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.

I went to a discussion hosted by Intelligence Squared called the future of news.

And that, so they tell us, is the end of the news. We won’t be buying newspapers any more to learn what’s happening in the world because we can get that information at no cost on the net, and without having to trek to the newsagent. We won’t be hearing from serious journalists any more: how can they earn a living if any old blogger can lift their expensively-crafted articles and post them on his own site?
–Future of news

Speakers: Matthew Parris, Turi Munthe, Claire Enders, Jacob Weisberg, David Elstein, A A Gill, Andrew Neil, Sir Simon Jenkins

I’ve never really been to an event of this sort, but am interested in media and thought it’d be worthwhile. The problem with it all was that there was no debate. Each speaker came to the podium and rambled about what they thought of media and where it was going. They should have just got Charlie Brooker to read out his article “The most dangerous drug isn’t meow meow. It isn’t even alcohol,” over the phone.

I was hoping the event would reveal the answer to why I paid £25 to go to the event, knowing full well that I could stream it live at home.

On serious journalism

The speakers didn’t appeal to me. If all of them had a blog would I read them? Maybe a couple. Columnists and journalists were once chosen based on a couple of stories and a nod of the head from the editor. Columnists would write and as long as the editor was happy, it was published and they were paid. The crux is, no one actually knew whether the public ever bothered to read what they wrote.

With the internet, that’s no longer the case. There’s instant feedback. Your readers will tell you. Take a long hard look at this article by the Telegraph, “Facebook ‘linked to rise in syphilis‘,” as its ilk will be extinct.

If that’s an example of serious journalism, then they’re right. It’ll die out.

Bloggers started writing for free, for passion. They wrote because they felt a compulsion.

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those, who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, the melancholia, the panic fear, which is inherent in a human condition
–Graham Greene

After years of writing as a hobby, they had enough visitors and made some money off advertising. They made a lot of money. Suddenly, they took it seriously, quit their day job and wrote their blog full time.

Newspapers are dying, journalists aren’t[sic]. Whether a writer writes as a blogger or for a large newspaper doesn’t dictate the quality, it’s whether they’re getting paid or not. Serious journalism can exist without newspapers. What we need are editorial standards and that’ll happen as the internet matures. The Huffington Post and Slate are sites with their own newsrooms. They aren’t the pinnacle of editorial standards, but they’re getting there and I’m sure many will follow suit.

I do agree with much of the panelists that crowd sourced media doesn’t have much of a future. The quality of Newsvine, Demotix and NowPublic just leave too much to be desired. They need an editor and to be paid.

Can old media become new?

The real question is whether old print media can morph into new media, or whether a new company will arise, unencumbered by all that legacy. To understand the state of newspapers, you have to understand what happened with other forms of media. Let’s take music.

Music
With the advent of the internet, music could be shared quickly and easily. Why go to the shop when you can just download it? There were no convenient legal option. The music companies were slow to react and give their offering. They were encumbered by legacy. Your options were:

• Napster
• The shop

A few years down the line and new legal options have appeared. The below scenarios are now open to me as a consumer of music.

• Pirate it, the most convenient of which allows me to go into a shop and find a CD I like, whip out my phone and take a snap of the bar code. By the time I get home, the CD will be on my computer.
• Spotify, I search for the song I want and press play. It’ll play instantly. Every few songs, an advert plays.
• Itunes.

So what does a 23 year old like me prefer to do? I personally use Spotify.

The music industry were in a quandary a couple of years ago. They were forced to adapt and they did, but truth be told all the innovation was brought by the start ups. Whether The Guardian, The New York Times et al live can live in the new world, depends on if they’re willing to make drastic changes. How can they though? They’ve still got bad investments, pensions, large expensive offices and foreign desks.

In the next ten years I personally see new companies starting up and filling the void. They’ll select their journalists from bloggers with a proven readership and have them all telecommute. As they mature they’ll have the same rigour as our current stalwarts.

My sister is thinking of opening up a small cafe, selling Vietnamese baguettes. I’m not enthralled by the idea, but I guess that’s for another day.

