For a site dedicated to my narcissism, it seems odd that there are barely any pictures of me. Here’s one of those rare treats.

Mike invited us round to watch the footie. What a shite game. He did however, pull out his ultra old, yet extremely hip SLR; note the absence of a prep ended D. A Nikon FE. He loaded up a roll of Ilford FP4 and shot away.

I guarantee you, this will be in the next Vice.

What’s great is it made me remember that I’ve got an old Nikon SLR tucked away under the bed at home. I decided to blow off the dust and see what I actually had. Turns out it’s a Nikon FA with two prime lenses. A Nikkor AIS 50mm f/1.8 and a Nikkor AIS 28mm f/2.8. Not bad. A couple of batteries later and I was up.

I decided to go out for a drunken night the other week and take some shots with the 50mm. Problem is I was shooting during the day with some HP5, so just used that. I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be a blurry mess. I should have taken Mike’s advice and used some Delta 3200, with grain the size of your FIST.

I’m also investing in some personal branding. It’s twenty ten for christ sake. The first on my to do list were some business cards. A couple of clicks at moo.com gave me some cool results.

I lie. It took ages. You can knock some up, which look near identical to mine in next to no time. I instead, decided to upload PDF’s of each side, just so I could use futura. I like futura.

Moo is such a great company—but they’re also the reason why I can’t boycott israel—like any cool kid would. They’re based in Clarkenwell, but run these super cool Israeli made HP Indigo digital offsets. I’ll talk about them more some other time.

Did anyone notice the html em dash?

Steven laughs as someone reads his inane ramblings. He accidental stops time, but no one notices.

I came across this really good photo essay by a Reuters photographer. It depicts a white slum in South Africa. Before the apartheid, the lower class Afrikaner population benefited from being the first in line for state jobs. When apartheid ended, this abruptly stopped.

Boston.com – Poverty within white South Africa

I love newspapers. Personally I read the Guardian, not because of any political leanings, but more for the format. I can’t get enough of the Berliner format and their Egyptian slab serif font, aptly named, “Guardian,” which was designed by non other than Christian Schwartz.

When the Independent have their typographic wet dreams on the front page, I sometimes flit over to them. I’m easy like that.

Things have gotten slightly more difficult with the Independent relaunch though. They’ve included a “Viewspaper,” for opinionated commentary and an ironicly named sombre font called “sun.” They’ve also gone all Web 2.0 on us, with a bloody twitter page, facebook fan page, iPhone app and Chrome extension. Isn’t RSS enough?

People are pretty split over the new design. It’s pretty similar to what happaned with the Guardian in 2005.

At the time, the Independent had this to say:

It is the masthead that grates most of all. Gone is the Garamond (which was intended to signal stylish features) and the Helvetica (hard news) and in their place is a blue and white logo in a font dubbed “Guardian Egyptian”. Hillman says the new look reminds him of “cheap newspapers and freebies”. – Why the new Berliner gives me the blues

The Guardian, this time round, seemed to pat Indy on the back. How nice. Michael Crozier, who redesigned the Indy a few of times, in 1986, 1993 and 1998 wasn’t as pleased:

In the redesigned, re-configured, paper news seems once again to have taken a backwards step – it’s comment and opinion all the way with the new 20-page pull-out Viewspaper section.

Time will tell whether it was a wise move.

My parents actually read the Daily Mail, which strikes some as odd – seeing as they’re immigrants – but the answers pretty obvious. It straddles the middle ground between the bare bosoms of the sun and the terse dense script of any sensible paper. It’s all about the 8 words per line average you see.

The relaunch ties in neatly with the Murdoch’s bitching and whining that they backed the wrong horse. The Kill Klegg campaign wasn’t working and after the Independent accused them of rigging the election, team Murdoch apparently stormed into the Independent and had a row. The rows were over these excellent viral adverts. They should buy some space on the TV and plaster billboards with them.

Everyone and their dog seems to be slagging off David Cameron at the moment. To illustrate my point, you’ve got to read this article.

He is like a hollow Easter egg with no bag of sweets inside. Cameron will say absolutely anything if he thinks it might get him elected. If a shock poll was published saying 99% of the British public were enthusiastic paedophiles, he would drive through the streets in an open-top bus surrounded by the Mini Pops. He’s nothing. He’s no one. – Charlie Brooker

It’s ad hominem through and through, but it’s strangely refreshing; to so candidly call someone a prick in a national paper. Love it.

