OXFORD

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.       

BEAUTIFUL, BORING BEXHILL

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...

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

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. 

CHRISTINE KEELER

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!

DAYS OF YORE IN KENSINGTON

Back in The Land Of Hope And Glory where I now reside (as opposed to The Land That Style Forgot where I was born), the sun is shining and we have a long, hot Diamond Jubilee summer on the horizon. I've been known to doze away many a pleasant hour lazing on a sunny afternoon in Kensington Gardens. Kensington is such a beautiful part of London and its narrow back alleys still remind me of a more innocent era, sadly now confined to the nostalgic mists of history books. On one of my many charity shoppe pilgrimages (a big shout out to the ladies at the Hammersmith Amnesty Bookshoppe, purveyors of the finest second-hand books at very reasonable prices) I came across a delightful old book illustrating some lovely parts of west London. A couple of Kensington back streets (below) were included and I wanted to find out how much had actually changed since the original photographs were taken. I reshot the following images in 2010, and as you can see the basic architecture remains unchanged, only the vintage signage, clothing and the notorious London grime have been 'disappeared' by money and progress's inevitable, odious onslaught. Its interesting to note too how the Dukes Lane top windows have been reconstructed and the exterior minimalised with the removal of the shutters and the posh white paint job. My guess is the original shots were taken sometime around the 1940s. How brilliant it would be to step back in time for a day, pause for a natter in the street about hats with the local ladies and poke around this long forgotten world...

Kensington Church Walk original photograph below :

My modern reshoot :

Dukes Lane original photograph below :

My modern reshoot :