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Thursday 23th August 07

Letter from the Editor I've gone green this week. Not like an alien but found my self conscientiously checking the products in the supermarket for their place of origin. I noticed while selecting some green beans that they had a little 'by air' sticker on them. Thinking to myself about carbon footprints and the like I swiftly replaced them and scuffled through my trolley checking where everything was coming from and how it was getting there, five minutes later I had a trolley full of British products and felt extremely pleased with myself. I arrived home and immediately sat down to order a locally sourced fruit and veg box, thus giving myself an even larger chunk of self-satisfaction…I'm up for saving the planet one little bit at a time. The good news is we didn't make it to the V Festival. After last years shambles that was a six hour wait for the bus whilst being crammed into a pen like a heard of sheep we decided to avoid it like the plague. And boy were we glad…as we watched the rain tumble down for two days solid...I have it on good authority however, that the Foo Fighters acoustic set at 1pm was a rather nice little surprise. Meanwhile for those not making the journey to Reading this weekend we've planned an ideal Bank Holiday, especially if you are feeling perplexed about what to do when it pours and pours with rain Friday to Monday. (FYI I'll be sunning myself in the Cote d'Azur on a rather splendid Yacht!). Check it out on the next page. And Finally whilst listening to BBC Radio Sheffield last week (as you do) I was treated to a rather splendid piece on laptops including a Q & A at the end. The conversation went a little like this…… Caller: “My mouse isn't working very well” Laptop Guru: “Is it a mouse with a light or a ball?” Caller: “A light” Laptop Guru: “Oh good because cleaning mice balls can be a bit of a problem” Have a good week ed.x

Put to geth er by Sam Lassman Watts & Holly Clarke Handed out by Pretty Boys

Contents Bank Holiday Cardorowski

Naughty but Nice

Competition 7 Stops

Off Side

Rock School



Round Ireland with the Northern


The Other Side is made from recycled paper Please make sure you pass it on or recycle. Yeah!

indecipherable text of the indecipherable week. text of the From Pip @ 16:37 week. I might From Pip @back 16:37 one if i can I might back drinking is a one if i can good idea drinking is a good idea

Quote of the week

I’ve got to the top of the mountain... what do I do now?

Right I've got my massive Marvin the Martian head on and the pessimism is flowing round like a half empty pint and a big hole in my bagel! I wouldn't recommend the Notting Hill Carnival, it's overcrowded and however good the atmosphere, until something is done about the amount of people that go it's just not worth it! Unless you know someone who's having a party overlooking the carnival, then it really is worth it! Anyway as it'll probably be raining most of the weekend so I suggest staying at home wrapped up with a big duvet! Watch these five films; 1. Breathless 2. Withnail and I 3. Indiana Jones –Trilogy! 4. Singing in the Rain 5. School of Rock I don't care if you've seen them all watch them again, get lots of food and a few friends round. And what to eat…Well I suggest something wholesome and homely. How about some roast pork with a baked apple and some boiled potatoes covered in a beautiful sweet gravy…..or lamb with a potato gratin! It's all so easy to make and you can leave it cooking whilst you watch one of the films… If it decides to perk up then I can only suggest that you go outside and appreciate the sunshine whilst you can and head down to the Open Air Theatre or just ignore me completely and visit the overcrowded Notting Hill Carnival!. Enjoy!

After some careful consideration we have decided to re-publish this article. Firstly because we love it so much and secondly because Issue 001 only had 100 copies (37 of which were passed onto the extended family!) We have come along way since then and hope that you are all still enjoying our constant ranting, raving, reviewing and cheekiness. We'll keep going as long as everyone keeps on bringing us presents! So here you go a Cardorowski Classic….

