Normal for Norfolk

I give in

2009-10-27T14:39:00.005Z

Ok, now's your chance to jump for joy because...

There's a new blog:

RECIPROCATING MOTION

(er... just click on that title to be taken there).

And, displaying the utter lack of originality you've come to expect from me, it'll be the same tired old mixture of small winkies, trains and films, with a bit of architecture and an occasional rant.

You're gonna struggle to sleep tonight with all this excitement, aren't you?

The title has several meanings (a small prize* for the person who can get all of them), but I'd hate you to lose sight of the core one -- of reciprocity. We all know what that means, don't we boys & girls? So keep on sending me good stuff. I love it.

Now hurry you over to the exciting new party that's going on at RECIPROCATING MOTION.

Normal for Norfolk is now dead. RIP.

*The prize consists of a free meal for me at the restaurant of my choice. No guests. No alternatives.

Hugging myself with Glee

2009-10-26T20:59:00.003Z

I was going to wait for the new blog that I might be doing, and then do a whole post featuring this, but I can't hold back any longer...

Forget the Fox brand, this is pure genius -- a spoof of the Kids from Fame, it's smart-mouthed, witty and sexy. Loving it.

And it's possibly the gayest thing I've ever seen.

Thanks, F.

Where next... Anyone... Anyone...?

2009-10-26T00:34:00.003Z

The photos in this post were among the first to appear on Normal for Norfolk:

I have now used up the photographic allowance on this blog so, alas, can upload no more shiny new and fresh images.

Hence the recycling.

Still not yet decided what I want to do now -- new blog, no new blog, more of the same...

But it's not fair to leave you dangling, so I'll try to make a decision in the next day or so.

In the meantime sit back, relax, and enjoy another chance to see these delightful images.

I hope you enjoy them as much as me.

Especially since there's a particularly high quota of small winkies here.

I'm ending as I started, then.

Ignore this if you don't know me

2009-10-25T23:59:00.000Z

Some of my Tuscan weekend companions, starting with the two Tots in matching woollen chic-wear (and extra marks for those shades):

Meanwhile Tot A was letting his pyromania lurch out of control, insisting that it was perfectly normal to start a fire by using half the wood in Tuscany:

Clearly there's some sort of primitive rite going on here:

Tot F, looking glee-full (and that makes up for the last photo I posted of you on here...):

And this verite shot may help the Tots to understand why they have Euro900 phone bills:

The real star of the weekend was, as always, Maude, here pretending to be a fierce guard dog on the lookout:

She's such a prima donna that she refuses to hold positions for very long, and here's the evidence of her willfully destroying a carefully composed shot:

And, to finish, Maude at speed:

No, not on speed, "at speed".

The original Good Time Had By All...

2009-10-25T23:49:00.003Z

Tuscany was looking absolutely lovely:

All lush green richness, with nary a hint of approaching Autumn.

The views were as pleasing as I remember.

And there appears to be a new, er, tree house:

For those with a personal interest, a couple more photos will follow later. For the time being, let's just say a good time was had by all... let's just leave it at that.

WTF?

2009-10-25T23:46:00.004Z

My confidence in British Airways' ability to get me back to London from Tuscany was not helped by their in-flight GPS displaying this route map:

Where is Stansted again, exactly?

[For my overseas reader, Stansted is about 75 miles/100km north of the position shown on the map, on the other side of London and to the southeast-ish of Cambridge.]

Whatchoo lookin at?

2009-10-22T06:41:00.004+01:00

Am, er, busy tonight, and then off to lovely Tuscany for the weekend.

So no more posts for a bit.

I know, I know. But you'll just have to make do.

Where am I going?

2009-10-21T23:05:00.005+01:00

He looks like a decent enough chap.

But not really my type at all. So what was the attraction?

I'm ashamed to say it was his pants that grabbed me.

I'm not an underwear fetishist at all (or indeed any other sort of fetishist. Unless you count cocks).

But he cunningly followed-up the pants revelations with a series of odd angles, and you know how much I like odd angles.

So by the time we reached the end of the photoshoot I was utterly smitten.

Strange where your lustful desires can lead you, isn't it?

The shape of things to come

2009-10-21T18:21:00.002+01:00

The first production train of London Underground's new "S" stock has arrived at the Neasden Depot.

Months and months of testing and trials will now begin, as the "S" Stock ("S" stands for "Sub-Surface") is worked-up.

Eventually these trains will replace three different (and ancient) fleets operated by LUL: in order (I think) the Hammersmith & City and Circle lines, the Metropolitan line, and the District lines.

But -- and this is a huge, huge bonus -- these are the first London Underground trains to be air-conditioned. If you don't use the Underground to commute, you have no idea how much we are panting in anticipation of the arrival of this stock.

Frustration

2009-10-21T05:38:00.003+01:00

It may appear that I have abandoned you, but that would be a misreading of the situation. I am, of course, still utterly intoxicated with you.

I think I might have mentioned that Normal for Norfolk appears to be engulfed in a broadband crisis which might explain the intermittency. However, I'm increasingly of the view that the current broadband crisis is, in fact, not a broadband crisis at all, but is, instead, an AirPort crisis.

That's much trickier to deal with, partly because there are no buttons to press in random combinations until it starts working again, and partly because there may be an element of my own fault involved.

For the last few weeks whenever I've logged on it's told me it needs some sort of upgrade, and demanded a password (I can't remember passwords). And I kept pressing the button to tell it not to be such a whiner and just get on with it. I think it may finally be taking its revenge.

So here I am, perched precariously on an uncomfortable chair stuck in the corner, the laptop plugged into a wire trailing from the router. And it all seems to be working well. Damnit.

Anyhow, thought you might like to know that, notwithstanding the inevitability of the fast-approaching end of Normal for Norfolk, this is not quite it yet.

Watch this, er, space.

Arabian fantasies

2009-10-18T21:31:00.002+01:00

Off to Tuscany for a jolly weekend next week, and the delightful anticipation of returning to Italy always makes me think of Pasolini:

So here's a trio of images from his Arabian Nights, possibly his most accessible film.

Pasolini gave us more cock per movie than any other director. Usually very nice cock, too.

I am hugely grateful to him.

Random rails

2009-10-18T21:07:00.004+01:00

The Broadband crisis continues to afflict Normal for Norfolk, so no time for anything other than a random round-up -- but for a change a round-up of trains, not cock. Let's start with a delightful Cravens diesel multiple unit (a Class 105), seen here in its home territory of East Anglia:

The 105s were intended to replace, among other things, these -- an Ivatt Class 4MT steam locomotive, here seen on the old M&GN rails hauling an express into the Norfolk Broads:

Staff on the M&GN always took pride in the appearance of their system, but elsewhere on British Railways steam locomotives were increasingly badly maintained -- here the livery on a delightful Schools Class (ex-Southern Railway) is barely visible beneath the filth and grime:

Even the relatively new "Standard" Class locomotives looked grimey (this one is also seen on the Southern Region):

Another Schools Class, this one hauling a heavy troop train of London & North-Eastern Railway rolling stock on the Southern Region:

On the LNER proper, here the flagship engine, an A4 class designed by uber-engineer Nigel Gresley and styled by Ettore Buggati, hauls an Anglo-Scottish express:

And, to finish, a delightful study of the brave new world: a Southern Railway-designed diesel-electric locomotive, given the uninspiring class name of D16/2.

These pioneering beasts were built in partnership with the English Electric company, who also worked with the London Midland & Scottish company on their diesel-electric designs.

Moi-Moi

2009-10-18T20:34:00.007+01:00

A break from the London Film Festival to catch-up with a backlog of films -- starting with The September Issue.

I had no expectations of this film, having a long-standing contempt for pretty much everything in the fashion "industry". But this documentary rises above that, presenting us with a portrait of some of the most emotionally damaged people in the world.

The evil Queen Bee at the centre of it all is, of course, Meryl Streep... er, I mean Anna Wintour, the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue and, apparently, some sort of Pope-like figure in the world of fashion, although to me she appears to be a borderline sociopath.

Her side-kick -- the one who appears to have a shred of warmth, passion and human dignity left -- is Grace Codlington. Except that, of course, she's a stylist, so all the way through I was wondering whether she was simply styling herself for the film.

Then again, this is a world where Sienna Miller is apparently insufficiently beautiful...

...where her neck needs to be retouched, and where models are rejected for not being absolutely perfect.

My contempt for the fashion industry was not reduced in the slightest, but I enjoyed the film enormously as a study in lousy management technique, and I took especial pleasure from my introduction to new fashion designer on the block Thakoon:

Told that his work was going to feature in the prestigious September issue, he rather sweetly asks "and when will that be out?"

Random jobbies

2009-10-17T22:07:00.006+01:00

In what seems to be a break in the broadband crisis currently afflicting Normal for Norfolk, here's a random upload of totty to keep you going.

There's no theme to this post, really.

Even though this pair of black and white images may lull you into thinking otherwise -- I love this vintage stuff:

This next pair is, actually, a, er, pair:

Although I don't like the way the rather conservative-looking woman is looking up at his bumhole:

Although we all like sneaky peeks:

And this chap has a lot of lovely hairiness to be peaked at:

And some people clearly like being looked at:

Nice combo of hairy and smooth here:

And, to end, a group of happy chaps:

All very nice. Now, let's hope the broadband keeps behaving.

Momentous

2009-10-17T15:06:00.002+01:00

"World premiere" sounds all celebrity-obsessed red carpet, but the world premiere of the gloriously restored 1959 Venezuelan Oscar-winning documentary Araya was as low key as you could imagine. And the film was utterly extraordinary.

The music sounded like the Radiophonic Workshop on speed (or possibly Rolf Harris gone berserk with a Stylophone), and the prose was so ripe it almost burst (phrases like "the secrets of the sea" were much in evidence).

