Sunday, 31 January 2010

Car Boot

Every Sunday morning, somewhere near Stanley, in the deathly cold county of Durham, there happens a car boot sale of epic proportions. Obviously, the apocalyptic weather that has plagued us of recent has had a negative effect on the quality of this here gathering of bargain hunters. Although not the best location in which i've CBd in (for that award goes to the Hexham CB sale, which sprawled through an indoor cattle market), it's the size of three and a half football pitches and it the only thing i'll ever be able to wake up before ten o'clock for and happy about it. I wake up knowing that Paul Smith had me in mind when he wrote 'Our Velocity'.

On the way out, me and @ministrats like to buy a plastic bag for a mere pound and fill it with whatever little junken gems we find. Today's gem of the day was a book called 'The Universal Home Guide', published just after the Second World War.
After reading the extract that follows, I realised that I have never grown out of my awkward teen phase:

And this towering building is the factory itself:

A man whose dead wife had a scissor fetish was trying to make a quick buck:

Since her death, he has noone to fulfil his fetish, so he'd brought his sexual paraphernalia along too:

I buy books i never read
In preparation for my library.
But when the going rate is fifty pence for a fistful, I simply can't say no. Even if they double the time it takes for me to get home.
What may look like an early attempt to produce Mills And Boon's men's range is not actually a dirty book at all.

-Some Videos to Fellate Your Eyes:

The gayest duet since Elton John and George Michael:

The moment Snookums a la Jersey Shore's career gets a head start (actual punch):

Patti Smith covers Smells Like Teen Spirit:

Saturday, 16 January 2010

Go North East

It is the second of January. And with this comes cold and, more arse fingeringly annoying, snow. I’m dreaming of a White Christmas. No.

This is a nightmare. It’s good to look at, yeah. But when you really want to get somewhere, the snow comes along and makes your bus ten minutes late. Then you panic and you wonder when is good to give up waiting. Heart races. Sweat drips. Breath pulsates.

And then, appearing from that corner of Lidl that leads to Wetherspoons, peers the Swift, the 45, the bus home. This is an ode to Go North East. Even in the shittest weather, in the town on the hills, this little bus slides on. Through all the lain snow and the freezing slush, on the little bugger chugs.

God loves the little engine that could.