.. it was 27C today which was hot enough for us to head to the beach and actually go swimming. and it wasn't bracing cold either but genuinely pleasant to swim in.
They've had the first flurries of snow in the Pyrenees but its not getting much cooler for a few days yet. The Catalans, great mushroom pickers, are getting worried that it is too warm and too dry for a decent crop. one good reason to pray rain ...
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
If you live in this world, you're feelin the change of the guard
Much passing of batons at Barca.
As we celebrated the Camp Nou’s 50th birthday yesterday and admired Norman Foster’s stunning redevelopment plan (albeit more than a little redolent of the Allianz Arena, created by Herzog & de Meuron, one of the competition also rans), more fundamental changes are happening on the field.
Ronaldinho has now been substituted three games in succession and was ‘rested, injured,’ for the game against Seville on Saturday night. The inverted commas refer to the fact that while the Barca management claim he has an injured foot, other evidence points elsewhere. He has been partying hard with games looming, cutting training and went absent for three days after the Lyon game last Wednesday. Foot my arse, as Jim Royle might say.
Ronnie was benched on each occasion because, as El Periodico put it ‘his head was still talking but his feet weren’t listening.’ From being the ignition of every Barca move he has become the constipated channel through which each attack is slowed down to a juddering halt of short passes, many of them misplaced. He’s not happy and Rijkaard seems to have taken the giant leap of not putting him on the team sheet simply because he is who he is. His Christmas will be in Milan, I suspect.
Into the breach has stepped Leo Messi, who, along with Manchester United’s Ronaldo, can be the only true claimant to football’s George Best mantle. Against Lyon and particularly against Seville, he has become the fulcrum of the team – the ‘straw that stirs the drink’ as baseball great Reggie Jackson described himself within the New York Yankees. He powers the team forward, playing off, at different times, his midfield base of Deco, Toure, Xavi and Iniesta.
Ronaldinho has now been substituted three games in succession and was ‘rested, injured,’ for the game against Seville on Saturday night. The inverted commas refer to the fact that while the Barca management claim he has an injured foot, other evidence points elsewhere. He has been partying hard with games looming, cutting training and went absent for three days after the Lyon game last Wednesday. Foot my arse, as Jim Royle might say.
Ronnie was benched on each occasion because, as El Periodico put it ‘his head was still talking but his feet weren’t listening.’ From being the ignition of every Barca move he has become the constipated channel through which each attack is slowed down to a juddering halt of short passes, many of them misplaced. He’s not happy and Rijkaard seems to have taken the giant leap of not putting him on the team sheet simply because he is who he is. His Christmas will be in Milan, I suspect.
Into the breach has stepped Leo Messi, who, along with Manchester United’s Ronaldo, can be the only true claimant to football’s George Best mantle. Against Lyon and particularly against Seville, he has become the fulcrum of the team – the ‘straw that stirs the drink’ as baseball great Reggie Jackson described himself within the New York Yankees. He powers the team forward, playing off, at different times, his midfield base of Deco, Toure, Xavi and Iniesta.
The Catalan crowd has already started to see this and can’t get enough of it. In two games he has scored three times and engineered an own goal, each greeted by the crowd prostrating itself en masse in praise.
The king is dead, long live the king. The old one will be buried in full military honours, rather than humiliated and shoved out of the back door, so great has been his contribution. Messi, touchingly, held up 10 fingers for Ronnie’s shirt number when he scored on Saturday and dedicated both goals to his great friend.
Welcome to the Messi era, one that will hopefully grace Norman Foster’s magnificent makeover for many years to come.
The king is dead, long live the king. The old one will be buried in full military honours, rather than humiliated and shoved out of the back door, so great has been his contribution. Messi, touchingly, held up 10 fingers for Ronnie’s shirt number when he scored on Saturday and dedicated both goals to his great friend.
Welcome to the Messi era, one that will hopefully grace Norman Foster’s magnificent makeover for many years to come.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Lancashire, tra la la la ...
