FELL ASLEEP ON THE TRAIN, WOUND UP IN BLOODY NEASDEN

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. 

WHOLE LOTTA HOVE

I had another opportunity yesterday to admire the beautiful Victorian curves of Brighton station (below) on the way to visit my dear, dear friend, artist Mrs Gillian Trundle-Hepplewhite.

Gillian lives in the grandiose Palmeira Square area of Hove, in a lovely art deco inspired flat with her original Northern Soul hipster and builder husband John. Goldsmiths alumni Gillian agreed to give me a crash course in screen printing, but not before I took the grand tour of their amazing living space full of exotic wares she had accumulated over the years...

Along with the stylish accessories like the vintage Mickey Mouse and beautiful modernist carved bust above, Gill and John's house was full of hip period detail like the elegant curved wall and neutral-toned, minimalist, marblised shower below.

The upper levels of the property contained a number of skylights, the master bedroom featuring an enchanting view towards the pretty St. John the Baptist Church perched on the Western end of the regency-era Palmeira Square (below). Gill's flat sits in a brilliant location, the beautiful church up the northern end of her street, while Hove's lovely seafront lies at the southern end, a matter of a few minutes walk away. 

Gill and John's outdoor space included this beautiful solid vintage sun dial below and other small but perfectly formed accessories.

Gill showed me some fine examples of her screen printing work, inspired by John's northern soul roots and his enormous vinyl collection which runs into the many hundreds. The stark, detailed print below is a post-modern tribute to the music obsessive and a nice interpretation of the numerous nights spent under the Hepplewhite roof way past midnight with the turntables turned up to 11... 

Gill's other obsession is the retro graphics and art deco aesthetics so integral to the city of Miami and the Florida Keys area. The influence is clear in pretty, stylised prints like this hip one below.

We finally got down to brass tacks with a run-through of the basics of screen printing a simple stencil. Gill let me down gently by informing me that the crappy vintage silk screen frame I had picked up at a garage sale in Australia for $8 wasn't up to the job...however my squeegee was the business so all was not lost. We did a few simple prints - featuring a crude rendering of Gill's favourite symbol - and viola!...a few very, I mean VERY rough images emerged. Luckily Gill was still smiling despite that crimson paint threatening to go all over her beautiful new kitchen fittings.

After all that hard work, it was off for a twilight stroll around Hove's grand Palmeira Square. The descending sun created a beautiful sunset over the wooden beach huts as the square gradually illuminated with cosy, warm hues eminating from luxurious lounge and dining rooms. The grand, spacious flats seemed to be full of idiosyncratic furnishings and characterful charm, the rainy pavements reflecting a magical, opulent ambience. Not a single stick of Brighton Rock to be seen...gotta love Hove.

A PRETTY GREEN LIAM GALLAGHER

It seems Carnaby Street is the place middle-aged rock'n'roll stars go to reinvent themselves, specifically Liam Gallagher in the form of post-Oasis men's clothing venture 'Pretty Green'. The Old Burnage Bully is tastefully spreadeagled over his new shop window, manfully draped in a vintage union flag that puts Morrissey's notorious 1992 Finsbury Park performance to shame (below). That trademark intimidating scowl burns holes into the skulls of innocent Japanese tourists, Gallagher's pretty vacant looks and celebrity bankability making a potent combination. Kerching!

Apparently 'founded and designed' by Gallagher himself, (difficult to imagine the moody so-and-so fingering fabric swatches and frantically sketching all night on a massive, Lagerfeld-style creative bender), the store capitalises on both Oasis' characteristically British brand of football casual/mod fusion style and the rich cultural, music and fashion legacy of London's famous Carnaby Street. With a logo ripped straight off the Beatles' distinctive 1965 Rubber Soul album cover, its interesting to ponder if the store's name is a sly nod not only to Weller but also towards all those pretty green dollar bills hes going to rake in with this new incarnation...

Pretty Green's wares incorporate swinging '60s and mod-influenced 'Black Label' tailored designs, including a range of parkas priced from £420 to £555. The more casual 'Green Label' diffusion line features less expensive pieces in rich burgundy, blue, purple and green hues. The reasonably priced desert boot at £95 in distinctive champagne and green is pretty cool, along with the brilliant black suede Lennon hat artfully modelled by the man himself. La Gallagher's regular pounding of Hamsptead Heath's paths (keeping an eagle eye out for Georgie Michael!) in early morning mists have paid off, his youthfully buff form showcased in all its frowny glory on the store's website.

Brother Paul Gallagher, Ocean Colour Scene's Steve Craddock and ex Ride shoegazer/Oasis band mate Andy Bell have all made in-store DJ appearances (presumably Noel's invite got lost in the post). The shop also functions as a venue showcasing exclusive new material and events for Liam's post-Oasis musical outfit Beady Eye. Could it be Liam's been reading the Katie Price guide to branding and business diversification? Definitely maybe.

PART 2 OF A RIDICULOUSLY LONG POST ABOUT THE ISLE OF WIGHT...WEST COAST

The Isle of Wight's beautiful west coast has the natural benefit of slow, dreamy sunsets descending gradually across the horizon and a more gentile, sophisticated appearance than some of the chavvier eastside towns (not mentioning any names, Sandown). The island's westerly tip features a dramatic coastal walk from the village of Freshwater ascending a gentle green hill, alongside stunning alabaster-white cliffs. A healthy batch of Super Furry Animals populated the hillside, delightfully placid toward the constant stream of huffing n puffing ramblers and fatwacs* invading their peaceful home (below).   

Upon the crest of the hill stood an imposing Celtic cross - an 1897 monument to Poet Laureate Lord Alfred Tennyson who made the island his home in 1853, until his death in 1892. This beautiful cross (below) dominates the landscape, an ominous talisman warding off the evil lurking within the foreboding, smoke-coloured skies above. Eventually the heavens opened, the mini tempest rolling over the westerly Freshwater Bay as rapidly as it had arrived.

