The cut and thrust of the Northern Line (not a pirate mag) Foisting its way into your heart
High Noon Red Ken v Blue Boris
Garth Jennings on Son of Rambow
London
Pissing Guide
+ MORE
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Letter from the Editor
So it’s been a while but we’re back in style (five points if you can tell me what small animal famously sang that). Where’ve we been? I’d like to say two months in South America but that’s far too adventurous... I’m a bit rusty writing this ed’s letter lark, so here goes - I need to write something funny. Something interesting and most of all something gripping to keep you on this page. Something funny first: A man had his suitcase stuck in the door of the tube. Handle inside, big case outside, brilliant. Something interesting: The Northern Line carries more passengers per year than any other Underground line; 206,734,000 to be precise. YAWN. Something gripping: In tennis, a grip is a way of holding the racquet in order to hit shots during a match. There are three primary grips, the Western, the Eastern, and the Continental. Some people recognize a fourth grip, the Semi-Western, which is midway between an Eastern and a true Western. Most players change grips during a match depending on what shot they are hitting. With the Continental, the grip remains the same, no matter what shot is being hit. Well here we are the latest most prestigious copy of the Other Side to date. We’ve jam packed into 24 pages the best we have to offer on The London Elections (have you registered to vote?), Son of Rambow (it’s brilliant), Devon, London, Busses, Tubes, Music, Socc... sorry Football and loads more. It’s all about biding your time and my time has been bound for long enough. Meanwhile check this out www.theothersidemag.co.uk it’s got everything on there. We’ve added games, we’ve added music, articles, stories, videos, polls, photos and packed even more onto our website than you can pack into a peanut butter and jam sandwich. Sit back, relax, check out the sweat patches on the man opposite, look at the girl with the great shoes and whatever you do read this before you pick up the London Shite. Please keep supporting us and we’ll keep giving it back to you. - ed.
Edited by Sam and Adam in their lunch break, designed by Becca at Breakfast. Other Contributors include Nico, Dan, Matt, Rick, Chiara, Josh, Nathan and Jamie. ©2008 The Other Side. No reprinting anything without the publisher’s permission.
3 Wee Here.. 4 High Noon 6 Unknown Pleasures 8 Son of Rambow / Garth Jennings talks Rambow 12 7 Stops (the best things happening on the Northern Line) 14 Who the fuck are the Replacements? 16 The Ghost of a Pidge 18 Music 19 Camden 20 48 hours in Devon 22 The Other Side's Off Side
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WEE HERE
We’ve all been there, the tube pulls into Tottenham Court Road and you’re busting for a wizz. It’s still at best, a four minute walk to the exits. Then it’s decision time; where to go, is it that desperate that you resort to the McDonalds bog or can you hold your bladder long enough to make it to the tranquillity of the Oxford Street department store WCs. Well you no longer need to worry as we’ve drunk our weight in Capri Sun and come up with London’s ultimate toilet guide.
Liberty’s – Nearest Tube, Oxford Circus… for the boys
Once you’ve navigated your way past the world’s most expensive t-shirt and jackets that would make Stone Cold Steve Austin look camp, you’ll find yourself in among the Art. Walk through glancing as you pass as if you might just might purchase a water colour. Don’t, because they’re all rubbish. Instead sneak left into the none-too-shabby toilets.
Ray’s Jazz Café at Foyles – Charing Cross Road
Bookshops are a great place to take a leak, mainly because nobody tells you toilets are for customers only. Ray’s has a male and a female lav and is situated on the second floor of Foyles bookshop. Treat yourself to a toasted rye bread sandwich after, they are really great.
Borders – Charing Cross Road / Oxford Street
The great thing about Borders is the array of ephemera that you can take into the toilets
with you. Handy mag rails offer hundreds of items laid on for you. Peruse at your leisure and take one to the bathroom with you. But be sure to return anything you borrow – we don’t want to promote thieves now do we.
Selfridges – Oxford Street
Selfridges toilets are clean. There is plenty of space inside and there’s always a guy checking everything is OK. No e-coli, no bird flu just a simple toilet. However, that said – any department store will do, although I might add that House of Fraser is very hot and is an unpleasant experience.
Pret a Manger – Long Acre, Covent Garden / Leicester Square
Hidden away downstairs in big Pret is a small metallic lavvy. It’s not particularly nice but it does the job. I liked the futuristic feel it had. Corrugated metal doors and horrifically designed entry. But it’s times like these that design features are the least of your worries.