I know that most readers of this blog 1) don't give a shit or 2) don't understand or 3) both but it is worth recording the fact that my beloved Lancashire may win the County Cricket Championship this week.
Like all the games in this quaint tournament, it will be played over four days in front of crowds that rarely creep into three figures. But they haven't won this tournament since 1930-something and there will be Mancunians of a certain age all over the world who will be thrilled if they do.
I shall keep you posted ...
Like all the games in this quaint tournament, it will be played over four days in front of crowds that rarely creep into three figures. But they haven't won this tournament since 1930-something and there will be Mancunians of a certain age all over the world who will be thrilled if they do.
I shall keep you posted ...
A good lesson
High drama in Ben's football game on Sunday. 10 minutes into the second half, the ref blows up, flounces like a drama queen several times and storms off the pitch, ball in hand.
It turns out he had been taking sustained abuse from the home team coach (not Ben's team) who claimed that one of Ben's team mates should have been sent off for following through on the goalie.
The ref clearly had enough and off he went. After 10 minutes of marvellously comic confusion, he was persuaded back but only if the coach was banished to the stands. The game carried on and the kids got a good lesson that you shouldn't abuse the ref.
It turns out he had been taking sustained abuse from the home team coach (not Ben's team) who claimed that one of Ben's team mates should have been sent off for following through on the goalie.
The ref clearly had enough and off he went. After 10 minutes of marvellously comic confusion, he was persuaded back but only if the coach was banished to the stands. The game carried on and the kids got a good lesson that you shouldn't abuse the ref.
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Take me out to the ball game …
Ok it wasn’t Fenway Park but on Friday night we had hot dogs, beer, warm evening sunshine and baseball.
It was the opening game of the European Baseball championships being held here and Ben and I popped up to the rather beautiful field on Montjuic to watch the opening game between Spain and Great Britain.
‘I think you’ll find the British to be a mixture of Australians, South Africans and American college boys,’ said an American woman on the way in, while I suspect the Spanish team had a few Latinos in the squad. Some of those on the field had made it to the minor leagues in the US.
There are 10 teams here with the Dutch the hot favourites, so far walloping 33 runs past the Czech Republic and Austria without reply, both games being curtailed by the sport’s splendid mercy rule.
It was great to be there. There was a rinky-dink opening ceremony with flags, VIPs, a song and the national anthems.
The game was pretty good, played well enough to remind you that, along with cricket, baseball is one of life’s higher callings. Britain won, 12-8, since you ask.
It was the opening game of the European Baseball championships being held here and Ben and I popped up to the rather beautiful field on Montjuic to watch the opening game between Spain and Great Britain.
‘I think you’ll find the British to be a mixture of Australians, South Africans and American college boys,’ said an American woman on the way in, while I suspect the Spanish team had a few Latinos in the squad. Some of those on the field had made it to the minor leagues in the US.
There are 10 teams here with the Dutch the hot favourites, so far walloping 33 runs past the Czech Republic and Austria without reply, both games being curtailed by the sport’s splendid mercy rule.
It was great to be there. There was a rinky-dink opening ceremony with flags, VIPs, a song and the national anthems.
The game was pretty good, played well enough to remind you that, along with cricket, baseball is one of life’s higher callings. Britain won, 12-8, since you ask.
Yet another great Barcelona cocktail bar
There are two remarkable features about Milano. The first is that it is on Ronda De la Universitat, one of this city’s unloveliest thoroughfares which links Plaza Catalunya and Placa Universitat. Five lanes of traffic, inter-city bus stops and crap expat pubs. You get the picture.
The second is that it has been open for three months and looks like it has been there for 30 years. Set in an airy basement, it’s all polished wood, racks of the best spirits, barmen in white jackets, red plush couches and unobtrusive jazz. And they do a damn fine gin fizz as well as well as, in homage to its name, a host of Campari-based cocktails.
Talking of which, I am grateful to the new St John restaurant cookbook for the recipe for a Bicicletta – a mixture of white wine, Campari and ice. The recipe cheerfully suggests experimenting with the proportions. In the interests of science I will do so and will report back.
