The day after Hurricane Aileen, Hastings Seafront.
On a glorious spring day in the parallel universe of quiet downtown (but very much up the hills) suburbs of West Norwood, Philip is on a skip. Today we’ve marvelled at the build quality of a hot riveted water butt, discussed the etymology of pebble dash and quoted our favourite John Shuttlesworth and Ivor Cutler poems–as well as hulked, hunkered, grunted and punted bricks, earth and 1950s lino into the skip. We’ve cooed at toads, frogs, common and crested newts. Before you is a proud man. This skip could not have been more organised and filled with more artistic integrity. Phil is your man. The skip is level. The skip is evenly loaded. Long live the skip!
As we shot this propaganda, this ode to Russian Constructivism, for real men and their skips everywhere, a lorryload of scaffolders came around the corner honking their horn and cheering. They understand. Job well done.
Meet Philip. He sells Fine Art replicas via Direct Mail. You can buy it, you can try it and even if you don’t like it, can get your money back after twelve months.
Photographed in The Bell, Reigate after two quadruple whiskeys and a burger and chips.
Straight off the train at Lime Street and up Bold Street, an affable, drunk, homeless guy comes up:
“Hey! You look like a cross between Crocodile Dundee and John Wayne”.
The next day I’m taking pictures on Aigburth Road. Despite town having been tarted up for City of Culture 2008, much of the rest of the city still looks like 1978. So does much of the UK, to be honest.
Anyway, I was just photographing in the street and this old soak comes out of the offy,
“Are you here for me?”, he says, stumbling off the step with a smile. and plays for the camera.
Liverpool, it’s good to be back.
The king of the night lays upon his king-size bed,
Upon which, by day, the busker plays his predictable tune,
A dreary ditty from the 70s,
To which only the young sing enthusiastic.
The man sleeps, as the night creeps
The clatter of heels, tripping,
laughter and falling, and in the morning,
“Where the fuck am I?”, he says
On the way back to Edinburgh from North Berwick, I spotted this chap. He was dumping a sofa, and hence the roof down on the car.
We saw him later pootling at a rather breakneck speed and waving to us as we left town.