Seeing shops opening, vans delivering, commuters commuting and parents taking children to school, really gives you a sense of how a city works and should work; stripped down to functioning parts that are all as important as each other.

As I trundle along with all the other workers, usually sound tracked by a frustratingly repetitive shuffle through my i-Pod, I seem to do something that so many of them don’t. I look up. I had an art teacher that once gave the class, as homework, the task of observing the buildings that surround us as we go shopping or do whatever we do.

I have always found the structure of cities fascinating. Be it the distinct history and bohemia of Prague and Berlin, the vast, humid glass cityscapes of Houston, or the mismatched architecture of London and Cardiff, There will always be something rather magical about the things buildings say. Once you force yourself to listen, the messages, stories and questions are endless.

Musician, artist and general hero of mine, David Byrne sees towns and cities as “Physical manifestations of our deepest beliefs”. Whilst, I would perhaps choose a slightly lighter way of putting it, I agree. The idea that there is an identity within the nests we build for ourselves is something that I can really identify with. They portray, perhaps better than anything, our attitudes to life, work, love and the way we function within them.

As I reach the centre of town, I find myself, one hundred percent of the time, looking up in awe at Cardiff Castle as it looms over me. The opposite side of the road, whilst full of period buildings, is littered with clubs, shops, trendy cafes and a Burger King. This should annoy me, but instead makes me feel quite good. I like the idea that we, as humans have understood the beauty and importance of the castle, but also acknowledge the fact that we are living in the 21^st century and using space, no matter how ‘important’, to improve our lives is a necessary evil. Don’t agree? Well, let’s go and build a Burger king or Starbucks in that lush field, or woodland then.

I first discovered Pipi’s café within a week of moving to Cardiff and have been making frequent trips here ever since. A large display of pastries, cakes and small treats that look painfully rich flood all the senses as I enter. I order before climbing up a creaky staircase to a dimly lit room full of black leather sofas and wooden tables that show their history, to say the least.

The only natural light that enters the room is from a small window about two metres up. This might not be the ideal lighting for reading, but for a quiet place to hide away from the world, you can’t beat it.

I like Starbucks as much, or more, as anyone, but when I climb those rickety stairs and sink into a soft, worn out sofa, I know that this is something that cannot be mass produced.

I use and enjoy these modern benefits as much as anyone; however, they are just as new and exciting to me as they are anyone else. Why, then, does anyone over the age of 30 see fit to patronise and ridicule anyone under 21 as “not knowing how lucky they are”.

I have seen countless panel shows and stand up routines that all follow a basic theme, as follows:

Comedian: How old are you sir?

Audience member: 20

Comedian: “20?! You’re still a child!

(Big laugh)

Comedian: You have it so easy nowadays, I remember when you actually had to pay for music and if you wanted to carry it around with you, you needed a trailer!! (or some lame joke to that effect)

(Big Laugh)

Comedian: I bet you have never even seen/ heard of… (insert slightly outdated media, here)

(even bigger laugh)

This, unless you hadn’t noticed, annoys me a lot. I grew up thinking that a computer was something that my mom and dad would sometimes get to use, and in doing so must have the brains of a rocket scientist! I used to buy cassette tapes, videos and CD singles from HMV, For quite a lot of money! And I remember having to wait a good few days after a holiday to realise that my crappy disposable camera had ruined all my shots.

I know looking back to these dated items is all in good fun, and I shouldn’t be bitter, but ‘older’ people need to realise that people my age haven’t always seen computers and mobile phones as everyday items, and not only do we remember cds and videos, we probably still own and enjoy some of them.

OK,  just so we are clear, it’s fine to poke fun at the ‘young generation’ as being twitter obsessed tech slaves, to enhance your stand up routine, just make sure you think about who you are addressing. They’re not as young and clueless as you might want to believe.

Don Van Vliet, AKA Captain Beefheart passed away today. Beefheart is one of my favourite musicians and one of my key sources of inspiration. Whether I am writing, designing, making CD compilations or simply naming pet goldfish, the Captain is never far away.

I first discovered Captain Beefheart about 3 years ago, after watching a Frank Zappa documentary. I bought a Best of Beefheart CD and put it into my portable Discman (yes, only three years ago – I was a little behind the times) where it stayed for a good few weeks. A fan of Zappa and the Mothers, I felt confident in what I would expect to hear, but when the first chords of Safe As Milk tore through my headphones, I was transported to somewhere mind-meltingly amazing. Beefheart soundtracked my life and the frantic and lonely trips around Cardiff, perfectly.