The second is that it has been open for three months and looks like it has been there for 30 years. Set in an airy basement, it’s all polished wood, racks of the best spirits, barmen in white jackets, red plush couches and unobtrusive jazz. And they do a damn fine gin fizz as well as well as, in homage to its name, a host of Campari-based cocktails.
Talking of which, I am grateful to the new St John restaurant cookbook for the recipe for a Bicicletta – a mixture of white wine, Campari and ice. The recipe cheerfully suggests experimenting with the proportions. In the interests of science I will do so and will report back.
A car crash happening
When is a nation not a nation? When it’s Catalonia.
With exquisite timing, just a few days before Catalan national day, Spain’s football governing body has decided it will ban a friendly ‘international’ between Catalonia and the USA next month. The excuse is that it comes just a few days before a Spanish international friendly, which seems a little lame.
The row threatens to run and run and will no doubt get a good airing at the national day demos and festivities on Tuesday when the separatist hotheads will claim this as another piece of Madrid imperialism. The Catalan political elite will look on in uncomfortable silence. It’s the policy of the Generalitat to encourage Catalan national teams in all sports but they also have compromises with Madrid to keep.
But should Catalonia have its own national football team? It’s every bit as much a country as Scotland and Wales (in terms of language, devolved politics and cultural identity) who have their own teams.
The big difference of course is that there is no Great Britain team for Ryan Giggs to represent in the way that Carles Puyol and Xavi turn out for Spain (albeit with the Spanish flags on their socks neatly tucked out of view).
Logically then the Catalan players should elect to choose to play for Catalonia or Spain – as too should the Basque players (the two ‘nations’ played each other earlier this year which turned the Camp Nou into a rip-roaring cauldron of independent nationalism. And why stop there, when Spain is wholly composed of autonomous regions?
Taking this to its logical end, we’ll have 17 Spanish regions entering the major tournaments, none with a realistic chance of qualifying.
With exquisite timing, just a few days before Catalan national day, Spain’s football governing body has decided it will ban a friendly ‘international’ between Catalonia and the USA next month. The excuse is that it comes just a few days before a Spanish international friendly, which seems a little lame.
The row threatens to run and run and will no doubt get a good airing at the national day demos and festivities on Tuesday when the separatist hotheads will claim this as another piece of Madrid imperialism. The Catalan political elite will look on in uncomfortable silence. It’s the policy of the Generalitat to encourage Catalan national teams in all sports but they also have compromises with Madrid to keep.
But should Catalonia have its own national football team? It’s every bit as much a country as Scotland and Wales (in terms of language, devolved politics and cultural identity) who have their own teams.
The big difference of course is that there is no Great Britain team for Ryan Giggs to represent in the way that Carles Puyol and Xavi turn out for Spain (albeit with the Spanish flags on their socks neatly tucked out of view).
Logically then the Catalan players should elect to choose to play for Catalonia or Spain – as too should the Basque players (the two ‘nations’ played each other earlier this year which turned the Camp Nou into a rip-roaring cauldron of independent nationalism. And why stop there, when Spain is wholly composed of autonomous regions?
Taking this to its logical end, we’ll have 17 Spanish regions entering the major tournaments, none with a realistic chance of qualifying.
A young boy’s dream …
To go on the pitch before a game at the Camp Nou and be photographed with the Barca players.More pictures here
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The blog is back!
Almost three weeks of holiday are winding to a close and pretty good they were too. Better than that in fact. Blissful, trundling the old family car across mainland France, Italy and Corsica with scarcely a traffic jam in sight. And not a single airline check in queue … and we were still all talking to each other at the end of it.
Corsica completely knocked us out. The landscape, the town of Calvi, the beaches and the blue, blue sea all came as a complete surprise, as did the very good food and wine. It’s a place we’ll go back to again and again.
The weather was also sensational there which is more than can be said for much of Europe. Britain’s summer has never happened while much of France has also suffered in the cold and rain. Becca and I came back to Barcelona for a brief sojourn and drove through one thunderstorm on the Costa Brava and endured two more back here.