That Shopping Centre by Neal’s Yard (you know the one) - Covent Garden
Despite being a dumping ground for some distinctly rubbish clothes shops, it boasts a coffee stand and comfy seats and a decent atmosphere. Better yet, there are some piss-soaked free bogs to use. They’re one up from going up against a wall at the very least. Have you drunk too much Ribena on the tube recently? Had to make a dash for a pit stop? Where did you go and what did you think. Share you bog experiences with us at www.theothersidemag.co.uk
editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
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With elections for London Mayor taking place on 1 May, The Other Side’s Dan Murdoch checks out the two main contenders This year’s elections are set to be the fiercest and most closely contested in the eight years of London’s mayoralty. There is little doubt it will come down to two men, both mavericks with reputations for eccentricity and controversy. The winner picks up the keys to City Hall, a £140,000 salary and responsibility for transport, policing, the emergency services, health, culture, and London’s environmental and economic development. So how does Ken ‘The Red Goblin’ Livingstone measure up to Boris ‘The Blue Blunder’ Johnson? Despite his significant weight advantage over Wee Willy Kenneth, the biggest spear to gouge Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson’s toffy spleen with is that he’s actually a political lightweight. Career wise he’s a multi-award-winning journalist who made his name at The Telegraph and edited the deter-
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minedly controversial, elitist wankfest The Spectator. But the 43-year-old Henley MP can hardly boast any political achievements. Sacked as Shadow Minister for Arts by Michael Howard after lying about an affair, he recently stood down from the frankly worthless post of Shadow Minister for Higher Education. Not exactly the credentials for managing one of the world’s biggest cities and a £9 billion budget. Compare this to Comrade Kenny, who can boast 30 years at the heart of London politics. In 1981 he was elected leader of the Greater London Council, aged just 35. After 15 years as a troublesome but resolute backbencher he saw off Blair by winning the inaugural 2000 elections as an independent and forcing the Labour party to ask him back. The 62-year-old has revamped the capital’s tired transport system and pushed ahead with controversial, but successful, schemes like the congestion zone, which is set to be mimicked in cities around the country. Latest brain waves include the C Charge on environmentally unfriendly vehicles, and plans to copy Paris’ successful communal bike hire scheme. Boris’s main
talent is for sweepingly un-PC comedy: during the Ken Bigley kidnapping his Spectator leader said Scousers should stop ‘wallowing’ in their ‘victim status’ adding they should accept some blame for Hillsborough. He has labelled black tribesman ‘picaninies’, linked Papua New Guinea with ‘cannibalism and chief-killing’, and said that voting Tory “will cause your wife to have bigger breasts and increase your chances of owning a BMW M3.” All fun and games. But compared to the political behemoth that is Ken Livingstone, Boris is little more than a floppy-haired fairy, prancing through the political consciousness on the back of tired tabloid hacks gagging for his next blunder. “Say something ill-advised Boris,” begged one Sun ‘journalist’ as Blondy left last year’s Tory conference, simply because the red rag’s gutter snipe had nothing to file. Does Boris court such publicity? Probably, but for some reason everyone is happy to tousle his hair and go: “ahhhh Boris you loveable, eccentric little posh boy, let me finger your bottom.” Ken too is prone to ruffling feathers, comparing a Jewish reporter to a Nazi concentration camp guard, claiming he’d like to see the Saudi royal family ‘swinging from lamp posts’, and allegedly pushing a male friend of his partner down the stairs at a house party. Of course both of them promise to turn London into THE GREATEST CITY EVER, but what else are
they going to say? I’ve never been too impressed with election promises. So let’s put small details like policy to one side (It works for Boris. In fact, I think it is his policy). So what are they like? Well, strangely, they are both confessed thieves. In 2003 Boris nicked a cigar case from former Iraqi Deputy PM Tariq Aziz while on an official visit to the country. In contrast Ken pilfered a book from WH Smith in 1957. Like a naughty schoolboy, Boris has been ordered off the booze for the duration of his campaign, where as Ken is known to drink whisky at morning meetings of the London Assembly. He claims it eases a bronchial condition. Boris has an air of the shambolic Latin don about him, and rightly so, he studied classics at Balliol, Oxford. Ken the Red supposedly has a Ho Chi Minh bust in his office. He’s been accused of running London like his ‘personal fiefdom’. In fairness that’s exactly what London is - the elected London Assembly has no power over decision making, it would be hard to find a group of less powerful elected officials outside a parish council. So there’s little to stop Ken swanning around handing out favours and ‘allocating funds’. “Skyscrapers? Yeah they’re brilliant. We’ll have loads. Thanks for the donation. Chavez? Cracking bloke, proper socialist, we can deal with him. Cheers for the gas.” The gimlet-eyed incumbent has done well in previous year’s
by distancing himself from national politics, but probably uttered a robust Lambeth litany when Gordon Brown ordered they appear together before the media at the end of March. That’ll force the floating voters - with friends like those… Suggestions about Boris’s competence have seemed increasingly justified since an analyst pointed out a £100m hole in his transport budget. Hard to “Oops crikey” your way out of that one. So who would you rather have juggling the 2012 Olympics and the £16 billion Crossrail scheme in the face of the much-heralded threat from international terrorists? The foppish Etonian writer or the street fighting socialist that even Prime Ministers can’t rein in? Well it seems Boris is winning. According to the bookies, London’s five million voters have gone all blue. A reflection of national trends? Perhaps. Or maybe the bike riding, blueeyed albino really has won us all over. Well Boris, if you get it, please don’t do anything illadvised. mrdanmurdoch@gmail.com Think your vote’s a waste? Has Red Ken killed London? www.theothersidemag.co.uk is the place to have your say on our forums and in our very own opinion poll.
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Unknown Pleasures
Matt Mclean revels in those little moments that can make your day
#1 The ceiling room Try staring up at the ceiling of the room you are in, which will appear smaller than the floor area, and imagining everything that is in the room in its respective position on the ceiling. If you are particularly industrious you might want to suspend all the furniture from the ceiling and suspend yourself by your shoes. You can then watch the look of blind terror on people’s faces as they walk into an upsidedown room, if you haven’t passed out from the rush of blood to your head.
