Let it snow

Not done much with me Flikr account for ages, but tonight have uploaded some photographs of snow taken recently go here for a slide show or alternatively go here to see the set

A bit of Tom Jones

Went down to Chapter Arts tonight to see A bit of Tom Jones. Thoroughly enjoyed

It is a low budget (£100,00) film made in Tredegar (south wales) and was originally only intended to be shown in Wales, but i understand there are a handfull of cinemas over the bridge now showing it (Bristol, Manchester and Sheppards Bush). I reccomend you get along if you have a chance.

The basic plot is a guy buys Tom Jones cock in a pub and spends the rest of the film trying to sell it to rich perverts that collect celebrity body parts. It is a cross between twin town, sattelite city and a carry on movie. On times the plot is - well - just plain silly, but there are a considerable number of scenes that produce all out belly laughs. I can't remember the last time i laughed out loud so much in the cinema.

The mixture of familiar (to me) locations and valley humour make it quite unique and will be of special interest to valleys bods; although anyone with a wicked sense of humour will enjoy

Guardian article here

SONCI ROCK SOLSTICE 2010

Just noticed there is to be a psychedelic space rock extravaganza up the road in Builth Wells over the summer solstice. Sonic Rock Solstice includes our old mates Omnia Opera, Litmus, Hawklords, Bridget Wishart and Pre-Med, with loads more already booked and to be confirmed. If you get ya tickets before the end of February they are a snip at £35. At that price you cant afford to not go!

SQUIBS, CUNTZ AND THE STATUE OF LIBERTY

Sheep Music Festival (Day 2)
The advantage of an early night is that you wake up fresh and ready to take on the world. This morning I was up with the larks, or at least up with the balloon people next door who were larking about thinking it was still Friday. I took a deep breath of fresh air and strolled down into the site with a spring in my step and a song in my heart. Or something like that.


I start with an exploration of the site. It is only small, but there seems plenty going on. There’s the main stage in the Big Top, The Dome, which will host lots of acoustic stuff and a bit of theatrical stuff, Café Seren which is a funky little venue with a stage and .. erm.. a café. The Village Hall will host everything from Knitting classes, through theatre workshops to acoustic folk sets and The Gamelan will have percussion, percussion and percussion all weekend long. It seems the amazing drummers I saw last night were not any band in particular, but part of a three day long jam (at least I think that was what was going on).

On top of this there were a few food outlets, a bar, a kid’s area and a few art installations to ponder on or freak you out, depending what mood you are in.

Knitting at the Village Hall

The whole thing is taking place right next to the village, my unusually flat and comfy camping pitch is actually the local football pitch, there’s a tennis court right next to me and there is even a skateboard park within the festival itself. The kids area is amazingly in the middle of an orchard.

There is also a ‘sculpture trail’, which, quite frankly, unless I took a wrong turn somewhere, was a bit crap.

The security, despite walking around in shirts and ties like night club bouncers, seem friendly enough and on the whole there is a very relaxed vibe about the place.

I try to ring Martin to arrange the interview but find there is no reception anywhere on the bloody site, so decide to have a wander into town to have a nose about and to see if I can get reception. There is not much to Prestigne, but for a small place it does seem to have more than its fair share of boozers. I pop into The Royal Oak for a swift one.

I float out six pints later to try and catch Martin Harley’s second set, having established that the natives are very friendly and they have no problem with the festival because there is never any trouble. On returning to the site I find Sick Note hanging out in Café Seren and I slur praise for Martin Harley before heading off to find him.

The Dome is, strangely enough, a dome. I believe geodesic, is the term. Like most of the stages on site, is powered by wind and sun. Inside we have carpet, tables, chairs and lots of civilised people who chuckle politely when martin Announces, “This guitar is made for me by a friend in Germany with the unfortunate name of Andreas Cuntz. This song is dedicated to you Cuntz”.

Martin harley with a Cuntz on his lap

The set is the perfect laid back blues for a lazy afternoon, although he does get the slide working over time to funk things up occasionally. Even Sick note enjoyed it, which surprised me a little.

After the set I introduce myself to martin, who informs me he is off to Germany to see his favourite Cuntz straight away, so the interview will have to wait for another time. I am disappointed, having done my best to stay sober enough to talk to him, but slightly relived because I had failed to stay sober enough to talk to him.

After this events sort of shuffle themselves about a bit in my memory. At one point I find myself sat with Sick Note by their tents. Filthy the drummer decides to make himself a ‘meal’. After messing about with changing the gas cylinder on his cooker (one of them little calour ones where the valve goes straight into the canister) he lights it, but next thing you know the is gas coming out of the canister instead of the valve, and it's on fire. To avoid setting fire to the tents he holds it up in the air above his head, like the statue of liberty, but in the process almost melts Flapsandwiches sun glasses to his head (which would actually look pretty good on stage). A passing hippy reassures us, “So long as it is on fire it is not going to explode”, so Filthy puts it out. Luckily it reignites and once more presents no danger of blowing up. Eventually calm is restored and he finished cooking his boil in the bag pasta (was it worth the effort?)