The Catalans who went to the seaside for August have endured grey skies and wet beaches, those who went to the Pyrenees to escape the heat have been buying jumpers. Our chicken seller in the market says she went to Ibiza for a week and had one nice day.
The Big Heat of August has never come and La Vanguardia says air conditioner sales are down 60-80%. Now it’s stopped raining it is a lovely 75F but cool in the evening. This after the Winter That Never Happened …
Through it all, Tony Wilson died. While all the noise has focussed on his ‘Mr Manchester’ music fame, I knew him when he was a much-loved friend of the family back in the 1970s.
While all my school contemporaries were wallowing in the heavy metal trash that was Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and (God save them all) Yes, Tony would burst into our living room, grab the record player and put on Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen, both billed as the ‘fucking future of music’ (or perhaps ‘the future of fucking music’ – time clouds his exact words). He was right and I have a lot to thank him for.
Corsica completely knocked us out. The landscape, the town of Calvi, the beaches and the blue, blue sea all came as a complete surprise, as did the very good food and wine. It’s a place we’ll go back to again and again.
The weather was also sensational there which is more than can be said for much of Europe. Britain’s summer has never happened while much of France has also suffered in the cold and rain. Becca and I came back to Barcelona for a brief sojourn and drove through one thunderstorm on the Costa Brava and endured two more back here.
The Catalans who went to the seaside for August have endured grey skies and wet beaches, those who went to the Pyrenees to escape the heat have been buying jumpers. Our chicken seller in the market says she went to Ibiza for a week and had one nice day.
The Big Heat of August has never come and La Vanguardia says air conditioner sales are down 60-80%. Now it’s stopped raining it is a lovely 75F but cool in the evening. This after the Winter That Never Happened …
Through it all, Tony Wilson died. While all the noise has focussed on his ‘Mr Manchester’ music fame, I knew him when he was a much-loved friend of the family back in the 1970s.
While all my school contemporaries were wallowing in the heavy metal trash that was Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple and (God save them all) Yes, Tony would burst into our living room, grab the record player and put on Patti Smith and Bruce Springsteen, both billed as the ‘fucking future of music’ (or perhaps ‘the future of fucking music’ – time clouds his exact words). He was right and I have a lot to thank him for.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Summertime slow
Like a dying swan, Barcelona is ever so graciously wilting in the heat and winding down for the summer.
Our local market is 80% shut as is the baker, the grocery and many other shops. Parking spots are in abundance even though all residents’ bays and pay and display are free for the month.
The biggest noise is of people banging on the doors of dry cleaners as they realise their clothes are locked up for the month. ‘I love it being so quiet here in August,’ said one friend. ‘It’s just a shame everything is shut.’
We are off on our holidays tomorrow in the car to Italy, east and west, Corsica and mainland France. Very green aren’t we? I love the idea of no airports after 50+ journeys a year, no packing to fit, nothing to catch. We have boats to chase at some point but not tomorrow.
Meanwhile yesterday was pretty special as it marked the 20th anniversary of the first time Sarah and I kissed (aahh!) and look what became of that. We marked it by going out en famille to eat tapas at Txakolin, one of our very favourite joints, and then to see the fusion flamenco band Calima play in the palm-tree strewn garden of the graceful and charming Atheneu club. Here’s to the next 20.
Meanwhile my early 50th birthday present to myself arrived – the rental for one year of two top-class season tickets for Barca. Not cheap but you are only 50 once. I am truly blessed …
Holiday well and will be back towards the end of August …
Our local market is 80% shut as is the baker, the grocery and many other shops. Parking spots are in abundance even though all residents’ bays and pay and display are free for the month.
The biggest noise is of people banging on the doors of dry cleaners as they realise their clothes are locked up for the month. ‘I love it being so quiet here in August,’ said one friend. ‘It’s just a shame everything is shut.’