“It's Two and Sixpence… … from Finchley Central to Golders Green on the Northern Line” as the old tune used to go. And as if to prove that Song really is one of the few immutables in life, I still hum to myself that ridiculous refrain. For who, in their right mind, would have travelled from Finchley Central to Golders Green on the Northern Line? Makes no sense. From Finchley Central to Golders G re e n i s a s i n g l e , uninterrupted and cheaper Bus ride with a view. No fiddly-faddly at Camden Town and no distracting thoughts of heading “in”, never mind the time saved for whatever it was you hoped to do in GG that you couldn't in Finchley. Preposterous notion. Two and Sixpence, for those who are too young (or disinterested), was a monetar y sum that disappeared about 1970, in an early stab at shuffling off our Imperial heritage

'Godspel' and 'Accidental Death of an Anarchist'. Now that IS a funky Double Bill to hold in your mind! But we're only reminiscing, not dreaming here! Some folk traipse to their local flea-pit for a cinematic experience that's probably merely an e x c u s e f o r gropin'neckin'snoggin'. This sub-urbanite craved the Big Screen experience of Leicester Square from an early age. Whether it was “2001”, the latest Bond or 'Jimi', the only method was complete immersion in sound and vision, preferably alone in a crowd of exotic strangers. The monster Odeon and a mate beckoned at a price I can no longer recall, but was probably decimal. Pete, a school-mate of nervous disposition, given to smoking only the most noxious French smokes available to teenagers and something of a schoolboy

for the European ideal of R e p u b l i c a n i s m . We haven't come very far. 2/6d worked out at about 12 and 1/2p, try squeezing that out of an Oyster!! But, the Northern Line, what a black artery of hope and adventure! From the clean green of Hampstead Garden Suburb to the flashing, neon lime of Leicester Square. What a trip, in every sense. Theatre, c i n e m a a n d dancemusicsexromance not to mention the boozedrugs'n'birds a n g l e s . T h e c l o s e ly watched confines of suburbia loosed for the wilds of Urbia, in 10 short stops. First fag on the walk to the station, one on the platform waitingwaitingwaiting for a Charing X branch train, and then the back or front carriage for another, before striding up and out under the awning of the Wyndhams Theatre for another. Wyndham's, onetime home of both

by Cardorowski guitar hero, chose the f i l m ; W i l l i a m Pe t e r Blatty's only dent on culture “The Exorcist”. He'd dragged a coupla Gauloise to their bitter and very yellow ends over pints of warm beer before we found ourselves in row Q. Smoking was allowed, if not actively expected, back then but nothing coulda prepared me for the volcano that erupted beside me before a head had spun or a vom been thrown in anger. In Pete's defence, it should be acknowledged that his cruel neighbour had already seen the film and nudged him throughout with knowing comments along the lines of;“Good bit coming up!” E a c h g l e e f u l nu d g e induced the sparking up of another black tobacco stick and a denser fog through which to view the cavorting Linda Blair. As the action grew more florid and fierce so the number of smokes on the

go increased until that moment when the Man in Black finally confronted the bronco riding Blair, and Pete had one in each hand and another in his mouth, eyes tight shut, oblivious with fear and completely without the cool he managed with a guitar in his hands. I, yet to catch the Nicotrain, was green at the gills, weeping at the eye and finding the film, the smoking and the neighbour faintly humourous. By the roll of the credits Pete had smoked 30 odd and was utterly lost. The best was yet to come. L i v i n g i n t h e aforementioned Sub-Urb, the easiest way home was a tube back up the left hand branch of the Blackline and a walk into the tranquillity of Suburban rest and reassurance. Upon arrival at GG though, Pete suddenly got the violent shakes, “Isn't this where the Cemetery is?” He stuttered. It was true and,

what is more, there had long been a joke for those who trod the tree lined Hoop Lane with f re q u e n c y, t h a t occasionally one could ascertain that they were indeed “Frying Tonight!” This was beyond our Pete, having smoked his way through a pack and a half of French Tar, he was bereft of comfort and not about to go quietly into that dark corridor of departed souls! The rescue team were called out and so it was that the Parental Courier was brought in to bear the frazzled Pete back to the safety of his Swiss Cottage domicile. We never really went any further as mates. He never taught me the intricacies of folk guitar, I never acquired the habit of French cigarettes and Pete probably stayed with the buses until the arrival of that Johnny-comelately Underground Line the Jubilee, where it was never two and six to anywhere!

