Pointless vanity project of the former Tabascokid

August. To many, the month means pleasure, happiness and relaxation as they flee the country and head off to rows of pre-poured cocktails next to their beach lounger on the Costa Del Swank.

To photographers and journalists across the land, it signifies the beginning of..

(cue lightning strike)

..the silly season.

When this annual news-drought hits the modern media, the real failings of the rolling news system of BBC News 24 and Sky News begin to show. There are days in London when nothing happens. That might seem like an overstatement but truly nothing happens. Its terrifying that I can be sat in the AFP office with rolling news in the background, repeating the same three stories for eight hours solid with no visible signs of mental collapse from the presenters-bots. Due to a mixture of Parliament and the Law Courts not sitting, with everyone else of note heading to the beach, the phenomenon has been known since the end of the 19th century. Thankfully, I can draw solace in knowing that it’s been the bane of people in the media for decades and all over the world.

As I shot my load too early in the season (steady on..) by photographing the contents of my wallet for future business and finance stock images, I’m then left at the mercy of organised PR events (such as the exhibition of odd inventions shown above) and the mystical Gods of breaking news.

I remember being quite surprised at the suggestion that the only reason certain very high-profile murders got the coverage they received was due to a lack of anything else to cover. When you pay attention though, it soon becomes clear that when the news channels and media outlets repeat the story of Kerry Chip-shop’s breast reduction or the boy who was stung by a jellyfish, they’re simply itching for a juicy murder/scandal/disaster. This year has been saved on the international media front by the Georgia situation and the US elections but the domestic news is still floundering in nonsense such as the court case over who owns the rights to sell replicas of the stormtrooper helmet.

I do think we should adopt the German name for the silly season though. “Cucumber Time” has a far more amusing sound to it.

With a distinct sense of deja vu, I headed out to Cardiff on Saturday to catch the opening night of Madonna’s latest world tour, “Sticky and Sweet”. Taking in 27 dates around the globe, this will be her first tour since entering her 50s.

I last shot her in 2006 at the same venue on the first night of her last tour. God knows where this Welsh guinea pig testing ritual comes from.. The previous tour saw her running around in black leather, pole dancing and grinding away on a mounted saddle before crucifying herself on a big mirrored cross. With this in mind, the events of the first four songs tonight were a little more contained. Good fun to shoot though.

As was the case last time, I was shooting from the sound desk which required a 400mm f2.8 lens and THEN having to crop in. When you’re shooting on 1000ISO on a mk2n, it’s not a very comfortable experience due to the worry of digital noise on the image and since the arrival of the mk3 and the D3, I was very aware of other photographers happily shooting away at twice my ISO with no worries. Booo…

Shooting these big events are a world away from the smaller gigs of city halls and student union bars that I used to frequent. Backstage in the media area, the photographers have a free bar, free food (with “sticky” being thai chicken and “sweet” being loads of little desserts), free wifi access and power points plus, before we head out, we’re given a run down of what to expect from a team of very helpful tour managers. Depending on the artist, this can be anything from “you’ve got three songs, no flash. Have fun!” right through to being given choreography keypoints such as when I shot the Rolling Stones and was told “at the beginning of the second verse of the first song, Mr. Jagger will remove his coat and throw it to his left”. When the moment comes, it’s all done so casually, it looks to everyone watching as though he’s just getting into the music and warming up to the crowd. Incredible..

It may seem a little saccharine to some who yearn for the unpredictability of creative expression but I guess it’s just horses for courses, as they say. Even though part of me is left a little cold by stadium gigs, I can’t help but applaud those who truly know how to use their stage.

Following the breaking news of yesterday’s air-crash, I headed up to Coventry to cover the story. As it’s currently the quiet or “silly” season for news where events just stop happening resulting in stories about penguins getting knighted and maize fields trampled to look like James Bond making the front page, this is the kind of story that could well make the newspapers the following day. Having covered a similar story a while ago, it made sense to head up there. On arrival, it soon became clear that due to the nature of the crash, we wouldn’t be allowed access to the site and we wouldn’t be receiving Police handout images due to their strong content. Fair enough, thinks I. Covering events like this give you a balance of clinical thought in wanting to get a picture with a regular common sense in when that isn’t going to happen for reasons including respect, ongoing enquiries or even issues of trespass.

As it was, the only pictures that were available were of the sort above with the regional Police Det Supt McGee holding a press conference and emergency service workers leaving the scene of the incident. Having shot a few frames, I headed down the road to get a better signal to transmit when I ran into a woman who has given this blog post it’s title..

Pulling up beside my car on the country road, a large middle-aged woman asked me what I was doing;

Me – Why?