We are off on our holidays tomorrow in the car to Italy, east and west, Corsica and mainland France. Very green aren’t we? I love the idea of no airports after 50+ journeys a year, no packing to fit, nothing to catch. We have boats to chase at some point but not tomorrow.
Meanwhile yesterday was pretty special as it marked the 20th anniversary of the first time Sarah and I kissed (aahh!) and look what became of that. We marked it by going out en famille to eat tapas at Txakolin, one of our very favourite joints, and then to see the fusion flamenco band Calima play in the palm-tree strewn garden of the graceful and charming Atheneu club. Here’s to the next 20.
Meanwhile my early 50th birthday present to myself arrived – the rental for one year of two top-class season tickets for Barca. Not cheap but you are only 50 once. I am truly blessed …
Holiday well and will be back towards the end of August …
Saturday, July 21, 2007
You think you have it bad ...
| One week in England and it's fair to say it's not been our finest of trips. Changeable weather at best and, on Sunday and Friday, monsoon-sized downpours. Ben has a hugely irritating mouth infection and our house in Ludlow has been letting in water. It took Sarah five hours to get back to London on Friday, escaping entrapment in the many flooded towns of middle England by the skin of her teeth. We saw half a day's cricket at Lord's today between the downpours. Still, let's be thankful. Here are two other travelling parties that fared worse than us. The first is the family group that booked our house to celebrate the parents' ruby wedding anniversary. The children made it but the parents marked 40 years of wedded bliss with 85 others on blow-up beds in a school in the small Gloucestershire town of Ledbury where they were stranded by the floods, missing the special dinner they had booked at one of Ludlow's finest restaurants last night. Yet today when I spoke to the wife, she was hugely cheerful and completely without bitterness. Worse perhaps was Chris Anderson of Wired/Long Tail fame. His Holiday from Hell as described on his blog needs no embellishment:
|
Monday, July 09, 2007
The great outdoors
The days have long been good and warm here but now the evenings are following suit.
So time to join the open air cultural pursuits that make Barcelona such a fine place to be at this time of year.
First to the Montjuic Castle which sits atop of the city, for Sala Montjuic where they show a series of around 20 films on a big outdoor screen during July, all in original language.
5 euros to get in, 2 euros for a seat and Moritz beer and Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream on sale.
We went to see Singing in the Rain en famille. Ben fully in accordance that Make 'Em Laugh better than the title song and indeed, probably the best song and dance routine ever made. Smart boy.
Then last night to the Festival Grec, a summer series of plays, music and dance set mostly, but not exclusvely in the stunning Greek amphitheatre (above) in the same park. Gorgeous flower gardens, and as ever, they do these things well here with food and refreshment stalls dotted around the grounds.
Our schedule meant that last night's was the only event we could get to at the Grec and much as I love jazz, Medeski Scofield Martin & Wood, were several miles the wrong side of freeform funk for my liking (and make that several hundred in Sarah's case).
You half expected John Thompson fromJazz Club on The Fast Show to come on at and say 'Nice'. But you could never beat the setting
Friday, July 06, 2007
Goodbye to George Melly
'George Melly the jazz singer, author and raconteur who has died aged 80, leched, drank and blasphemed his way around the clubs and pubs of the British Isles and provided pleasure to the public for five decades' - The Daily Telegraph.
It would be remiss of me to let the death of George Melly pass without any comment.
The phrase 'They don't make them like that anymore' is much overused but that is truly the case with Melly. Apart from being a wonderful jazz singer, he was in his day one of the keenest chroniclers of popular culture, an expert on surrealism, cartoonist and general all-round icon of the louche pop/jazz/art demi-monde that was London and in particular Soho in the 1950s and 1960s.
His hair-raising lifestyle, long on drugs and multiple sexual personas and rather shorter on the feelings of others, is beautifully chronicled in the memoirs of his long-suffering wife Diana which will make the perfect summer read if you haven't got hold of it already.
I saw him many times in concert, always in his pre-Christmas residence at Ronnie Scott's, always finding time to go in case each gig might be his last.
