A trip to the chemist turned into a trip to Bankside. It sometimes feels that photographs are one of the few things I have left that let me feel at least somewhat in control of life of late.

Click the above image to see the rest of the (admittedly, small…) set on Flickr.

In the time I spent working with Apple Corps, the few times I dealt with Neil were all wonderful. Likewise, working with his wife Suzy was always a pleasure, and I would look forward to the calls. Neil will be missed, but his influence on one of the greatest musical acts of our time will not be forgotten.

Between this, and the passing of Geoffrey Quinn (alias Paul Raymond, another former employer) it’s been a sad month. Here’s to hoping that the next is somewhat more cheery.

More as the BBC reports it in the morning. Edit, Auntie just put a small snippet up. No doubt, it’ll be updated as more information comes to light.

All I can say is that this is one of the best musical experiences of my life, ever. It’s right up there with Sigur Rós. More later.

Wednesday saw us being evacuated from work for three hours, after some poor unfortunate soul get himself electrocuted after drilling through a power line and a gas main.

And then on Saturday, Camden Market went and caught fire. Most of the market has made it out without too much damage, but around forty odd stalls and a fair few homes have been reduced to shells. I’ve not been to Camden in the best part of a year or more now, but I expect it’s going to feel rather different next time I step off the Northern Line.

And once again, tonight I’m at Wimbledon, Platform 9. I’ve come back from Sloane Square, hopped off the Tube, and down the platform, up the concourse, along, and down to 9. And there, on the board, blinking at me in taunting day-glow orange LED, **SERVICE CANCELLED**

I should have stayed in bed, this morning. Lord knows I was tempted. In a toss-up between warm soft sheets and a the prospect of a late breakfast, and the cold pavement, a shave and commuting, then bed wins. Every time. Apart from this morning, when I got up, had a shave, and braved the District line yet another time.

Which reminds me. Most commuters, you know, the kid that zip in and out of the Xity? Fine. These people I can happily deal with. But now and then you get the odd person who honestly has no concept of who, what, where, or when they are. Seriously. And they also always seem to be the ones with basic hygiene problems. Getting off one of the trains today I could hardly contain my breakfast; the carriage stank of this one chap and what seemed to be the smell of stale cocoa butter, curry, and dirty hair. Utterly vile. I’m quite certain that these people have no idea of the stench they produce. If they knew, surely they would make some effort to clean themselves… non?

My desk has grow a large coffee mug, filled with about 30 different shades of Sharpie and assorted markers. The top right drawer, once my smoking drawer, now is filled with scraps of paper and notes and pencils and Mont Blanc Ink. Two PowerBooks sit in front of me, neither one doing very much of anything. Behind me on the shelves are books I’ve amassed over a few years, and always meant to read. But never quite gotten around to doing it.

I used to churn out reams of stuff. Most of it was, by my own admission, utter tosh. But some of it was decent. I could sit for hours, sometimes days at a time, just writing, or drawing, anything and everything. Even if I were not churning out gold any more, I’d still like to be able to create trash. As it stands, I’m having trouble doing even that of late. Just this one entry has taken an hour already.

It’s not right. Time was where I could have hammered this out and done a few revisions in under ten minutes.

I think perhaps I need to take a pen and paper with me to a Royal Park sometime soon, sit, watch the world go by, and find some of that missing ‚Äúoomph‚Äù – even if all I get in return is some hackneyed old tosh about heliocentricity (a favourite of mine while sozzled) then it’s a start. It’s got to be better than this sordid existence of supporting morons for clients.

Picture, if you will, lush green lawns trimmed twice a day; strawberries and cream, players jumping the nets, and Ball Boys with bulges in their shorts. One cannot but help to think of SW19, and the England All Green Tennis Club. All but one. Me.

All I picture at Wimbledon are tourists in June, going to school at the top of Edge Hill in the midsts of my ill-spent youth, and the train station. I’m quite certain I’ve spent literally weeks on one platform or another. Lord knows I’ve caught multiple services from each of the ten that sit there, and at all hours of the day and night. And not once in the decade I’ve been using it do I ever recall a single service being on time. Not once. Every train that passes is a minute late at the least; most are on a region of eight or more. And most days, I can deal with this. Most days, I ruffle the pages of the Telegraph in slight annoyance and continue with my day.

But today was not that day.

Nothing good has ever come of a Monday. One pictures people happy at the weekend, freed from the slavery of a hot phone and a desk layered with papers so as to resemble some bizarre archaeological dig; layers denoting the last time lunch was eaten over the keyboard, and the last quarterly figures, about ten weeks deep in memos and inter-departmental faxes. The weekend provides a brief reprise, lulling one into a false sense of security. You can almost believe as you drown that third glass of Merlot that it’s all okay and you’ve no need to fear the new week. Beelzebub may ride on the back of a Natonal Rail Service, but he’ll pass over you this time. This time, you’ll be spared. This time, it’ll be different.

