37 Mad Men

So...a change to this series, in fact to Mad Men as a whole-Don's inner conscience is given a voice. This is important, not least of all because we, the audience, are now party to his thoughts, his reasoning, his justification, if he has any.

Although so far we have only been given an episode's snapshot into this, I hope the writer's persist with the techn ique, because it clearly shows a tortured soul struggling to find any semblance of satisfaction in his life.

More humane than his previous womanising-self, Don now gives off an air of sadness, and when you consider what he had-a wife, three children, a home; a seemingly perfect, American-dream lifestyle, you wonder where it all went wrong.

Alcohol? The extravagent, moorish attitude of the American advertising world of the 60's? A sign of the times? Or simply a twisted individual with no morals, or just very, very flawed but determined to become better.

There is no one absolute reason I suspect, instead each factor amalgamates to give rise to one complex human. How to be Good, and How to be Bad, by Don Draper, or Matthew Weiner.

I sympathised with him by this episode, the 8th of the 4th series. His inner turmoil seemed genuine, and he appeared to be trying to fix his broken self. Then however, you'd catch him staring through the remnants of another glass and see the fragments of his life distilled in amongst them.

Sad, that downward spiral. Chilling, if you're on it, for there is no way out for Don, is there?

'Down in the shadows of your deepest secrets
I sleep next to the precepts you hold most dear
Your heart is in my province hour upon hour
I shiver when you feel the cold,
Everything you say I hear

Like a bomb and its fuse,
We bring bright light
But I could be a devil to you
I could bite like a tarantula
Right through the skin
And leave my poison dripping

Deliciously unsuspecting
Protecting you from all harm
Except perhaps from these arms that hold you'

37. Mad. (Men).

Stretched out 37

Does everyone try and extend their birthday celebrations for as long as possible, or is it just me? Well, Elvis says I'm pretty sad to do it, but then again, why not? So last week I went out for dinner on Monday, got promoted on Tuesday, was cooked an amazing steak on Wednesday (this is sounding a little Craig David, hmmmm) followed by more tasty food on Thursday (clams and chorizo amongst others), saw Shapeshifter live on Friday then danced to Marky and finally topped it all off by Mulletover on Saturday dressed in typically ghoulish fancy dress.

It was truly a celebratory week (and not just my birthday either), surrounded by a mix of friends old and new, some very old and some very new, and all pretty special, some very spooky Halloween gear, good banter, seriously energetic dancing (for 6 hours non-stop-no joke), a full game of 11-a-side on Hackney Marshes (and a goal), a number of fine wines, some brilliant presents (you know who you are), a dab of fake blood, a flatscreen tv and would you believe it 250 quid credit note from npower! I could hardly believe my luck.

Yes, this week has been...epic. And that's just out of work. Our busiest booking period of the Winter holiday season draws to a close in a few weeks so we are pulling out all sorts of marketing tricks to sell as many skiing and Winter sun holidays as possible. It's a numbers game and they just keep on getting bigger and bigger. How long can you keep growing for? Forever, if you're wearing the right shoes...

So, 37. Now that week of amazingness is up, you and I are going to have a sit down, and a proper chat. Tiik haain? Acha hai. Although, I have to warn you, I'm off to Berlin in a bit, and this week booked to escape to St Anton, France and maybe a little festival in the desert called Transahara. But we'll work something out.

37 into 28

Strange to think I could possibly be turning 28 about....now. Are you sure? No. I'm dubious. Take the dub out and you're not left with much...of both that word, or music, or life in general. I'm happy to say the first mix of my 28th year my ears have the pleasure listening to is by my good friend Maarten Klein: http://soundcloud.com/maarten-klein/big-daddy-klein-dubstep-mix.

Does anyone else find your birthday always seems a long way off until suddenly it's upon you, having crept up in the night and waited patiently for the right time to pounce. I can't quite believe it's almost the end of October already, in a year that is flying by at an unprecedented rate, twisting and turning and throwing up surprises along the way. And with plans afoot for much of next year the future looks to be mapped out ahead of me, which I both love and hate at the same time; excitement at events that I know will be amazing, but also wary of making too many plans, planning your life away as Randle would say, no spontanaeity...not that I really agree with that, though it made a refreshing change to be free last Friday after work and meet up for impromptu drinks with the gang in Clapham.