Ah, but the visuals. Extraordinary. Like a living version of those Bruce Weber sepia photographs of skies and water, the relentless heat of the sun on the constantly moving salty seas. The irony is that this community made its living from water, but all so saturated with salt that there was nothing to drink -- this was a desert land where every drop of potable water had to be brought in on a truck.

The people in the film seem to have little joy, and they share few words. But there is obvious affection between them. And there is graft. Lots and lots of graft. And all the while the salt eats at their flesh, while it also provides the food on their plates.

At times I was reminded of Soy Cuba, and of Soviet images of the noble manual worker; at others, it was like a World About Us special, an anthropological look at people whose lives were immeasurably harder than our own.

Extraordinary.

There was another resonance for me, though: Araya is on a peninsula opposite the coastal town of Cumaná, a town I stayed in sometime in the mid-1980s. It was the base camp for explorations of the Orinoco rainforest by a group of anthropologists to which I had attached myself: my first encounter with tribal societies. An amazing experience for a callow youth like me.

But the lush hot wetness of that insect-, alligator- and snake-infested rainforest made an almost incomprehensible contrast to the arid, lifeless, salt-desert of Araya, just 5km or so across the lagoon from Cumaná.

I've always thought Venezuela is a staggeringly under-appreciated tourist paradise: one of the most startlingly beautiful countries I've ever been lucky enough to spend time in.

Araya today

2009-10-17T14:00:00.000+01:00

Alright, I think I've teased you enough -- here are some photos of Araya as it is today.

You can almost taste the salt.

These aren't mine -- they're mostly stolen from flickr.

But they convey that sense of arid parchedness which is typical of Araya.

Did you know the word "salary" is derived from salt -- it meant the amount of money paid for one day's work extracting salt.

Salt was nearly as precious as gold in the sixteenth century (Spain built their second colonial fort in the whole of Latin America here, to protect the salt workings).

This place reeks of history.

Sparky

2009-10-17T12:51:00.007+01:00

The 1970s was undoubtedly a fucked-up decade, so it is unsurprising that one of the most powerful cultural images to stick in my mind is the Hitler-look-a-like keyboard player of band Sparks.

Sparks are seen here pumping out their biggest hit, This Town Ain't Big Enough for the Both Of Us:

Unfortunately that piss-poor video utterly fails by being distracted from the still genius of the toothbrush moustache-wearing keyboard player (actually one of the Maels (Ron), the brothers who formed the core of the band). It chooses instead to focus on the more usual antics of the hyperactive lead singer, Russell. These brothers are a study of opposites.

For the full skinny on the utter strangeness of Ron, I recommend you turn the volume to mute on this next video (some arsewipe has dubbed another song over it anyway) and take in the full mad genius of his creation.

No wonder it has stuck vividly in my head over the intervening decades.

It scarred deep.

[And if anyone has a link to a higher-quality copy of that last image I'd be very grateful!]

Foxy

2009-10-16T09:35:00.008+01:00

With apologies for delayed posting (tiresome broadband nightmares), the London Film Festival is off to a foxy start, with the world premiere of Fantastic Mr Fox ...

... of which more some other time.

My first "proper" screening was of a tiny-budget Catalonian film Little Indi.

Essentially a colourful, Catalonian version of British 1960s dirge-fest Kes, but without the, er, happy ending, Little Indi is much more engaging (and truthful) than I've just made it sound.

The lead character is an awkward teenage boy so quiet that, for the first fifteen minutes or so, I assumed he was a mute (a compelling performance my Marc Soto). Living through his hobby, he keeps goldfinches to participate in some weird Catalonian contest where owners of finches compete to see whose bird sings the most.

One day he discovers a half-dead fox, whom he brings back to life and which becomes almost tame.

The moral of this story -- suffused with images of prisons, fences, and both people and animals trapped in contests with arbitrary rules -- appears to be that you should never invite a fox into the hen-house.

But Little Indi is much more special than that, giving us a glimpse into the lives of other people, something at which the best cinema excels.

Next up? Araya, a 1950s Venezuelan documentary to which I'm looking forward enormously.

Does that make me weird?

Raising the tone

2009-10-14T17:16:00.003+01:00

Enough of endless posts featuring cock, here's some Art:

Er... well, I tried, anyway, to lift the tone a little.

The photographer is called McGinley... er, Something McGinley (or possibly McGinley Something, I can't remember).

His work has what I like to think of as a sort of natural artificiality (or, indeed, an artificial naturelness).

What I mean is, things seem hyper-real, with big colours and not very much in the frame.

The technique is delightful.

And, of course, there's usually a bit of cock, too. Something for everyone, I'd say.

Meaningless

2009-10-13T22:18:00.004+01:00

This rather jolly surreal sequence is from the same Russian photographer as a rather different set I posted a while back.

There's something rather engaging about this odd-ball couple.

And while he is more conventionally model-like in his skinny beauty, she is endearingly ordinary in her magnificent voluptuousness.

They are clearly engaged in some complex ritual the meaning of which is utterly beyond our grasp.

But their dedication to their task speaks to its importance.

And I think we therefore owe them the dignity of respect. As well as a little bit of man-directed lustfulness, obviously.

Spam

2009-10-13T20:08:00.002+01:00

Regular readers of my blogs will instantly recognise this magnificent-looking machine:

It's a Southern Railway Q1 Class 0-6-0 "Austerity" locomotive, designed by genius engineer OVS Bulleid in the depths of the Second World War. Often described as the ugliest engine ever to operate in Britain, I think it's actually delightful -- beautifully designed to simple Bauhaus principles.

Bulleid planned an entire range of Austerity locomotives, including a couple of different tank engines and a full-blown Pacific express class 4-6-2. I was going to post about those but, alas, I have no time tonight. But in the next few days or so it will come. So that's something for you to look forward to, anyway.

Seeing double

2009-10-12T22:03:00.001+01:00

I have a nagging feeling I've posted these images before.

Dunno why -- and a quick scan didn't turn them up.

So maybe it's senility finally kicking in.

Still, he's delightful enough to survive a second outing, I think.

Very jolly, what?

All change

2009-10-12T21:16:00.008+01:00

Looking faintly like the entrance to a cheap bazaar somewhere in the Developing World, this is London's Farringdon Station:

Despite its modest appearance it has a long and noble history -- it was the terminus of the world's oldest underground railway, the Metropolitan Railway company (although at that time it had a rather longer name):

It grew over the years, acquiring no fewer than four tracks -- a pair for the Underground railway, and a pair for a cross-London mainline railway:

Inside, the station still has a homemade, faintly rustic air (an impression helped by the corrugated iron roof over the walkway):

But there's no doubting the seriousness of that trackwork, here with the dome of St Paul's visible floating over it:

And here you can see some of the extraordinary Victorian engineering that enables these tracks to thread through this densely-populated area:

It's a happy chance which means rustic, dusty Farringdon is shortly going to be the single most important railway junction in London:

Planning permission has now been granted for this new structure, to spring up on the opposite side of the road from the existing Farringdon station facade:

As well as the Underground, this will be the meeting point of Thameslink, the main north-south railway, with Crossrail, the main east-west line (assuming the latter doesn't fall victim to government spending cuts):

Here's a schematic showing all the lines (the Moorgate branch has to close, to enable 12-coach trains to be accommodated on the mainlines):

And from its current architecture -- which I like to think of as "brick garden wall" style -- Farringdon will go all glass and steel:

I'm looking forward to it. Though a small part of me will miss the old Farringdon.

All Good Things and all that

2009-10-11T14:16:00.004+01:00

Ok, that time is fast approaching...

According to blogger, I have now used 98% of the memory allowance for posting photos to this blog.

That means there are just a dozen or so posts left before Normal for Norfolk is choc-a-bloc full.

When Blood & Custard, the predecessor blog, was in this position, I mentioned it was all coming to an end and unintentionally opened a floodgate of comments requesting that I continue blogging.

And I've enjoyed NfN, even if my obsession with small cocks seems gradually to be overtaking my obsession with trains and films.

Steeplecab Heaven was not a success -- it just felt empty and sterile compared to the filthy joie de vivre of NfN.

But I feel a bit tapped-out. So I guess I'm asking for inspiration and advice: what happens now?

It feels a bit childish to keep shouting "more, more, more". Something from a different angle might be fun, for a change.

So there you have it.

Answers in the comments slot please -- what happens now?

Whoo-whoo

2009-10-11T14:05:00.000+01:00

This ungainly-looking creature is a London & North Eastern Railway "EM1" class locomotive, with the name "Tommy":

It's seen here in 1947 in Maastricht, on loan to the Dutch railways in the aftermath of the Second World War.

It was designed by Sir Nigel Gresley to operate across the Woodhead Route, newly electrified at 1500v DC, but electrification was suspended for the duration of the war and the first stage was not actually opened until 1953 (when LNER had long since ceased to exist and British Railways was in charge):

A second class of locomotive, the EM2, was derived from this design; heavier and more powerful, designed to operate express passenger traffic at high speeds (which was odd, because the Woodhead Route had a line speed limit of 60mph):

Initially kitted out in a striking glossy black livery (which made a startling contrast to BR's blood and custard carriages), they were shortly reliveried into standard express livery -- a rather pleasant shade of Brunswick Green which went well with the less jazzy all-maroon carriages:

The EM2s had great names too: Electra, Ariadne, Aurora, Diana, Juno, Minerva and Pandora.

By 1969 BR decided they were surplus to requirements -- the EM1s were perfectly capable of handling express passenger traffic -- so the EM2s were sold off as a job lot to Dutch railways:

They acquired a rather nifty new livery, as well as having some works to tidy up their appearance, install electric train heating, and so on.

I'm telling you all this because a kind reader sent me a link to a Youtube video of the EM2s in action in the Netherlands:

That wailing horn sounds like nothing else I've ever heard.

Part of me thinks it's a bit of a waste that the EM2s had such a short life in Britain before being dumped overseas. But they had a long and successful life on the railways.

