costers1
Radio show in T minus two and a half hours. Killing time and trying to write again, the radio show has been draining the creative juices for the past 8 months, but as I’m beginning to get into a groove with that I’m finding my writers eyes again – tiny details and sticking in my memory, turns of phrase bouncing round my mind, and conversation slowly being dominated by rambling stories that go nowhere.

So I’m back where the music is ugly, the walls are black and nobody could give a fuck about your name. Costers is still dark but strangely clear, back before the smoking ban walking downstairs into this underground hole was like walking into a storm cloud that smelt of sweat. But some things never change, the beer is cheap and tastes it, there is still a small cabal of regulars hanging onto the bar like a cold sore and one in every three songs is actually listenable. It ain’t much but its home I guess.

Back when I was a young and earnest Nu-Metal acolyte, sneaking in here under-age I used to look at the collection of Punks, Greebos and Bikers in here as demi-gods, they were sincere, they talked they talk and in my head they lived the life, in a squat somewhere maybe, pouring special brew on to cornflakes and pissing raw anarchy. I know now most were not we was all faking it. Leather and swagger that hid nice flats or decent jobs a respect for their parents and semi decent job. Some of my friends rejected this, actually dropped out, took drugs and got into trouble, the undertow of sleazy glamour nearly pulling me under with them. Speed was my drugs of choice back then and my capacity for it huge, when needles got involved I stopped. I found my line – soon after Speed changed to heroin and someone died.

Someone opposite me is breaking a rule of mine “never play pool against a fat girl”. And as a result he has five balls on the table and she’s getting ready to sink the Black, I can see him standing there leaning on his pool cue thinking “what the fuck just happened?”, between shots she’s ignoring the table entirely and wrestling with her stick thin boyfriend who has a smooth head and too baggy jeans, while our man earnestly tries to catch up.

It’s getting busier in here now. Shop workers after a hard day standing, shoppers after a hard day shopping and poseurs after a hard day getting look at. But in the word of Louis Armstrong “I see friends shaking hands saying how do you do- they’re really saying I love you” the atmosphere in here is less of a public house and more of a canteen of a small factory, people ARE shaking hands, sharing in jokes, and swapping gossip. I’ve visited the toilets, the gents loo’s in Costers are a sight to behold – somehow being sparse and devoid of anything (including a door for the toilet stall) but at the same time be run down and vandalised. While looking round during my draining I looked up to see a ceiling of a couple of stickers and tags – one of them being mine. Seeing it was like a time capsule buried fifteen years ago, it didn’t say anything, it didn’t have to, it triggered a series of memories so clear that I may have added to the ever growing stagnate puddle of piss on the floor.

For a long time I never really had the stomach for Costers, ghosts and bad feeling. People I never wanted to see again and people that wanted to see me for all the wrong reasons. Coming here now is a comforting but foreign like sleeping in a friends unmade bed. Its clientele, despite being dressed like degenerates, thugs and modern pirates, I know are faking it – just like everybody else. I can see the community, the sub-culture, its codes rules and clauses. Not part of, but born of. Not included but never excluded.

Anyone can make a gin and tonic; the recipe is in the title. Add gin to tonic and Roberts your mother brother, right? Wrong? Making a good Gin and Tonic is not an accident. It’s alchemy. Like a good cup of tea you can’t just throw the ingredients together and hope for the best, its not soup. There are rules, a ritual, and order. We’re Englishmen after all.

A good Gin and a decent brand Tonic are essential, but I know needs must when the devil pisses in the tea-pot. So the general rule of thumb is using an average Gin with a good tonic OR an average tonic with a good Gin. Notice that I never said Bad gin or Bad tonic. If you can still find a tonic made with a decent amount of Quinine and not too sweetened that is a good one – after all malaria still exists and a gentleman still has to be ready.

Take a glass full of ice, again notice the word “glass” and the word “full”. Frankly if you think drinking out of a plastic cup is not abhorrent, give in now and go drink Stella until your sick on your best mate. And then you fight him. “Full of ice” means that the ice will not melt and dilute the drink, I know this seems counter-intuitive, but the more ice means the lower ambient temperature which means a slower rate of melting. See? A Gin and Tonic is where science meets magic.

