Basking in the glory of an e-cig USB plug-in on the No. 16 bus.
Doing this grandiose act in Newhaven, I felt as if I had summited the bus experience, charging and vaping on the peasant wagon the apex of the commute.
#Rebelwithanecig.
Tag Archives: Edinburgh
Hutchison House, Edinburgh.
Grim as fuck, this one. It smacks of the ’60s – poverty and deprivation in the so-called swinging era. It’s the type of building a skag head would chuck himself off. Some things need demolished; this is one of them. Yuk.
Writing anything is torture.
Writing is waterboarding of the mind, such is the rolling artillery barrage of stimuli out there. As a part-time aspiring Gonzo in the knock-off Hunter S. Thompson mould (I don’t do drugs for fear of dying before the real-life Matt Damon lands on Mars), I cannot construct a sentence if there is a Wi-Fi connection. Why pen anything when there is Wikipedia and a mammoth page dedicated to the Battle of Austerlitz (1805)?
One must be unplugged from The Matrix.
Here is my photographic … representation of even an attempt to write anything with a correctly placed comma. And all music must be Enya or Enigma or any other kind of chillout music, nothing too high-tempo.
This photo ripped an hour from my life, by the way.
It’s how I imagine F. Scott Fitzgerald carved his stuff when Zelda was out in Lalaland off her tits on cocktails galore.
In a nutshell. Leith, Edinburgh.
Rambling around Leith today taking snaps. The port district is ugly but it has character. I would wager it has the highest concentration of junkies and creatives per square mile than anywhere else in Scotland. Everyone knows someone who’s on the smack, yet conversely their next-door neighbour will have aspirations of being this generation’s Bukowski.
The pubs also ‘suffer’ from deflation.
Edinburgh in a standstill.
A snippet from Jean-Luc Godard’s Weekend (1967) came to Gorgie today. An eerie stillness, a surreal chav-free mise en scène. And one car was blasting out ‘The Boys of Summer’.
Traffic jams aren’t always rotten.
Adjuster – a cheeky short.
A shitty wee movie I have made. Uploading the beast took longer than making the actual thing (seven hours of shooting). The sound ‘design’ is fucking awful, but some of the visuals look decent.
The Last Blockbuster.
Bend, Oregon, houses the last remaining Blockbuster, defeated foe of Amazon and Netflix.
I can see this store becoming a sort of movie Mecca of the future, nostalgia in the present. And there should be just one of them, perhaps the only reason to ever visit Oregon. When Blockbuster ‘died’ I confess I wasn’t bothered. It’s only a few years down the line that you come to lament the absence of such treats.
Blockbuster was ‘da bomb’ back in the day, the Friday night Shangri-La – purveyor of movies and nibbles after a week of school tedium. Granted, there was an annoying element to proceedings, this the desk clerk who, when he didn’t believe he was Auld Reekie’s version of Quentin Tarantino, went into full SS Guard-mode if you didn’t rewind a VHS rental of Rush Hour (1998). It was for the most part a haven, though, and coupled with Edinburgh’s car boot sales a perfect introduction to film.
The internet is of course sublime (you don’t even have to leave the house and speak to anyone) but Blockbuster was where geeks congregated, our own wee social and cinema club. My old beloved Blockbuster in Gorgie has tragically metamorphosed into a Costa Coffee frequented by polo-necked creatures. Gentrification and all that.
Gorgie Road’s Blockbuster, now a hipster hangout.
Further reading:
https://learningenglish.voanews.com/a/oregon-will-have-the-last-blockbuster-on-earth-/4836210.html
https://www.pressherald.com/2019/03/18/this-is-what-its-like-inside-the-last-blockbuster-on-earth/
Aldi was drama-free today.
Where are the tracksuits?
No chavs, no nutters, no shoplifters, no screaming kids, and not a single person this evening decided to whistle at the top of their lungs (vile behaviour which should be a private avocation).
What a rare day of serenity in Aldi.
Gorgie, Edinburgh – The Ghetto.
Ah, Gorgie. They call it ‘God’s Country’. The place is hardly the pearly gates. Lots of aggressive creatures, Chewbaccas on crack and all that jazz. It does look kind of cinematic, though, in a grim and manky way. A new Hovis advert should be made here with a tracksuit-clad junkie on a stolen tricycle.
Princes Street wasn’t always a toilet.
I fucking hate Princes Street. It’s dire, chock-full of stores that appear designed exclusively for desperate housewives. There are also mobile phone shops and a budget book place – this curious number sells no novels, the only items on display autobiographies of pointless celebrities and road maps of Denmark published in 2004. All very bizarre. Added to this is the plethora of American tourists crawling about with their bumbags on, elephants in the In Bruges (2008) sense.
Princes Street looked decent in 1858, though. No spackers to be seen here.
Wanderings and ... wonderings. 