Woman – Are you aware of the tragedy?

Me – Yes.

Woman – Well I think you should leave the area right now.

Me – Why?

Woman – Because you’re an obscene vulture.

Me – Thank you very much.

Woman – The Police are down the road you know. I can go and fetch them now if you don’t leave immediately.

Me – I’ve just been working with them for the last two hours.

Woman – You make me sick.

At this point, I break out the game-over question of “Do you read any newspapers or watch the news?” This invariably has a positive response which allows you to point out their hypocritical point of view. What normally follows, as was the case here, is a continuing grumble about being a “sick.. (grumble) ..vulture..” as they drive away. It always makes you feel like you’re really doing a public service, thanks to the overflowing gratitude.

The same happened on the first anniversary of the 7/7 London bombings. While trying to take the picture below, a man came over and began hurling abuse at me that went along much the same lines as conversation above. I know that in some cases, emotions are clearly running high and the subject matter may be sensitive but it’s infuriating when I get this abuse for taking respectful pictures at a press conference or of a stationary bus to illustrate the event, while these people would be the first to buy the newspaper or turn on the news if they heard of a nice juicy story. While there are undoubtedly some less-than admirable people out there operating as photographers, it’s a shame that we all get tarred with the same brush.

People, eh?

With the closure of Walthamstow stadium now looking unstoppable, I went down to what could be the last of the week-night race meetings to celebrate this piece of London’s heritage.

Opened in 1933 by William Chandler, the stadium is one of only four remaining dog tracks in London.  Controlled by the Chandler family until today, the venue has been used in countless films and referenced as a real monument to traditional London culture.

I’ve covered dog racing a few times before both in Sheffield and down here so knew the way things worked to some extent.  The last time I visited was for a Times piece on the ethics involved with dog racing which all seemed to have been forgotten as City-types, newbies, journalists and the regulars squeezed into the stands.

It really is a shame to see it go as it’s a fantastic night out.  I’m as guilty as everyone else though in the fact that despite I always have a good laugh when I go, I’ve only been probably four times in my life.  You always assume that these things will just be there when you want them but, charging as low as £1 on the door means they rely on heavy footfall and betting.  When a big company comes along and throws money at you to buy the land, I guess the refusal to sell became tougher to maintain.

Dougie Tyler has been running this book since leaving the Army in 1946.  Now 90, he told the BBC, “”I feel sick, this place means everything to me – I’ll be crying my eyes out when it closes.”

PS Having failed to come up with a title for the blog, you cannot imagine the strength it took not to call it “Gone to the dogs”.  If anyone has a better name, please feel free to suggest it..

Apologies for anyone wanting anything to do with photography in this post. August is upon us so precisely buggar all is happening.

Having recently picked up drumsticks again for the first time in about 5 years, I was thinking back to my previous job as a drummer in the Sheffield band Elfin (insert any drummer joke you can here, I can tell you them all..)

One story that always tickles me happened when we were doing a tour around Wales and the South.  As it was the Summer holidays, the band manager’s son would occasionally join us in the bus for the odd week when he wanted to be subjected to the horrendous smells and primal grunts of 6 guys stuck on a tourbus.

The afternoon in question involved a long journey in the morning between venues that no-one was particularly in the mood for.  The usual post-gig session of the previous night was weighing heavily on us all, apart from the ever-energetic 11 year-old.  Stopping off at a service station, he got back on the bus with the biggest gobstopper we’d ever seen.  Easily the size of his fist and having probably cost him about a fiver on the weighing scales, I realised that it gave us an opportunity for some rest.  Once the journey was under-way again, I bet him £10 that he couldn’t finish it by the time we got to the next venue.  The challenge set, we could all doze in peace as he desperately battled to wear the additive-infused ball down.

Two hours later and we arrived at the venue.  The manager leapt off the bus and went to grab the owner of the club as we started to get ourselves ready to unload.  It was now that Josh staggered us all by showing us his empty mouth.  Damn it.  Being a cruel and evil man, I told him in a less than polite way that I would not, in this situation, be paying up and made a dash for the door.

By now, the owner had come out of the club to greet us and was talking business with the band manager.  His first impression of the band was me bursting out of the bus with an 11 year old boy slapping me while hanging onto my back, shouting “Give me my tenner!  I’ve been on that bus sucking for the last 2 hours and my mouth hurts!  You promised you’d pay!”  This was immediately followed by three other ragged looking musicians collapsing with laughter as they fell out of the doors, half-dressed.

The second punchline came after we’d all calmed down and dried our tears of laughter and the gobstopper, only marginally smaller than before, fell out of his sleeve..