Squib... cool, even when straight

As darkness descends we go off in search of music. Flappy was keen on checking out Dub FX, who don’t turn up. I was keen on checking out Maroon Town, who turn out to be crap. As all the main stages close down we find ourselves in Café Seren watching Squib. I camp out next to the stage, enthralled with their funky uptempo brand of jazz rock. I love it and at the end of the set buy a CD, with my mind churning over the possibility that they might have just been good cos I was stoned and when I get home the CD will be crap (it wasn’t). I find Sick Note in the corner, who are moaning about having to sit through a jazz band.

Eventually everything on site shuts down so we head back to the tents, stopping off for five minutes at the all night café on the edge of the campsite. Five minutes chilling turns into five hours of turpitude and when I get back to my tent even the balloon heads from next door are crashed out.

Flapsandwich later writes in his blog that I have a calm aura about me and he felt peaceful and relaxed around me in the all night café. This is very nice of him but maybe I should share with him the proverb about the old bull and the young bull.

An old bull and a young bull are at the bottom of a field. At the top of the field is a herd of cows. The young bull says to the old bull, “Dad, lets run up the hill and f*ck one of them cows.” The old bull responds wisely, “No son. Let’s walk up the hill and f*ck them all”.

SHEEP, STRANGERS AND DANCEFLOOR SEANCES

Sheep Music festival (Day 1)
“It’s still on fire you nutter!”; “Let’s all hold hands and have a séance” and “This one is dedicated to you Kuntz”; three phrases you don’t often hear in one weekend, but this weekend we will be treated to them all, and more.

The days leading up to Sheep Music 2009 were frustrating to say the least. First the Ginger Prince wimped out because they would not allow caravans on site. Then there was an almighty cock up with my wages that resulted in me running around various banks moving cash about; in the process Barclays bank in Porth landed me with some counterfeit notes that my own bank refused to accept. The final straw was Tara Iguana deciding she was too tired to come to the festival, following a week in London with school. I was destined to go to a festival on my own for the first time ever (unless you count Frogstock … oh, and there was one in Belgium about 20 years ago)

Friday morning I was in no mood to go a festival on my own. I watched some DVDs instead. Then I watched some more. I was determined not to waste the ticket though and eventually decided I had to make a move or I would be putting my new £35 tent up in the dark. So at around 6pm I set off, weaving my way in and out of the Welsh border, landing in Prestigne some two hours later.

The lack of signs for the festival in the area was somewhat surprising, but with my map at my side I found the town fairly easily. What was really frustrating though was the total lack of signs even when you reached Prestigne itself. After driving around like a bloke for ten minutes, I eventually stopped and asked a local, who seemed incredulous that I had not spotted it on my tour of the village. No matter, the car was soon parked, wristband strapped on and the perfect pitch located.

The £35 tent was liberated from its bag (it had to go up now, there was no way I would get it back in the bag). Like a bloke I started rummaging trough the various parts trying to decide how best to put it together. Like a woman (mainly because she is) Caroline from Llanidloes, my neighbour for the next few days, grabbed the instructions and within five minutes we had it erected (the tent that is).

Sick Note were due on shortly, so I proceeded to make up for the couch potato time and guzzled a few down me quick sharp. In no time at all I was stood on the edge of the crowd swaying in time to the post new rave beats of Cardiff’s finest dance floor terrorists.

The usual visuals were not in attendance this weekend, but the house lights and the smoke machine managed to do the trick and the tent was ‘avin it’, ‘banging’ and ‘appening’.

Every time I see this bunch I think of the near orgasm I had when my brain was first invaded by them three years ago and look around the crowd at the faces, wondering if anyone is going through what I went through. I think a few are.

Doghouse asks everyone to join hands for a séance (he’s not all there you know) and the tent becomes a temple of techno for the gathered masses to worship in.

After The Note I head off to The Dome to catch Martin Harley, who is thankfully late on stage, which means I don’t miss anything. I had prearranged to interview him at some point during the weekend but keeping in mind you only have one chance to make a first impression, and me being now three sheets to the wind, I decided to ring him tomorrow.

In a bizarre looking Bedouin tent thingy two kit drummers play the most amazing percussion set I have ever seen. I make mental note to look them up in the programme tomorrow. More wandering is done and then it is back to the tent for an early(ish) night. Sleep is only disturbed by the young tikes next door having fun with balloons. My overworked imagination tells me nitrous oxide must be involved, but I would not like to give evidence in court about it officer.