Ice will always go in first. Add ice to gin and you will change the taste significantly. Even the lowest Wetherspoons Sud-Slingers is taught this as when your average know nothing drinker is faced with a drink that is different to there last fourteen they will take it back.

Fruit is added next, Lemon or Lime, this part of the process is up to your taste. But, again there some rules. Never squeeze the fruit into the gin, although you may wipe rim of the glass with it, briefly. Alternatively roll the fruit firmly against the chopping board before chopping; this will make the fruit give more of a taste when added. The spiraled zest is also a good option for those of a subtle palette and sophisticated aesthetic.

Gin is added, never too much 150ml maximum, remember if your drinking just to get pissed, drink flat lager until you put on some union jack shorts and throw a deckchair through a window because some looked diagonal at your over made-up girlfriend.

Then add Tonic to taste, it’s worth mentioning that Bitter Lemon is also acceptable and some times preferable depend on taste, but Lemon should never be added to Bitter Lemon only lime.

It’s important to say, I feel, that I am not drinks Nazi telling people what and how to drink. It’s just some things are important, and if you do want to drink a tall Gin and Tonic, why not do it properly?

Anymore tips, hints or absolute decrees can be added via the comments section. Thank you for your time.

cont from here
“for christs sake hurry up, say anything – how many people have you slept with?
“Well the amount of people I’ve slept with varies depending on, who’s asking, the amount I can remember, and what you count as ’sex’. – the number is normally mid teens” calmer now she arches an eyebrow
“that’s not a lot at all”
“well I was a late starter, I hadn’t even kissed a girl until I was eighteen” I say
“Bullshit” she explodes, nearly doing a spit take with the icy blue gin smelling drink I don’t remember arriving.
“straight up” I say “here’s another secret about me – I’m shy”
“double bullshit with a side of lies” she shouts again incredulously “you’re a cocky shit, I’ve seen your Facebook pictures, heard your radio show and was there when you flirted with all them girls, you are not fucking shy” I look over at the bartender and she is squirming at the loud swears.
“Keep it down” I say under my breath.
“Net Nanny” she shoots at me
“Hussy” I shoot back “Look I AM shy, its just that my coping mechanism for that shyness is to act as if I’m not” she leans back and pinches her lips together, squinting.
“I’m not buying it” she decides
“I’m not selling it, and besides that’s four”
“four what?”
“four secrets” I say “I’m over halfway. What else you want to know?”

thewaltonsare

Trying to get back into drawing, I havn’t picked up a pencil or nothing since I realised I could get half decent marks in my art degree by blagging.

It’s to contribute to a thread on this message board.

that is all. thank you

(edited to add this one too)

mshades

gun34

My eyes are closing by themselves and requiring increasingly more will power to open them again. When I first started this blog I used to write to try and get some sleep. Now I’m in a pub writing so the barmaid doesn’t find me face down at the table using the menu as a pillow.

