down to earth family man and shit hot post-ironic artiste Gavin Turk put in an appearance, spinning vinyl on the decks with what looked like one of his sons but more likely some Goldsmiths' Masters graduate art-world intern. I was hoping for a sighting of Sarah Lucas, but she must have been burrowed away in glorious hermitage, stuffing scrunched up copies of hoarded News of The Worlds into pairs of nude hosiery from Oxfam.

So there you have it...another post ostensibly about something, but in reality utterly superficial and pointless. Did someone mention YBAs?

POST MODERN KENSINGTON PALACE

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 31 Mar 2012 00:33:00 +0000

Back in 1997 I stared at the telly in my far-flung colonial outpost in total disbelief, gawking at the mournful British public in shock, planting a sea of flowers outside Kensington Palace gates and grieving over the death of their sad, lonely (and reputedly crazy) Queen of Hearts. I've been lucky enough to live very close to the Palace since then and have this year managed to worm my way into their volunteer workforce.

One of the advantages of this kind of gig is the free access to the impressive exhibitions, lectures and 'infotainment' these kinds of historical institutions are renowned for. After several months refurbishment, the Palace reopened in a blaze of glory on 29th March and no stone has been left unturned in terms of luxurious thick carpets underfoot, moodily ambient lighting and atmospheric exhibits which totally contemporise the modern 'palace-going experience'.

Much as I love the traditional National Trust-style visit to an historic residence, Kensington Palace has truly created a unique selling point with what they call an 'experience' - a completely curated environment themed around elements of HRH Victoria's life. Unabashed disgruntlement at the lack of traditional museum labels, bright lighting and glass cabinet exhibits from a certain contingent was a refreshing testament to the success of the Palace's post modern re-imagining and its attempt to remain innovative and engaging to a broader cross-section of audiences.

Artist Julie Verhoeven has created a bespoke wallpaper (below) illustrating the many glamorous guises of the Queen of Hearts in a quirky, watercolour treatment so kitsch it seemed to reference Japanese anime. The Diana 'room' also included an 80s Versace dress the lady herself had worn, its very texture, fabric and dimensions seemingly larger than life when experienced 'in the flesh' after witnessing such a multitude of 2D images over the years courtesy of the world's gutter press.

The liberal use of silhouetting, light projection and individually hand-crafted installations all combined with the classic motifs of Albion history such as seafaring to create a truly magical atmosphere within the palace walls and enable the history of the rooms to come to life. After all...the cat can look at the Queen can't she?

LATE NIGHT, MAUDLIN STREET

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 21:57:00 +0000

Nothing says late night, maudlin street like the first day after the clocks go forward and a beautiful twilight slowly descends after a sunny London weekend. It takes six months of deepest, darkest, winter purgatory to really appreciate the first few weeks of summer and feel your entire being gradually revitalise itself. These shots were taken tonight along the Southbank where the whole city seemed to be out in force celebrating the official dumping of our S.A.D. lights for another year...

Dour Glaswegian tunesmiths Glasvegas have helped me through many a Dickensian winter's evening and James Allan's lyricism truly captures the zeitgeist of a northern hemisphere winter...

Winter blues no love for you

Seasons change in a gothic way

10,000 lux to lift us up

In these winter nights if I'm wandering alone

I'll turn on my S.A.D. light

As I'm staring at Alpha Centuri

All I can see is low it's glow seems so far

How did I get to this point of things playing so heavy on my heart

Twinkle little star

How I wonder what you are

I'll turn on my S.A.D. light

Listen to the track here

THE ENDANGERED LONDON TELEPHONE BOX

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 21:37:00 +0000

Theres nowt more iconic of the fine city of London than the Sir Giles Gilbert Scott-designed K6 red telephone boxes still in use throughout many parts of the metropolis (though its days are surely numbered - thanks Steve Jobs)...quite often stinking of tramp's piss and decorated by the discipline & watersports touting cards of Eastern European hookers. I came across these two beauties on my travels this morning, mysteriously pretty in pink and a kitsch departure from the usual red they were last week...was it a post-ironic art statement or just the Westminster council tax monies in full effect? (So thats why my rents gone up).

These two pinkies reminded me of this great installation (below) I saw down in Folkestone last summer as part of the town's Triennial art festival. The inscription on the box's window by the mysterious 'Kevin, aged 9' (presumably the sensitive, misfit offspring of some council flat chav teenage parents so endemic in English seaside towns these days) is utterly hilarious in its ironic and sensitive appreciation of the intrinsic value of art which will more than likely have the crap beaten out of it on a Friday night. Rule Britannia...and god bless the welfare state.

HOLLYWOOD LONDON

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 21:39:00 +0000

Some parts of London are just so pretty they look like you've just stumbled onto some Hollywood backlot. These East End snaps below (round Shoreditch way innit) were taken after a day's wandering around Brick Lane, scoffing noodles and visiting hipster gallery spaces. The cool thing about the east is it is quite conceivable that you'll spot Gilbert & George in full suit regalia, poncing down towards home on Fournier Street, maybe stopping off at Tracey Emin's gaff for an Earl Grey on the way. (Emin would have 'a proper drink', of course). I was discussing G&G once after a Brick Lane curry with a friend visiting from the Antipodes as we walked down Fournier St and who should we see but the very same in person. Their early stuff was tres bien but the recent output is a bit too obsessed with bum holes for my delicate sensibilities. Of course it just wouldn't be cricket to say so, old boy. Stiff upper lip and all that.

G&G on Fournier Street (Google)

The notoriously over-exposed bum holes (Google)

WHERE DO I START WITH THIS ALBUM COVER!!!

noreply@blogger.com (robert smiths tears) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 01:39:00 +0000

I think my therapist may have something to say about this.