Anyway, mother and I decided to go out to eat some Vietnamese food. We’re Vietnamese, and so are a little snobbish about what restuarants give that authentic taste. The hub of Vietnamese cuisine is down Kingsland Road, a road connecting Hackney to Shoreditch.

The area used to be a twilight zone, with a large Vietnamese population. Rents were cheap and a couple of restaurants decided to open up. Somewhere along the way, Shoreditch became cool and these resturants picked up a vibe. There are now half a dozen down a tiny stretch and they’re all getting gentrified as we speak. Viet Hoa, was one of the first to open and they’ve now gone through a minimalist urbane refit. Unfortunatly, the focus of food got lost along the way.

Ergh. Country folk style signage. Stolen from “kake_pugh” of flickr.

Not wanting to travel across town, mother and I decided to visit Mien Tay 2, a sibling restuarant of one down Kingsland Road. I think the name translates to something like “to the occident.”

The shop has one of the most hideous decors around. The signage is tatty, even though it hasn’t been open for a year and there’s this garish tourquise hinting around the fittings on the inside. The table coverings are paper and the furniture definitely isn’t what you’d call trendy. It doesn’t even have the run down charm of a cafe. Mother described it as the style of the “country folk,” it doesn’t translate well, but it’s an insult. I guess the owners thought, fuck it, they’re here to eat, they won’t care. Typically Vietnamese. Authentic.

Green papaya salad with beef jerk AKA Gỏi Đu Đủ Khô Bò. Subtle yet delicate.

The waiter came and looked puzzled, speak English or Vietnamese, Vietnamese or English. We smiled as he came out with his broken English and humoured him by speaking in English. We then went back to our conversation in Vietnamese.

We ordered quite a few things, but I’m not inclined to hark on about the subtle notes or how delicate the food was. To me it’s just hearty home grub. If you’d like more refined reviews, Lizzie, PT Expat, and Cheese and Biscuits, write kind words about the restaurant. Bella also has nice things to say about its’ parent restaurant. Pictures were affectionately stolen from the above.

Vermicelli noodles with barbecue pork and Vietnamese spring rolls AKA Bun cha gio thit nuong

My favourite dish has to be the above, Bún chả giò thịt nướng. It’s the shizzle. The only criticism I have for the food is perhaps it’s a little too sweet. In Vietnam they say the North use MSG and the South use sugar. The further south you go, the sweeter food becomes, the further north the more poisoned your food becomes. These guys definitely hail from the south; that being said there was MSG amuk.

Tenderly riddled with MSG

I get this weird reaction when I eat MSG, my saliva glands contract and it’s slightly discomforting. The pho we ordered contained quite a lot of MSG. I don’t really have a problem with MSG, I just prefer it used sparingly.

Cheap as chips, at about £30. Well, that’s a lie. There’s a chippy next door, that’s definitely cheaper. Go try this place out.

I really like this spoonback/trackback review concept. Very cool.

We’ve been going to a pub quiz longer than I remember. Our first team was called “Dave’s 18th”. We weren’t 18. In fact this blog born from a pub quiz, way back in 2004. We used to play at the Oak, then the County Arms; now we’re at the Dog & Fox in Wimbledon.

You’d expect the population of Wimbledon Village to be a lot sharper than Wandsworth. Truth is, they’re a lot slower. We’re in with a chance here, compared to Wandsworth.

The Dog & Fox.

Since Dave left, we’ve gone from stregnth to strength. The line up is now:

GASH TERRORISTS

• Max Keay AKA Maxi Gash
• Aneurin Young AKA The Speculator
• Graham Wildash AKA Wild Gash
• Claire AKA Smash the Gash
• Martin Box AKA Madagashka / Female Circumcision
• ME.

We came 3rd two weeks ago, 3rd last week and now 2nd this week. Two fucking points off winnin £136. We’re gonna win it next. I guarantee you.

My homework last week was learning the coats of arms of every country. 194 odd bloody countries. I didn’t even know Lesotho existed (Landlocked country in South Africa) , let alone Nagorno-Karabakh.

Coat of arms of Kyrgyzstan. Dave’s currently been exiled there after a poor round.

This week it’ll be the outline of every country and every quote of every man ever spoken. We’ll do it.

