'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

Went to 333 last night for the first time since it was still vaguely cool. It's a lot better now it isn't, although there were still residual traces of venue-that-thinks-they're-it cluelessness. The ground floor has become essentially a normal pub called the London Apprentice, to the extent that I was wandering baffled around the frontage looking for where the venue entrance had gone to hide, and had to be assisted by one of the Ethical Debating Society (who are much tighter these days, though seemed surprised to hear it). Then there was another band who had a keytar in their favour but not much else, before The Murder Act who were looking very striking and sounding more so, somewhere between Gallon Drunk and One More Grain. After which we pissed off to drink cans in the street because we are that cool. Q and I, both having recently been touched for funds by our alma mater, got a picture complete with cap in hand, which we may or may not send them by way of explaining our refusal.

Other gigs seen since I last posted about gigs seen:
augstone in acoustic troubadour mode on Upper Street, on the day when Upper Street was haunted by a most unpleasant smell. No connection, I should add. At least, not so far as I'm aware.
Brontosaurus Chorus Dom's new band, who were a bit loud for the 12 Bar, supporting Rebekah Delgado and her sexy weeping angels.
The Gonzo Dog-Do Bar Band, whose Bonzos tribute bafflingly omitted 'Sport (The Odd Boy)' in spite of the show coming right before the Olympics. Still, they finished with a damn fine 'Mr Apollo', and generally did justice to songs which can easily lose the appropriate strangeness. martylog's Mystery Fax Machine Orchestra supported, with a very eerie new song about allotments the high-point.
The Thlyds - or rather a tribute - in a show which can be heard here. If The Thlyds did not exist, it would be necessary to invent them - a voice for disaffected young Britain which, crucially, isn't the risible Plan B. 'Let's Have A Riot' at the Olympics fell a little flat, what with us doomsayers having been proven wrong for once - but the rest was brilliantly sneering.
Gyratory System, in the perfect venue of the Social, which is to say a fashionable breeze block. They sounded - or more than sounded, felt - like a burning robot factory - but with a groove.
Thee Faction, incendiary in another sense of the word, and Joanne Joanne, an all-female tribute to...you can work it out. But only the early stuff. More punk than Rhodes, Taylor and le Bon ever sounded on record, but that works.
Keith ToTP and Dream Themes. I've written about them both plenty on here before. Whatever it is they have, they've still got it.

The bubbling 'SPRING BREAK!' excitement of Maundy Thursday collapsed somewhere between rain and general inertia, leaving me with a QNI instead, so on Good Friday I was rather making up for lost time. This was error. A while back I learned an important lesson: never try to do three drinking events in a single day. On Friday, some cocktail of consolation, 'Tesla Girls' and seat of the pants theology saw me forget that lesson. It won't happen again - or at least, not for another few years. Good to hear Herman Dune in a pub, though.

On Saturday...well, I've already posted about Saturday's main business. But then I headed out for a quiet pint in the Ewok Village while we had it all to ourselves (always the best way for a pub (garden) to be), then on to the Mucky Pup. Which was full of people I didn't recognise even a little, something I'm not used to in North London. All of them split into very distinct little tribes, too, in spite of how small the pub was - lots of rockabilly girls with tats at one table, and stereotypical lesbians at the next, and one man with a lightning flash shaved into the back of his head, and one man who had the angriest face in the world but wasn't angry at all. The only problem, aside from my fragility after the night before, was that the Mucky Pup doesn't have a dancefloor, and when they're playing loud and dirty stuff like the Cramps, that's not really ideal for sitting and chatting. Cue for an early night.

PopArt's Cure special on Sunday kicked off with Girls On Film, who were very loud and did a good 'Cut Here', then Typewriter, with 'A Forest' and some great Barney Sumner stage presence from Matt. Then two bands I didn't know, so the Hell with them, time to sit outside. Keith TOTP had his own inimitable take on gothing up, drawing 'My Cold Black Heart' on one side of his shirt and writing 'I Never Asked To Be Born, Mother' on the other. Ace. He joined in with Mr Solo for a set whose lack of Cure cover can be forgiven on grounds of general awesomeness, but before them it was the White Witches punking their way through 'Killing An Arab' - a song even the Cure have now apparently retitled in case people miss the point. Jessies.

Monday brings the Greenford Tubewalk. Greenford still has a wooden escalator at the station - but only going up. Opposite the station is an estate agent's called Brian Cox & Company. And our walk begins through a park called Paradise Fields. What wonderland is this? Well, no. Within Paradise Fields the map indicates an area called The Depression, which is more like it, though at least the empty 12-packs of Durex around its margin indicate that the local people are taking steps to cheer themselves up. At our destination, Northolt, we pass a Harvester just before the station. Fortunately, from the station we can just make out another pub sign in the distance. Has to be worth a try, because how can it be worse than the Harvester? Here's how: it has burned down, and only the sign remains.

Yesterday I went to Hampton Court Palace. What's the first thing that springs to mind about Hampton Court Palace? It's the maze, isn't it? Well, the maze is rubbish. I expected something out of Terry Gilliam - or at least The Goblet of Fire. But you can see through the hedges! They're barely higher than my head! The overall area of the maze is probably smaller than that of the Monarch!
Fortunately, the rest of the place is brilliant. Swans getting confused by fences! More tapestries than I think I've seen in my life to date! The largest vine in the world! A palace in two styles which don't go together at all yet somehow work! Just like Brian Cox (not the estate agent) was saying on the last Wonders about how Earth has complex life because it's been stable enough for long enough, so with Britain - it's our knack for muddling along which leaves us with palaces like this whereas in more volatile lands like France they end up with constructions which are grand, unified and slightly dull.