Sadness

2009-10-11T14:00:00.004+01:00

Out popster and, apparently, all-round good guy Stephen Gately has died.

Most famous for being one-fifth of boy band Boyzone (not something to which I was particularly attached), he appeared to be a delightful and sweet-natured boy, albeit largely overshadowed by fellow crooner Ronan Keeting.

Now, just 33, he's been found dead while on holiday in Spain.

It always feels sad when people die far too young.

Better late than never

2009-10-11T13:52:00.003+01:00

With my friend F. to see District 9:

This delightful film smashes many of those tired sci-fi tropes, of the alien invaders who, mysteriously, always seem to target the western world's "most important" cities (Washington, for some reason, even though that piss-poor city is smaller than many others and, without an implausibly sophisticated grasp of human geopolitics, does not appear to be the grandest/biggest/most important/militarily most strategically important city on earth).

There's also a thrilling sense of human frailty about these aliens -- who are stranded here, and who are reduced to slum-like living conditions on board their own craft and, after being ferried to earth, live a miserable and obviously allegorical life in a Johannesberg apartheid concentration camp:

It is unsurprising that by the end of the movie we are rooting for the aliens against the evil faceless bureaucrats of the all-too-believable multinational to which their "care" has been outsourced. The aliens are endowed with more humanity than the humans:

Well, not quite: there are clearly animalistic aliens to match the humans, and there are humans (almost naive in their love) who are good people. But they are living in a system that is utterly corrupt and dehumanised:

Intriguing, pacey, thrilling, avoiding cloying sentimentality, dark, witty...

Yes, District 9 is a delightful movie.

Tease

2009-10-10T14:03:00.004+01:00

This sort of thing pisses me off... James Blunt seems to promise so much, and then he utterly fails to deliver.

And the music's pretty bland crap, anyway.

Readers' wives

2009-10-08T20:31:00.004+01:00

An immensely kind reader has sent me a wad of photos of this delightful creature:

They require no commentary from me, I think.

So sit back, relax, and enjoy Marco.

Although I'm getting a bit bored with that shirt, now...

That's more like it.

Marco has a stumpy wee cock, rather butch-looking, I would say:

Very adequate indeed.

Although the rest of him is also made to a very high standard, I would have said.

And that inane grin only adds to the charm.

With huge gratitude to the kind anonymous reader who sent them to me.

They're so tiny!

2009-10-08T20:13:00.003+01:00

With apologies for the tiny size of these images...

I'm afraid they're taken from flickr and the photographer has restricted them to this size.

Which is still more than enough to show up this magnificent man.

Following my whiney complaint the other day about plucked and tweezered virtual reality models, there is no doubting the humanity of this chap.

He's also remarkably relaxed and matter-of-fact about it all.

Somehow that just adds to the allure.

For some unimaginable reason the photographer decided to go all black-and-white with most of the cock shots.

Presumably someone told him that that would make them "artistic" rather than porno.

It doesn't, it just makes it a bit annoying.

Though I can't remained annoyed for long.

Not in the company of this fine chap, anyway (even if his winkle is a bit on the giant mutant side for my usual tastes...).

Guess the theme

2009-10-08T20:03:00.002+01:00

I think it should be pretty obvious what the theme of this post is:

It's not really rocket science, is it?

This is, in fact, a fistful of images stolen from flickr, featuring a random assorted of hairy-chested men.

If I were being paid to put this blog together I would say it was money for old cock.

Although, of course, I am not being paid, so this is just old cock.

It still has a certain attraction, I would have said.

Rake's progress

2009-10-07T18:24:00.003+01:00

This cute-looking chap, set against the incongruous wallpaper, is, apparently, Matt:

Matt is at some sort of evening drinking with his mates, but they needn't concern us here.

Because this little quartet of images tells us almost everything we need to know about Matt.

And they serve as a shocking illustration of the evil powers of the Demon Drink.

Matt: our furry friend.

Daydream

2009-10-06T21:54:00.004+01:00

Is it just me, or are porn models now becoming so plucked and scrubbed that it's becoming hard to tell whether they are human or virtual reality?

I had to look twice at this chap.

I'm sure he's a delightful person, but there's something almost asexual about his perfection.

Although part of me feels I'm being churlish.

After all, he's getting his winkle out and waggling it around just for our pleasure.

More men than not would simply refuse to do that.

I wonder why, when we would admire them so?

Locomotion

2009-10-06T21:10:00.003+01:00

A random handful of US railway advertisements, starting with this rather fine number:

Pioneering diesel streamliners. Not quite as pioneering as the Deutsche Reichsbahn's "Flying Hamburger" but polite people don't like to talk about that, so here's more conventional US steam power:

British locomotives did a lot of foreign tours, often on sales missions, but there the difference between the constricted British loading gauge and the much more generous allowance of the US railroads is immediately apparent. That meant pioneering US diesel locomotives could be built in generously-dimensioned vehicles, something that was almost impossible for British railways (whose early diesel engines always struggled to cram in enough power):

And throughout most of their history, most railways were pretty convinced that the more power you had, the better:

Towards the end of steam, US railway engines suffered from a bizarre form of gigantism, these extraordinary monsters would have utterly destroyed British track with their axle loadings let alone their total weight on bridges:

By this time the French had overtaken everyone for their technical brilliance in steam design (while I may claim Nigel Gresley or William Stanier or Oliver Bulleid or even Robin Riddles as the best ever steam engineer, that title almost certainly belongs to André Chapelon).

By popular request

2009-10-05T21:11:00.002+01:00

Well, someone asked for more of this chap.

So here's a fistful of fun for you.

There's something rather beefy nice about him, I think.

Manly chunky, but with very nice bits and bobs.

Everything all in the right place, so to speak.

Yeah... this commentary is largely pointless, isn't it?

Name that film

2009-10-05T21:08:00.000+01:00

Anyone...? Anyone...?

And there are Bonus Points if you can name that arse.

3 things

2009-10-04T21:50:00.001+01:00

Just a snackette for you this evening, starting with this lovely be-quiffed lovely:

Here's another shot of that Russian model I featured the other day, proving conclusively that he was, indeed, finding the modelling experience stimulating:

And, to finish, this delightful chunky chap:

There's a sort of coyness about him which belies what he proceeded to do in the rest of the photoshoot.

Voyage to nowhere

2009-10-04T21:22:00.007+01:00

If, for some unfathomable reason, I was asked to pick the three thinkers whose ideas have done most to shape contemporary philosophical attitudes in the Anglo-Saxon world, I'd have to go with Adam Smith, Sigmund Freud and Charles Darwin.

Of that happy trio, a new film has been released purporting to show us the life of the man who, according to the trope, had the single most important idea in history. It's well known that Darwin spent years mulling over his theories, worried about the social (and spiritual) impact of them, and this film claims to explore that time.

Unfortunately, Creation is a disastrously poor film. In fact, I would have to say this is one of the worst films I've seen in a long time. Its failure to gain a distributor in North America may be due more to this fact than to any obsessive God-botherers.

Terribly badly paced; confusing drama and melodrama; and obsessed with ghosts and spirits and crass foreshadowing: this really is an appallingly dismal piece of work.

Worse, the usually rather good actor Paul Bettany plays Darwin but, alas, that just reminds us of the role he had in Master and Commander as the Darwin-a-like, a film which was superior in pretty much every way to Creation, and in which Bettany drew a rather more rounded character.

I once had the dismal misfortune to spend a few months as a consultant to Bromley Council, in whose territory lies Darwin's home Down House. It's a living monument to Darwin's work, his daily walks through the grounds enabling him to reflect on and test his ideas, his findings from the Beagle and his experiments in pigeon breeding. It says something about the poverty of their souls that the officers of Bromley Council were desperate to get the damn thing off their hands, so someone else would incur the financial liability of caring for it.

Back to the film: one of its few effective moments -- when it looks as if things might take-off -- is a sequence possibly in the grounds of Down House where a rat scuttles into the undergrowth past the decaying corpse of a dead sheep, a maggot-infested mess which, in turn, becomes a feeding-ground for the most beautiful finch.

The film has no idea what to do with this kind of thinking and, instead, retreats into the tiresome tropes of the dullest of English costume dramas, including the child dying of Hollywood Disease (where she just wastes away, getting paler and more beautiful), the mercy dash to the mad medical quack, and the doctor whose medicines are probably hastening her death.

It is no way to treat one of the greatest human thinkers, a man whose idea was as elegant as it was beautiful, and for which he would be pilloried for the rest of his life.

It says something about how poor this film is that easily the most sympathetic character turned out to be a dying orangutan.

I reflected on the way home that pretty much everyone in England will have completed their entire "education" without having read a single word by Smith, Freud or Darwin.

Enticing

2009-10-04T20:56:00.001+01:00

The trailer sold it to me.

Where can I buy my ticket?

Out of the shadows

2009-10-03T23:21:00.004+01:00

I don't care how big a movie geek you are, after more than a century of cinema it's almost impossible for any one nerd (even one as dedicated as me) to have watched all the classics.

With that defiant opening, I confess that, until this evening, Jean-Pierre Melville's 1969 L'armée des ombres (or Army of Shadows) has eluded me.

Which is a surprise, because I'm a bit of a sucker for Resistance movies (even inverted ones like Louis Malle's extraordinary Lacombe Lucien, which was released five years after Melville's masterwork).

One of the first French films to show ordinary French people engaged in the Black Market (so pervasive was the myth of total resistance, probably because it was so necessary to recover from the trauma of the occupation), Army of Shadows is a distinctly downbeat affair, the antithesis of the boy's own adventure that Hollywood have shot (or, indeed, that the British film industry of the time would have made, still clinging desperately to the stiff-upper-lipped concept of "their finest hour").

Simone Signoret is sparky and magnificent.

But even she can't lift the film above Melville's trademark washed-out palette of browns, blues and greys.

