Re:cycling

Well it’s been a while since I posted but that has a lot to do with me actually getting out there and having a life rather than slaving over a hot keyboard and waffling on about the nonsense that I think about for the five or six people that bother to read this stuff. But the urge to talk bollocks is not a thing I can turn off that easily so I’ve succumbed to my keyboard’s siren song once again to bring you another slice of my inane bullshit.

As you probably know I live in Brighton, which is a fabulous place to live. But as you also probably know it’s the kind of place that eats money quicker than one of those obese Americans who scoff hundreds of hot dogs at one of those weird eating contests. Getting around town can be bloody pricey too, the bus company here charge such extortionate fares that even a hardened mafia don would blush. And having a car would cost so much that I’d have to take out a mortgage to run one around here. That or stop partaking of the excesses I’ve become accustomed to over the past decade, like smoking gold plated cigarettes and drinking saffron infused beer out of my diamond encrusted goblet in the shape of the Royal Pavilion. I can’t help it, Brighton just turns you into a ponce whether you like it or not.

As well as the usual inflated costs involved in running a car – tax, insurance, general running costs, outrageous petrol prices – you have special Brighton taxes thrown in for good measure. Nowadays it is damn near impossible to park anywhere, and I mean anywhere, without being shafted with charges. So on top of everything else it would also cost an arm and a leg to get a residents parking permit and then even if I did have a car the roads get so congested, especially in the summer, that I could walk anywhere in town quicker. Kind of defeats the object doesn’t it?

But as Brighton (& Hove) is a relatively small place geographically you can get from one end of town to the other on a bike in about half an hour tops. Suits me fine because I’ve been using a bike as my main form of transport since I was about eleven. And it affords me some exercise because if I didn’t ride my bike to get places I’d be even more of a cheese addicted fat bastard than I already am.
Brighton has cycle paths everywhere so you can move around on a bike in large parts of the city without having to brave the roads and the murderous arseholes who fly round the place in their metal boxes on wheels. Well, in theory at least. The reality is at times I’d rather chance my arm with the cars by riding on the road because the cycle paths are surprisingly dangerous places.

My main route to work is pleasant enough - again in theory - because most of it runs right along the seafront. On a good day when there’s little wind and the sun’s out I think it’s probably one of the most enjoyable rides to a workplace anywhere in the country. But then the problems start. Riding on the cycle path between the two piers is a nightmare in summer thanks to the multitudes of moronic holiday makers and dodgy day trippers shambling around like Romero zombies. I swear most of them have a subconscious death wish the way they throw themselves like Lemmings into the path of oncoming bikes. I mean it’s not like the cycle path is camouflaged and difficult to spot, it’s made of different coloured tarmac, has big white lines either side of it and has bicycles painted on it at regular intervals. But still they wander onto it while shovelling their over-priced fast food and cans of coke into their faces, oblivious of the danger they’re putting themselves and cyclists in as they womble around the seafront.

You’d think dealing with the suicidal tendencies of the average tourist was bad enough but they’re nothing compared to other cyclists. And I use the term cyclist lightly when I refer to these people. Now I’m pretty good on a bike if I do say so myself, I tend to be fairly aware of what’s going on, which is probably why I haven’t crashed into a wall or one of the abundant groups of hyperactive French school kids on a jolly to Blighty. Now I’m hardly one who is a stickler for rules, especially if they’re stupid ones that can be broken to comedy effect, but I know the rules of the road, how they apply to me as a cyclist and I understand that they’re ultimately guidelines that to keep me and other people safe more than anything. I think I’m in the minority there though because many of the cyclists I encounter seem to treat the rules of the road like a black bloc twatarchist, thinking that they’re only there to keep us subjugated by The Man and should be smashed.

There are a few types of these moronic cyclists. Firstly there’s the idiots that can barely ride a bike in a straight line let alone at a speed worth riding on at. Small point for these people, if you can walk faster than you travel on your bike, do me a favour and fucking well walk and make sure you do it away from the cycle path because you probably walk like you ride; like a drunken, slow, directionless dipshit.

Then there are the infuriating Brighton types who are like the Modern Parents in Viz and think that it’s jolly funny to allow 2 year old Tarquin to ride his little bike with stabilisers on, weaving like a whirling dervish on the cycle path at 5 o’clock in the evening just as half of Brighton decide to ride home after a day’s work. And you know who’d get the blame if the little snot got run over don’t you? Of course it wouldn’t be their fault for allowing Tarquin on a busy cycle path when they can barely speak let alone ride a fucking bike.

