(Lat VIII) The team

Well played everyone; game of three halves; kept on fighting till the final whistle; no prima donor kebabs; all organic.

Must do it again next year.

See all you beautiful folks later, or as they say in France...pomme de terre

x

(Lat VII) In the heat of the night

(Lat VI) Don't take drugs!

(Lat IV) The girls who love sausage

We met these debauched anarchists in the woods dancing to boogie woogie. They appear to be interested in bringing down society through the heavy use of PVC. As a serious political activist himself, Jean-Pierre Le Fabulous applauds the effort.

(Lat V) farty spice on the sweet taste of Malibu

(Latitude III) A new play

Waiting for Golum, by Jean-Pierre Le Fabulous

Act 1, Scene 1

Setting: A field in Suffolk

Scott: I feel a quickening in the air.

The good doctor: You may have wind.

Scott: It were as if we are poised on the edge of something great, doctor.

The good doctor: I see. (a pause) As your doctor I advise complete rest.

(Latitude II) Rules of the dance

The following is an extract from the Encyclopedia Groovatanica (copywright Disco Shed Publishing 2008).

Dance (from French word pomme de terre) is an art form that generally refers to movement of the body, usually rhythmic and to music (see bottom picture), used as a form of expression, social interaction or presented in a spiritual or performance setting (see top picture).

Dance is also used to describe methods of non-verbal communication between humans or animals, such as a mating dance (see middle picture), motion in inanimate objects (the leaves danced in the wind), and certain musical forms or genres.

Latitude Festival

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

From the book of the Good Doctor

Please enjoy some its and bits from this year's Latitude Festival where 25,000 people came together in a Suffolk field to celebrate Scott and JP turning 30.

London loves

Ben works as a security guard in Soho. He talks about his homeland Ghana and the loves he left behind, in particular a dish made from cassava with a name like a Moulin Rouge dancer.

Pavement philosophy

(SUNDAY. 3pm) -- In the never-ending quest for truth it is important to search both high and LOW. Sometimes the answer can be staring straight up at you. Look at this nugget of wisdom I found on the pavement on Great Malborough Street this afternoon.

In case you can't read it, it says: "If everything on earth were rational, nothing would happen."

Hmmm, it's rub your chin time.

A brief history of 'Google it'

(SUNDAY. 11am) -- Here’s a little thing you can do. Go to Google and type in the letter ‘a’ and if your computer does that predictive thing where it offers you a history of your previous search terms in the drop-down bar, take a minute to actually read what you’ve been looking at over the last few months. It can be quite revealing – a window on your own world.
Here’s my ten most recent entries for ‘t’:

Tom Waits European tour dates
Tyson James Toback
Tube map
Teamwork
Tfl
Travels with Kapuscinski
The Arabian nights
Tesco
TV guide
Toys r us

An eclectic mix, don’t you think?

Got the postcard

(SATURDAY. 7pm) -- Retrieved Lady Di from outside the office. It was such a beautiful day, blue skies and puffy white clouds and the West End bathed in sunshine. As a Brit you learn from an early age to be disappointed by the skies, so when summer reverts to type and actually delivers some real summer weather it can be rather overwhelming.

London looked so great that I bought this souvenir (see image above) from a stall on Regent’s Street. Some fabulous highlights I’m sure you’ll agree, but have you noticed the glaring factual error? Answers of course on a postcard to the usual address.

Rode home to Dalston via Regent’s Canal. The serene scene was slightly marred by Lady Di, who has begun emitting terrible crunching and squeaking noises from her wobbly front wheel. The sound at times can resemble birdcalls -- I’m sure I saw a Canada goose eyeing her suspiciously from the canal. Definitely got to get that front wheel sorted out.

On the subject of things that fly, the Serpentine in Hyde Park was the venue for the Red Bull Flugtag this afternoon. This is one of those things where people with a slight death wish run off the end of a pier strapped into a homemade flying machine. Usually they go headfirst into the water as the contraption they’ve spent days making proves utterly useless.