Mad Men. Is anyone watching series 4 on the iplayer? Loved the first 3, and I wasn't aware any more were being filmed so assumed that it was being brought a natural conclusion as 3 wound down, only to be thrown a curveball in the finale and to suddenly discover 4 was airing just a few weeks after...excellent timing. I absolutely loved the first 3; the detail, the intrigue, the slick dialogue and character development. I realise that the writers reached a point where they had to shake up the storyline and refresh certain dynamics and settings, but for me this series is not as good as the others so far because I think the creators are now unsure of where to take the story, and more precisely, Don, next. However, they may suddenly ramp it up at any moment and leave us in admiration at the new direction...but I can't see it happening somehow, which is a shame. Has it run its course? I'm off to watch episode 7 to find out.

Final thing. Loved this line from 7 Days this week. Ben's mum is talking about how she once starred in a pantomime whilst in prison many years ago...to which her date asks: "Was it a captive audience?" Genius.

37 (Not in service)

37 has been staying out for the Summer, playing games in the rain. France, Ibiza and Portugal, a European dream that convinces me I won't be living in London forever. What do we gain from being here? Opportunity-yes. Money-yes. Friends-yes. A range of things to do, from culture to sport, parties to parks, London does have a lot to offer.

But what about quality of life? Good food. Beautiful weather. No stress. No hassle getting to work. No feeling like life brushes past you at a million miles an hour and you better jump on board else blink and you miss it. There may be lots going on in London, but do you get the most you can out of it? Are you spread so thinly seeing different people, running here to there whilst also doing the best you can at work that you don't actually have a chance to stop and appreciate it?

I love it here...don't get me wrong. But the cost of living, and amount I spend on holidays to escape the hectic London lifestyle means I cannot afford to see the city as I would like to. There's a side to London which remains out of reach, and once you get into a routine of a certain way of life it is increasingly difficult to detach yourself from it, pull back from the circumstance and situation. How to say no to any of the numerous parties, birthdays, events taking place every weekend, how to pass up the opportunity to hang out with friends, when you know that by doing so will leave you broke again at the end of the month? How to break free from this vicious circle?! And you don't really want to anyway because you think, well soon I'll be older and things will be different ...

One option-to move abroad, where you won't know as many people, as many goings on. You'll stay in more, experience more culture on your own, save money, find other interests apart from socialising...the quality of life might be better, meaning there isn't as much need for release on a weekend. But would you end up going out just as much, meeting new people, new groups to spend your time with? Would the non-stop nature of work, sport, going out simply be transported wherever you go? I guess it depends where...and even if you did intentionally move to a quieter, more relaxed way of life, would you enjoy it, or soon crave your old lifestyle

Carlsberg don't do...

We open to a guy walking into his kitchen as he makes a call on his mobile. He turns on the tap, filling a large metallic watering can which gives off a loud, echoing sound.

"Morning boss... afraid the washing machine has broken...burst pipes, there's water everywhere."
Boss replies: "Not to worry, see you tomorrow."

We cut to him wandering round his flat, watering his plants with the can as he makes another call.

"Sorry baby, can't make today, my mum needs some help round the house."
"Sure honey", she replies, "give her my love."

Entering the lounge with the phone to his ear yet again, still holding the empty watering can.

"Mum, work need me to stay late again...you know how much I want that promotion." Swinging the can through the air in a wide arc. "I won't be able to make dinner."
"I understand son, we're very proud of you."

Voiceover: Carlsberg don't do excuses...

We cut to him in the clubhouse dressed in his golfing gear with his mates, enjoying a well-deserved Carlsberg after their round.

Voiceover: But if they did, they'd probably be the best excuses in the world.

The Plough and the Stars III

At our old house in France, called Marreau Haut, my bedroom was upstairs, in the eaves of the house, and had a huge wooden beam running directly through the room, cutting it in two. Other beams covered the ceiling too which gave the impression of being inside a giant treehouse all the time, surely the only way to live these days. But an even better feature than this was one which allowed me to gaze at the stars every night-the balcony built into the roof, which afforded a panoramic, sweeping view across the valley, awash with a patchwork quilt of fields.

One of the best aesethetic qualities of this region, to me at least, is the undulating depth of the landscape, so that as you take in these vistas, you could actually be in a Constable landscape painting, such is the vivid contrast of colours, the picture-perfect nature that awaits every turn in the road of brow of the hill.

Can you guess what took centre stage once that burning ball of orange dipped below the horizon, leaving the parched land to recover before its next assault? How did you know...the Plough, in all its glory, and a night sky to rival the beautiful scenary below it, not with a dazzling array of colours but instead a sense a grandiose and depth that other worlds should, you know? And all that other existential crap, looking beyond mankind, transgressing boundaries.