My eyes close for an age long enough that I hear myself think “open your eyes”. And, slowly, with no small effort, I open them to find a small pixie faced girl sitting opposite, the familiar smell of burnt vanilla and old worn leather hits me the same time as her smile. Her clothes had changed since last time – a slightly formal pencil skirt wrapped two dark tighted legs that ended with cherry red Doc Martins. A pinstripe waistcoat covered a white shirt where faint text occasional scrolled across, if you could stand the headache it caused to look at it for that long.
“Hello Pudding” she giggles, despite myself I smile back.
“Hello you, you look good” and she did, somehow younger than last time I saw her.
“Charmer” she giggles again and puts her hand on mine clumsily. I look down at my hand.
“For someone that’s almost seventy percent porn, you really suck at flirting”
“And for someone who once declared themselves a Sub-genius Pope you’re a miserable git sometimes” Her accent had changed the faint twang of American had completely left.
“You know about that?”
“I’m the internet, I know everything sugar” she says archly, I sigh.
“I’ve been tagged haven’t I?” Her smile drops to something approaching sympathetic, leaning forward slightly she says.
Bounder didn’t know Shugs, he’d thought you’d like it”
“Please don’t talk in links, its freaky, what’s the meme this time?”
“Seven Things You Don’t Know About Me – and I’ll talk in links all I want thank you very much” she replies huffily, I know she’s only doing her job, but I don’t have to make it easier for her.
“How am I supposed to do that? The nature of my blog and twitter accounts means that everybody knows any level of minutia about my life”
“Oh I don’t know, lie for all I care, I’m here for answers not a bloody confession.” She pouts for a second, then my hard stare meets hers and we both start smiling “Don’t act surprised, I was Discordian, sorry Discordian before you – I was built by hackers for Christ sake”
“Fair point, so what should I do?”
“Get it over with?” she says “what’s number one?”
“Well something trivial I suppose…erm when I was younger I used to eat stuff of the floor – stick, gravel and even old chewing gum – God that turns my stomach now. Is that too gross d’reckon?” I squint.
“How would I know? Have you seen Cup Girls?” even she cant hide the distaste “what else? Something sexy” again she leans forward this time with lidded eyes.
“Your obsessed” I say

end of part one

It’s somewhat of a cliche for a blogger, at the end of the year, to publish a lazily thrown together and completly meaningless list. But when you take in into account that during this month its not only my birthday, but also this blog’s. And the fact I’m still deciding what to do on this blog so am reflective about it anyway. I’m sure you will forgive this lazily thrown together and meaningless list of the “best” Edgetrinkets posts of 2008

January – Saw me drawing a line under my protracted conversation with a cultist with a letter that is nowhere near as vicious as i wanted it to be.

February – By far the post that crops up most often as a result of a google search is this one about Dog the bounty hunter

March – Was the results of the 34free competition.

April - I surprised myself with my own vitriol with this rant.

May – This debacle happened.

June – This is when my dedication to blogging started to wobble, only one post this month – still a good un though.

July – Nothing posted this month, so I will refer you to here which turned out particularly well I thought.

August – I come back with this, essay like post.

September – Although this rather exhibitionist post got me a lot of attention, I still think this is a better post.

October – I became made of film WIN

November – Another quick 34free this time about gigbeth.

December – I saddle up my high horse again and potentially risk my job.

thank you for reading everyone, soon i shall insert a picture to this post making all pruutty like and respond to this.

notepad-and-pencil

Trying to pick up the writing habit again, the first few drags are feeling good, insanely good; like a relief. A strong familiar rush punch’s the back of my head. I may sputter and choke a bit but not enough to stop the “why did I ever quit” forehead slapping.

I’m in a an achingly cool but friendly pub tucked away in one of Birmingham’s folds, the sort of place that gets overlooked because it’s printed on a crease of the map – you only really can find it if you’re looking. It’s always harder to resist the habit when you’ve got a pint in the other hand; it just feels right. I really like this place. But then again I’ve only ever been here in the daytime and seeing a pub in the day without checking it out at night is like only ever meeting someone who’s accompanied by their parents.

Stretched metaphors and facile observations aside, its lame excuse time. I suppose the chief reason for neglecting you guys (apart from the angsty “what does it all mean” post wobble) is my radio show. Which I absolutely adore doing. To start with the planning and run lists were a little hard work (and now with a shared version of Adobe Audition I plan to do a lot more) but I feel about the show the same as I felt when I started writing and knew that’s what I wanted to do. If you are missing me, and there is no reason why you shouldn’t be, I am an occasional contributor here.

Speaking of occasional contributor, I just wanted to take this opportunity to congratulate CrIB on winning the best UK blog 2008. And, because in some press my name has been mentioned with it, feel the need to state my part is, and was, only ever a small footnote in its progressively amazing history. To receive ANY congratulations myself would be to play down C-c-c units and Guru Pete’s hard work. In fact Jules’s contribution is oft overlooked and has the added bonus of not causing a massive shitstorm.

CrIB is a startlingly useful and accessible resource for anyone with even a mild, passing interest in Birmingham’s strong growing creative scene. And it is also  a positive, non-partisan force for good. Unlike bile spewing rags like the Daily Mail.