A look that fits this quietly gripping, magnificent film to a tee. My only complaint -- and I feel churlish writing it, so intoxicating is this film -- would be that the whip-zoom that was fashionable for a couple of years in the late 60s now looks dated and distracting.

That opening title sequence, a recreation of the Wehrmacht's daily procession down the Champs Elysees, must have been devastating in 1969.

Beachy head

2009-10-03T17:21:00.001+01:00

I have no excuse whatsoever for posting this triptych of a young man dancing on a beach.

But I don't think an excuse is necessary.

His delicate, graceful moves provide a delightful counterpoint to his lovely naked nakedness.

Yes, that's pretty much all I wanted to say, really.

Impossible choices

2009-10-03T17:03:00.004+01:00

So, Ireland has voted 2:1 in favour of ratifying the Lisbon Treaty, and the EU moves inexorably closer to becoming a major issue in British politics.

Apparently Dave Cameron is trying to increase the mettle of both the Czech Republic (whose Europhobic President is currently engaged in a series of delaying manoeuvres) and the evil homophobes in Poland's right-wing establishment (with similar intent). Ireland's referendum was the last big democratic hurdle. Dave wants Labour not to ratify the Treaty but, instead, to renegotiate it (or, better, kill it -- which means Dave won't have to take the flack for doing so, alienating yet further Angela Merkel which would otherwise be his closest European ally).

I'm in two minds: on the one hand, the machinery of the EU clearly needs a major overhaul (and something to deal with the democratic deficit might be good), and in the meantime Lisbon goes some way to dealing with the more technocratic problems in the system caused by the massive enlargements of the last few years.

On the other, there's now a growing chance that we'll end up with President Blair.

For fuck's sake, how can this grinning con artist possibly gain such a position? Lying and deceiving his way into an illegal war, sucking up to the moronic Bush, doing everything he could to destroy meaningful European cooperation, this deadbeat politician does not deserve such an honour. A few weeks back I posted about the late Roy Jenkins, Britain's last (and so far only) President of the European Commission. The egomaniacal, balding God-botherer Blair isn't fit to lick Jenkins' boots.

A small day out

2009-10-03T15:12:00.006+01:00

An afternoon jaunt which included a ride on one of these:

It's one of the new Class 378 trains now spreading rapidly on London Overground, to replace the positively ancient Class 313s (one of which is seen here in a garish livery on Willesden Junction high level bridge):

My journey was simple enough, from West Brompton to Hampstead Heath, via a simple, same-platform change at Willesden Junction:

Arriving at Hampstead Heath, you get the sense this line has been viciously neglected over the years and there's an immense amount of work yet to do:

It all feels so sterile:

And it gives an impression of cheap materials put together for efficiency rather than with any sense of pleasure or joy:

Someone at London Overground clearly feels the same way, but their solution, to my mind, makes matters worse:

These cheap and tacky-looking hanging baskets of plastic "flowers" scream of a tawdry afterthought -- they are one of the worst examples I can imagine of putting metaphorical lipstick on a gorilla, in an attempt to make it look lovely:

Still, the posters speak of a confidence and optimism:

Sorry about the reflections, incidentally, but I didn't have much time, the light was all wrong, and there's always that nagging doubt about taking photographs at railway stations, where there's a risk an entire squad of armed police will at any moment descend on you as a potential terrorist.

Back to the new trains: they have a "wide gangway" design, like trams, to enable you to walk easily through the entire interior of the train.

The seats are not the most comfortable (a bit hard on the bum if you're doing, say, Stratford to Richmond), and they're laid out to provide as much crush standing room as possible. But the air conditioning seemed effective, there wasn't much interior noise and the ride was as smooth as we've come to expect from an Electrostar. These units are in a different league from the elderly 313s.

The conclusion? London Overground: showing definite signs of improvement.

Taking the Michael

2009-10-03T12:47:00.003+01:00

In a cyber coincidence two models, both called "Mike", have ended up next to each other in my iPhoto storage thing.

They are superficially similar, but identifiably different men.

They both have attractions...

A sort of fresh, youthful loveliness, not over-sculpted by weird gym routines.

An almost delicate sense of propriety.

I have no idea what I'm babbling on about. Must be a feverish delirium. Hope you enjoy the Mikes, anyway.

From Russia with love

2009-10-02T20:30:00.004+01:00

Well, now, this is rather fine.

Dredged up from the deepest recesses of flickr, this Russian model has done his photographer proud.

The model has that very slight stiffness about him, that makes it obvious this is not a slick, professional shoot.

And that adds to the charm, of course.

The model is the proud possessor of a delightfully lovely-looking, normal winkle.

Very fresh and perky, nestled in a nice bed of springy pubic hair.

All very satisfying -- as is the contrast, of course, between the soft, sensual flesh of our model and the hard, coarse construction of the building site.

Incidentally, while I'm dribbling on, sorry for the slight gap in posting over the last few days.

My head feels like it is full of nothing but very runny snot, and my throat is so, so sore. I am, in fact, a very sick little boy.

Now, I hate to raise an awkward subject but... is it me, or in this last photo is our model getting a little, er, excited...?

Yeah, I thought so. Very nice.

Fall guy

2009-09-29T22:24:00.006+01:00

I'm more of a summer person.

For me, Autumn is a harbinger of miserable, damp, grey times to come, and a time of pointless and tiresome work clearing up fallen leaves in the garden.

My life would be immeasurably improved if I had someone like this on side.

Were this the case, I think I might even be able to contemplate the arrival of Autumn with less misery.

It may even put a spring-like lift in my step.

Pity it's only fantasy.

A Tale of Two States

2009-09-29T21:49:00.010+01:00

[This is one of those tiresome political rants I do from time to time -- skip over this post if you're just looking for porn]

Two stories provide contrasting views of the British state.

Fiona Pilkington's life was made, literally, hopeless. The 38 year old single mother, herself with learning difficulties, had two children: an 18 year old daughter, Francecca, with a mental age of 4; and a 16 year old son with less severe learning difficulties. She lived on a not particularly awful estate in Barwell, where gangs of yobs congregated outside her house throwing stones and taunts with equal impunity, tormenting people unable to defend themselves.

Over a seven year period Ms Pilkington phoned Leicestershire Police, asking for help, on no fewer than 33 separate occasions. More often than not the Police didn't even bother to turn up, and somehow their expensive computer systems managed to avoid spotting a concentration of antisocial behaviour (or, if it did, they couldn't be bothered to do anything about it). The district council also failed to take any significant action, and the county council didn't involve social services after Ms Pilkington confessed to them that she felt suicidal.

The police (and the council) claimed they knew the majority of the yobs who were engaged in this action. They still did nothing. In despair, when the burden had simply become too much, Ms Pilkington drove herself and her daughter (accompanied by her daughter's pet rabbit) to a layby, where she doused petrol all around the inside of the car and then set it thing alight: mother and daughter both died, in what must have been agonising and horrific circumstances.

Fiona Pilkington and her family were totally, utterly failed by the State.

Meanwhile, in another part of the State, two women police officers, both single mothers, helped each other out: while one was working a shift the other looked after both their children, and vice versa. It enabled both parents to work, and the children to be properly cared for.

The State hated that: its Ofsted inspectorate, citing the Children Act 2006, insisted that the two women were engaged in an illegal business activity for which they should have undergone training, registered as professional childminders as well as having checks and licensing to ensure they weren't paedophiles preying on innocent children. The two women now face criminal prosecution for their illegal activities.

So, let's summarise what we have learned: where the State is begged for help, to make the marginal lives of some of the most vulnerable people in society easier, it simply can't be arsed to lift a finger until they fuck off and kill themselves.

But where consenting adults holding responsible positions in society do the right thing for their children, the State is prepared to spend vast sums of public cash hounding them into submission.

These two cases are just anecdotes, not statistically valid samples. But to me they feel true, indicative of a wider malaise: a State which has lost sight of its purpose, which has lost control of its traditional core functions to globalisation and asymmetric warfare, and which is seeking to victimise the easy targets.

I am beginning to understand those mad Americans who live in log cabins miles from anywhere.

Hairy times

2009-09-28T18:34:00.007+01:00

Someone left a comment on how fine they thought this chap was, after he featured on a recent post:

Turns out I have a few more images of him (none, alas, where he reveals everything he has to offer) and, miracle of miracles, he actually has a delightfully hairy chest:

In fact, this post will largely consist of these same sorts of vanilla images showing Chris Leabu -- for it is he -- showing Chris Leabu's chest hair:

And, frankly, I think that's enough for any post, don't you?

As we take in that deliciously naughty smile...

The contortions of the professional model's posing...

The constant near-repetition of the same delightful poses, one after another...

Us never tiring in the resolution of our steely gaze, focussing our all on his manly manliness...

Until he ends up here, the shaft of Heavenly light drawing our attention down to his membrum virilis, forcing us to confront the very essence of his manly being.

Er...

[Coughs...]

I am sorry to have to report that he frequently shaves it all off.

What sort of vicious perversity is this, that denudes him of that which makes him most special?

What nature of evil society have we created, where a fine figure of a man like him is forced -- forced! -- to remove the very stuff of his fineness.

It's a society so fucked up that I for one would not want to live in it.

Were it not for the compensatory presence of Mr Leabu.

Bait and switch

2009-09-27T16:00:00.006+01:00

There's a school of gay "porn" that I think of as being a form of coitus interruptus.

Some staggeringly good-looking model (Bernardo Velasco in this case) gives us lots of profiles and teasing, but never any of the, er, goods.

Bernardo is not alone.

In fact, this coyness has spread to the net from its original home in magazines and everyday life where, perhaps, maiden aunts might be frightened of a photo featuring cock but don't mind looking at some dreamy-faced bimbette.

Which is not to be horrid to or about these boys.