Every night I would climb up from the balcony onto the roof, take up a position on the sloping tiles so I wouldn't fall off, and, beer in hand, watch the evening unfold before my eyes. Each year during August the sky would light up with shimmering tail after disappearing trail of shooting stars, as if someone up there was sprinkling stardust over the world, coating it with a fine layer of sugar. This was better than any firework display could ever hope to be, illuminating the blackness above, the entirity of the galaxy stretching out above.

It was exhilarating, thinking that up there shards of rocks hurtled towards the Earth, crashing through the atmosphere and becoming so scorched that it burned brightly as it disintegrates, twisting away from, the intense, white heat, causing yet more immolation, paying the ultimate sacrifice for straying too close to us, the alluring pull of the Earth proving too strong for these doomed rocks.

Overdramatic? Maybe; they are only rocks after all, but when you think about it, that was what was going on, and I did a lot of thinking, up on that roof, staring at the Plough, and the stars.

The Plough and the Stars part II

The next time the Plough cropped up (sorry) in my life with any striking regularity was in south-west France, deep in the picturesque, rolling countryside where I lived and worked cutting grass and serving behind the bar at a golf course near Villeneuve-sur-Lot in the Aquataine region.


Rows of vines adorn the slopes like a battalion of soldiers all stood to attention. These are interspersed with fields of sunflowers, rene claudes, prunes, green-gages, corn and cattle that account for the majority of the produce here. Between this eclectic scene of nature lie the farms themselves, keepers of this verdant, tranquil corner of France. Life moves slowly; dictated by the weather (and the church bells), the farmers toil from day break, when the mist rising off the land gives the place an ethereal, mystical feel, to midday, when they religiously down their tools and take a well earned break for the hottest part of the day.


Throughout this region the seasonal fruit-pickers carry out the back-breaking work of collecting the ripened fruit. They also pack up their things, and, resting weary limbs, head to the farmhouse where a delicious array of tradtional French food awaits, thick soup, crammed with vegetables, salads laced in homemade dressing, meats, du vin, du pain, beef tomatoes is olive oil, sauted potatoes, the lot, all cooked by the farmer's wife to keep the workers going. Cheese and desert follows, and as eyelids become heavy and drowsiness kicks in, un petite siesta is called for.

It's not just the farm-hands who lead this lifestyle either-the local builders, carpenters, electricians, plumbers, will convene at the village restaurant for lunch, where a simple yet filling meal is served every lunchtime, accompanied with a carafe of wine. After a quick nap, they all resume their work after a strictly obseved two hour break. The 35-hour week is probably no longer de rigeur across France, but out here in the sticks as I said life moves slowly, not simply on a day-to-day basis, but also in terms of embracing social evolution. These sleepy backwaters of France will never change I don't think, and they, and regions such as the Lot-et-Garonne, retain much of their beauty and charm because of it.

But back to the Plough, which stands unwavering day and night, forever unseen by half the world, and not given its dues by the other half. I digressed a little there, but I wanted to convey the circumstance with which I was lucky enough to encounter the Plough ever balmy summer night for five years. But that will have to wait...37 minutes are up.

The Plough and the Stars

The Plough has cropped up at many times in my life, to the point where I feel I real affinity to it. It's my favourite constellation the Plough, simple in design, so easy to visualise the sweeping arc of a sickle fitting into its contours.

This set of seven stars first rose to prominence when I stayed in Bantry, on the beautiful coastline of southern Ireland. The trip itself was moving in many ways-feeling a strong sense of belonging because of the people there; the way they treat you, the warmth with which they engage with you, an openess, an honesty, always ready to crack (craic) a joke at their own expense, not taking themselves too seriously but rather living life. This really struck a chord with me, at one point I half considered going to live there, just to see how significant a role these traits in the people around you could play in shaping your life.

Sleeping in an old wood cabin in December, freezing our asses off, trying to stay as close to the heater as possible without burning the whole place down...it was on one of those nights, sat on the wall down by the farm, a few glasses down, that, glancing up at the night sky, the Plough caught my eye, glistening as it was, brighter than the rest. Perhaps it was just me, or the drink, but from that moment on I always searched out the Plough on a clear night and felt contented when I found it, as if I was now looking in the right direction. I don't know whether this familiarity symbolised anything deeper, heading the right way in life, like a guiding light, but I felt a strong connection to it.

Pretentious bullshit Elgar? Maybe, but I don't care, if you believe in something there's nothing that wrong with it.

A ploughed 37. To be harvested tomorrow.