The pretty coastal walk continued along an increasingly narrow peninsula towards the stunning outcrop of rock formations known as The Needles (below). This beautiful vista appeared island-wide on heavy rotation  across all postcard shops and deservedly so. The view was truly divine, its pure white cliffs and aquamarine water seeming somehow more Aegean Sea than Rule Britannia... 



My jaunt around the Isle of Wight's westerly nether regions concluded with a browse around the petit bougeois harbour town of Yarmouth, the island's alternative ferry port to the fatherland. The seafront housed a rickety wooden pier, atmospheric under the dwindling pink dusk light and decorated with retro life-raft donuts (good enuff to eat! - below) and a handsome, post-ironic mod couple cuddling up against the breeze, showing off their minimalist, hipster, 21st century styling. Sartorialist...eat your heart out...(below bottom).

Like any pretty English village worth its salt, Yarmouth's sleepy main drag was populated with historic buildings and picturesque architecture. Cosy cottages bursting with colourful foliage, enormous barns converted into living quarters of extended bourgeois families and normal two up-two downs surrounded by fields drenched in afternoon sun (below) all contributed to the town's pleasant atmosphere. An Englishman's home is his castle, its just a shame he probably can't afford one here. Rah rah rah! We're going to smash the oiks!

A slow-burning sunset fading low over clattering yacht masts set the scene for my last glimpse of the charming Isle of Wight (bottom). The weather was great, the people welcoming and the beaches sandy...if you close your eyes you would almost believe you were not even standing on Old Albion's fine shores. Then you hear the familiar drone of a Vespa engine...and get the hell out of Sir Weller's way! Now...thats entertainment.  

* fatwac - Fat American Tourist With A Camera (c) The Artist Formerly Known As Jaybs 2007

PART 1 OF A RIDICULOUSLY LONG POST ABOUT THE ISLE OF WIGHT...EAST COAST

Bonjour ma cheries, I'm back in da hood after my final summer sojourn, just in time to catch the start of a long, dark descent into the winter of our discontent on This Fair Isle. And so...onto the atmospheric Isle of Wight. T'was August bank holiday, arriving off the ferry from Portsmouth into the town of Ryde and I was enchanted to discover the local train was actually a retired vintage tube that shuffled out a couple of hundred metres over the rickety Victorian pier to meet the ferry (below). 

I stayed in the lovely Shanklin Old Village on the island's east coast, where the streets are awash with beautiful thatched cottages from days of yore lit up with pretty fairy lights (below top). It was here I first noticed that the thinking gentleman's favoured sartorial choice seemed to be either Fred Perry, Fred Perry or Fred Perry. I'd never seen so many middle aged beerguts straining against too-tight casual apparel. Even the charity shops featured cut price jobbies in their fabulous window displays (below bottom). When I heard the joyous din of the pissy little Lambretta motor for the millionth time, the penny finally dropped that I had landed smack bang in the midst of the 2010 Isle of Wight scooter rally. Jeeesusssss....three days of this I grumbled as I jauntily threw myself into the hedgerows under cover of darkness for the fourth time to get out of the way of Scunthorpe Scooter Club's finest.

   

I was impressed of course, to see this quintessentially British scooter culture very much alive and kicking against the pricks (whoever they are these days. Tescos probably). Predictably enough, The Modfather Weller was in residence doing a show at Carisbrooke Castle and most of the faithful were around the same vintage with a few young, new-school hipsters thrown in for good measure.  

Shanklin's beach was a pretty, vast expanse of calm water, full of families having crazy summer fun in the sunny weather. After hiring my deckchair and busting out the knotted handkerchief on my head, I exposed my deathly pallor to the full vitamin D experience and kicked back with a serving of Irvine Welsh. I soon realised however, the best fun to be had on the beach is still being buried up to your neck in sand while your sister fucks off into the water threatening never to return (below bottom). Good times.  

By accident I happened upon the Shanklin Chine (below), a beautiful gorge leading from the lower edges of the village out to the seafront via a tiny enchanted forest. Visitors can amble through this oasis of spectacular, fertile wilderness - featuring an imposing waterfall and more than 150 varieties of wild plants, as well as the infamous red squirrel...now all but extinct on mainland Britain. After an extremely pleasant stroll through the chine, I paused to examine the squawking avery of exotic birds before downing a divine cream tea - scones and cakes all homemade by the lovely chief cook and bottlewashing lady on the premises.  

There is much picturesque walking and bike riding to be done on the Isle of Wight, and the Shanklin to Ventnor section of the 67 mile coastal path almost got the better of me. After the local Tourist Information Centre battleaxe's confident advice that 'its only an hour!' I set off on my jaunt, humming a gay tune, not realising the crazy dame meant an hour uphill, carving through overgrown foliage like some wizzed-up 'Nam vet, negotiating prehistoric fallen tree trunks, slithering between rock crevices and falling on my arse through endless puddles of mud. It all became worthwhile after I stumbled upon this brilliant local enterprise (below) selling homemade wares from the Luccombe Jam Man. A table full of jam, an honesty box, a handwritten sign...job done. Won't get that down the Crapham High Street. 

Finally surfacing back into civilisation...I felt the call of a restorative snifter and came upon this curious establishment (below) in Ventnor. Not afraid to fly the the old union flag with gay abandon, this pub positively revelled in Great Britain's halcyon days, displaying paraphernalia from those long-forgotten times when the men were real men and the women were glad about it. The locals gathered round, banging on about local issues the way local people do (...are YOU local?)...and a merry atmosphere pervaded the place on this beautiful sunny August bank holiday.