Time for heros.

It's been a bostin (as we mumble round these parts) week for general mingling with the rich and famous. Well, brief bodily contact and over keen cramp inducing smiles anyway. Last Friday I was truly humbled to shake hands with one of my favorite songwriters John Cooper Clarke prior to his poetry mireadings and light "blue" stand-up. Plus he was supported by Industrial foot-drumming tit-wetting drop-tuned guitar hero Bob Log III with a boobless scotch. Mint!

http://www.johncooperclarke.com/



this compelled me to spend Sunday night in with was could have been a lurgie spurting crude whsmith marker pen and tippex homages to the Salford Bard

As if that wasn't too much forced smiling and hearty nose-browning laughter at an awkward volume for one week, I was honoured to meet photographer Martin Parr who was delivering a well recieved retrospective of his career as one of the country if not the world's leading photographers. Judging by his back catalogue, Martin Parr's life must be one sly chuckle at the world after another.

http://www.martinparr.com/



I spent the seminar slyly trying to take the worst photograph of Martin Parr ever committed to digital. It's fair to say I think I've done a good to mediocre job. Results above.