There are a couple more hilarious purile attacks on Cameron, here’s the “Airbrushed for change,” campaign.

Last, but not least we have the David Cameron fridge magnet. Simply click refresh and Cameron will spit out inane anecdotes on how the world is coming to an end.

I’ve been to Cây Tre before. I went a couple of years ago. It was a dingy old place selling good food at cheap prices. I think it was even one of those “bring your own booze” types of places. The place has had a well deserved make over so we decided to check it out.

The place has had the Shoreditch makeover, with patches of stupid coloured lights and a retro patterned wallpaper. It isn’t too garish and seems to suit the place. It’s still small and cramped with clues which allude to it’s less illustrious past.; the menu is this hideous laminated affair where by the laminate has started to peel, smudging the ink into an incoherent mess. The waiting staff also seemed to be a little incompetent. It wasn’t busy and they were rushed off their feet while not attending to anyone.

We had starters of cua farci and bo la lot. Cua farci translates to stuffed crab with a gloopy mess of a sauce that looks like vomit. If you can get past its consistency, it’s pretty tasty. With a decent camera, it almost looks appetising.

Even snapped with a LEICA D-LUX 4, it only just manages to look appealing. Picture lovingly stolen from someone who can actually take pictures, Helen Yuet Ling Pang @ World Foodie Guide.

Our other starter is one of my favourites, “bo la lot.” It’s fatty beef wrapped around wild betel leaves and grilled. The meat is succulent and it’s accompanied by this great aroma which sticks to everything.

My main is shown below, I don’t know exactly what it’s called because they mixed up the order. I actually asked for Bún thịt nướng Cha Gio, which is vermicelli noodles with barbecued pork and spring rolls. Instead, they gave me two bowls, one with spring rolls, bo la lop and prawns in batter, the other with barbecued pork. The first bowl was excellent, so good in fact that if I’m passing through I’d pop in just for a bowl. It’s let down though, by the prawns in batter, which tasted like they were out of a frozen packet from wing yip.

The nouc cham, which is the essential sauce to any Vietnamese dish, had already been poured on. I usually like to pour to taste, as many places over sweeten the sauce, but they seemed to do a decent job with it.

The other bowl was pretty standard, the meat wasn’t as well seasoned as Mien Tay, but it wasn’t abysmal. The last dish was fried tofu. I don’t think i’ll have kind things to say about fried tofu in any establishment, so we’ll just skip along.

With the vast array of Vietnamese restaurants down Kingsland Road keeping everyone honest, I’d suggest going down there for some Vietnamese nosh. If you can’t be bothered with the 5 minute walk, then this’ll do.

My mother heard that there was a stall selling Vietnamese baguettes at the Sunday Upmarket in Brick Lane. The stall’s called Mon Me, which translates to “Recipes from my mother.” It sounded quite fitting, so we headed down. We parked a couple of roads away from Spitalfields market and walked the rest. Unfortunately the stall wasn’t there. It had either sold out of baguettes or had stopped trading.

We call Vietnamese baguettes, “Bánh mì.” It’s a fusion between Vietnamese and colonial French cuisines. When the French brought over the baguette, there wasn’t much flour, so we substituted it for rice flour which was cheaper and more abundant. Rice flour coincidentally made the baguette crispier and lighter. This baguette was then filled with anything that was available; the most common filling is “pâté, fresh salad of pickled carrots and daikon; thin slices of cucumber; coriander and chilli; and crucially, a hefty handful of slow-cooked pork.”

In other major cities like Paris or New York, there’s a bunch of places selling banh mi, and it’s really popular. London however, has only caught up with the craze. We even used to do day trips to Paris to get our fix.

Richard Mildenhall of the Independent checking out “This year’s must-eat: ‘bánh mì‘”

As I was walking down Brick Lane, I spotted a Tiffin‘s blazer. I thought it was a bloke called Martin Young, who used to go to Tiffin’s. Unfortunately it was a random Japanese bloke who just pointed at a vintage store and said “vintage,” as if it was not me but him that needed to be schooled. “Vintage,” my fucking arse.