#3 The baked goods catap
During the toasting of an item smaller in h muffins, bagels and hot crossed buns of thi disc out of the toaster with a sharp upwar while simultaneously trying to catch the air thumb and forefinger. The thrill of a succes magnified by an intense burning sensation i
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What gives you an inexplicable thrill? Let us know at www.theothersidemag.co.uk
#2 The abusive email When sending an official email at work, include various insults and abusive slurs in white text, which will be invisible to the eye of the receiver. The thrill of concealing messages to your boss, saying ‘Dear Brenda I hate you so very much’, and ‘Best regards you fat-faced bitch’, will do wonders for your inferiority complex and the massive sense of loathing and inadequacy that dwells deep within your belly during the working day.
pult
height than the conventional loaf (the is world), try launching the floury rds strike of the toaster leaver, rborne snack between ssful catch will be in the fingertips.
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Skills on Toast
Son of Rambow has already wowed the critics at Sundance and is poised to win the public’s hearts when it’s released next week. Adam Richmond meets the director, Garth Jennings, and finds out how war can be quite pleasant really.
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It starts with kids playing in the woods. As all good things do, boys tearing through a sun-soaked, rose-tinted past, muddy sticks transformed into guns, clumps of dirt serving as grenades, the flecks of shrapnel sticking on your lips, invisible foes dying at your feet, a band of brothers screaming bloody murder till it’s time to go home for Thundercats. As Lee Carter, the rebel star of Son of Rambow would say, skills on toast...
When it came to a fresh-faced Garth Jennings and his youthful war games something happened that made them that bit more fun and a bit more real. He saw First Blood and it blew his tiny little mind. “It was the first film that I saw that I wasn’t supposed to see and it was phenomenal. Here’s this one guy running around the woods with just a stick and a knife. He was so inventive and self sufficient and that was so impressive. That was why we ended up making action movies based on that.” As part of Hammer & Tongs (with Art college friends Nick Goldsmith and Dominic Leung) Jennings has been behind some of the best music videos of the past decade – including Blur’s Coffee & TV (sweet milk carton searches for his girlfriend) and Supergrass’ Pumpin’ on Your Stereo (the band as long-legged puppets). Kicking around ideas for a feature film Jennings told Nick about his misspent youth trying remake First Blood with his friends in the woods. Nick was hooked and Son of Rambow was born. It would be the perfect first film – a small, low budget coming of age comedy drama. Well, it would have been the perfect first film if they hadn’t have been offered the chance to direct Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It was a dream gig they could hardly turn down. The resulting film was a colourful mess bursting with ideas that didn’t please everyone, but did solid box office and marked Hanmer & Tongs out as guys with a real vision and unique sensibility. Not expecting much, Garth and Nick decided to dust off the Rambow script to see if it still stood up.“We were convinced that we weren’t going to like it any more. That with fresh eyes it would disintegrate into a meaningless vanity project. But the great thing was we loved it even more.” Garth says. Even better, they’d picked up some vital experience that they would put to good use on Rambow. Garth elaborates, “I guess we did
things the wrong way round – our big film first and then the small indie one. With Hitchhikers we inherited all this studio stuff, all these people, and it just made things slower and harder to get what we wanted. So it was nice to go to this small film and get rid of all those unnecessary extras. We could shoot faster. It was much more hands on and a much more dynamic set.” Getting the money men to pony up the dough for Son of Rambow was a trial in itself. The British film industry could not be sold on the concept and it left Jennings scratching his head. “I’m baffled by the whole thing. It was just so tricky to get this made. People just wanted us to make stuff with robots or weird puppets. Just before we pitched it a film called Millions had come out [Danny Boyle’s film about some kids who find one million pounds] and it didn’t do very well at the box office, so everyone after that equates kid films with failure. I can’t figure out the logic of that.” It’s hard not to share Jennings’ confusion, especially given the glut of shite gangster films and dull period pieces that have become Brit staples. Salvation came in the guise of a French backer, and after a quick, trouble-free shoot it was off to show the finished piece at Sundance. It blew everyone away and showed Garth and Nick that the film worked. For Jennings the Sundance reaction was everything. “Now I’m not too bothered how much money it makes. I’ve taken it round all these film festivals last year and the response was so amazing, it’s had this little release, and it worked and it’s done what we wanted it to do.” It’s refreshing outlook and place it has in people’s hearts is unsurprising. Spaced’s Jessica Hynes, taking a break away from comedy to play Will’s protective mother, makes no bones about it, “I think it’s a classic. Seeing it, they’ve surpassed my expectations. I really think it’s one of the best films I’ve seen in a long time, certainly one of the best British films.”
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Jessica Hynes on Son of Rambow …the film
This kind of project, they don’t happen very often, because they’re so close to what Garth and Nick wanted to make, and they stuck to their guns and protected it. They fought off interference, they kept its heart. To be a part of that, it’s great.
...on a Spaced reunion
We were thinking about doing a spoof of Cloverfield. Do a little Cloverfield trailer, with the Statue of Liberty head falling in the garden. I don’t know though. I would love to do it.
…the script
It was all there in the script, Garth’s direction of action. The way the film’s crafted, it’s told visually, that’s Garth’s strength. He’d thought about scenes so clearly and it was all there on the page. How he wanted to capture the moments, he knew how to do that visually.
…the role
It’s more dramatic role, but it’s a one off I think. I love comedy, that’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Writing stuff for myself, because it’s hard to find comedic roles for women. The people who write, they tend to be male, so unless you write for yourself it’s really hard to find comic roles.