As the years of good living took their toll, George's sets became ever shorter until the last one where he did about 20 minutes tops, sitting down wearing a rather sinister eyepatch. But he never failed to leave without several standing ovations from a packed house of devotees.
You then staggered out from Scott's to the Bar Italia across the road, stinking of cigarette smoke and having had too much crap wine and appalling food (the club is rather more upmarket these days). On more than one occasion one of our party was truly tired and emotional because, as Goerge might have said 'Someone had done them wrong' and they had attenpted to heal their wounds with too many office party gin and tonics followed by too much of the club's cut-price Valpolicella.
But it always was the most wonderful way to start Christmas in London.
PS Plentiful obits including The Guardian and The Times, which also supplies the following priceless piece of information:
'At school, Melly wrote, he once seduced the future Sunday Telegraph editor Sir Peregrine Worsthorne on a sofa, but he said that he found a 78rpm record by Bessie Smith was far more satisfying.'
It would be remiss of me to let the death of George Melly pass without any comment.
The phrase 'They don't make them like that anymore' is much overused but that is truly the case with Melly. Apart from being a wonderful jazz singer, he was in his day one of the keenest chroniclers of popular culture, an expert on surrealism, cartoonist and general all-round icon of the louche pop/jazz/art demi-monde that was London and in particular Soho in the 1950s and 1960s.
His hair-raising lifestyle, long on drugs and multiple sexual personas and rather shorter on the feelings of others, is beautifully chronicled in the memoirs of his long-suffering wife Diana which will make the perfect summer read if you haven't got hold of it already.
I saw him many times in concert, always in his pre-Christmas residence at Ronnie Scott's, always finding time to go in case each gig might be his last.
As the years of good living took their toll, George's sets became ever shorter until the last one where he did about 20 minutes tops, sitting down wearing a rather sinister eyepatch. But he never failed to leave without several standing ovations from a packed house of devotees.
You then staggered out from Scott's to the Bar Italia across the road, stinking of cigarette smoke and having had too much crap wine and appalling food (the club is rather more upmarket these days). On more than one occasion one of our party was truly tired and emotional because, as Goerge might have said 'Someone had done them wrong' and they had attenpted to heal their wounds with too many office party gin and tonics followed by too much of the club's cut-price Valpolicella.
But it always was the most wonderful way to start Christmas in London.
PS Plentiful obits including The Guardian and The Times, which also supplies the following priceless piece of information:
'At school, Melly wrote, he once seduced the future Sunday Telegraph editor Sir Peregrine Worsthorne on a sofa, but he said that he found a 78rpm record by Bessie Smith was far more satisfying.'
Saturday, June 30, 2007
God bless the Casa Tejada.
You've been away for the best part of 10 days, your plane is an hour late and there is the traffic jam from hell just trying to get out of the airport. So it's past midnight when you get home, the fridge is empty and you're starving.What you need is to live round the corner from Casa Tejada. It is the bar de barrio that every neighbourhood needs. It stays open from breakfast until 2am, serves Moritz beer, has Barca games on its big screen and serves a wonderful variety of tapas and main course dishes throughout. What more could you ask for?
It's busy during most of that time and deservedly so.
After hot footing it round I was soon tucking into a delicious plate of sauteed bacon and sprouts, a side order of pan amb tomaquet and a large Moritz, served in an English style dimpled pot. I think, though I am not certain, that this is the in joke of one of the barman who has spent time working in England. It seems to be the only one in the place and I usually end up getting it.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Il est arrivee
At one stroke, one of my two favourite teams signs one of the greatest players on earth while my other faces an opponent enfeebled by his absence ...
Monday, June 18, 2007
Calla, calla!
Or shhh... the words of my wise friend as we got terribly excited about Barca winning the title. Cruising against Nastic with Real losing and wobbling against Majorca, it looked like it could happen.
It didn't of course and probably a good thing too. The local sports papers delivered a sumo-sized volley of invective this morning reflecting on the team's dire season. From Spanish and European champions, strengthened by some high-class signings, to winning nada is some feat.