I'm sure they bring all sorts of sunshine into people's lives:

At first, I thought Mario De Leon was from the same mould:

Certainly, the photos I've seen all seem to be similarly coy.

Lots of teasing and twisting -- and even a bit of mooning (God, this chap has a magnificent arse):

Bathroom shots are usually a Very Bad Sign, incidentally, as is this absurd twisting:

Although he does have tits that are a bit, er, disconcerting from some angles:

But in the end, Mario is one of us -- he knows what we want, and he is willing to provide for us:

Thanks, Mario. You have our undying loyalty and love.

English Electric rules

2009-09-27T15:43:00.005+01:00

Half a dozen delightful adverts from the 1960s, by locomotive engineering company English Electric:

There's an exuberance about them which is, for me, compelling.

And unlike the stuff produced by many advertisers, these were at least grounded in reality -- English Electric was the manufacturer of probably the most successful of British Railways' new diesel fleets.

There were technological and management issues that made the conversion from steam to diesel-electric problematic -- but as English Electric showed, these could be relatively minor rather than (as experienced by, for example, Brush or Clayton or NBL) near-disastrous.

There's a distinctive design resemblance going on in the EE family, too -- you've probably noticed they all have "snouts".

Some of these machines are still in regular service around half a century after they were first launched onto the network.

That's some record.

Picture palaces

2009-09-27T15:02:00.006+01:00

When cinema was big business back in the 1930s, exhibitors invested in "picture palace" architecture -- going out was special:

Most commercial cinemas today are soulless, depressing places, full of the oppressive stench of stale popcorn and uncleaned carpets, some of the nastiest toilets on earth, and the giant screens divided into tiny little cupboards (often with a screen smaller than my tv).

One of the few commercial cinemas in London that ain't like that is the delicious Apollo Piccadilly:

As you descend that delirious glass staircase, you know this isn't some bog standard multiplex:

And, after any other London cinema, the screens are truly delightful: very good seats, loads of legroom, a very steeply raked auditorium, great sightlines, and a top notch sound system. This is what every cinema should offer as a minimum.

But it's possible to go further. Here's a delightful set of photos from the new-ish Light House Cinema in Dublin:

The spaces have been designed to add to the experience, not to process as many punters as fast as possible:

Good, fat chairs, and without those stupid high-level plastic cup-holders that dig into your leg throughout the film, chafing and aching:

Even the cafe looks like somewhere you'd actually want to sit, rather than a place to fleece you of as much cash as possible (my local Odeon is now charging £2.50 for a bottle of water. £2.50! The 24 hour shop next door sells it for 60p: net result of this gouging -- I now never buy water from the Odeon but take it in with me).

A simple space for lecture-y type activities, though I wouldn't want to sit here for long:

And the main auditorium -- subtle but sophisticated, plushly welcoming. I'd have gone for a much steeper rake than this, but compared to most multiplexes this is Paradise:

And "punters" like me are prepared to pay for this. Surely the answer for cinemas (as home cinema systems get bigger, better and cheaper) is not a downward rush for the cheapest possible high-volume throughput?

Shades of Gray

2009-09-27T12:33:00.007+01:00

The credibility of the new film of The Picture of Dorian Gray (modishly renamed Dorian Gray) rests squarely on the shoulders of Ben Barnes.

Gray is Wilde's only novel (or, rather, novels, since it was published in two different forms and also survives in a variety of MS, er, varieties).

Unfortunately for Wilde, he was such a witty epigrammist that his best lines have over the years been turned into dusty cliché by constant repetition at the hands of dullards.

Barnes (whose professional repertoire until now has consisted of an asexual Prince Caspian and a variety of asexual public schoolboy types) is spared labouring with them (most of the best lines go to Henry Wotton, whom Wilde saw as the public image of himself), but he has an almost impossible weight to carry.

He has to be sexually appealling to everyone. And, for me, he's a bit too androgynous to stimulate: I don't particularly want to sleep with boy/girls.

Even where he shows a bit of skin (not much -- this film is cut to an adolescent certificate) he doesn't really exude any passion:

As a result, this version of Gray is a pleasant enough afternoon treat, a sort of dessicated family Gothick with just enough thrills to send a chill down granny's spine but without the raw bloodiness that the original deserves.

Which may seem to be damning it with faint praise. But what can you do?

What I'm listening to

2009-09-27T12:13:00.007+01:00

No, I'm not going all religious (God forbid, eh?), but the Christians do seem to have many of the best tunes.

When I was a tiresome prepubescent I was in my school's choir, belting out the treble parts of Handel's Messiah in what I now think of as a crime against humanity (or possibly a cry for help).

This music is best left to the professionals.

Aaaah

2009-09-24T20:55:00.003+01:00

Not much time this evening for anything other than an eclectic handful of hormonal loveliness, starting with this fine hirsute chappy:

A bit of ginger next, in a naturalistic pose from the 1970s. He must be ancient by now:

In our more modern plucked, tweezed and pumped times, this chap seems more usual:

For some reason, I find cmnm scenarios rather, er, intriguing. But here the clothed buddy is being a good friend and giving what I believe is termed a "reach-around":

And to finish, a delightful variant on the now familiar theme of a matching pair of photos:

Doesn't that just make you smile and gurgle?

Brain death

2009-09-24T19:55:00.005+01:00

For more than a decade, this depressing-looking lump has been the standard freight locomotive on Britain's rails:

"Value engineered" to within an inch of its life, the Class 66 is a cheap- and nasty-looking piece of kit that apparently is not particularly comfortable for its crew, either.

Introduced by those evil creatures at English Welsh & Scottish (or EWS), part of the Wisconsin Rail's bid for global dominance, it's a North American "design" from their school of aesthetics (which appears to be to make it as Godforsaken-looking as possible).

Most other British freight operators followed suit, but at least people like Freightliner managed to make a decent fist of the livery, to cover up the worst aspects of this monster:

But now Freightliner have, themselves, become the bad guys, since they are responsible for specifying the next generation of freight locomotive.

Another wretched North American "design", it is possibly the ugliest locomotive ever to be aimed at Britain's shores:

This is the brand-new "Class 70":

To celebrate, Freightliner have introduced a hideously vile new livery which, if anything, makes the new engines look worse by providing soft and rounded lines that clash even more horribly with the hideously Darth Vader angularity of the lump.

This is especially annoying, because here's how things could be -- a simple and rather effective Freightliner livery on the last generation of British Rail mixed traffic electric locomotive, the Class 90:

Clean, simple, functional, but also aesthetically rather pleasing. How hard can it be?

Historically important

2009-09-23T22:47:00.001+01:00

How delightful is this vintage image, of a group of manly (possibly military?) men enjoying some manly fun together at a swimming place.

And not a giant mutant winkie in sight.

Get a move on

2009-09-23T22:00:00.011+01:00

A pair of interesting transport stories today.

First up: high speed rail. According to some newspaper reports:

"Gordon Brown will this weekend give his strongest backing to high speed rail, paving the way for Labour to make a general election manifesto commitment to deliver a transformation of Britain's railways.

In an attempt to outflank the Tories, who promised last year to build a £20bn high speed network, Brown will raise the prospect of emulating the Victorian rail-building boom.

Brown will declare in a pamphlet, to be launched at the Labour conference in Brighton on Sunday, that high-speed rail could play an important role in helping to lower carbon emissions without jeopardising economic growth.

"High-speed rail would provide a fast, low carbon network linking the nations and regions of the UK", the prime minister writes. "I am determined that we meet our contemporary challenges by investing in the infrastructure that will endow future generations, just as the Victorians left a legacy of investment for the 20th century".

France has more than 1,100 miles of new high-speed lines, Spain has nearly 4,000 miles. Britain has a grand total of 68 miles.

But what I find utterly bewildering is the idea that Gordon Brown -- a pygmy politician who has had more than fifteen years in the two highest political offices in the country, and has yet to have any discernible positive influence on British life -- thinks he can do in his remaining 8 months in office more than the Victorians achieved in 60 years. He is either breathtakingly stupid or staggeringly deluded. Or possibly both.

The second transport story today is the news that London Mayor Boris Johnson has, in a delightful "U" turn, apparently decided he is not going to scrap the Western Extension of the Congestion Charging Zone after all.

His most potent manifesto commitment, for which he was cheered by rich 4x4 owners in Chelsea, was, it turns out, no more than an aspiration, not, as we stupid voters had believed, a firm commitment to ditch it by 2010.

Damnit. Had I known he was going to keep the western extension I might actually have voted for him (no, not really). It's fascinating how London Mayors seem to be jinxed by transport issues. Ken Livingston famously decreed that "only a moron would get rid of Routemaster buses" before making a decision to, er, get rid of Routemaster buses.

Johnson has also promised (or possibly just has an aspiration -- what do I know?) to get rid of evil bendy-buses and replace them with the Routemaster Mk2. We shall see...

Boris's decision is undoubtedly one of deepest principle, and nothing to do with the massive funding gap he has in his transport budget. Because the Congestion Charge is not about raising stealth taxes -- oh no, not at all, it's about reducing congestion.

The fact that London is now pretty much as congested as it was before the Charge was introduced should not be an indication that the system has failed (possibly because of gutless timidity in failing to raise the Charge to a reasonable, say, £50 a day). No indeedy.

When's it all going to end?

2009-09-23T17:09:00.003+01:00

An interesting pair of images to start. Neither is conventionally pretty, but these studies are, I think, rather affecting.

No, I don't just mean in that crude way.

Here's another of those clothed/unclothed photos I enjoy:

And after that promisingly arty beginning, let's descend together into a sewer of porn:

Very genteel porn, obviously, just because that's the type of blog this is.

And sometimes we'll post images taken from "life" which are, therefore, barely pornographic at all.

But let's not be precious about this. Let's end with a provocative, no-holds-barred porno image:

Can you feel it...? That's the sound of the earth coming to an end.