…on lost jokes
…on writing
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I am writing a comedy at the minute for a production company. It’s hard facing down the people with the purse strings, contending with their suggestions. On the one hand you respect them and want their money, on the other you think I’ve spent a lot of time on this, I know what it needs. Garth’s been through the same thing, the struggle to get this made. You give them a bit. It’s an exciting road. Spaced doesn’t make it any easier. You have to inspire people’s confidence with your idea and stick with that. It’s hard. You get drained, but once you’ve captured someone with the idea, you’re away then..
Working on Spaced with Simon and Edgar, one thing I really wanted was to have a Goonies reference and Simon said no one would get it. I felt he was so much older than me at that point! Everyone loves The Goonies. Everyone. We argued back and forth “They won’t get the reference, they will get the reference.” It’s the Chunk, when Chunk puts his hand in the food mixer, but Simon just said no. Big mistake. I’m going to have to get him to admit that.
BE at Proud, Camden holding nights in a 10,000 sq ft restored horse hospital, at proud boasts a huge exhibition space with large skylights, exposed rustic brick walls and high beamed ceilings with an outdoor terrace making it perfect for very large events. april 12th: does it offend You, Yeah? (dJ) / post war Years / christopher d ashley
Archway
Highgate Brent Cross
Win - we’ve got two pairs of ticke this great night. To enter visit www.theothersidemag.co.uk and j
Tufnell Park
Belsize Park
Camden Town
Angel
Euston
Warren Street
Mornington Crescent
The Orphanage, 15
the everyman cinema 9:10 Thursday 10th This has been out a while, but it is one of the films of the year so far. Beautifully shot and acted, this heart wrenching tale is seriously nerve racking. Produced by Guillermo Del Toro, this Spanish chiller will slowly suck you in, tease your nerves and force you to hide in your jumper. Go and see it now before it’s ruined by the blabbermouth at work. If you would like to advertise something in 7stops then please contact us at : editor@theothersidemag.co.uk
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Old Street
Kings Cross
Kentish Town
Chalk Hampstead Farm
Golders Green
Every Saturday, Trevor Lock takes yo on a journey through time to party in past, play games from years gone by, incredible acts, and dance till you dro the dJs work the decades - Jive in the duel in the Wild West, Vogue in the E and check out what the future holds o night out with a difference.
www.warpednight.com
Win - we’ve got two pairs of tickets to the re-launch of Be. it’s bound to be sold out. To enter visit www.theothersidemag.co.uk and join us
East Finchley
Warped, Clerkenwell
Moorg Tottenham Court Road Goodge Street
Lei
God of Carnage, The
When two sets of parents meet up to behaviour of their children a finely tun unfolds. Starring the delectable Tamsin and a Ralph fiennes in Rigby-esque for from the french playwright who bough of the moment.
McBus - A true tale from the Bus Act 1 Scene 1 / The Setting: A Bus headed t Enter two unsightly women, Juliet and Hipo
Juliet: Is you still on your Period? Hipolita: Things bad begun make strong them but yeah I is, but I run out ov tampax yesterda Juliet: What yer doin then? Hipolita: I’ve got free pairs a black knickers o and tights innit and then I scrub Out, damned Juliet: Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Hipolita: sick Exit
ou n the watch op while fifties, Eighties on a
The Wave Pictures, London 93 Feet East, Tues 15th Sharp, imaginative soaring indie pop from these soon-to-be-massive-or-I’ll-eat-myhat London gents. Live they’re laid back, humble and catchy as hell. Oh, and lead singer Dave has an effortless, offbeat voice that will suck you in forever.
ets to
join us
Borough
Bank
gate
London Bridge
Charing Cross
icester Square
on and shorts spot! out, I say!
Kennington
Stockwell Oval
Embankment
deal with the unruly ned darkly comic meeting n Grieg, the gruff Ken Stott, rm, this comedy of manners ht us Art is the theatre pick
ses of Londinium toward finchley olita
Elephant
Waterloo
e Gielgud
mselves by ill, ay innit.
International Beatboxing Convention 2008, South Bank, Free
Flora London Marathon On Sunday April 13th, watch a bunch of ruddy idiots run for
ruddy charity and show how amazing they are. Go on. Boost
their ego and laugh at the fools who dress up in suits of armour and fall over. If you’re
lucky a smarmy celebrity will sick their guts up trying to impress the world.
everyone wants to be a beatboxer, however it’s just not possible. however for one Clapham Common weekend only the south Bank plays host Clapham North to the world’s leading beatboxers at the fourth annual human Beatbox convention. there will be two days of showcases, seminars, talks, participatory workshops and open mic sessions in the front room of the Queen elizabeth hall culminating in an international Beatboxing showcase (£15) in the main hall. miss it at your peril. sat 19th / sun 20th
GO AND SPONSER OUR RUDDY IDIOT AT www.theothersidemag.co.uk
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Say What...? Your guide to Rock’s lesser-known greats. BY MATT MClEAN #1: The Replacements Rock music is really lame, isn’t it? I’m not talking about the punky, Nietzsche-reading, chickenwire-guitars version rock music, with political over- (or under-) tones and a steadfast rejection of any pre-existing musical blueprint, I am talking about real rock music. Three-chords-and-acloud-of-dust-rock-music. Girlfriend’s-left-you, drunk-with-your-pants-down rock music. That stuff is rubbish. Melody, big drums, guitar solos, songs, it all sounds so stupid now. It has been shit all over
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by too many 18-till-I-die bore fests. So to listen to Minneapolis’ The Replacements, is to remind yourself that the soaring chorus, or the muted guitar is not the sole preserve of the balding and irrelevant, that it can be the stuff of youth, and vitality. That to sound stupid and drunk and throwaway is not to necessarily be stupid and drunk and throwaway, it might mean that you are clever and quite profound, although in the case of The Replacements, it probably does mean that you are drunk.