NAUGHTY but NICE Naughty James (or Craig Cowling as his Mum calls him) has his finger on photography's pulse. His highly stylized editorial work has appeared in i-D Magazine and he has collaborated with VICE in the UK, Belgium and Germany as well as many other publications such as WAD (France), PIG (Italy), NEON (Germany), Bigshot, BPM (both USA). He has also exhibited in galleries from the Bread and Butter fashion trade fair in Berlin to the McLoud Gallery in Seattle, USA. He followed new rave goons, The Klaxons on their first tour keeping a record, mostly in black-and-white photographs, to capture the raw energy of their gigs and all the usual back stage antics. With

large corporate clients such as Coca Cola and Sony already to his name he is one of London's most highly sought after, most up-and-coming stars of the fashion photography scene. All this at the tender age of twenty five. Meanwhile, on the net, he chronicles his personal and professional life with photographs and writing through his online visual diary called the 1095 project at It is at once lustful and provocative yet incredibly bold. The 1095 project was originally started to document his three years (1095 days) at the London College of Fashion where he did (or at least started) his photography degree. “Obviously it didn't really work out like that” he tells me, since he dropped out not long into his second year upon being offered a job at VICE magazine, and it became a more personal thing that he has kept going way after its official date was up as a means of “preserving moments forever.” He has now been invited back to LCF but this time as a visiting lecturer. His work, is more often than not, violently poetic, saturated in deep colours and infused with an explicitness that lays its subject as bare as possible. His indulgences, it seems, are woman, rock and roll, fashion and sex. There is little distinction for him, it appears, between the private and the

public. He likes the viewers of his work to “feel like they have just stumbled across a situation they shouldn't have, like catching your parents having sex for example.” As a photographer he has crossed the proverbial line, including himselfsimultaneously as voyeur and participant-in an on camera life that breaks down the wall between object and subject, ridding of objectivity as quickly as he does his tight underpants. With his rock star life style, his various muses in the form of ex-lovers, his stylist come girlfriend Immy, and a desire to marry high-art style with low-art subjects, Craig Cowling sits at the photographic edge. Take a peek for yourself. Tim Clark is a freelance art journalist specialising in photography. He lives and works in Barcelona and also collaborates with various art magazines in London, Amsterdam, Prague and New York.

Regent Street Festival Sunday 2nd September Midday - 8pm We have two goody bags from the Regent Street Festival to give away. This year the festival's theme is an Indian Summer with Music and Dance Performances including Bobbi Friction, Niraj Chag, Manipuri Dance and Ranpaa's extraordinary stilt dancing. There are also Asian Wedding Horses, Childrens entertainment, an Indian Bazaar and handicraft Stalls not to mention a Food Court! The Shops down the street will be taken part too with Live music, free gifts, discounts and more. To be in with a chance of winning the Goody Bags worth £100 and full of things from Regent Street Shops just e-mail us with your name and address. Good Luck