Debriefing

2009-09-22T21:27:00.007+01:00

In the hideously repressed world in which I grew up, images of naked men were rarer than hen's teeth.

In fact, I think about the only masturbatory images I had to work with (other than photographs of Classical sculptures, of course), came from those retail catalogues that seemed, at the time, to be everywhere.

Buried somewhere deep inside there would be a double-page spread of men's underwear, most of the pictures of a nylon-clad crotch, but a couple would show the full torso (and not just for the vests), plus one or two would be "tastefully" posed so you could see all of the model (and his nylon pants). We had to use our imaginations in those days.

I managed to leave behind the world of swirly multicoloured nylon pants and/or off-white Y-fronts (with saggy elasticated waists), but you don't read this blog to learn about the intimacies of my, er, smalls.

Even so, I must have missed the memo in which we were informed that pants were no longer to be about whatever the practical purpose is they actually serve but, henceforth, they were to be some sort of fetish wear.

It must have been about the same time as the emergence of that creature essential to all mature civilisations: the celebrity underwear model.

Can I introduce Anton Antipov?

Anton is a fine figure of a man, though he looks like he could do with a few good lunches. And I wish he wouldn't shave quite so much. But he's managed to make a fine career out of, well, not very much really, so we should all be praising him for his tenacity.

The "development" of his chosen profession means that Anton is now required to wear what appear to be cut-off women's tights for a living -- and I suppose that takes us neatly back to the hideous world of nylon underwear:

If I were Anton I'd wear nothing. He's almost there now anyway: he just needs to move his hand a little.

Perhaps someone could mention it to him?

Shifty

2009-09-20T21:07:00.005+01:00

Have I mentioned how there's a lot of miserablist British films about at the moment?

Shifty came out last year, but it's taken me a while to steel myself to watch it. The story of a Muslim, crack cocaine dealer in one of the interminable and soulless new-ish towns that ring the poorer bits of London, it seemed likely to be another wallowing in the mire.

I needn't have worried. It is, in fact, a story about friendship, about redemption. And it features an extraordinary piece of powerhouse acting from Riz Ahmed as the eponymous antihero, with Daniel Mays as his mate, and Hollywood "star" Jason Flemyng as an evil drug dealer.

But this is Riz's film, as we spend 24 hours with him during which his carefully constructed world comes crashing down around him.

A very bright kid, Shifty's life has taken one turn in the wrong direction. But he combines dealing drugs with a form of social work, seeming genuinely to care about his clients -- or, rather, those of them that seem to merit his engagement.

It's a perfectly decent micro-budget, made-for-telly, British film, and if that seems to be damning it with faint praise let's not forget that some British telly really is world class.

And let's not forget that acting by Riz who, it must be said, is also verrry easy on the eye (alas, just one blink-and-you'll-miss-it topless scene from him. God I wanted more).

Because Riz has shown himself willing to engage in all sorts of interesting artistic ventures.

I am expecting great things of him (and look out for next year's Centurion...).

Wanderlust

2009-09-19T23:40:00.003+01:00

I always wondered about superheroes: how was it that all The Incredible Hulk's clothes ripped off him except for his underpants -- which seemed to be limitlessly stretchy?

I think that scenario is much more realistic.

That was a rather jolly bit of beach play -- you don't see much of that these days. I think it's all gone back into the closet.

A couple of images on a vaguely watery theme.

Er... and for the climax...

Taa-daa!

Yeah, that post didn't really go anywhere, did it?

Sunset to noir

2009-09-19T17:44:00.008+01:00

1952's The Narrow Margin is late noir -- very late noir, in fact.

A tiny budget "B" movie, it makes excellent use of the claustrophobic interior of a speeding train -- a device also used by movie masters like the God Hitchcock himself.

In that little group you can see our police hero (even if he looks a little the worse for wear) -- played almost grudgingly by "B" movie maestro Charles McGraw -- holding a gun on a villain. There's the serious train conductor and the token black steward, but the most interesting character there is the "Fat Man" in the middle, railway special agent Sam Jennings.

In fact, the real stars of noir are invariably the femmes fatales, and The Narrow Margin is no exception. In a short sequence before they board the train, we get to meet our anti-heroine -- gangster's moll, Mrs Frankie Neall.

Mrs Neall is magnificent -- but how could she be anything other than that, what with being played by Marie Windsor (no relation, as far as I'm aware) who spent her entire career playing monstrously egotistical women, all balls and verbal dexterity.

There are a couple of enjoyable plot twists which I'm not going to spoil for you here -- they are as unexpected as they are, with hindsight, improbable. Nonetheless, the film hurtles forward at such a breathless pace there's no time for anything other than being swept along.

Which is apposite, because the other real star of the film is the Southern Pacific's magnificent GS-4 Mikado engine, hauling The Golden State (until 1947 "The Golden State Limited") from Chicago to Los Angeles on a three-day/two night odyssey.

Magnificently liveried in shades of shocking orange and vermillion (coincidentally a similar livery to The Milwaukee Road, which has featured on Normal for Norfolk before), these enormous beasts were the super-machines of their day

Today's object of desire

2009-09-19T12:11:00.001+01:00

That title is self-explanatory, really:

Words could not possibly add anything of value to that image. Lovely...

Cash in the bank

2009-09-19T11:53:00.006+01:00

A new edition of The Guardian's annual government spending atlas (click to enlarge):

The big change, of course, can be seen at top-right: the 49,000% (yes, you read that right) increase in the budget of HM Treasury, all used to prop up failed capitalist enterprises.

These dynamic "risk takers" turned out not to be taking any risks at all, because the state would have to bail them out if they went wrong. So what, exactly, were they paid those massive salaries for?

To pay for that outrage, all the gossip is about who is going to cut the most, and how:

Why is no-one proposing something radically different -- I dunno, what about:

all earnings up to double the median wage to be income tax free?
Then a 50% rate on all additional income up to, I dunno, a quarter of a million -- when a 90% tax rate kicks in?
What about no-one who pays tax receives any cash benefits (child benefit, for instance)?
What about refocussing other taxation on things we think are socially "bad" (financial transactions which are little more than gambles, carbon emissions, pollution, importing or buying things which have caused pollution, developing greenfield sites) and removing it on things we think are socially "good" (books and news, telcommunications and arts, "clean" energy, refurbishing and reusing old buildings, redeveloping brownfield sites, investing in biodiversity and public open spaces).
What about shifting more taxation from earning income (which is A Good Thing) to owning vast swathes of land (which is largely historic greed)? Impossible to avoid property taxes, they're cheap and easy to collect, and they force people to release land they can't afford.
What about encouraging volunteering or community activity, rewarding those people who do most to make everyone else's lives better?

Agree or disagree with any of these, it doesn't much matter: but make your own list.

Instead, this is more likely what we'll end up with: all manner of public social goods destroyed, and more people thrown into poverty.

Britain was dirt-poor in the 1970s, teetering on the edge of bankruptcy -- yet we could still afford to pay half-way decent pensions to road sweepers and dinner ladies and nurses, and we could provide free university education. Apparently we're now so destitute that students have to pay for their own education and we can no longer afford to pay retired public servants proper pensions.

That's progress for you.

I dunno

2009-09-19T11:35:00.004+01:00

Most hetty porn does very little for me, and I've never been aroused by S&M, but, sometimes, the most unexpected photo sequences can produce a sort of bat squeak of desire.

Most of this sequence involves things that hold not the slightest attraction for me.

I have never associated pain and suffering with sex.

But perhaps it's to do with vulnerability and trust.

Of an intimacy and surrender.

Although I do wonder how a "safe" word signal would work in circumstances such as these.

Maybe that's the point: the ultimate surrender of self into the hands of another.

But much as I fancy our hero, this stuff seems at best only distantly related to love.

Blue streak

2009-09-18T17:59:00.006+01:00

One of the very first "moving image" films featured a train -- and there's been a close connection between movies and railways ever since.

So it's entirely appropriate that there should be a whole special type of railway film: the speeded-up journey. This is a delightful example from 1962 (and I particularly love the music -- by one or other of the Strausses), from London's Paddington to Birmingham's Snow Hill by the then-brand-new Blue Pullman DMU.

Absolutely delightful -- brilliantly capturing the transition from the old steam railway to the modern multiple unit world. Incidentally, the drivers wore those white coats (earning them the predictable nickname of ice cream men) to emphasise how clean this new technology was compared to the filthy old steam engines.

Oh, and my sums are rubbish, but I think the journey was the equivalent of travelling at 1,500 mph.

Vandals

2009-09-18T17:56:00.005+01:00

The Design Museum is possibly the most pointless museum in London.

Currently located on the riverside by Tower Bridge in a rather nicely converted warehouse -- now all Bauhaus white white stucco and horizontal balconies with metal-framed windows, overlooking the Thames -- it has a piss-poor permanent collection, and insufficient funds to pay for excellent exhibitions.

But designers are not renowned for being short of ego, hence today's news that the Design Museum has succeeded in getting planning permission to convert the former Commonwealth Institute into their new home.

In the posh bit of Kensington & Chelsea (next to Holland Park, darling), the Commonwealth Institute has been a landmark for nearly fifty years, its giant, swooping copper roof contrasting with the walls of pale green glass, a monument to hope at the end of colonisation.

In truth, the Design Museum scheme will be paid for by flogging off a bit of the Institute's land for some upmarket flats (no ghastly "affordable" social housing here).

And the main Institute building will be gutted, for the Museum's displays of... well, no-one knows, exactly, but obviously it will be fabulous.

I once wrote a review of an exhibition at the Design Museum, for Design Journal. It was one of the most poisonous things I've ever written -- sneering my contempt at something that called itself a Museum but was, in truth, so in hock to its sponsors that it was being used as part of a private company's brand building.

There wasn't even a pretence at scholarship or culture: it was all about the consumer brand. And one is always most betrayed by the things one holds dear.