Formed in 1979, and falling in with other twin-city upstarts Husker Du, they formed part of a wave of hardcore punk bands that dominated the 80s American underground scene. But The Replacements were not about the sonic threat and politics of hardcore, something that lead singer Paul Westerberg acknowledged when he said “We write songs, rather than riffs with statements.” It was this tension, between being catchy-as-hell and being punk, that would define The Replacements, the two being seemingly incompatible according to guitarist Bob Stinson, who would reject Westerberg’s ballads, saying, “save that for your solo album.” As they moved from their raw first outing, the beautifully titled Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash (1981), to the broader-in-scope Hootenany (1983) they gained enough attention to get a support slot with REM, which they took as an opportunity to piss off as much of their audience as possible, a technique perfected at a CBGB’s gig where they turned up horribly drunk and played bad covers until everyone left. This kind of snotty self-sabotage may just seem perverse and irritating, but there is something compelling about a band that are a genuine mess, but still manage to turn in as many moments of wonderment as the replacements did, or, as Diablo Cody, writer of Juno, and authority on all things teenage these days, puts it, they were “so effusively FURTHER LISTENING Let It Be, Twin/Tone Records (1984) Tim, Sire Records (1985) Pleased to Meet Me, Sire Records (1987) DOWNLOAD Alex Chilton (from Pleased to Meet Me) Bastards of Young (from Tim) Answering Machine (from Let It Be)
careless that everyone who saw them instantly cared.” Inevitably, given their scrappy loser aesthetic and penchant for boozing, The Replacements dissolved without fully realising whatever notion of potential it is that is expected of bands like this. After signing to Warners imprint, Sire, and sacking Bob Stinson, who didn’t like their more accessible direction, and was increasingly a slave to drink, the band released Tim (1985) and Pleased to Meet Me (1987), both of which were moderate mainstream successes, and saw Westerberg’s songwriting broaden further and acknowledge his debt to Big Star, their 70s power pop fore-runners, in the insatiable Alex Chilton. A break-up and several uninspiring solo records from Westerberg followed, but despite this scrappy end, and the fact that the power-pop template that they perfected has subsequently fallen into the hands of a bunch of vacuous smarmmerchants, from the Goo Goo Dolls to Green Day, The Replacements represent everything that rock does best. Which is to sound young and vital yet ultimately fleeting and unsustainable, and in the three minutes and thirty eight seconds of the exultant Bastards of Young – the song which they got them banned from Saturday Night Live for performing it in a fug of whiskey and swearing – they achieve all the promise and potential that anyone should want or need of any band.
Vote on the best forgotten band at www.theothersidemag.co.uk
Find of the Month: Adam & Joe's Xfm podcast. 20, count them, 20 free comic time capsules from the distant past of 2006, where references to The Strokes and Franz Ferdinand will blow your tiny mind. Naturally, Adam & Joe are on blisteringly funny form.
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So there I am, in my kitchen, makin’ breakfast for kids afore school. Pouring milk over puffed and cracked rice, spreading congealed milk on toasted bagels and muttering prayers of hope that my rag won’t get lost before the drop-off, when….. SHAZZAM!!! A mighty and slightly weighty pidge comes SMACKER! Right into my window! Scared me half to death my friends. Milk on the floor and soddenkrispies! Him? (for only a bloke could be so bovine in the morning) He peeled himself off the glass in record time and winged it back to the squadron. His mates who’d undoubtedly pissed themselves with raucous peals of snidey laughter, as he winged it back with tales of derring-do and the bug that got away. Either that or he’d been sorely tempted by the rice of another and got a thicker head for his troubles! Either way it got me to thinking… Are pesky Vermins not getting a little uppity these days? The squirrel that has breached my bird feeder, the pidge that wants my baby’s breakie and the buzzards that soar invisible and beady-eyed above us, are they not threatening our peace of mind and freedoms with a far more audacious confidence than before? Youbetterbelieveit! And now I have another enemy for ya. Those with a feline disposition might wanna turn the page now ‘cause this is gonna get ugly! My bird feeder, my little globe, with which I satisfy my predilection and predisposition for the tiniest of feathered friends, hangs from a bough that allows a steady queue of the small and beautiful to eat at leisure and feed their young. But let us not venture into regurgitation… The globe has been breached as you know by the rapacious Grey, the squirrel of my worst nightmares. The weightiest pair of Pidges you ever did see set up camp on the floor below awaiting the merest cracked nut. And Buzzards wait for mice or moles. Or me! This has been the way of it lately and the tiny birds have learnt