Which deftly brings me to the next - and my most despised - type of cyclist; the ones most likely to crush little Tarquin under the gleaming wheels of their outrageously expensive bikes. These are the ones who think they’re ‘proper’ cyclists simply because they buy the most expensive kit and clothing and then think that they’re Lance fucking Armstrong. These pretend pros tear-arse down the cycle path as though they’re in the bloody Tour De France without a regard for others, causing all kinds of dangerous situations. And the most laughable thing about these pseudo cyclists is that they can be some of the worst riders imaginable. I take immense pleasure, when the path is a bit less congested, in letting them pass me and then tailing them at just the right distance so that they know I’m keeping up with them. You should see how crestfallen their little faces are when some big, bearded bloke with a shaved head wearing a Techno Sucks shirt and camo shorts just won’t piss off no matter how much they huff and puff in their ‘proper’ cyclist uniform to try to get away from me. Just because I’m not trussed up like a prize twat doesn’t mean I can’t ride a bike. Newsflash dickheads, clothing and kit do not make the cyclist, it’s all about how you ride the bike you dullards.

Before I go I want to point out one last thing that does my noodle in with some people who ride bikes. If you’re on the road and you’re approaching red traffic lights, you’re not exempt from stopping at them just because you think you’re so fucking important. Having an inflated sense of superiority won’t shield you from harm if you’re slammed into by a fast moving metal box on wheels, regardless of how indestructible you think you are. Surely cutting your journey time by six and a half seconds isn’t worth getting yourself injured or killed, is it? Then again maybe I should ignore this little point, because essentially what’s happening is the equivalent of natural selection for cyclists. And who am I to stand in the way of evolution. If these kinds of riders kill themselves by being idiots then there’ll be more room on the roads and cycle paths for me.

Then again, maybe I should just stop letting this stuff get to me and calm the fuck down a bit. That, or become CycleMan, a two wheeled vigilante who travels round in a mask and dishes out bikey justice to fools. I should probably go for the former but the latter seems like so much more fun.

Four Lions

Originally posted on Taco Cart Productions site.

Posted by Small Paul

Chris Morris has to be one of the most cutting edge British satirists of the last two decades, being responsible for classic media send-ups, The Day Today and Brass Eye, both of which were no strangers to controversy. If you haven’t seen them I urge you to seek them out, be it on DVD or online because I simply don’t have space here to go into how razor sharp and dangerous Morris’s satire is.

After extensive work on TV, Morris then turned his talents to film, culminating in his 2010 offering, Four Lions. If Morris’s previous outings into dark humour were contentious, this movie has a theme no one has dared touch with a ten foot pole before. Four Lions follows the fate of a group of radicalised British Muslims intent on turning themselves into suicide bombers and thus martyrs to their cause. Hardly pure popcorn stuff huh?

Referred to as a ‘jihadist comedy’, this movie has got to be one of the funniest and yet poignant and relevant things I’ve seen in recent years. The central performances of the potential bombers are essential to this film working and the actors don’t fail to deliver. The script and story are pant wettingly hilarious even if I did spend a large part of the time wondering whether I should be laughing at all and watching it through my fingers. Readers Stateside may have heard of the film as it premiered at the Sundance Film Festival back at the start of 2010 and while unfortunately it only had a limited theatrical release in the US, it was released over there this month on DVD.

Highly intelligent, extremely well researched and played to perfection, Four Lions has got to be one of my favourite films of recent years and I recommend you grab a copy as soon as you can. But be warned, this isn’t for the faint hearted.

Monsters

Also featured on the Taco Cart Productions site.

Of all the films that I’ve seen recently Monsters surprised me the most. The premise sounds exciting enough: NASA probe that went off into space to investigate signs of life returns to Earth, crash landing in Mexico, bringing with it alien life forms. The aliens spread which leads to the eventual quarantine of northern Mexico, the US builds a huge border wall to keep the aliens out and the military forces of both countries are routinely in action with the new inhabitants, be it in border skirmishes or air strikes in the ‘Infected Zone’. I pressed play and got ready for a thrill fest of explosions and heroics but that isn’t what this film is about at all.

The movie follows Samantha Wynden (Whitney Able), the daughter of a wealthy businessman and Andrew Kaulder (Scoot McNairy), a photographer employed by Samantha’s father. Ordered by Dad to escort Samantha safely back to the America, Kaulder reluctantly heads homeward with his new companion, inevitably forced to do so via the Infected Zone.