Laaaadon town

Break the bank. Go mad. Splash out. Lose control. These are the things we encourage in this country, this ‘Great’ Britain of ours. Go drinking on the King’s Road so we can pretend we’re posh bastards with cash to burn. Why? To put on an act, to make believe a life. Slouching round Chelsea with an exaggerated swagger like you’ve just done a shoot for Calvin Klein. Don’t-care-when-I-get-there attitude, won’t get out of bed for less that 5k-cut the bullshit! Reality check.

If only people knew how much I was really worth; I am either a millionaire who inherited a fortune, unbeknownst to anyone, or I’m skint with barely a tenner to my name. Which is more interesting, more exciting? Trying to survive in London when you’ve got nothing makes for a lot of fun. Jumping the tube morning and evening, running the risk the pigs will be camped at the top of the escalator’s to your stop one day, hitting you with a fine that you can’t afford to pay else you wouldn’t be doing it in the first place. Scraping enough together to be able to eat for the week-Sainsbury’s Basics has got a lot going for it make no mistake, feeding the poor of the nation.

There’s a surprising amount you can get away with in this majestic, filthy capital of ours. Everywhere you look down-and-outs exist, ones who have fallen off the wagon, the allure of the city proving their downfall. Their transgression? The hope of a better life that gives way all too easily to the harsh reality of getting smashed. Whatever your vice is: gangs, parties, drugs, alcohol, knives, guns, it’s easy to be sucked into the wrong crowd.

Let me paint a scene for you: At a party you’re pissed, offered a line, you need some fresh air and a cigarette, you stumble outside lost in the haze as the fix rushes through your veins. Suddenly you’re going under, not from the drug, but under a hail of blows that you didn’t see coming from the gang that materialises around you, as if from the thin air you try to gulp down, hoping it’ll sober you up, and quickly. But that’s a mistake, and it’s going to cost you dearly. Because now you’re seeing clearly and feeling more confident as you drunkenly weigh up your chances of taking these youngsters, stand up for yourself and teach them a lesson. Not in London.

You wade into them, arms flailing, failing to see the glint of the flashing knife until it’s too late, helpless to react as it rushes up to meet your forearm, slicing into the flesh with surprising ease. Blood spurts forcefully out of the narrow, agonising wound, warm, comforting if only for the briefest of seconds before realisation sinks in that this is just the start. You look into the eyes of those deranged kids, high on something, just kids you want to shout, and you see vicious hatred imprinted on their minds.

This botched mugging is about to get worse simply because you fought back; you have enraged the disaffected youth, and they are going to make you pay. Adrenaline disperses the pain in your arm; the brain depresses the distress signal that flickers the body into action. The will to live heightens your senses, manipulating your arms and legs into instinctive action. Although severely impaired, your left hand acts as a shield whilst the right lashes out, hoping to deter the vultures in Adidas that encircle you, fixing you with their twisted grins of amusement, the thrill of the chase. Like a wounded animal you fight on in desperation, all the while being backed into a dark alley by the gang, away from civilisation, if you can call it that.

Quietly pleading now, realising the futility of reasoning with these debased human beings, their final act happens so fast; they were simply toying with you before. A pincer movement, a blur of hands and feet and metal whirling as one towards you, and, impossible to withstand, you collapse under the flurry of blows to your head and chest. In those last few agonising seconds you are acutely aware of the contrast between your own sheer horror, and the calm, remorseless nature of the boy that stands over you, whose name you will never know, as he plunges the knife deep into your chest.

There is no escape from this madness of the capital, this disease that afflicts the big smoke, which on this night has chosen you as its latest victim.

Music is my muse

Music is my muse; I sleep the waking night
Dancing a reverie of dreams,
Longing for the song that haunts and corrupts my soul.
The tune that strikes a chord within me,
Reverberates through the annals of my psyche.
Stirrings of a bass-line seep into my consciousness, cascades through my mind,
Released in an outpouring of kinetic exuberance that I dontate to the dancefloor.
Music is my muse; enraptured by her beauty,
I long for the murmur of a beat which pulsates through my veins,
Blossoms so beautifully into a crescendo,
Spills over and eclipses all that has gone before.
Rapture melts away into bliss, and
Music is my muse, for I know no other.
She of emblematic form, emphatic guise,
Keeps me awake at night because I embrace her lies.
Allow rythym to wash over the synapses that stir the soul,
Infuse a sense of belonging with a clarity that nothing else matters,
For deep down, in symbiotic harmony,
Music is my muse, and I her slave.