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to deal with the unwelcome intrusion of the larger parasites far better than I. However, a new enemy has breached the new equilibrium of the garden and lurks, evil amongst the flower-pots. The Fat Cat! Bloated by years of sub-urban living and the steady diet of appetite accelerants and shite teevee, he stalks my garden in the early hours of daylight ready to hurl his considerable heft at any bird engrossed too eagerly in the sating of a migrated hunger. More than the pesky squirrel and his mendacious, winged friends I do despise the Cat; cool to the point of freezing; sneering behind its constantly upturned nose; smug with murderous silence; the ability to steal my breath without effort, all of this renders me eternally antipathetic to your feline friends. And now this, this studied saunter up my garden path, the parking of it’s voluminous arse among the struggling bulbs, its surreptitious eyes darting one way and the other, am I supposed to tolerate this? My window sails wide, again, a warning shouted and… and… it sits, settles its lardy arse and purrs “Yeah? What?” I lift a stone (one of them white ones again) and it starts with a too well-concealed stealth, makes a break for the hole in the fence, gets there and turns “Yeah? What?” I fling the stone, right handed and contorted
from my left-handed window, it hits dirt and bounces… a palpable hit, right on the flank, piercing the cellulite, hitting a nerve and off it streaks! Victory is mine in the world writ small of my garden! Chalk one up for the little guy. Come birds, feed at my globe, fear not the bullies and predators. I shall keep you safe. All is swell again. But then… Another day and the Cat comes back!! Sauntering again, swinging the lard of its arse with pomp and circumstance: The squirrel flees: The pidge struggles for elevation and the buzzard waits for carrion. Cat stares me straight in the eyes, its flickering, vertical slit against my bulging, enraged orb. I fling wide the pigeon-caked window, (for his cataclysm with the see-through pane has left his grease stain of pain) and shout. And shout again. The lard settles
and the sneer returns, the smug ask; “Got anymore?” and so I select the same, retrieved stone (never give up a lucky pebble!) and it runs, recognising the missile as it narrowly misses the moving target of its buttocks and hits wood with a ringing SMACK! Let that resound in its pointy little ears as it settles down to a saucer of unleaded milk substitute and bird flavoured soya chunks. It didn’t return this morn. I could think it down to my re-stocked armoury and improving accuracy, but should probably recognise that inclement weather and blustery wind mighta prompted a lethargy and a vanity that precluded wet paws and ruffled fur. Such is the stuff of the Cat. And so I ponder the Ghost of a Pidge upon my window pane and think; despite the dirt and worse contained in the caked grease of his outline perhaps there is a valuable warning written there. The protection of the weak and hungry demands constant vigilance, unerring accuracy and a regimen of fitness. Such attention repays with joy and wonder. The variety and iridescence of plumage that befalls my eye delights the day. And so the Ghost stays. Now, if I can just do something about the solitary Magpie that flounces about promising sorrow and thievery at every flap perhaps I could reach a new peace. I could do with some help from the little guys, I don’t speak Mag and know instinctively that the escalation to weapons of barrel and bullet would rid my sanctuary of all creatures great and small as well as the greedy and large. A price to great. And so the Ghost stays.
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me eans, I Bla er that m v te co a o h C w . , o nd o n d Nash e ou t of L f Allen an Backed up o m o s c e k li to g e th e. t big thin a par with cular voic s the nex cce s s o n an specta and su d g n Touted a a in v e ie c h n son k s like ac g confide f M r H ud Coco loo ics with surprisin Joseph o y y tunes. h Jo r tc d a ly n c a stantly udson in belts out H ga e n e m B so from usic, givin ether with help h in the m e put tog g v a u h o r y e th th ow r y, and ska sh the Libra g g ae , d u b e r f o ts Hin u nd . ss, uinne eshing so really refr ne mcg incredibly e g u e er, is song writ is year. H al ing singer/ amden Crawl th nique voc m u o a -c h d n it C w d e e up -a p th p o p t p a watch lodies, to he music itself is is one to lentless guitar me T ts . if e c sh n s a ne s re r form , McGuin skilful and r a compelling pe . Lyrically rious and lk fo se fo e e r k h a o is m m Ir a f o to style ts y a in er yd d, with h on the ev orientate o m me nt c s u o r o from hum . side hear tfelt
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he M a rc h , T h night in il. Held at c n u la l u r a successf s once again in Ap t b ac k of he Racke or Off the pen its do ead in Isling ton, T crowd o to t se e ueen’s H Racket is arming th e. ool Old q c ooke, ch the über-c s off with Jem C ming stage presen g r rs to a in te w th n d u n d p a e kick d the voice s te a u e o e tr g r y o ll g t re a c h e d ess Jo with her tunes tha Thoughtl t, te a a c th li e g d in er fragile follow s over ected aft r ful lyric p e x w e o d p a h e som crowd g w in the er-growin heights fe . s m his ev n r o a d si h s se e u r to a p arely p othing first im ins did n ow that b Nat Jenk h a breakneck sh n, wit e Luck y reputatio le and th swell d id . f th a ie e v ed to ht, Da for a br g the nig her. The set seem ds were Headlinin it un e t so in l disappo n power fu rs, a violi Eg g didn’t wd numbers, as a it u g f o n o r o c ti c e with th om a sele crafted fr . carefully on si e p e rc u s and subtl music photos by Emily Martin
d Counter Camden
JOSH KING GETS OuT HIS TRIPOD AND 35MM AND NATHAN MAY TRAWLS THE ENCYCLOPAEDIA’S IN SEARCH Of THE NORTHERN LINES fAVOuRITE PLACES.