A little clumsy in parts, this is nonetheless a fantastic, super-low budget film by debutant British director, Gareth Edwards. I’m not sure of the exact budget, Wikipedia says below $500,000 and the IMDB says approximately $800,000, but whichever way you look at it, that’s a tiny amount of money by today’s standards.

The movie is slow paced, focusing less on the aliens - it’s a bit like Cloverfield in that you don’t see a lot of the monsters, although that’s about where the similarity ends - and more on Kaulder and Samantha and why they find themselves where they are.

Both Able and McNairy give great performances in that even when a scene seems a shade contrived they still come across as genuinely likeable characters. A large portion of the film is shot guerrilla style using people who aren’t professional actors as extras and incidental characters, giving an edgy, more realistic feel. The stunning wilderness of the Infected Zone is shot beautifully and the development of Kaulder and Samantha’s characters make this an intriguing film.

I don’t think Monsters is a movie for everyone but despite it not being anything like I expected, or indeed was in the mood for, I enjoyed it and it stayed with me when it finished. Certainly a recommend, if only so you can make up your own mind.

By Small Paul

New Direction

I know things have been all quiet on the Small Tales front for a couple of months but I’ve been formulating plans for world domination. Okay, so the plans have been more specifically about how to make this blog more than just a monthly offering of general articles, piss takes and rants than taking over the world but you’ve got to start somewhere, eh? So as well as the usual nonsense, I’ll be posting reviews or articles on two of the things I love: books and films.


You may or may not already know that I write about films for a website called Taco Cart Productions. Taco Cart is an independent film making crew based in Seattle USA that I’m associated with who currently make ‘beer budget’ short films and have had some success at indie film festivals over the last few years. Check out our site because Taco Cart’s Debut short, Girl Trouble can be seen on the Taco Cart site HERE in full and you may recognise the voice of the radio broadcaster heard during the film and the end credits. Also keep an eye out for Taco Cart’s second offering, the excellent Vampire Hunter Hank.

Any reviews or articles I post on Taco Cart will be posted here on Small Tales as well with a link to the Taco Cart site so you can check out my fellow Taco Heads, Jerry and Don Chile’s contributions, which are excellent.

Finally I can bring you news of a new exciting project I’m going to embark on very soon. Inspired by my friend’s fantastic website in Seattle, aptly named Seattle Rock Guy, which I occasionally contribute to, I’m going to start a music blog for all things loud and filthy here in Brighton called appropriately, Brighton: Loud & Filthy. But where Seattle Rock Guy obviously focuses its attention on rock and metal, I’ll be covering both guitar driven and electronic music as I love both - and a lot of stuff in between.

The main thing is to get more interesting stuff to read here rather than just an occasional article and to try to establish the music blog to keep you in the know about what’s happening in Brighton.
I hope you enjoy it!

Those Who Can, Do.

Next month I will have been scrawling nonsense on this little corner of the internet for a year and the whole exercise has taught me a lot about writing. I’ve found that for me ideas can’t be forced, I generally tend to have to be in the right mood or have been hit sufficiently hard by the inspiration stick to put something out that I’m happy with. There are hundreds of things I see or hear that I could write about but if I put finger to keyboard every time I had a half-baked idea for an article I’d bore the shit out of myself, let alone the people who are generous enough to give up some of their time to sit and read what I post on here.

That said, not all people who read things such as this page are generous. Allow me to explain…

I’ll happily admit that a major inspiration to start Small Tales came from reading a blog that is written by a friend. I didn’t know him when I first looked at it – although we’ve since become friends – and I found it to be one of the funniest things I’ve read for a long time. His observations and vicious wit are right up my street and easily on a par with anything a professional columnist could produce. With material ranging from idiots with iphones on the bus to his crazy neighbours and their ridiculous exploits, from his being crap at drinking alcohol to being accosted by a mad woman at a nightclub, my friend’s writing never ceases to pluck at least one belly laugh from me per article. And what struck me above all is his writing style; it’s engaging, fluid and he has the ability to pen things that are on one hand laugh-out-loud funny and yet at other times incredibly moving.

About two or three months ago I received a text from him when I left work, which read,

‘Hello mate, now I know you’re a good writer but my question is am I?’

It was a strange question because my friend isn’t the kind of emo-esque, insecure attention seeker that constantly needs affirmation or self-inflicted razor slashes to his arms to feel better about himself. A little bemused I replied and told him about how his writing had inspired me and asked why this sudden crisis of confidence. He went on to tell me that someone who had decided to remain anonymous had emailed him and effectively told him he couldn’t write for shit. I pressed him for more specifics and while the following isn’t verbatim quotation of what they said it’s along the same lines.