Right Charlie

2009-09-18T17:08:00.000+01:00

Just a single image in this post: a Southern Railway Q1 Class 0-6-0, designed by genius engineer Oliver Bulleid to use the minimum amount of materials in order to contribute to the Second World War effort -- the Southern was primarily an electrified commuter railway and suddenly found itself in the frontline of a war with insufficient freight engines.

The Q1 was a "go anywhere" design, lightweight, immensely strong, and startlingly different from anything else then operating on the railway. It transformed the Southern's capacity.

Here a Q1 in happier times, the late 1950s, now wearing British Railways livery, hauls a long, heavy-looking freight.

Pinnacle

2009-09-17T21:42:00.003+01:00

It's been an absolute eternity since I last featured this fine chap:

He's long been one of my favourite chaps:

That sort of sensually beefy, hairy look:

His smile is so infectious that I don't even mind (and I can't believe I'm writing this) that he starts shaving off his body hair:

I can't help it. He has captured me completely.

Or maybe I'm going soft, what do I know?

M&GN treasures

2009-09-17T21:30:00.004+01:00

An East Anglian railway theme to this post, with the majority of images featuring my favourite M&GN lines. But let's start on the former Great Eastern route from Norwich to Lynn via Dereham, with this delightful Derby Lightweight, one of the very earliest British Railways diesel multiple units, seen in 1960:

Here an Ely-Birmingham (New Street) service, operated by a Metro Cammell Class 101, rests briefly at Theddington in 1966:

Here a hazy shot of a Brush Type 2, one of the earliest prototype diesel-electric locomotives, waiting at Norwich Thorpe for its next turn of duty:

This delightful (if somewhat blurry) shot is Sheringham, on the M&GN's North Norfolk coastal line, and shows what a substantial station it was back in summer 1958, the year before the M&GN largely closed:

This is delightful: two Metro-Cammell Class 101 DMUs cross at Whitwell & Reepham in August 1958, one bound for Norwich City, the other for Cromer (and note that the one on the right has acquired "speed whiskers" on the front, to improve their visibility for line-side workers):

And, to finish, this delightful image shows a Cravens Class 105 DMU, designed to replace steam engines on all the long-distance services on the M&GN (seen here in October 1958 at Wisbech North, on a railtour from King's Cross to Yarmouth (Beach)):

The decision to close almost the whole M&GN was taken before the 105s could be rolled-out so the M&GN stayed a steam-hauled long-distance railway to the end, and the 105s took over suburban services out of King's Cross (a life for which they were peculiarly badly suited).

So much unfulfilled hope.

Some consolation

2009-09-17T19:37:00.003+01:00

My friend A. says he is inconsolable.

So here, to, er, console him, is a fistful of images of a nice young man showing us his tatts.

A. likes tatts.

I have to say, they don't do too much for me.

Although I do like the one on his left shoulder/upper arm.

And I very much like the one on the right of his chest.

Oh, Hell. I like all of him. Oh, yeah. Absolutely all of him.

Sigh...

Speed

2009-09-17T19:30:00.000+01:00

Here's what railways are mostly like today -- speed and swiftness:

But it's easy to forget that not too long ago, the majority of them were more like this:

Slower, working at a gentler pace, all-stops services far outnumbering the few headline-grabbing expresses.

While I used to believe speed was the answer, I'm no longer really sure which are the best way to a better quality of life.

Plan of action

2009-09-17T18:35:00.006+01:00

A tiny fraction like this is all most people need to enable them to identify the London Underground map, a design icon in various incarnations for nearly a century.

But London is currently rocking with shock at the latest version. Here's what we've gotten used to over the last few years, with the different fare zones in alternating grey and white bands (click to enlarge):

You'll notice that it also featured the London Overground system, white lines with orange borders, as these overground railways have now moved into Transport for London's portfolio.

TfL decided that the "Tube map" (sic) was now becoming too cluttered, the famed simplicity lost as it tried to cram in too much stuff -- lines and shades fighting each other. So here is the new, simplified map:

You'll notice the fare zones have gone. It's certainly much cleaner, much crisper.

But did you also notice that the river has disappeared? And that's the major cause of the uproar. I have to say, I think it's a mistake to ditch the river -- especially for the eastern part of the map it's rather helpful.

I'm more intrigued by what's going on in the top left hand corner, where the Metropolitan and Piccadilly lines are now no longer joined together but, instead, have white space between them. They never used to. What's that all about?

TfL have another chance very soon: the new "tea-cup shaped" (non-)"Circle" line will be introduced in a couple of months, and I think a bit more Overground is scheduled to open shortly after that.

Again again

2009-09-16T23:43:00.003+01:00

Whether or not 17 Again appeals to you rests largely on whether or not Zac Efron appeals.

One of those "what happens if an adult wakes up to find they are a teenager again" movies, this one's a pretty lazy affair.

Until now I had only encountered Zac in a series of paparazzi shots taken at a beach, which culminated with this delightful image of him just checking his stuff was all still there (and which of us boys hasn't felt a compulsion to do that from time to time?):

Zac has been buffing up, but he still retains a weirdly androgynous look that, I confess, I don't find attractive:

But this genre of film can't fail to have at least a couple of intriguing parts -- here, for instance, where Zac tells a bully that he's only bullying other kids because he has a very tiny weiner.

So, Zac, you've, er, been looking, eh?

Outrageous!

2009-09-16T23:06:00.004+01:00

It is unsurprising that men are neurotic about the size of their genitalia. Take a look at this:

The Italian swim team, all looking so massive in the crotch department that some of us might feel a tad, er, underdeveloped. But that chap on the right is Alessandro Terrin, and here's an unmanipulated image of him:

I think the evidence is clear: we are talking about a Speedo-stuffing scandal of massive proportions. The only way to clear this up is if every member of that swim team poses naked for us to be able to inspect, er, er, I'm contacting my local trading standards department immediately, er, this is clearly, er, mis-selling and misrepresentation of goods under the consumer protection, er, legislation, etc, etc.

[...cont. on p.94...]

A Single Man

2009-09-15T20:21:00.007+01:00

Julianne Moore, looking fabulous -- and Colin Firth, showing emotion for the first time since Apartment Zero...

Matthew Goode and Nicholas Hoult, too... Yeah, I'm smitten.

A philosophy of festivals

2009-09-15T20:00:00.002+01:00

In an earlier life I used to run a tiny, tiny film festival. I loved it. What a great job.

So I feel a special tingle when the opportunity arises to indulge in a filmy fest and, luckily for me, what with living in London and all, I get to play in what is one of the world's biggest public film festivals.

Oh, sure, there are bigger festivals -- Cannes, to take an obvious example, but also Venice and Berlin. But the chances of an ordinary punter actually getting a single ticket to see a film at one of those events is, near as damnit, zero. Whereas London has always been first and last a public event.

But competition for seats is fierce. So the question then becomes one of selecting carefully in order to get a decent number (what's the point of applying for many -- or, actually, any -- galas, when about eight billion other people will also be applying for one of, er, maybe 500 seats?).

Luckily I have another criterion, which works to my advantage: generally, I pick festival films which don't have a UK distributor and which, actually, are so obscure they're unlikely ever to appear here again.

This may sound like an insanely masochistic approach: but I can assure you it's not. It's just that, frankly, there is a relatively tiny market for Slovak cinema even in as cosmopolitan place as London, and (especially with the seemingly inexorable cull in the number of arthouse screens even here) the chances of a cinema release for a title perceived to be of relatively marginal value are infinitesimally small. The market can be served later (and more economically from a commercial perspective, if not necessarily as satisfyingly from an artistic one) with a DVD.

So, whereas London will this year be offering World Premieres of The Fantastic Mr Fox and Nowhere Boy (both of which I'd like to see -- Fox has a great trailer, and Boy is Sam Taylor-Wood's first feature following her delightful short Love You More -- but they'll both get massive commercial releases in a short while, so what's the point?); and whereas it will offer previews of a host of Premier League movies (new works from the Coen Brothers, Steven Soderbergh, Jim Jarmusch) and arthouse specials (Jane Campion, Todd Solondz, Harmony Korine and Atom Egoyan); in fact, my choices are mostly of much, much smaller films.

Here's the LeDuc Collection (and you will quickly gather that for me this is a year of French cinema):

A Prophet: by Jacques Audiard, telling the gruelling story of a French Arab who finds himself in prison.

Bluebeard: Catherine Breillat's take on the traditional fairy story (which owes a debt to the masterly rewriting by Angela Carter).

Valhalla Rising: probably a load of old tosh, but it's a British film which at least appears to be a bit bolder than the usual gangster geezer bobbins -- set in the strange world of Dark Age Vikings.

Hadewijch: always interesting director Bruno Dumont gives us a novice who finds herself in the Paris banlieue.

Persecution: Patrice Chéreau gives us delightful actor Romain Duris in what a previewer hints will be like a French version of Mike Leigh's Naked.

White Material: I love Claire Denis' films, and here she returns to Africa 21 years after Chocolat.

Ivul: a Franco-Swiss film by English director Andrew Kötting in which the teenage children of a Russian emigre are caught playing "unwholesome" games and the boy is banned from his father's land. Taking this literally, he starts living in the trees.

Eyes Wide Open: from Israel, an unusual love story between two Orthodox Jews, Aaron, a respectably married butcher, and Ezri, the beautiful young man he hires to help him.

Little Indi: a Spanish-French film by Catalan director Marc Recha, about an awkward teenager from a backward rural village caught in a dilemma.

Plan B: it's been ages since I've seen a decent Argentinian film and I'm hoping this will break the log-jam, featuring a ferocious love triangle in which the two macho men battle for dominance.

