Siany’s Neighborhood

So, I've been using my Typepad account instead of VOX, and whenever I come back over this way I have shit loads of spam comments to delete. Surely, VOX, if you delete a spam account, it should automatically delete all of the spam comments they've left as well?

Go forth and fill your libraries with media.

Seriously, thanks to everyone for being so amazing and patient. You are the reason I love Vox.

~daisy

I was just told that the Amazon Conduit will be fixed by tomorrow. I will post here as soon as I get word that it's back up and running.

I know this has been frustrating and I am sorry there wasn't more I could do to make it less so. I really appreciate your patience though.

Cheers,

daisy

Bad news. As many of you have probably noticed, the Amazon Conduit was not fixed in the last week's release. Unfortunately, there was an undetected bug that is preventing the conduit from working.

We are working on this bug fix and hope to have the Conduit back up and running this week.

I will keep you posted.

Thank you for being so patient.

~daisy

Brett Anderson: Best Buttocks in Britpop

Thankfully it wasn’t too long before Brett Anderson time. Many of my schoolgirl fantasies featured Brett’s razorblade cheekbones and shapely derriere, so I was eager to appraise whether the ravages of time and illegal substances had dampened this effect. Joy of joys, he’s definitely still got it.

Stuart Waterman lets me get away with a lot, from accusing Akon of being a spit-roasting misogynist, to dissing The Octopus Project. And this time, on My Chemical Toilet, he's been kind enough to let me review the Jack Daniels' Birthday Set. You can read the rest of it here. Beware: it includes gratuitous Carl Barat-bashing, vomit, fangirl gushing about Brett Anderson, and details of my whooping crush on Rosie Vanier. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Blog Action Day

6 comments

Blog Action Day is every October 15th, when blogger are asked to post something about a single issue to show our strength and conviction as an online community. It's a great way to feel connected to the greater good, and the participation of so many bloggers to support the world's leading non-profit organizations is something you can do to help, right now. By blogging today, you're supporting some of the world's leading non-profits and sharing your voice for change.

This year's topic is climate change, and we'd love to read your thoughts on the topic. If you participate, leave us a link to your post in the comments, so we know to check out your post!

Go to www.blogactionday.org to learn more, get a badge for your blog showing your participation, and see some ideas for your post on climate change.

Can't wait to read your posts!

~ daisy

My Chemical Toilet

I like the homoerotic camaraderie between the boys in the video. They seem like those homo-repressed types who make a big thing about spitroasting “sexy bitches” together when all they want to do is stroke each other’s hair. And then bum each other.

In a recent post on My Chemical Toilet about Akon's latest ditty, 'Sexy Bitch', the always-hilarious Stuart Waterman profiled some women for their opinion about Akon's choice of lyrics. And included this delightful comment from yours truly. For more reactions from some lovely ladybloggers who are far more witty and acerbic than I am, you can read the rest of the post here. In the meantime, I'll be checking my Google analytics to make sure that reference to spit-roasting doesn't prompt any unwanted correspondence...

The Best Boozer in SE13

I don’t usually write on here with band reviews and the like (although heaven knows why, because since I started blogging on Vox I’ve seen some corking performances, including Jane Birkin, Ladytron, the Prodigy, Brett Anderson and a double dose of the Manics). But lately I’ve been feeling even more love than usual for my fabulous local boozer, the Fox in Lewisham, and their regular live music events organised by the rather wondrous TwoBob.

But before I tell you about the band I saw last night, first let me set the scene. There are parts of South East London, like Greenwich and Blackheath, in which it’s socially acceptable to be seen. Those areas have their own small but vibrant scenes, with cocktail bars, cinemas, restaurants, music venues and all that type of thing. These places are listed in Time Out, or the Metro, and they are considered by many to be a pleasant destination for an evening of well-behaved frivolity. But areas like these are the exception rather than the rule, the few and far between hubs of light and warmth in an otherwise bleak and hostile landscape. And all around them, there are still large expanses of South East London that are nothing but howling wasteland, populated only by mangy rabies-infected foxes, savage, grunting half-humans and the occasional ball of tumbleweed being blown down the dilapidated streets.

Or at least that’s the way it feels sometimes when reading the listings guides.