If you go down to the lock today, you really are sure of a big surprise. Camden is a town in transition, and we look at its changing faces founded by Charles Pratt, Earl of Camden, back in 1791, and later ‘touched up’ by no one’s favourite street artist Banksy, Camden Town has been at the heart of our beloved Northern Line ever since. Attracting all sorts, from the most dedicated of Goths to born-again hippies in search of hallucinogenic shrooms, Camden has plenty of filth and grime to offer the scuzziest
of shoppers. The market stalls, trading all week, are always popular, if packed with army surplus, musty vintage and day-glo spandex. Ignore the crack dealers and focus on the fact it’s a great alternative to the average Pret high street. The place has a huge variety of culinary options too - not all that mouth watering, but you can fill a shopping-sized hole cheaply. Everything from bartering your way to Chou Mein heaven, or sampling a cream filled doughnut, to filling your own crepe.
FOOD TIP: Gilgamesh, Camden Stables If it’s supping a beer then you’re spoilt for choice. The area had also attracts the best in new music for years, with mainstream fare at Koko, with undiscovered gems slugging the guts out at Purple Turtle or Barfly. Of course, you can cram a month’s worth of gigs in during the Crawl in April. While it’s gone off the boil somewhat, it still boasts a heady line up and a unique buzz.
PUB TIP: The Elephant’s Head, 224 Camden Street, grubby punk fun Want us to come to your local? Think you could do better? Well tell us what you want and we×ll strive to get our Oyster card tagged at more places than Christian Gross www.theothersidemag.co.uk
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The Out of Towners There is something unaccountably joyous about a last minute road trip. The nightmare drive soundtracked by soft rock and “did we just miss the turning” ALL washed away by the thrill of arriving. Sam Lassman Watts sticks a pin in the map…
We’d missed our turning on the M5 and headed straight into Exeter town centre. Myself and my sceptical Sicilian companion – who’d been promised a beach holiday in England (and in March) -– had a choice to make, race back three junctions on the M5 or wind our way Northwards along the A377 through some of Devon’s most picturesque countryside. Easy. A few hours later and rolling down the hill into Woolacombe Bay we were greeted with three miles of perfect sandy beach culminating in cliffs reaching right out into the Atlantic.
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shops to buy some thick socks that we clearly needed. It was cold. It was windy. But the sun was out. Reaching the beach you have a choice; left and there’s two and a half miles of empty beach, or right and the sight of surfers carving white trails in the sea. At low tide it was further to the sea than to our B & B, but nothing that a giant Cornish pasty couldn’t deal with.
Naturally, this is when it started to rain. No matter, there are enough pubs and bars to keep most people happy. Wanting more we headed for the car and took the coastal route The beach box could now be ticked and we found to Croyde Bay, another haven for surfers and during the summer months packed with a buzz our B & B with no troubles. Sunnyside House (01271 870 267) is situated less than five minutes of wave one-upmanship. A little up the road walk from the beach and the room had the most you’ll find Georgeham where there is a Post Office (although not for much longer) a mini spectacular view. Taking in the long stretch of beach, cliffs and the hills of North Devon, plus store and the rather nice Rock Inn (01271 890 the obligatory sheep and lackadaisical surfers and 322). Here you can have a game of pool and five you could sit there all day (rooms from £65 p/n). tracks on the juke box for £1 while supping some With the bags thrown on the bed we ran down countryside beer. The food’s not too bad either to the beach via one of Woolacombe’s many surf and rings in around £8-£10 a head. It’s general
country fare with the bonus of lots of locally sourced meat.
and is a stark contrast – a fishing village, with a love for Cargo ship spotting. The two are joined by a cliff railway that runs on water power (go We settled for a drink and then lunch at Squires in at your own risk) and shuttles tourists up and – Braunton’s beloved fish and chip shop. For £5 down throughout the day. At Lynton we had one you can have a great piece of cod and some truly of our two cream teas, homemade scones came delicious chips. Woolacombe is not renowned for in ginger, fruit or plain with lashings of clotted its food; people are more interested in the surf cream and strawberry jam. Our first was in but there is plenty of choice when the sun goes Morthoe, a little further west from Woolacombe. down. We particularly enjoyed Sophias’ tapas The village shop had two tables and an old lady
bar and bistro (01271 870 771). Gordon Ramsey would shout and swear at the five pages of menus but tapas for two was plentiful (£20-£27). For more refined dining visit Damien Hirst’s restaurant 11 The Quay (0271 868 090). A short drive away in Ilfracombe Hirst’s harbourside restaurant is dressed like a pharmacy and the food is very good, main courses come in about £15-£20 a head. A little North of Ilfracombe in the moors is a hidden gem. The Heddon Valley is situated inland near the West Exmoor Coast and offers one of the most fantastical drives to a pub you will ever take. Situated at the bottom of the Valley is the Hunters Inn (01598 763 230), the perfect end to a long walk through forests and past rivers. From the Inn you can walk about a mile down to Heddon’s Mouth Beach and you will be rewarded with an absolutely stunning vista. Nearby are Lynton and Lynmouth. The former sits atop a cliff and boasts a quaint charm, while the latter is situated at the bottom of the cliff
serving delightful cream teas, she even went so far as to explain how she makes her clotted cream. A short drive back to Woolacombe along the front at sunset is a must. There are benches situated right along the front to watch the sun go down over Lundy Island. At the other end of the beach is Baggy Point, another National Trust gem. You can either walk all the way around or follow the designated paths. The whole way around is about a two-hour walk and you face a battle of strength to defy the wind. At the peak only the bravest make the 50-yard walk to the end to watch over the daring rock climbers and to fully appreciate the force of the Atlantic Ocean. If you can, avoid the summer holidays to steer clear of the crowd. Either way, you’ll be in for a treat. Where's the best place to go for a road trip? Journey to www.theothersidemag.co.uk and tell us where to go.