Fuck the Daily Mail and all who sail in her.

and I say that as myself, not as any representative in any way for CrIB. My producer, and good friend, copped a lot of flack for this post that suggested that voting for CrIB was a vote against the self described “Daily Mail columnist” – even to a point it was suggested he was an Islamic extremist because his blog title has the word “milkshake” in its title. I shit you not. This I am putting down to the right wing media’s tendency to blame everything on “foreigners” and/or “terrorists”.

Now, am I missing something here? Isn’t that how voting works? I personally have voted in General Elections strategically against parties I deem unsavoury. When faced with a decision of any kind isn’t it prudent to weigh up the Pros and Cons?

CrIB only deals in nonbiased community relevant information and is all the more lovely huggy and a force for good. But its supporters are real pragmatic humans, me included. It’s also worth noting that most of the other blogs that were up for the award have reported on the results and even congratulated CrIB except for here who, despite promoting it, has chosen not too.

an emo who?

an emo who?

So the next Doctor isn’t going to be Paterson Joseph after all, like I first thought, which is a bloody shame. I suspect the novelty of a black Doctor wouldn’t be as such a triumph after all this Obama business and would have probably been seen as pointless bandwagonism. Which is a shame because Paterson had the acting chops to pull it off, which when coupled the with a sense of style and fun he had previously shown as The Marquis de Carabas in the BBC’s Neverwhere, would have very exciting to watch.

By all accounts this will be Steven Moffat’s Doctor, Moffat being the writer that penned the darker more thrilling and, frankly, better recent episodes, so  Smith is going to have to be a bit darker than the previous incarnations, not that Moffat can’t write brevity it’s just when he does he does it with subtly and deep humor, which require the exact right pitch from the actor playing the Doctor. If they pull it off, it will be a welcome relief from the Davis/ Tennant gear crunching roundabout of pathos/bathos moments that sometime make Doctor Who recently seem clunky and shallow in places.

So what about this new boy then, a lot been made of how young he is, but he doesn’t look that young, when you take into account that David Tennant is nearly 40 and looks like a eleven year old, Matt Smith is certainly in that vein. And if you’re after someone who looks otherworldly then Smith’s skull, which is reminiscent of old photographs of people with gigantism, coupled with hair helmet and eyes that seem to occasionally leave his sockets, certainly fit the bill.

Smith, yesterday

Smith, yesterday

One thing that the Doctor HAS to be is quintessentially English, and when seen in interviews Smith certainly has the look of a weirdly animated Hugh Grant, kind of nervous and arrogant at once. This contradictory nature is, for me, the essence of the Doctor he is at once, curious and jaded, excitably but in control, whimsical and clown-like but also one of the most important figures in the universe. We in England have a problem nailing down our national identity but I think it our core nature of contradictions that make us who we are and why that’s make the Doctor so identifiably English.

dyslexia

I’ve been working in Birmingham educational system for a year now. At first with children that have special needs, then in a pupil referral unit. Admittedly I haven’t mentioned this much here for three main reasons.

1. Its good material and that’s being saved for the inevitable autobiography titled “this might have happened; but I have taken a lot of drugs”
2. its not fair on the kids who have a hard enough time as it is without a closet drunk on the internet being sarcastic about it.
3. I didn’t want this blog to be about my job, there are far better blogs out there (recommend slow children at play – hasn’t updated in about two years but go back and read the archives.

But there is something I need to get off my chest, I’m still quite new at my job and am still learning, but this seems wrong to me. recently we received a new pupil to the centre, who, after testing had been put in the extra support class for literacy. During extra testing and by observing this guy it became apparent to both me and the teacher that he’s dyslexic. Great, I say, now we can get him tested properly and get him the support he needs. No says the teacher. It turns out that the Birmingham LEA does not provide dyslexia testing for young adults, ever, until they get to university age and the cost is shared by the uni.

Their reasoning is that, because the support you would give a child with really low literacy levels is the same as the support you would give a child with the same problem because of dyslexia, apparently it’s not worth paying for the test.