I’m writing this on the train. Oh how times have changed. I’m heading up to London and I’m late as usual. I’m meeting Dave. Another Dave. He’s a suitable replacement, albeit without the scathing cynicism.

We’re off to the bloomsbury bowl. Problem is I forgot it was Pearls 18th tonight. I really wouldn’t mind meeting her. I don’t know how Dave, who is 25, will take to Pearl, who is 18, and her friends. It’s taking place at the Balham Bowls Club which is hipster territory. I guess I wouldn’t expect anything less. The other option is bar hopping down parenially cool Shoreditch.

The Balham Bowls Club – BBC.

Dave and I have been practising the designated drivers bar crawl for the last month. We don’t drink. We bar hop and order 2 glasses of tap water with ice and lime. Squeeze the lime. This gets a reaction of either “you guys are wild” to I want a bloody tip, Fuck off. The rest of the time is just sort of socialising.

A new Dave.

The trains puling in to Waterloo. Will continue later.

I’m on the night bus going home. The N87, my savior. A worthy successor to the N77.

Tim’s the second guy.

I got on the bus, next stop Tim bradbury gets on. I haven’t seen him for years. Last I heard he was a full time stoner. Turns out he’s now a paid musician, lead guitarist for Kurran and the wolfnotes. I’m gonna have to go to his next gig.

Well back to tonight. I got off the train and made my way to Holborn. Dave was there with his gym kit. We gotta get rid of it. The idea of popping into the Bloomsbury Bowl and dropping off his bag at the cloakroom is approved and we head down. On the way we ask for directions and some random St. Martins’ students  invite us to “Runway” on New Oxford St. That sounds good. Free entry and drinks. I want. We drop the bag off. We leave to Balham.

Poppy.

We get to the Balham Bowls and Pearl’s looking great. It’s full of thespians. I love them. There’s an amateur photographer snapping away with his Canon 5d Mk 2. The sexist camera. I became pretty engorged, taking a few snaps. Another bloke is showing me a few snaps of his art while we’re playing pool. Pearl knows a Lady Sovereign, so she’s there. It’s a pretty cool fun loving crowd.

We left for the last tube and went to Runway. By the time we got there, they wouldn’t accept our guest list. Bugger. Blomsbury Bowl for the bag I’m here. On the bus.

Rush Hour 2

Chris Leslie Evernden aka Concept and Ayi were set to play at Rush Hour 2. A Chinese party organised by JnG promotions. He called me the day before.

I’m not a particularly busy person so said I’d come. After trying to convince a few people to come and watch and failing, I decided to go by myself.

The venue was in Bank, 24 Cornhill Rd and in a club called Abacus. Rather upmarket.

I got there and said I was on Concepts guestlist. She looked at me in awe. Was Chris this famous? She turned around and spoke to her boss; he said sorry, it’s still £10. Obviously he wasn’t that famous.

I mulled around by myself for 20 odd minutes and had a couple by myself. I bumped into Chris’s friend and got even more drunk.

Chris and Ayi got on stage at 1am. They were awful. Not because they were awful, but because the sound was awful. All you could hear was a beat, feedback every few seconds and a mess. If the sound was better, then I’m sure it wouldn’t have been that bad.

Branding.

We’re trying to create a brand. The brochure had a very corporate image so we decided to add in a mascot. I stumbled past istock.com and bought some vector monsters. We used our swatch to colour them and made some nice ID cards. Each employee now has a monster.

We’re also getting the monsters made into stamps; if you like a kid then you can stamp their work. I’ll post some pictures when they’re done.

Vietnamese food at Kingsland Rd.

There’s a road near old street that’s full of Vietnamese Restuarants. I went with mother and her friend. My mother’s friend is buying a restuarant down the road so thought she’d check out the competition.

We went to a place called Viet Grill. Owned by the people who set up Cay Tre. My mother and her friend could probably name the owners of most Vietnamese restuarants in London. It’s the way things are.

This has got to be the nicest place to get a coffee in London. The chain’s called monmouth and this particular one is situated next to the market. I won’t give you specific directions purely so you can piddle about finding other crevices to explore and also because I can’t be arsed.

