Album of the Day: Robert Wyatt - Rock Bottom
This is a mess. The vocals sound reluctant. It’s not exactly structured songwriting. I don’t think that was the idea. It descends to nursery rhymes at the end. Ivor Cutler comes close to saving it.
⭐ ⭐
Buzzed: Norwood Park’s Summer Sizzle licence sparks controversy as Council considers 10k capacity event
A return to running for the first time on Friday morning post-Covid shit. I hit the Clap’ham rush hour. This seems to start at 6am these days.
The Common was busy with other early runners. One enthusiastic young fella was even bare chested as he pounded the mean streets of SW4.
Steady the buffers, pal.
It wasn’t just the early runners who were getting the worm. The skateboard park was also busy with midsummer yoof.
It was a speedy run. That’s what happens when you have a work shift that you have to get back to the flat for.
Some random ebay browsing took place. I’m keen to snaffle up a copy of Lee Dorsey’s Yes We Can. It averages for £100 on ebay.
No We Can’t, etc.
Various flat chores took place throughout the day. I saw quite a few sights along South Lambeth Road whilst cleaning the windows.
Riding an electric Lime bicycle with a FUCK OFF wide screen TV being carried in the basket is a brave move, Madam.
I retreated to the garden for a tidy up.
Oh boy.
This has been neglected by me for the past six weeks or so. The basement flat has had the builders in. They’ve treated the garden as their builder’s yard. I kept my distance.
But enough was enough. It needed a bloody good going over.
The main irritation is the number of chicken wing bones that have been tossed into the garden. It’s a S Ldn thing, etc.
SHOUT OUT to the two young females walking down the road wearing party hats (edgy angle, natch) whilst carrying an industrial supply of toilet roll.
That’s something to celebrate.
As was the appearance of the South Lambeth Road singing and cycling window cleaner. He’s been a regular fixture around these parts for the best part of three decades now.
A brief Lidl run followed.
It’s Euros Week in the middle aisle. Imagine the disappointment of receiving an unofficial Lidl England kit.
I was free for an afternoon of art. I took on the Vauxhall Art Trail.
To Newport Street Gallery!
I bloody love this place.
Warhol, Bacon, Gav Turk, Banksy, Emin, Lucas, John Squire, Jeff Coombs (hurrah!) and Damien Hurst, all curated by DH at his NPS Gallery. Right on my doorstep. Bloody brilliant.
I tried The Beaconsfield, but it appeared to be closed.
I cycled on instead to the Sunday Painter. Having an art gallery along South Lambeth Road would have been unthinkable even ten years ago. It’s a poky, but often rewarding.
Harminder Judge’s bleak paintings were incredibly atmospheric.
Early evening and out went the shout of: To The Globe!
A Shrew needed to be Tamed.
I have to be diplomatic here. I have every respect for anyone who takes to the stage, learns a tricky set of lines, and then performs in front of randoms.
But blimey. This was utter shite.
I did the rare thing of walking at the interval.
Back at the flat and A rocked up after an evening of being on the piss in the Peter May watching the ‘rrey. It was a rare his ‘n’ hers night in S Ldn.
*shhhhh* don’t tell the Essex cats.