If you’re in London and gagging to defecate, I’ve got a tip for you. Walk past the McDonalds, it’ll do you good. Your tush is better than that; the public toilets, the pee stains and horrible smells. No more. Head to a casino, most are free with only an ID required for entry.

Personally I prefer “Empire,” on Leicester Square. There’s a lavatory which isn’t well signposted and is tucked away. It’s large and the stalls are pretty clean. My only complaint would be that the seats are just that bit too narrow, but I’m just picking at a cunt hair.

There’s hand wash out of a domestic bottle, instead of those industrial soap dispensers and even hand lotion. The hand dryers are the old school variety, but they pack a punch. Not as much as the Dyson or Excelsior, but it does the job adequately enough.

After your visit, why not head over to the bar. You’ll find free tea and coffee as well as tap water to help you recover.

If you’re ever in the area, this is a must visit.

The place opened somewhere around March 2009. It opened to aplomb and was busy from day one. I’d assume the kitchen wasn’t really ready for it. The last 3 times I’ve been, the foods been mediocre at best; bland, over salted and over cooked. [Insert Gorden Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmare joke*]. A small selection of user comments:

“All in all one of the worst dining experiences in my life especially considering this is supposed to be “fine” dining.”

“Three of us had the pork kebabs which were awful! …They were dry and looked like something cheap you would buy from a well known frozen food retailer. If it had not been a celebration I would have walked out,”

It’s been a year now and the kitchen has settled in and is producing good food.

Jamie operates a no booking policy for tables under 6. This, as Jamie points out, “is to ensure [they're] getting as much money as possible from each table,” but is slightly annoying when you turn up for lunch, only to be told you’d have to wait 40min. Graham and I turned up at 7 on a Monday and got a table immedietely. Our waiter referred to me as a “top man,” and so I’ll do the same, but I’d have rather have been served by the pretty waitresses. Jamie’s really got an eye for talent**; they’re the prettiest waitresses in Kingston.

The staff at Jamie’s are an odd bunch. They’ve been taught to be “themselves,” laid back and friendly. It came across as pretty genuine. What I found curious were the set phrases and NLP laden mannerisms that they were taught. They’re all cleverly designed to make the place seem friendly to those wanting to spend £10 a head or those spending £40 a head.

At most places, you have to ask for tap water, here, they ask if you would “like some tap water while you’re deciding [what to eat],” and if you order a small main they presume you’re getting it as your only main. Just in case you’re on a first date and skint. The best bit was when the waiter handed me the card machine back. He said as he cleared his voice, “press green for yes and yellow for no,” jabbing at the green button nonchalantly. Green for gratuity.

I don’t actually like writing about food much. Tastes vary and things taste good, or not so good.

• Bruschetta – good
• Carbonara – great
• Risotto – good
• Fish, the one that ain’t in a bag – good
• Rib eye Steak – meh.
• Brownie – great
• Cheesecake – good

£70~, not including drinks or service.

In my opinion, I’d say this place serves the best food in Kingston, but it’s also the most expensive. Let’s hope the quality of the food stays consistently good.

How the hell do food bloggers take such nice pictures of food in the restaurant. I couldn’t bring myself to whip out my tiny compact, let alone DSLR while eating. Maybe next time I’ll pluck up the courage. Image stolen from Purple Cloud.

*Someone should have called Gorden to come down and sort out the show.
**Jamie’s really got good taste, har har.

“Jin, I don’t think it’s wise to spend £400 for a couple of hours. A couple of hours of talking to a pretty young thing. The way I see it is; if you’re looking for titillation, there are far more fulfilling ways to go about it.

I’m sure I could find someone to talk to you for less than £200 an hour. They might even let you cop a feel.”

We were heading to a Japanese hostess bar. I’ve never been to one and was curious to say the least. I just couldn’t justify it though. £400 for a few hours of innocent flirting and banter with a pretty Japanese girl.

The way I saw it was, if you were going down that debauched route, there were better ways of doing it. £60 for a quick shag, £50 for a gram of coke and you’d still be left with enough to gamble the rest on black. Surely that was more appealing?

I resigned myself to the fact that his mind was set and decided to chillax.