And that’s why I’m shameless about singing the Fox’s praises. Put bluntly, round my way we’re far from spoilt for choice. But having such a friendly and cheap pub within walking (or stumbling, on the return journey) distance makes a world of difference. Maybe it’s because I’m getting lazier and more cantankerous in my old age, but lately I haven’t got the energy or patience for the epic, Lord of the Rings-style quest across London to be ripped-off, jostled, and given attitude by pilled-up Shoreditch trollops and their limp-dicked, tight-trousered boyfriends in hideous vintage garb that would have been overpriced at 50p from the charity shop it originally came from, but that they probably paid £50 for from a soulless Brick Lane boutique.

And the band I saw at the Fox last night completely reaffirmed my conviction that I’m not missing out with my xenophobic, witch-like reluctance to cross the river into North London.  David Goo and his seven-piece band were a frenetic whirlwind of howled vocals, violin, cello and guitars. Sort of like Gogol Bordello, except louder, faster and much more hypnotic. The last thing you want from an audience is that statue-still, folded arms pose, usually accompanied by a cynical stare and a sneer. But with David Goo onstage, the entire audience was laughing, singing, dancing and cheering, and even bowed down to the bassist during their grand finale. But whilst they’re hugely entertaining, they’re definitely not a novelty act. With eight people on stage, it could have easily been a shambles, but they were so tightly rehearsed that their set was a slick, storming celebration. Even Z, ever the stalwart cynic, loved every second of it. So bravo to TwoBob for putting on another brilliant night. It’s a dirty (and I’m sure at times massively frustrating and stressful) job, but someone’s got to do it. And I’m glad it’s them. I depend on them for my cheap liquor and weekend entertainment, and they’ve never yet disappointed.

Cake & Neave causing chaos in Hackney...

But despite a continuing fanaticism about Lego in all its forms, these days Cake and Neave’s artworks involve other just as unconventional materials, including knitted toilet roll dolls, Scalextric track, Tube maps, Smurf figurines and papier mache masks. Although in the UK they often face scepticism, elsewhere they’ve proved far more popular, with exhibitions this year in Paris, Berlin, New Zealand, Singapore and Beijing.

This is an interview with my handsome housemates, Cake & Neave, who kindly agreed to let me grill them for The London Word. You can read the rest of the article here.

At the end of August, Z and I travelled to Amsterdam. Our two favourite tattooed ladies were there at the same time, which was the main reason that we went. The adventure we’d planned had had to be cancelled, so Amsterdam was a last-minute decision, one we only booked our flights for three weeks in advance.

Bicycles, canals and sunsets...

There were bikes everywhere, and my being so scatterbrained and inobservant meant I was almost knocked over at least twenty times a day. The most surreal tourist attraction I’ve ever seen was the Kattenkabinett, a baroque former ballroom with chandeliers, rococo furniture, ornate furniture and cat-themed paintings, photos, ornaments and posters on every surface. There were real cats snoozing on the dining table, cabinets, and velvet-covered chairs. The bathroom looked like a mirrored confessional booth, and the toilet paper was printed with pictures of dogs. It was such a weird and whimsical concept, and I was completely besotted, and pestered Z about going back every time we were at a loose end.

Kattenkabinet

I’ve never been anywhere like the red light district, and that alone was enough for it to intrigue me, despite the tourists and the students and the stag parties. It was an uncomfortable mix of voyeurism/horror/fascination, despite my love of neon and sluts in platform shoes. We stayed in the cheapest room we could find that didn’t have horrific reviews. It had a piano, two armchairs and a sofa, but no toilet or sink. We pushed our twin beds together and every day the maid moved them apart again.

The highlight of the entire trip was De Taart van m’n Tante, an amazing tea and cake parlour where I had amaretto apple crumble and Z ate cheesecake with blackcurrant sauce with glitter in it, and we shared a pot of peculiar green tea. The sun shone most of the time we were there, but by the time we landed at Gatwick it was 11pm and much too cold for my attire of bare legs, cardigan and no coat. The train from Gatwick airport into London had blood splattered all over the floor. The Londoners just sighed and ignored it, the other passengers gawped at it and shook their heads, competing for space on the luggage racks so that they wouldn’t have to wheel their expensive suitcases through it.

I want to go back to Amsterdam, but maybe not until the weather’s warmer. From what I’ve seen I bet it’s beautiful in spring.

(Sunset and cat museum photos by joiseyshowaa and ECOgarden)