Since extra points are awarded for the artistic merit of the machine, the more outrageous the better. Last time the event took place in London, the winning design featured a baby grand piano and a chicken-flinging contraption. All brilliant, pointless fun. Sadly, it was an all-ticket affair so I missed out on the magnificent men in their flying machines.

Notes from underground (video)

(SATURDAY. 10am) -- Dolly reads her favorite thing heard over the loudspeaker on the London underground, and shows that tube drivers can see the lighter side of life in the dark.

Getting your Tates mixed up (pictures)

(SATURDAY. 10am) -- Here are some choice images from the 'Late at the Tate' event. The first few feature my mate Casual Rob doing what he does best. Enjoy.

Getting your Tates mixed up

(SATURDAY. 10am) -- Failure is always the best way to learn, so the song goes. Last night I found out that ‘Late at Tate’ happens at Tate Britain, not Tate Modern. Unfortunately this pearl of wisdom didn’t arrive till I was stood outside the later venue on the phone to Casual Rob, who politely pointed out my error.

One underground trip later and installed in the correct Tate with drink in one hand and the other hand poised thoughtfully on chin, I started to unwind.
One of the large rooms off the main hall of the gallery had been given over to the event. At the far end of the room a DJ was playing a set with a 19th century landscape as her backdrop (that's her above). Lots of smartly dressed types, some old, some young, milled around talking smartly among the marble busts on plinths and at least one seascape by Turner. It was like being in the most expensively-decorated pub in the world.

The bachelorettes were evading me so I went to have a look at some Francis Bacons in the gallery’s permanent collection. Probably not the best tactic on reflection. Were I to meet the woman of my dreams, the sado-masochistic musings of Bacon could sour the mood a tad.

Still, the man was a genius. Casual Rob’s friend Dolly told me that Bacon was one of the last modern artists to be trained to draw in the classical style, and that somewhere within those distorted images is a Renaissance painting pulled out of all recognition. This is how Bacon himself described his work: "‘What I want to do is to distort the thing far beyond the appearance, but in the distortion to bring it back to a recording of the appearance." Can you see what he means?

Later back at Dolly’s flat in Hammersmith we feasted on bacon sandwiches (in homage to Francis) as she read to us from a book of London trivia she’d bought in the Tate’s souvenir shop. A highlight was a selection of memorable loudspeaker announcements by tube train drivers down the years. Here’s one: “To the man who has just amusingly exposed his bum to me when getting off the train. Can I suggest he leaves the station and goes straight to a gym so he can do something about his unsightly behind.”

Good to know those train drivers are not too afflicted by the subterranean blues to lose their sense of humour.

Let's make Wednesday the new Monday

(FRIDAY. 5pm) -- Almost the weekend, the city beckons and I have a revelation. The problem with Friday, I realize, is that it’s too far away from Monday morning (the last one, not the next). This means that by the time it comes around you’ve already forgotten how awful you felt crawling into work after last weekend’s self-abuse, and you’re ready to do it all again.

Looking at the problem from all angles -- and I have – the only solution I’d say would be to extend the weekend through to Tuesday, better still Wednesday, so that our hangover looms larger in our memory come Friday and we can all do the honourable thing and stay in. I’ll suggest it to the government.

Tonight I’m going to the Tate (London’s biggest contemporary art gallery) for a drink with my mate Casual Rob. ‘Late at Tate’ the event is called. In a nutshell, it’s an opportunity to wander through an art gallery with a beer in hand. Casual Rob tells me the prospects of meeting refined and beautiful bachelorettes (he puts it slightly differently) are fair to good. Though judging by the Sahara-like drought that has afflicted my love life (or lack thereof) recently, I put my own prospects at poor to God-awful.

The long distance from Soho to the Tate means I’ll have to leave Lady Di chained up outside work (see picture of her loitering near Carnaby Street above). She’s looking a bit sorry for herself recently, what with having only one functioning brake and that wobbly front wheel. Fear the trip to the Southbank could be a bridge too far (literally, if Lady Di gives out when I’m crossing the Thames). Really must get that front wheel fixed.