‘Anonymous’ told him that his writing lacked depth and substance, his style was shoddy and that he used foul language to cover up both his lack of intelligence and ability. Now from my grassy knoll that couldn’t be further from the truth and my first question upon being told this was, ‘have they sent you anything they’ve written?’ to which I was told no they hadn’t. I then asked if they had left their name and an indication of what qualifies them to make these sweeping judgements to which the answer was once again, no they hadn’t. ‘Anonymous’ didn’t even point to sections of my friend’s text that they’d taken offence to.

Now one thing I’ve learned over the years is that it’s easy to criticise. Anyone with an opinion – however badly informed – coupled with the power of speech or some vague semblance of literacy can slag something off. But for me nowadays, being negative is mostly a cop out. As the saying goes, it can take years to build something that takes seconds to tear apart and let's face it, destroying something hardly takes hard work, talent or imagination does it? Unless you’re one of those badass demolition dudes, but that’s not what I’m talking about here.

What ‘anonymous’ did was the literary equivalent of a dull-witted bully coming along and kicking over a sandcastle someone had spent time and energy creating. Of course there are things out there that are so crap they need a good bashing, take most of the music that makes the charts these days for example, but if you have to be negative about something at least put in some effort and be well-informed enough to back up what you say with some form of evidence.

I’ve found that it’s much harder to be positive about something, especially if it’s something you aren’t personally into. There are a lot of things out there that really aren’t my cup of tea let alone my glass of finest single malt, but just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it doesn’t have merit. One of my biggest bugbears are people with no talent and no motivation other than to sit in their ivory towers dishing out what they loosely describe as criticism to people who have worked on something and had the guts to put it out there in public.

The internet is awash with semi-literate armchair critics who are happy to tear chunks out of someone’s work and yet haven’t produced a single thing themselves apart from their inane, boring, predictable rantings about things others have created. For my friend to be viciously criticised by this moron who didn’t even have the backbone to post their name on the email is a joke. So I’d like to take the shallow approach in my response to ‘anonymous’ and mask my obvious lack of intellect or depth by saying fuck you and the horse you rode in on.

I’d love to see the kind of thing that ‘anonymous’ could produce because I’m sure it would be of such a poor standard that I could give them a proper lesson in articulate bitch slapping. It takes balls to create something and put it out there for people to read, look at or listen to and it is nothing more than cowardice to attack something without so much as revealing who you are and why you think your opinion counts for shit.

If you’d like to form your own opinion, which I strongly suggest you do, you can check out my friend’s blog HERE. But do us both a favour if you want to slag either me or my friend off, at least leave your name and justification for your negativity.

And whatever you do, remember this golden rule: those who can, do. Those who can’t, bitch.

Crutch Power

I’m just about to go back to work after a three week sojourn due to having had a knee operation to repair torn cartilage in my left knee. It’s been a problem that I’ve been putting up with for about two and a half years and finally I’ve had it fixed. I have to admit though, it’s been an enjoyable time off despite my movement being hindered by having to use crutches for a couple of weeks after the op. But while I was consigned to hobbling around I discovered that using crutches had an interesting and rather pleasant side effect.

Now it’s no secret that I’m not a fan of people in general, I am a bit of a misanthrope to say the least. Whenever I go out and walk down the road I think I either become invisible or activate some kind of twat attracting energy field. God knows how this is possible, I’m hardly a blend-into-the-background kind of bloke, but somehow when I go out people either don’t see me or think I’m some kind of gaseous being they can walk straight through. Not with the crutches though, oh no, with those strapped to my arms things change.

I discovered this revelation when I went out of the house for the first time after the operation. Against the advice of my long suffering girlfriend I donned my crutches and we went out into the outside world. I had to get out of the house, I’d been cooped up in my flat for four days and was starting to go a little stir crazy so even a trip to the supermarket was a welcome distraction.

I hobbled round the corner onto St James’ Street here in Brighton, which is generally a cauldron of tourists, students, crazy locals and a random assortment of junkies and alcoholics. I readied myself for the usual barracking when I discovered the crutches had bestowed on me a new power. Rather than drawing dickheads to me like flies to a steaming turd, people actually acknowledged me, even moved out of my way apologising as they did. It was incredible. I tottered along the road and was stunned at the sudden politeness where before I would have been rudely bumped into and ignored.