The papers' verdict? Blame the club regime, blame the manager, blame the players - a message that would have been just as valid had they won the title and one that would have been completely lost in a celebratory mayhem of cava, beer and tickertape.
So it may well turn out for the best. Twelve years ago, United came second in the league and cup but won nothing after two years of success.
Alex Ferguson responded by selling three galacticos - amid huge controversy - and rebuilding the team around youth with immediate and huge success. Frank Rijkaard could do a lot worse than follow suit.
It didn't of course and probably a good thing too. The local sports papers delivered a sumo-sized volley of invective this morning reflecting on the team's dire season. From Spanish and European champions, strengthened by some high-class signings, to winning nada is some feat.
The papers' verdict? Blame the club regime, blame the manager, blame the players - a message that would have been just as valid had they won the title and one that would have been completely lost in a celebratory mayhem of cava, beer and tickertape.
So it may well turn out for the best. Twelve years ago, United came second in the league and cup but won nothing after two years of success.
Alex Ferguson responded by selling three galacticos - amid huge controversy - and rebuilding the team around youth with immediate and huge success. Frank Rijkaard could do a lot worse than follow suit.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Catch up
The heat is officially on as Barcelona's summer begins and it's time to do summer things like go up the mountain for a late cocktail or picnic on the beach.
This weekend the Sonar festival is on and next week the schools are out. Then it is San Juan when everyone stays up to party all night. It's a calendar as fixed as any London summer season.
And yes the football season is still not over. While the 2008 English fixtures are published. La Liga still has one game to go with Barca desperately hoping that somehow Real Madrid will find a way of tripping up at home to Majorca on Sunday. After last Saturday's 18-second Greek tragedy, anything might happen.
This weekend the Sonar festival is on and next week the schools are out. Then it is San Juan when everyone stays up to party all night. It's a calendar as fixed as any London summer season.
And yes the football season is still not over. While the 2008 English fixtures are published. La Liga still has one game to go with Barca desperately hoping that somehow Real Madrid will find a way of tripping up at home to Majorca on Sunday. After last Saturday's 18-second Greek tragedy, anything might happen.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
The voice of youth
Off to Primavera Sound to see the emerging young rock stars!
First up, Jonathan Richman, 56 just a few weeks ago!
And then, Patti Smith, just the wrong side of 60!
And sadly not getting to see The Durutti Column and Vini Reilly, 54 in August! Or indeed Robyn Hitchcock, who's just beaten him to that age!
They don't make them like that anymore.
Smith in particular was sensational and set the place alight as the sun went down over the Barcelona Forum.
And last, and yes, least, Shitdisco!
We wandered off and stopped at one of the beach bars on Bogatell beach on the way home. As we lay on the sunbeds and looked out to sea, a very full, very yellow and completely wonderful moon poked its head above the horizon and rose within a matter of minutes.
First up, Jonathan Richman, 56 just a few weeks ago!
And then, Patti Smith, just the wrong side of 60!
And sadly not getting to see The Durutti Column and Vini Reilly, 54 in August! Or indeed Robyn Hitchcock, who's just beaten him to that age!
They don't make them like that anymore.
Smith in particular was sensational and set the place alight as the sun went down over the Barcelona Forum.
And last, and yes, least, Shitdisco!
We wandered off and stopped at one of the beach bars on Bogatell beach on the way home. As we lay on the sunbeds and looked out to sea, a very full, very yellow and completely wonderful moon poked its head above the horizon and rose within a matter of minutes.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Into every life a little rain must fall
From the BBC:
Reunited rock group The Police began a five-month world tour in front of
20,000 fans in Vancouver on Monday, 21 years after their last major concert.
The Spanish invasion
Cruising down London's Regent Street today and you pass in order ...
Desigual
Massimo Dutti
Zara
Mango
It is indeed a Spanish/Catalan invasion...
Desigual
Massimo Dutti
Zara
Mango
It is indeed a Spanish/Catalan invasion...
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