And, finally, my choice from the riches of the archive programme: Araya, a 1959 Venezuelan film (hands up anyone who's seen any Venezuelan films?), this one a documentary about the daily lives of a group of people living in a desolate and remote Caribbean village, their livelihood wholly dependent on fish and salt. Apparently exquisitely restored, and being seen in London for the first time in nearly half a century, it's supposed to be "a unique achievement in Latin American cinema... a film of profound beauty and technical skill". Can't wait.

The selection of Asian films looks a bit thin this year, and there's (as usual, I'm afraid) relatively little from Africa (unsurprisingly, given how few films are made there). Eastern Europe produced a couple of interesting-looking films, but not quite enough to cut any out of my shortlist.

How could I ignore Tom Ford's first film A Single Man, starring Colin Firth in a life of Christopher Isherwood (and already garlanded with praise and awards at the Venice Film Festival)? Or what looks like a delightful film by Ang Lee, Taking Woodstock, especially given the reputed full-frontal nudity of lovely, lovely Emile Hirsch? Or (still on a musical theme) Tom DeCillo's biopic of The Doors, When You're Strange?

Life's about choices, right? And any more films would have been greedy.

The full London Film Festival programme is here.

Manly manly

2009-09-13T22:25:00.005+01:00

A random roundup that's a bit more manly and a bit less twinkie than of late.

Although not necessarily hairy -- here's the lovely "Andy Honda", who's featured on here before but not often enough:

And again, but in a bit of a tight spot:

Moving swiftly on...

And I was going to finish on this long-standing NfN favourite:

But I couldn't resist this twinkie finale, complete with, er, duct tape:

No, I don't know either, but alcohol was almost certainly involved.

You've gotta love college kids, eh?

Milky milky

2009-09-13T22:20:00.003+01:00

Someone's gone to considerable trouble to make these subversive images of chocolate brands, so it'd be rude not to feature them:

Er... that is all.

Save us from ourselves

2009-09-13T21:15:00.009+01:00

Can I introduce you to the railway station at Downham Market, a sleepy market town in the flat Fenland wilds of Norfolk, on the London-King's Lynn line.

The railway arrived in these here parts in the 1840s and, since that time, there has been a level crossing at the very south end of the station:

In that photo, the railway line runs north-south (north is at the top), the road is at the bottom running east-west and, immediately above the road, you can see the station platforms -- to the left is the signalbox and to the right, a little way up, the main station buildings.

That lovely shot was taken in 1990, standing with the signalbox behind you, and looking across the tracks towards the station buildings (mostly hidden, of course, behind that lovely Class 47 and its delightful Mk2 coaching stock).

Today the line is all electrified, high-speed multiple units. But every train that passes this way stops at Downham Market station, and the automatic level crossing barriers, as their name implies, operate automatically every time a train passes. The trains are travelling at barely more than walking pace, and there are just two an hour.

Unfortunately, some incredibly stupid people have taken to doing this sort of thing -- while the barriers are clearly down:

[Did you see the train took his shoe off? Lucky it wasn't his head.]

For the benefit of any foreign readers unfamiliar with British level crossings, all the while the barriers are lowered there are huge flashing red lights, and crossings with half-barriers also have the most hideous wailing siren. It is simply impossible not to realise that this is a place of danger and you should keep out -- this next video is 20 seconds long and shows a typical level crossing in action:

Back at Downham Market, here's the view from the platform in front of the main station buildings, looking towards the signal box and the level crossing -- you can see the barrier arms are raised.

Because of morons jumping the barriers, the proposal is now that £1.5 million of public money is spent building a pedestrian bridge over the railway line.

I have to say, my view is that the morons should, instead, be allowed to die. That would remove a bit of idiocy from the gene pool, benefiting future generations, and it would also allow that £1.5 million of public money to be spent on people who deserve it.

What also puzzles me is how the railway is singled out for this treatment: why isn't a pedestrian bridge being built at every single road junction in the country where some pedestrian has died by misjudging the traffic or defying the "wait" lights on a pedestrian crossing? Why is it that being accidentally squished by a truck is somehow socially acceptable, whereas idiotically defying the safety barriers and being squished by a train is totally and utterly unacceptable?

Last year in Britain, more than 3,500 people died on the roads. The total number of train passengers killed was, er, none.

Soc-soc-soccer practice

2009-09-13T18:49:00.001+01:00

I swear, I thought I was opening something else entirely when this gay ditty filled my screen.

Not my usual cup of tea at all, but it has a certain, er, charm, I should say.

Fraternal twins

2009-09-13T18:19:00.005+01:00

A strange and disconnected cinema double-bill this weekend, starting with Karthryn Bigelow's Hurt Locker.

Weirdly, I was citing another Bigelow film, homoerotic love story Point Break, only a couple of days ago. Hurt Locker has some similar homoerotic content, with lots of manly manliness and horsing around.

But it's also absolutely grippingly tense. Which, I guess, befits a film about an army bomb squad engaged in a constant game of one-upmanship with their mostly unseen enemies.

Not always unseen, of course, and there's a sequence in the middle of the film where circumstances suddenly transform them into a sniper squad. Ralph Fiennes makes an unwelcome appearance here, his shouty mercenary employing, er, shouting in preference to acting.

My friend D. thought it was the worst film in the history of cinema, but his hatred of American Imperialism is reaching almost psychotic proportions. I thought it was impressive and engrossing.

Which, strangely, was also what I thought of utterly different film (500) Days of Summer.

This one was always likely to be a Big Hit with me starring, as it does, the delightful and hypnotic Joseph Gordon-Levitt, the man whose performance has made not one but two of my favourite films of the last few years (Brick and Mysterious Skin, in case you were wondering).

It also features a delightful turn from independent woman Zooey Deschanel, and a couple of cameos for the now compulsory Quirky Best Friends (plus the annoying Sage Younger Sister, whose world-weary advice to her older but more naive brother was, for me, one of the film's few jarring notes).

It plays games with time, eschewing a linear narrative for a more intriguing forwards and backwards approach -- almost Brechtian in its insistence in telling us up-front that there would be no happy ending here.

But Gordon-Levitt's acting is, for me, a happy ending in itself. My friend J. and I both enjoyed it enormously.

Archive fun

2009-09-12T12:55:00.004+01:00

Time for a bit of vintage.

Athletic Model Guild was one of those pioneering gay porn outfits that sought to circumvent the US's vicious anti-queer laws.

By pretending they were producing classical studies for artists to use in producing wholesome paintings, they had an excuse to show oodles of naked male flesh (although strangely enough I've not seen this pose before in the National Gallery):

The first photographs all used tiny cache sexes to ensure no winkies were on view, but as time passed the porn pioneers got bolder.

And, in those happier times, models like Heath Avery were held up as shining examples of fresh wholesome manliness...

Not overly muscley, and with a teeny tiny winkie, Heath was a sex god.

His exuberant enjoyment of his own nakedness added to the allure.

Heath's bold openness was a testimony that both he and the viewer were engaged in an activity with multiple levels of meaning.

But the underlying meaning was perfectly clear to both of us.

And it's as fresh today as it was then, more than half a century ago.

Electric

2009-09-12T12:20:00.002+01:00

I happen to have stumbled across a rather fine fistful of images of British Rail electrics.

No reason to post them other than to share my delight with you.

The quality is variable, as you'd expect from amateur colour materials produced between twenty and fifty years ago (although I confess that very first one is a cheat -- it's a restored loco painted in the historic Rail Blue livery with a delightfully restored rake of Mk3 carriages).

I love this next one -- a pioneering Class 81 on an express parcels service (traffic that has now completely disappeared from the railways, instead choking roads with an endless procession of heavy lorries):

And this is a shot of one of the last Pullman services -- luxury trains designed primarily for business traffic, with a heavy supplement payable. These Pullman carriages were the only ones not painted in standard Rail Blue, instead being a reversal -- all-over pearl grey with the window band in Rail Blue.

A little further back, and pioneering air-conditioned Mk2 coaches wait behind a Class 87 on the West Coast mainline at Carlisle:

And we finish with the pioneering InterCity electric service -- the Manchester-Sheffield-Wath trans-Pennine route, electrified at 1500 v DC, here with a pair of Class 76s hauling a rake of Mk1 stock.

Those Class 76s weren't the prettiest of locomotives, but they exuded a sense of huge power.

Cobblers

2009-09-11T21:28:00.003+01:00

There have been far too many giant mutant winkies recently on Normal for Norfolk -- time to make amends.

Although I'm not sure about this next one -- it might be a trick of the angle:

And this one is quite hard to call, too:

I adore the look of curious awe on this next chap's face -- he is clearly enraptured:

Damnit. That was another giant mutant winkie, er, slipping in. And this next one is no better:

But I can claw this back:

Even if it involves distracting your attention by showing you a cute chap with no visible winkie:

So let's end on the old one-two, a delightful wee winkie the fineness of which we can all agree on:

Yes, that was another vintage post, I should say.

Nice paint job

2009-09-11T20:23:00.006+01:00

The Wrexham & Shropshire is one of the few good things to come out of railway privatisation.

A tiny private operator which provides inter-city services where none were previously available, it has struggled to provide a fleet of carriages and reliable locomotives.

Those problems seem to be coming to an end with the unveiling of this beautifully beliveried Mk3 rolling stock:

The refurbished insides are equally good -- this is what trains should be like:

Good seats organised around tables, each with a good view out of a window. How hard could that be?

The rather fine-looking Mk3 driver-van trailer shows off this quiet, sophisticated livery to really good effect.

I'm not wild about the design of the Class 67 locomotive that provides the heavyweight power, but the livery is as good as it could be.

Scrumptious

2009-09-11T17:18:00.004+01:00

Bit pushed busy-wise, so here's a fistful of fun to keep you going.

No idea who this chap is -- his name might be "Adelio", or that might be something else entirely.

He has an exquisitely lovely figure, not the overly-muscled freaks we see too often.

And he has an exuberant bush of glorious springy public hair.

It all looks so... appetising.

Er... got a bit carried away there. But he is lovely, wouldn't you say?