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The Other Side’s Off Side*
*Teaching the winning mentality to Derby County since October 2007 English big boys thieving teenies angers UEFA’s Platini Kids really do have it easy these days. In the not too distant past, young children were packed off down‘t pit with just a spam sandwich and a small canary for company, and anyone caught playing with their Wii would find themselves sleeping in the outhouse before you could say “Victorian values”. In the modern age however (Other Side’s Off Side pauses to refill his pipe, pop a Werther’s Original in his mouth and reposition his photogramme of Tom Finney), young people are coddled and protected, precious little gems nurtured in the home until they are ready to don hoodies, head out to the nearest street corner and earn their first ASBO. Some of the most pampered youngsters are those who display an innate talent for controlling a spherical piece of leather with various parts of their body (mainly their feet, though once-fake-nowvery-much-real-real Ronaldo could probably score 10 a season with his buttocks at the moment). They are valuable commodities wrapped in cotton wool to protect their precocious talent, ready for the day they try to prove to a ‘big club’ scout that they are worthy of a wage that will let them afford a Porsche, Ferrari or even a Bentley (if they could persuade him to leave Blackburn) and that they can attend a social gathering with just the slightest chance of committing criminal damage/drunk and disorderly behaviour/sex crimes, etc.
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If UEFA president Michel Platini has his way, however, the days of young teenage talent finding their way to these shores could soon be at an end (and we’re not talking The Cheeky Girls here). “I have
told the European Commission that we should ban the transfer of minors,” bellowed Platini, before hastily adding the following quote to prevent Arthur Scargill from picketing his offices. “The first football contract that a player signs should be for club that trains them. You don’t train someone to be sold, you train a player to play. It is important to protect our young people.” Platini is by no means a lone voice speaking out against the signing of foreign players who are under-16. Maurizio Zamparini, president of Italian club Palermo, recently compared it to “pirates taking treasures”. “Once upon a time there was pillaging, and this is something similar,” said Zamparini, before hurrying off to board up his house and lock
Who ate all the Kevin Kilbanoffee Pies? For your amusement/delectation/horror (delete as appropriate) we’ll be featuring themed teams of XI footballers a la Sensible Soccer’s Custom Teams circa 1992. To kick us off (pun probably intended), here’s the Other Side’s Off Side’s Foodies XI - well, we all know that footballers like a good roast... GK - Orange Juicy Jaaskelainen RB - Bacary La Sagna LB - Djimi “Cadbury’s Milk” Traore CB - Linvoy Primecut CB - Martin “Self Raising” Flaursen RM - Brett Emmenthal LM - Kevin Kilbanoffee Pie CM - Nolberto Salami CM - Cupa Soupa Diop CF - Daricepudding Vassell CF - Shola Spameobi Manager - Chris Coleman’s Assistant - Dave Bassetts Nutritionist - Ham Saladyce Home matches played at Craven Cottage pie, refereed by Paul Gherkin, with commentary and punditry from Jamie Red Snapper, Tony Apricottee, Mark Quiche Lorraineson and, er, Barry Venison.
up his daughters. The Other Side’s Off Side contacted the Premier League for their response but received a statement that simply read, “Avast ye land lubbering barnacles or we’ll send ye packing to Davy Jones’ locker. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.” There’s no doubt that Platini was one of the greatest players of his generation, a skilful yet uncompromising forward whose goals led both club and country to glory. Yet since his rise to power within European football’s governing body he seems to have developed an irrational hatred of English football’s top flight. Perhaps BA lost his baggage, or he was left at the altar by an English rose, or he’s simply just being French. At any rate, his comments are yet another criticism by him of the top end of the Premier League and there’s certainly no love lost between Platini and Richard Scudamore (the chief executive of the Premier League). “I would say the aggression shown to me by Mr Scudamore is mutual. I do not treat him with kid gloves, neither him nor the Premier League.” said Platini, leaning over to box Scudamore’s ears. There are winners and losers in every sport (warning – here be clichés!) and clearly there’s a problem when a club can bring a player through their ranks and then see them leave for nothing. It’s true that young players like Cesc Fabregas and Gerard Pique get the chance to learn their trade under master craftsmen like Arsene Wenger, Alex Ferguson and, er, Avram Grant. Some would argue that this goes some way towards making the Premier League an exciting and (semi-) competitive league. On the other hand, young English talent appears to have been stifled so much by the influx of overseas starlets that many wonder if there is any hope of the national team escaping the insipid dross it produced at the Stade de France recently.
There is English talent out there - ask any knowledgeable supporter of a whole host of clubs and they will wax lyrical about players-you’ve-neverheard-of-but-will-bloody-well-do-so-soon like Henri Lansbury (Arsenal), Sam Hewson (Man U) or Adam Phillip (Chelsea). These players should benefit from training day-in day-out with some of the cream of European youth, not to mention the fact that competition for places should push their performance levels even further. The big question though is whether there is enough talent coming through. The FA recently announced that an over-
haul of the Academy system at grassroots level, more overdue than a SouthWest train, is finally in the offing. It could be too little too late however and whilst Platini does like a whinge, he is highlighting an issue that’s been on the minds of many supporters for a while and that could continue to restrict the English national team for years to come.
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