What’s going on?

What’s going on has been MIA. Fortunately it doesn’t need Romain Gavras directed video explaining its absence. Phew. It’s back but who knows how long for. Not me. I know nothing. Nadathing.

Stating the obvious
Image Andy Matthews

If you can, you must go and see Bill Cunningham New York. It’s beautiful (bar the incongruous insertion of a Coldplay tune) and you’ll wonder how he hasn’t been knocked off his bike more. UK screening info here.

I’m listening to a lot of Grimes. Her music reminds me of nights spent walking across sand dunes, head not altogether in the right place, eyes cold but wide open. Listen and love.

I made some playlists:
the simulacrum is true
we was like mork and mindy

Lately all I want to wear are chunky jumpers and shirts. I like the look of:
Colourblock shirt from Oasis
Kara bell sleeve shirt from Reiss
Polka dot silk shirt from Equipment
Red crew neck from YMC
Freudian blouse from Antipodium

I’m reading Care of Wooden Floors by Will Wiles and the Complete Stories of Flannery O’Connor. Flannery rules.

That’s it for now. Peas out.

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Hawksmoor Spitalfields Bar: Hey, where’d you get your shirt?

I hit up the soft launch of Hawksmoor Spitalfields Bar on Saturday night. 50% off food? Yes, please. Downstairs from the restaurant, is a dark, tiled, slippy space that unashamedly smacks of its stripper past. We were parked on stools at the end of the bar which suited us as we were plied with cocktail samples and at close quarters with the staffs’ shirt collection – it’s vast – sort of Ace Ventura meets some 80s film with Matthew Broderick in. The rest of the bar (60 covers) is all booths, high tables and stools.

We ate burgers, chips and chicken wings. We wanted the lobster roll but, of course, it was off the menu at the soft launch. They should have removed it from the menu as we witnessed pretty much everyone ask for it, only to be told they couldn’t have it. Oh, disappointment weighs down with such heavy memory. The burgers were awesome, as they should be, it’s Hawksmoor. The menu includes other meaty treats – hot dogs, chicken burgers, poutine… Drinks were good, ten to choose from and we downed a few and they were all decent, the Green and Red Margarita probably won it for me, the Nuclear Banana was a dinner in itself and the Marmalade Cocktail was suitably decadent. Service was good, well-shirted and attentive.

I see it as a haven for men wearing suits that don’t fit, drinking man-cocktails, thinking they’re Don Draper, dicks cushioned in expensive underwear that should have their name sewn in, burger juice dribbling down chins. If you go: sit at the bar, definitely don’t take a date, take your mate, get pissed, eat burgers. I’ll probably be back, but not for the lobster roll.

Nuclear Banana (Apologies for the lame-o dark Instagram.)

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I saw Shrigley at Hayward Gallery

The best thing was a dead rat.


The best thing was a dead rat. You know why it was the best? Because I hadn’t seen it before and I almost missed it.

I’m not a hater. I swear, I’m really not. You know what you’re going to get and you get it. I honestly like it better when it’s in a book that I can flick through while I’m checking Twitter, watching Come Dine With Me repeats, hungover, eating a Snickers.

I laughed. I did. A few times. Out loud. I didn’t love it. I don’t want to think about it. The exhibition made me think how grotty the gallery seemed. I don’t think it was grotty. What was I thinking?

A smile in a dark room. A suppressed urge. A rubbed out question mark.

I don’t really want to share it with anyone. I don’t want to talk about it. Especially not in a gallery full of people walking too slowly, unblinking, cramming in meaning, projecting onto a taxidermied dog in a perspex box holding a placard – ‘I’m dead’.

We’re not dead.

I didn’t hate it.

Brain Activity at Hayward Gallery

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