7 Stops

The Other Side’s Off Side The Jason Lee of footballing journalism – it may not be that good, but it's bloody hard to miss… Not since the days of Fergie's toe jobs (that's the royal Fergie rather than Sir Al) has a foot captured so much public attention. Yes, Wayne Rooney's trial of the new Nike "Pap-air" boot ended in disaster when someone trod on his foot, and now he's injured. Again. We suppose it's understandable that the manufacturers might have overlooked the remote possibility of this incredibly unlikely event ever occurring on a FOOTball pitch when they designed them... Speaking of putting the boot in, you've got to hand it to Roy Keane. The season was so new it had barely started to crawl out from the primordial swamp, let alone think about evolving opposable thumbs, before “Big Roy”, as he isn't known, issued the first of what The Other Side's Off Side hopes will be many entertaining rants. He's had a pop at the WAGs (Wives and Girlfriends) of Premier league footballers after failing to persuade a player to move to former coal and salt trading port Sunderland. "These so-called big stars are people we are supposed to be looking up to," raged Keano. "Well, they are weak and soft. If they don't want to come because their wife wants to go shopping in London, it's a sad state of affairs." The only WAG that has stood up to his tirade so far is Joanna Taylor, wife of Tottenham legend (is this a suitable place to insert an ironic LOL?) Danny Murphy. "I think he (Keane) is wrong" she said, but if you really want to know what it's like to get on the wrong side of the man, just ask Alf-Inge Haaland if you can see the scars. We wouldn't be too surprised if she woke up one morning with Ruud van Nistelrooy's head on her bed… Meanwhile, good news and bad for Manchester City. The Blue Moon is once again flying high as Sven's trips to Blockbuster to pick up some dodgy foreign DVDs (come on, we've all done it) paid off handsomely as City were comprehensively outplayed by Manchester United and won (isn't that the sign of a championship winning team??) after comprehensively outplaying West Ham and scoring their first goal at home since we were all nursing John Daly-esque hangovers and

wondering just who that is asleep on the sofa (aka New Years Day 2007). Unfortunately, City's new owner, former Thai PM Thaksin Shinatwatra, has allegedly been doing some dodgy dealings of his own (but with the budget of an entire country behind him - much like Chelsea in many respects). He's had an arrest warrant issued in his native country, but unless he REALLY wants to go elephant riding, bamboo rafting and unkempt-hippy-tourist spotting he should be able to avoid going back there. In other legal news, Sheffield United are taking West Ham to court over the perceived injustice of the Carlos Tevez affair (and not in any way because they were slightly embarrassed to get done at home to Wigan on the final day of the season). They want something in the region of £20m (equivalent to an hours wages for David Beckham), and the Baby Bentley brigade might have to put some ads in Auto Trader if they are successful. If proceedings don't go according to plan for The Blades though, a reliable source who we have entirely invented tells us that they have a “fool proof back up plan”, involving a heavily armoured Sean Bean storming the gates Upton Park whilst screaming expletives in an entirely unintelligible Yorkshire brogue. Oh and let's not forget about everybody's favorite big girl's blouse. Yes Jens Lehman has been at it again. Letting the other teams have a goal thus putting Arsenals 5th place challenge in jeopardy. The howler against Blackburn was blamed on Oliver Kahn, “he was there watching me, I could feel him willing Dunne's shot to go through my hands.” And finally did Rob Styles do a 'Poll' and book Essien twice? The Ghanain certainly thought he was off and this is after Styles had gifted Chelski a penalty when Florent Malouda the French Ballet star pirouetted around the Liverpool defender. “It was not a dive, my players do not dive, they do not surround the referee and they are the best” exclaimed Jose in his post match intereview! – thanks Jose.

Top 5 Footballing Facial Hair In honour of Rafa “Max out of Max and Paddy” Benitez's brand new shiny goatee, here's The Other Side's Off Side's top 5 footballing facial stylist disasters


Mark Lawrenson Football pundit and professional slug balancer



Sam Allardyce Has someone drawn on his face?

Gazza Did Fog on the T y n e mean he picked up the wrong coloured Just for Men?



Eric Cantona When the seagulls log onto follow the trawler, they could do with bringing a and enter a team. razor with them Once you have logged in and entered your team, click on the 'Leagues' link you can find on the left of the page.

Now enter the code

Abel “Poseidon” Xavier Handy with a trident, rubbish with the ball




to join the private

league. Prizes for Best Team Name and obviously the overall Winners with Updates every fortnight