Except it’s not different. And it ever is. Especially on a Monday.

Today, I’m on the District Line to Sloane Square. But, for reason that are not quite pertinent to this story, I had to go to Chelmsford, Essex first. Scary stuff before one even discovers the ‚Äúdelights‚Äù of the Essex Girl. I’ve met some, and to be honest, they are as bad as everyone makes out. But anyway, to Chelmsford I had to go.

Wimbledon to Sloane Square is a single Tube all the way there. I can lose myself in my paper, or if truly antisocial, my PowerBook and ecto-kungfoo. Wimbledon to Chelmsford is a more involved route. Wimbledon to Waterloo on the train (the important bit) and from Waterloo to Liverpool St on the Tube (the easy bit) and then Liverpool St on the train to Chelmsford. And to make London rail links easier, the train to Waterloo runs about the same frequency as the Tube services in The City; one every three minutes. But not today.

No, today, there had not been a Waterloo service for 18 minutes by the time I got there. Not an issue, I think. And I wait. And wait, and wait, and wait. After an hour and twenty-four minutes of broken promises, I give in. That’s one hundred and two minutes. Thirty-four cancelled services. In an hour and a half.

By now, I’m ready to throttle someone. And it only gets better. You’d think that by not using the train, you could get away with a refund for said ticket; of course, to National Rail, that’s not reasonable at all. So what your service was delayed? Go later! Ha-ha! We don’t care!

—

Half an hour later, after trying English, Italian and French (then resorting to anger and mime;) to try to communicate with the money at the ticket booth, I get a refund. That half hour was of course worth more to me than the price of the ticket, but the point stands; I’m not traveling, so I refuse to pay for the bloody thing. The first chap I spoke to refused flat out to refund it, and then refused to hand back my Visa card as he said my signatures didn’t match. Despite me producing another three cards and my passport and some London Transport ID, he still was iffy about it. Bastard. Of course, because of the signatures, he refused to sell me a Travel Card, (never mind Oyster Card) and wanted to put it on my other Visa (Barclaycard) – he couldn’t understand that I didn’t want it on my CC and have to pay interest for it. Again, I wonder if he could even read and write English, let alone anything else.

And of course, the Automated Ticket machines. No train station would be complete without the ticket machine that refuses to read ANY of your cards, or take any of your paper money. I tried three of the fuckers before I got one that swallowed my card like the bitch should. Got my receipt, went through the barrier to Platform 4, District Line. Seven minutes later the Tube had arrived, I’d found a seat, gotten comfortable and I was two stops down the line.

Public and Private companies. Public runs on time, Private makes billions for the Fat Cat Cunts at the top who provide no service worth mentioning and want to charge me extra on top of my Oyster for the so-called privilege of using their shitty network.

All I have to say is if there are any Thameslink, Railtrack, National Rail, etc shareholders or Board Memebers, then do you part to make this a better world for all Mankind.

Put a gun in your mouth, and eat hot lead.

Not long ago, NPR were given the green light to webcast a Sigur Rós concert, from Bethesda, Maryland. Some enterprising young chaps took this webcast, cleaned it up, and threw it onto the web for all and sundry to hear in mp3 format. I grabbed it, and listened eagerly.

Back in July, I had the chance to see SR live in London at Somerset House, and the experience blew me away in a manner I’d never expected live music to do. Somerset House holds three thousand people; at the time, I’d gone along with Beccy after spending the day together in London. And as soon as the music had started, 2, 998 other people just seemed to vanish. Somerset House is already a pretty intimate venue as open-air goes, but as soon as they took the stage, it was as if the gig had become a private show for two people. I stood the entire time; somewhere from half seven to just after 11 PM. I was incapable of doing much of anything; the film I’d loaded into my camera sat un-exposed, the lenses tucked into my bag, and my right hand held to Beccy’s left for what seemed an eternity.

Our hearts were in our throats on the walk back to Waterloo after the concert. One of those real “I-can’t-make-out-words” moments.; it was that beautiful. If I’d thought about it properly, I’d have pictures, but all I have are the memories in my head. By about half nine, the sun was well and truly spent, and the sky burned dark orange. It lit up the clock tower, and above the stage awning were seagulls; oddly fitting for the then new track and single, Glósóli. If you’ve seen the video, you’ll know why. The scene looked as if it had been lifted directly from an album cover or video still. Jonsi stood, centre stage with his Gibson and a cello bow, and just sound flooding the courtyard.

Hence this; NPR recorded and broadcast it, and with the band’s permission, it’s available to re-distribute. Right click, save as… Sigur Rós Live at Bethesda, Maryland (105mb) Enjoy.