1) George Galloway and entourage strolling through Globetown on the Respect prowl; I, star-thwacked by anything remotely famous that moves, smiled at him and got a louche wink and a burred 'how're you doing?' back. Tee hee. He is an opportunistic buffoon, of course, but when it comes to oratory skills there are few better. He'd make a fine stage actor, belting out heather-burnished polemic on the stage of the Globe, or maybe on tv. The new Trisha! He'd sort those whey-faced ratlovecheats out.
2) A mad old woman pushing one of those creepy toy dogs (the cretinous black-faced fur balls, like the one who cast his satanic spell over - I mean won - Crufts the other year) along in a pushchair down Bethnal Green Road. The woman was struggling. The dog looked very relaxed.
3) A very odd support act to the fair-to-middling avant-rockers Battles at Dingwall's in Camden last night. Battles, with their line-up of 3 guitars and drummer (with one cymbal propelled high into the air reminiscent of a Christian Marclay installation), had just a too-sonically-limited palate, though I'm always forgiving of anyone who plays in 9/4 or 6/8 and 3/4 alternately. They were preceeded by the peculiar Hot Club De Paris, a jerky angualr trio who lashed out 1-minute long post-punk numbers, whooped maniacally at the end of each one and only impressed me when they sang in perfect three-part folk harmony, with hilarious lyrics like 'i'll love your teeth in/i'll love your limbs off/ i love your crutches/you painted them pink yourself'....
Happy birthday to my newly-specced love by the way!!!
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