Good Luck


Hello Rockschoolers, and how are we today? Personally I'm slightly concerned. You see I was at the Big Chill last weekend and I was softly singing to myself (Isaac Hayes, you rock (except the scientology bit)) when it hit me. I can't sing. Now this might not seem so important when you remember: I can't play the guitar, am not at all musical and I am an amateur in a very professional world. However, these things I can learn (or at least I'm trying to…); the singing bit is a bigger problem. In fact, its one big stinking wont come off or go away sort of a problem. It's a you're faced in front of a very angry horde of lesbians who you just single-handedly tried to argue are just jealous of men and are a mere fabrication, borne of the male dominated world and they're holding sharpened dildos sort of a problem. It's a “what do you mean you forgot to pack the parachute” mid sky dive sort of a problem. But have no fear, as always, I have a


solution. I'm going to run away and pretend this all never happened. Ha, I wish. No I'm not. That would be too easy. I'm going to have to go to singing lessons. Lots of them. In fact, I should try to construct some sort of time machine so I can go back and spend some time with some vocal greats of the last century and spend decades learning. Quick, where's my “Back to the Future” collection, I know there's something in there about

how to build a time machine… If only I had the time. Oh well, looks like I'm going to have to find something in this time. More on that next issue. For now: where are all you wannabe musicians? The ad is coming out in NME this week, the audition dates are set…(right ed..?) so where are the emails? Come on, you know you want to! Mandeep.

Do you come here often?


I decided to do some research into this dating malarkey and stumbled across a website with 10 tips. So over the next 10 weeks I'm going to be researching, following and reporting back on these tips for you whilst at the same time keeping an eye on my infamous colleague and Please pass this on when you her exploits! are finished. We want Week 1 everyone to read our Tip 1 - Get your act together. Begin a regime of looking your best. Join a magazine! gym, read health magazines, get fit and start a diet. Get your hair cut or styled and begin a new regime of good grooming or beauty treatment. KEEP WRITING US YOUR Though it will not find you a date in itself, you VIEWS, THEY MAKE OUR will feel a million times more confident about yourself. DAY! It's Sunday night and I have a banoffee pie sitting on my lap, a whole one, not just a slice. Ahh, come on, gotta follow the tips. Part 1 gotta join that gym. Not strictly true as I am already a member. I pay £40 a month to have a nice card in my wallet, so that's decided then, two weeks and I'll lost a stone...maybe half! Next the health mags…does the good food magazine count or do I have to buy the ones that have a man with a six pack on the front? I've gone for the six pack at a cost of £3.95! He looks a little photoshopped to me but for now we can dream! Right next on the list…haircut….I'm in the home of hairdressing; Muswell Hill so choosing the right one is a little complex. I've decided on Studio Stage Door on Fortis Green Road, a rather friendly Japanese chappy has taken very little hair off my head but at least it's got a style now (cost £20). I'll call it the Alpha-Bandit. (Yes I just named my hairstyle). Feeling fab already! My next step was grooming and beauty, nothing a quick trip to Boots won't sort out…Got some clinique moisturiser, some Tony and Guy Shampoo, the lady has advised a facial scrub, a new razor and some shaving gel I've come outta there with just about enough change from my £50 note for an espresso in Starbucks…remember look cool and an espresso will work wonders. Last but not least is my new diet…Porridge in the morning; I read in my men's magazine that you should just eat meat after 4pm! I'm going to disagree with them, I'm thinking salads for lunch (none of that delicious Pizza I keep munching on) and for dinner, something tasty and fresh, a bit of fish, a stir fry, I think she's going to like me more for eating well and being able to cook for her! Imagine if I just chomped down a massive steak every night after only eating bananas all day! No sir-ee not for me. That's it for this week. I've spent a foolish amount of money on preparing to find a date lets keep our fingers crossed!! Next week….something to do with clothing!!

the apple of my eye A SHORT CELEBRATION a b a n d o n e d h o u s e . I remembered how sweet they orchard floor, and I suppose tasted, how dizzy I got with over time that evolved into OF SCRUMPING the excitement of taking this taking them straight from the As I walked down to the postoffice the other day, I didn't walk through my front door into summer, but into autumn. The air smelt of bonfires, several people were wearing coats, there was a change in the way people acted and spoke, and a brisk wind blew through the coloured pub umbrellas sending wisps of ash and cigarette smoke from table to table. To the left of me, hanging over a garden fence into the street, was an apple tree, its branches already heavy with apples. I'm sure the owners of the tree wouldn't give a second thought to these apples, hanging over, on the other side; destined to be windfalls, trodden on or crushed beneath the wheel of a passing car. To scrump I thought, is a wonderful thing, an act of mercy. I remembered back to last year, when I and two friends in cover of darkness climbed a wall to pick the fruit of an abandoned tree, in the abandoned garden, of an