I sat and listened to Pearl busk for 20 min under the brick archway. It was quite surreal, the amber lighting, her singing on her lonesome and passerbys gawping. We didn’t get much money but I’m pretty sure I scared them off. I really wished I had a camera, was a nice moment.

And below is another picture of the market.

Today’s quite a depressing day, it’s such a stark contrast to how proud the city was yesterday. I don’t want to rehash the events of the day as you’ve probably got much better news sources than me.

It has put quite a dampener to what turned out to be quite a fun day last night, a quick tour of watch this space, a 2hr talk on voices to make poverty history; including speakers such as Kofi Annan and Gorden Brown at St. Pauls. This was all followed by a thoughtful drink at the underbelly in Hoxton while listening to the SohoDolls, or more honestly, staring at the keyboardist. Whether she knew how to play the keyboard was debatable.

Watch this Space

Watch this space was it’s usual elegance, a small band on a small stage playing small time music. It wasn’t up to scratch that day though, a largely instrumental band playing traditional indes music with the electro acoustic guitar giving little of an edge. We were late for the debate so left, just as we were doing so they let out with a song which made me want to stay.

Voices against Poverty

The debate turned out to be a preaching sermon (at St. Pauls no less) by various important political leaders on the terror of world poverty. A preaching to the willing with no real sense of change in the air. More along the lines of Live8 without the music and more of the same catch phrases repeated. I was more expecting the nuances on how to achieve the end of world poverty by 2015, exactly which subsidies to the western world had to be cut and how Africans could pick themselves out of a rut. Instead, there was an urge to sit and listen and think about it – . When asked “what can one person do to make a difference”, the reply was a mediocre, “Let’s get together and form groups so we can talk and pity more efficiently”, (Paraphrasing, obviously) – Voices against Poverty indeed.

An interesting couple of hours all in all. To listen to Gordon Brown speak and feel some what changed, in the same way that watching an indie movie gives you that sense of change, yet the feeling rarely ever surpasses to the next day. I’d have rather enjoyed a lecture given to 200 cynical business men to invest in Africa, rather than a couple of thousand fervant Christians wanting to help.

The Soho Dolls – Underbelly – Hoxton Square

And so feeling changed, me, Dave, Rosanna and Mike spent a good 30min trying to find a bar to get hammered. This was no ordinary bar, we’d signed up to see SohoDolls for free; free cocktails, free music, free ambiance. All except i’d forgotten to sign up, it’s daunting after a 30min trek with the chance that they’ll just turn you on your arse and send you scampering along. As I was hoping, it was a lax affair and we entered without much hassle.

So we’re there sitting and chatting, i’m being rude to Rosanna and she surprises me by saying she reads this site. Great. I try to come back with, your twin sister’s pretty fine. I end up texting her, asking her for a drink. Should be fun.

The greatest thing about the SohoDolls is, if I haven’t mentioned so already, that the Keyboardist is So attractive. She was dressed very kitsch and just stood out from the mostly grungery alternative indie dressed people. Indie has become a by-word for ugly in my books. She overshadowed the lead singer in ways the lead singer was obviously aware of, having to strip down to a self made bra of Gaffa tape. Ok, just a strip of Gaffa tape. I doubt she thought it through very far before she did it.

We walked home from Old Street St. to Trafalgar Sq. roughly 6 hours from the explosion. On the bus back, the conversation turned to my failings in life and what was I to do. I obviously hadn’t put much thought to it as I ended up contradicting myself a fare few times.

It doesn’t bode well when you’re eating Salmon Sashimi (slabs of raw Salmon) before downing a shot of Sake, mixing the cold rather tasteless meat with the warm sickly Sake. After 8 bottles split 3 ways at a rather trendy sushi place by the name of Hi Sushi we decided to go to a place which has become the bane of my existence.

Let’s get back to Hi Sushi actually, I think it’s situated up on Frith St. The place is tiny with a small room downstairs. There, you’ll find rather trendy blob like shaped tables an arms length in height. The floors have holes going a further two feet down so you can place your legs in. I’m sure the rather blurry pictures will explain it all. The food was pretty mediocre, losing out to Yo Sushi! but probably outdoing Gilli Gulli.