I’m going to leave the issue of whether the kids that need that need extra support are getting it (hint: I don’t think so) and focus on the issues that I, personally have experience of, because I, dear reader, I am a dyslexic – if you don’t believe me I’ve gone to the trouble of tagging the posts that were written during the period of my life where I discovered this.

Reading back those old posts I am struck at how relieving it was. Finding out I was dyslexic meant that all those teachers that told me I was lazy or unmotivated were wrong, it explained why I sometimes pronounce words strangely or why, in my twenties, I still didn’t understand what a syllable was. But the children not being tested are being denied this relief, the explanation as to why the things that other people find easy are so tough, denied the opportunity to feel proud of achieving as much as they have despite the handicap rather than the shame of competing and comparing themselves in a game rigged in someone else’s favour.

Secondly when I was diagnosed I was told exactly what my weakness are, making it much easier to target them and discover strategies around them. Also the diagnosis enabled me at secondary education to access the extra support, marking and testing allowances, and project time extensions. The attitude that the stratagems for dyslexics and people with less than average literacy skills, for example if English is a second or third language, is based on the false presumption that all dyslexics needs are similar and met by the established stratagems.

Also what about kids like me? I was in higher education before I was diagnosed, struggling through both school and college. If a young person isn’t doing really badly but just muddling along they will never offered for special learning support and always aspiring to average, and never realising their potential. If we are not looking for dyslexia we will never find it.

So what am I to do? Well , mostly support the literacy teacher who spends huge chunks of free time lesson planning, so we can give the tests that are deemed inconsequential by the LEA, try to build up our kids confidence by talking to them like equals and letting them know the problems I have, and wait for public opinions to change so dyslexia is seen as a real condition instead of a lack of concentration and effort from the person in question.

toughguy

Those of you reading are probably expecting the usual apology for not posting as regularly as I should do. But that’s not going to happen; in fact it’s you the reader that should be thanking me. “Thank you? What for?” I hear all six of you ask. Well, for not posting the whinging piece of self indulgence that I had planned to post here.

I’ve been going through a bit of a blogging slump the past month or so, it started during two or three weeks where I really didn’t stop, no time to eat what you squishy earth people call “food”, no time to speak to the small female earth creature I share a bed with and defiantly no time form coherent sentences. This meant no blog post’s for a bit, and then it got me thinking, why do I keep a blog? Why does anyone? Isn’t it a little self indulgent? In short I wasn’t getting anything from it but the slight guilt of one more task I’m ignoring. I even broke down to the three reasons I keep a blog;

  1. It forces me to write – well it hadn’t been too successful at that, so that was out of the window
  2. It gives me a web presence – but being on Twitter was giving me some web presence, enough to keep me in contact with the people I’ve come to call my friends (and not like Facebook “friends”, real ones who use my iron and have seen me pissed), plus Twitter took over briefly as my main vent hole, giving me tiny doses of the internet like a nicotine patch, and like a nicotine patch I eventually weaned off that too.
  3. The thrill of having people read your words – I started to forget how much I enjoyed even that.

So I there I was, sitting in a pub with notebook in one hand, a pint in another hand, and a pen in the other (yes I know that’s three hands, shut up) And I wrote a large whining post about my quitting the blog and I quote

“Leaving the website as an abandoned grave marker – just another bloated floater in a sea of bodies”

What can I say? I was tired and a little blue.

But then it hit me, you only get out of anything what you put in; I wasn’t benefiting, seeing any worth or enjoying blogging because I wasn’t blogging. I was putting a lot of effort into not blogging so that seemed like the best course. If you’re not part of the conversation, the conversation seems dull and pointless anyway.

So I’m giving it another go – I’m not going to make any promises, like I did before. The only promises worthwhile are the ones you make to yourself. Just keep watching this space.

I really have been busy though, check out my review for whoslaugingnow.org and my profile at rhubarbradio.com ok theres nothing on that profile just yet, but check me out from 7 – 8.30 every saturday night.

Hidden song: He hit me (and it felt like a kiss) by The Crystals – a deranged little classic written by Phil Spector with that enormous production and morally dubious message

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