Then I saw two of my most feared adversaries behind me, a pair of pushchair wielding mothers, the kind who either use your ankles for target practice or barge you out of the way into oncoming traffic. As usual, the women were pushing their offspring two abreast, loudly discussing which of their spawn was more intelligent than the other, totally disregarding the fact that other people wanted to use the pavement as well to do selfish things like avoid getting run over by buses for example. I looked at Charlotte and flashed her a grin that said, ‘let’s see what happens here then, because I’m not moving.’ Poor Charlotte, not only was she fretting about me being out of the house in the first place, she now had to deal with me invoking a stand-off between myself and a couple of baby buggies. See why I refer to her as long suffering?

I slowed down, made myself as wide as I could with my crutches and braced myself for impact. But where normally I would be unceremoniously shoved out of the way, this time the effect of the crutches was indisputable. As they drew closer, for once they appeared to notice me and you know what? They crossed the road. They crossed the bloody road to allow me to go about my business unhindered. It transpired that crutches could thrust consideration on even the hardiest of pushchair wielders. Incredible.

That was the watershed, I decided that I’d have some fun with my temporary disability and get in people’s way as much as I could to see how they’d react. If they did so in the wrong way I’d be in a position of righteous indignation and could expose the offenders’ for the impolite, selfish bastards they were. I think by this point Charlotte had given up and decided to let me wage my stupid little personal war.

A few minor skirmishes later and we were at the supermarket, another venue where I’m generally pushed around and ignored. Nonetheless the same thing happened, people went from being their usual ill-mannered selves to being astoundingly courteous, aware of my struggle and making ay for me.
But then in the dairy section I confronted my true nemesis; another man on crutches. Damn. Okay, I thought, let’s see how far I can push this thing.
There was a Mexican stand-off as we faced each other in the aisle, wondering which of the two of us would yield and give way and eventually my opponent must have realised I was in much worse shape than he was and he capitulated. Fabulous, a clean sheet. The crowd roars.

A week later however, things were back to normal. My crutches were no longer needed and I went down the supermarket once more, bereft of my magical supports. Although I was still limping pretty badly it seemed that without the power of the crutches I had again donned my invisible suit and had become a target for arseholes to annoy. My short lived reign of crutch terror was over. Oh well, it was fun while it lasted.

I still have the crutches though, the hospital didn’t ask for them back and I forgot to return them, and you know what? I’m thinking of busting them out in a few weeks time ready for the Christmas rush, just to see what happens. If nothing else it’ll satisfy my inner wanker.

From Nijmegen with Love

In 1998 I met a guy called Jan Liefhebber at a house party. It was back when I lived in one of the numerous and infamous party houses on Maples Street in Hyson Green, Nottingham. My time in Maples Street is a whole other story in itself, far too big to summarise properly here, but suffice to say it was one of the craziest times in my life, for better or worse. Jan was visiting the UK from Holland with his girlfriend, Jenny, who grew up in the next town from me. We’d all been at a club night that finished at 2am and when we were kicked out us Maples Street reprobates decided to have an open house after party and Jan and Jenny came along. I chatted to Jan and Jenny for some time and found that Jan ran a record label called Highland Beats and was very active as a DJ as well. After talking for a while I eventually went to play some records myself, which was a good move because based on that little set I did, Jan and Jenny flew me out to play in Nijmegen not long after.

My debut gig in Holland was for his Highland Beats label party at a fantastic club in Nijmegen called Doornroosje. After that I spent the next couple of years going back to the Netherlands to play gigs with or for Jan at squats, clubs and fields in Amsterdam, Nijmegen, Groningen and Deventer. During that time I met some amazing people and fell in love with the country, not just for the availability of quality Dutch smoke but because there’s a real love of techno over there. But then I moved to Brighton, took up my studies at university and unfortunately lost touch with the Nijmegen contingent.

Skip to a few months ago, and through the wonder of Facebook I got back in touch with Jan and Jenny. I found that Jan is as driven by his music as he ever was and as well as being a DJ, he’s now also a producer and has released some damn fine music in the past ten years. I’m more than pleased to report that Highland Beats is alive and kicking and coming up to it’s 41st release with no sign of letting up anytime soon.

Not long after getting back in touch with Jan, he kindly invited me to play at his birthday party on the 1st October at an amazing venue in Nijmegen called Waalhalla, a chance I fucking jumped at. It was an incredible party and I met with some old friends who I’ve not seen for a decade or more, as well as meeting some new people who are equally cool. Waalhalla is a skate park that doubles up as a music venue and I had one of the times of my life there last weekend and one thing is for sure, I won’t be waiting ten years before going back out there to party again.

I made a little short film on the night so you can get an idea of the kind of party Jan had for his birthday, check it out. From Nijmegen with Love… enjoy.