Waiting till we got chucked out and rather typsy we went to Thai Sq. Nothing great happened really, only a copious amount of drink was consumed. Just before the pride in downing your last drink has worn off another is placed in your hand. An endless supply of free drinks with no hole in your wallet to gauge how much you’ve drunk.

After closing time, someone thought it wise to finish up at another club. And so it was that a £15 cab fare and a 5 min journey ensued past Islington and to a rather drab place called Holloway, Holloway Road to be precise.

I was expecting a heaving building filled to the brim with scantily clad girls, instead we’re taken to a plain white door which you’d think led to a flat. As the bell rung and various pass codes were given the door creaked open to unveil another door. The atrocious Kareokefied version of some equally dreadful original Chinese pop song was piercing my ears. Upon entering though, there wouldn’t be much to distinguish this apart from your standard run of the mill club. They even had ridiculously expensive drinks at 6 beers for £25.

I began to hurl. The type where your whole body doesn’t stop convulsing even after your stomach is emptied. Where you can feel the walls of your stomach brushing up against one another in a longing embrace. I could see the salmon chunks swimming. Sadly my camera packed it in.

Most people who know me would, I’€™m assuming here, say that I’€™m pretty restless. I’€™m sure this will be my downfall. I was adamant that this weekend would be different from the norm, as I find the norm oh so tedious. Dave dragged out some plans from londonfreelist and we headed for Clapham common, passed SW4 and remarked about how what a shite time we had there last. We spent 30min wondering aimlessly. Cold, bewildered and disappointed we trundled to the station and went to Balham.

The Bedford was a jungle, it was there that we formulated the theory of social interaction between alpha males within a hierarchical context. Taking a David Attenborough stance, each males psyche was analysed. The conclusion was, no matter how content and joyous they looked talking to one another, they had failed on their sole purpose of the night, to pull.

On the train home, it was apparent that the night was going pretty poorly. Either go home now and sleep, saving the last shreds of our pride, or ‘€œmissioning’€? it to Brixton where we, by popular belief, be shredded of all personal wealth, dignity and anal virginity. Out came the coin. The coin chose Brixton, ‘€œFuck the coin, toss it again’€?, yet again it chose Brixton. One last toss, willing the coin to choose home, but alas, Brixton it was.

We exited safely enough and promptly chose a course of action which hadn’€™t failed us in the past. Stalk a pretty girl in her glad rags. Failing at that, we settled on two girls he we presumed, from their attire were our age. As we crossed the road 20m behind them, they took up pace, then stopped and waited for us to pass. Fun. We crossed again towards ‘€œthe Fridge’€? while keeping an eye on them entering a church. Overpriced entry forced us to backtrack to the church, maybe I’€™d my sins could be forgiven and I’€™d leave content.

The church was converted into a church of Drum ‘€˜n Bass and renamed Mass. Next to it was the bug bar, review, after some deliberating, we entered. Good things. A bar located underneath a church in a crypt with good beats and pretty people was inspiring confidence. After 30min to loosen up we were jiving on the dance floor. Dave looked firmly at the floor with his neck vein pulsating through concentration, I looked equally as cool. It soon became apparent that the girls we had followed earlier were there, and 30. I do believe they recognised us. Break dancing battles were going on, the guy was so good, if he didn’€™t pull that night, I wouldn’€™t have minded giving him one.

The night ended at 2, with us navigating the labyrinth Bus service, settling on an N35 and then N77 to take me home. Truth be told I’€™d rather snuggle up to a pretty girl than go out all night. Let’€™s (let us?) face it, much of the reason why we go out is in pursuit of said goal. I could rant on about how much I hate Stef Caun but everybody knows how much I adore her. My insults just go in vain.

Dave seems to think I write this journal to make me look cool. I’€™m not to sure what I have to say to that other than cool people don’€™t write journals, let alone on the internet. Nor do they install Linux and Xammp (very cool) for said journal. Also it’€™s pretty apparent that not many people are interested in my life enough to read this. It’€™s an outlet of the mundane.