fruit, food for free, straight from the earth, as it were. There's a certain innocence about it all I thought. Even though it's stealing, it's not as quite as sinister as something like shoplifting; it almost feels a little accepted, a part of English culture, yet so few people seem to celebrate it now. The scrumping I want to think about involves hoping over walls with wicker baskets, getting leg-ups and grazing your knee running from farmers who use terms like rapscallion and scallywag. I thought about the history of scrumping and then I looked it up. The words scrump and scrumping come from the w o r d s c r u m p y, unsurprisingly. The word Scrumpy comes from a word of an old and obsolete dialect, this word is 'Scrimp', which meant a shriveled apple. The act of scrumping originally meant collecting the windfalls from an

trees. I think about the windfalls, the cast-offs, damaged by their plummet to the ground, lying there in their beautiful imperfection, in amongst the fallen leaves. These are the ones that will go to the press I'm sure, and then to the bottle, and then to the bar, the scrimps. I always see people in supermarkets sifting through the boxes of Cox's and Bramleys, discarding the deformed and bruised, and I come up behind them and take their rejects. Who else have they got? I'm the apple of their eye, and they're the apple of mine. After I got back from the post-office, I sat down and thought about scrumping. I thought about all of the windfalls there must be out there and I thought of all the things I could make; pies, crumbles, baked apples, toffee apples, chutney, cider. I felt a little sick with power. I had no idea how to make cider, but told myself I was going to learn.

by Chris Belson

ROUND IRELAND WITH A NORTHERNER From meet the family in Clifden to the Bleeding Hor in Dublin In Ireland the post boxes are green, Primark is called Pennys, everything is central London prices, a Full English Breakfast is called an Irish (the only difference being the addition of soda bread), all shop signs look like they should be pubs, road signs are sporadic and open to interpretation and there are a lot of donkeys.

This was an unnerving start to one of the most sorely feared holidays I had

ever been on; I was about to gate crash the blokes family reunion. Seventy of not my relatives had travailed from all over the globe to Galway to trace their ancestry, meet each other and have a jolly old knees up. Despite the fears I had, deservedly stemming from my own families meet ups (a drunken brawl culminating in either Burberry or Haute Couture flying head first into a ditch) this was actually a very pleasant affair. The whole family were sweet and welcoming and amongst the beautiful setting of the unspoilt seaside village of Clifden they sang, told rhymes and Irish danced the night away. My highlight was the ‘Diddly Dee Man’ (the Irish singer named by the tune all his songs when to). After many songs about beer, being drunk and upsetting the wife, he provided us with that song by The Pogues. It may be a stereotype but all the same I enjoyed it just as much as I enjoyed hearing a woman come in to the pub and greet a man sat at the bar I suspect was her husband as ‘you pile ‘o shite’. Some Father Ted jokes, a lot of

long goodbyes and a train and we were in Dublin. Apparently according to Tony Hawks, if you see a pub with your name on it then you have to go in. The northerners extended family name is O’Neill so as you can imagine we spend the next four days drunk. The Guinness Storehouse was the finest brand machine you could ever visit in your life and yes it is true, the black stuff does taste better over there. Something to do with the ‘happy rain’ the man tells me they get in Ireland. The Jamesons Distillery tour was much nicer than the Guinness Storehouse, more personal. A combination of the learning about Whiskey and the tasting of Whiskey made me realise I actually do like Whiskey. So a few Irish coffees and some more pubs (the last being The Bleeding Horse, the s and the e had dropped off the sign to much amusement) and I’m on the plane home with only one regret, I couldn’t get the B&B lady to say ‘aaaaaaw gooowaaaaan’.

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before we were famous