The night started pleasantly enough. Jin had a crazy idea of going to Brighton at 4pm on a drizzly day in March. I said sure. I jumped in his car with Chris and our adventure began. Jin parked up as we left and asked if Brighton was the best idea. It became apparent that what he meant was that he wanted to go further; Scotland? Wales? No Jin. If we’re going crazy, lets go to France and then see if we can get to Germany, otherwise, Brighton will more than suffice.

<aside> The last time we went to France, Jin totalled his car on the motorway and we were towed back to Paris. We dumped the car and got home on the Eurostar</aside>

The car silently glided forward in a way only a hybrid could and we were off. Brighton was pretty uneventful. We went for dinner at a nice seafood restaurant. The starters were great, but the main of lobster was pretty average. After dinner, we strolled by the beach and decided our night out.

Chris had a glint in his eye and Jin was beyond arguing with. We hopped in the car and took down the baby on board signs. 118 118, can I help you? Certainly. A number was found and some Korean was spoken. £65 a head plus £100 for the drinks. About £300.

“Are the girls attractive? maybe. Were the girls young? maybe.” The man on the end of the telephone dodged everything.

Once we’d made our way to the outskirts of London, we called again. The price had gone up to £400 and we were informed that closing time was at 1am. It was currently 10pm, by the time we’d get there we’d be paying £400 for 2 hours.

What is a hostess?

“…hostessing is a position unique to Japan, evolving over the past 40 years or so out of the 400-year-old geisha tradition as a concession to changing times. Just as the geisha is a mediator and entertainer more than a sexual figure…

…the hostess gets paid to drink and chat with men and ensure that they have a good time at outrageously priced entertainment clubs.”

We got there at 11pm. The place was a glitzy Korean restaurant situated in one of soho’s squares. The restaurant upstairs was owned by Koreans and the Japanese had holed themselves downstairs. Nippon-Korean relations had never been so good, all it took were a couple of bulging nut sacks.

We walked in and were lead downstairs. Asian men were singing karaoke. Next to each of them was a young Japanese thing.

“Would you like to go to a private room? It’s extra at £45,” a polite Japanese man asked. Yes. Yes we will. We were taken to a small room at the back. There was a large dinner table with 4 seats and a bench at the end. We were sat down and offered a cloth to wipe our faces and asked what drinks we would like. The man, who I now know to be called Moto, told us that the bill was £400, but the place closed at 1am. If we’d like to stay for an extra hour, we could pay an extra hundred.

FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS TO SING KAREOKE WITH A COUPLE OF GIRLS.

Jin and Moto, our host for the evening slightly bleary eyed at the after party.

How reasonable, we agreed. Two girls were ushered in. Mine would be with me in a minute. They poured our drinks. Within a couple of minutes, all awkwardness had vanished. The girls bantered and we drank. Whisky on the rocks with a splash of water. Girly, but it’s how I roll.

Chris with “Dora the explorer”.

I don’t think any of the girls were traditionally stunning. They were specifically chosen for us though. Jin got a young doting girl, Chris got the brash upbeat girl and I got a demure young thing. She was adorable.

On the way there, I was so against it. I couldn’t understand why anyone would pay such vast sums just to talk to a girl. What I understand now is, they were selling love. They looked at you with adoration, were attentive and listened to your every word. I guess you could say their guise of love worked. We all fell a little in love. The titillation came from the inevitable self flagellation. Your mind wonders; in different circumstances, could you and her work.

I went outside for a cigarette and asked her for her number.

The place just emphasized how pathetic the male condition is. If a girl is attentive, listens to you and has a modicum of grace, you can’t help but fall for her a bit. I’m the most cynical fuck wit, and even I can admit that I’ve thought about her all day. The girl couldn’t speak fucking English. I’m off.

If you’d like to find out more about the life of a hostess, Cynthia Gralla probably describes it best.

Mike Horlock works at Über cool Vice as a film editor. Currently he’s working out a way to get me a free trip to North Korea. He sent me this video a couple of weeks ago, about a couple of heroin addicts in Swansea. It’s directed by Leo Leigh and Andy Capper and definitely worth a look.

It reminded me of another documentry about heroin called “Black Tar Heroin.” set in San Francisco, but added some humour and less direction.