I was hooked and bought everything I could find. I had been warned about and told to avoid Trout Mask Replica, but absolutely loved it. Listening to it in full as I lived my life was strange, yet so uniquely apt. Yes, this album has a lot of strange sound clips, tones and generally odd themes, and to say you enjoy listening to it, no doubt puts you in the bracket of ‘Snobby, pretentious Muso’, but it is actually really enjoyable!

I don’t know I can say that Captain Beefheart’s death is a great loss to music. Don Van Vliet retired from music in the late eighties and was soon wheelchair bound, only working as an artist and making very few public appearances. Alive or dead, Beefheart has been, and will always be, one of the most important components of my record collection.

RIP Mr Van Vliet. Tonight I shall fall asleep to Trout Mask Replica and no doubt have some wonderful (albeit very strange) dreams…

I am someone who more or less visits charity shops everyday. I am always on the lookout for records, books and other bits and bobs. I know the best places to find bargains and I know the shops to avoid if I want to spend less than £5. These places are great and one can feel very good about shopping in them (even when spending a lot of money) and helping a good cause.

Living in a city, I am blessed with some great shops, with high quality stock. These shops are very often staffed by 20 something people in jazzy jumpers and large glasses. Prices are high, but there are some great things to be found.

Before I moved to the city, and when I visit small towns and villages, however, my regular charity shop haunts are often a very different story. These are shops that you might be likely to get a real bargain, but it won’t come easy…

A typical visit to a certain charity shop (which I am not naming for obvious reasons):

I push against a stiff wooden framed door. The central glass panel has long been broken and replaced with ply wood. A faded open/closed sign bounces into action as I force the door open with my arm.

As soon as I enter, three old ladies look up from their tea and give me a suspicious glare. A glare that suggests they would gladly report me (and my long hair) to the police, soon as look at me. The shop has fallen silent, apart from the sound of Glenn Millar coming out of a broken stereo. I smile as sweetly as I can and start to look around.

There is no strict order to the shop. Everything is just sort of there, in boxes, bags and on wonky shelving. I fight my way to the music section to find stacks of LPs and 45s, underneath a big box of videos. I start to dig around, only to find that half of the records are stuck together due to the damp problem in the shop.

This leads me onto the smell. I don’t mind a damp or dusty smell, or the smell of industrial clothing cleaner that often lingers in these shops. But this particular shop has a mixture of decade’s worth of burnt toast, urine and leaking water pipes onto thick carpet.

I find a few bits to buy and as I approach the till to pay, I discover where the smell of urine was coming from. I know that incontinence is a very serious issue and I now feel bad for being put off by the smell. The fact that these ladies are willingly spending their retirement sitting in this damp, dusty mess just makes me feel awful for thinking badly of them.

I might have found a few bargains, but the enjoyment factor of visiting this shop is almost non-existent. This is an extreme, and you will be happy to know, that this shop has had a slight make over and is much nicer now. However, it does illustrate the dark side to charity shops that gets overshadowed by Oxfam Boutiques and fancy retro/vintage shops.

Remember, though, these shops won’t work without customers, so grit your teeth, hold your nose and get stuck in. You might well find some real treasure!

1. one of those obsessive record nerds who will spend a lifetime hunting down that ultra rare first pressing on chess records, spend hundreds of pounds on it, before filing it away to keep it in mint condition. (Although, it will seem this way to many)
2. Someone who buys records because they are ’trendy’ but never play them and get no real pleasure from them other then the smugness of saying to friends “yeah, I love vinyl, I picked up some Phil Collins albums which I can listen to in an ironic way”

I am just a guy who adores music and for some reason prefers it on vinyl. I will happily buy a scuffed up LP if it is cheap and I will only buy stuff I want. Nothing ironic or ‘cool’. This obsession with records introduces me to all sorts of interesting people and places. I found Czech folk in Prague and Strange Dutch Prog in Holland, but one of my favorite places to find records us in Tunbridge Wells, in Kent. This anicdote, if it can be called that, took place in a record store that is sadly no longer there, but I feel stands as a reminder of why we should love independent shops. You don’t just buy a piece of music, You gain a memory.

It’s the summer. It is too hot and too busy in town so I try to escape into a cool, damp and dimly lit record shop. I have been in looking through boxes of old, dusty records for no more than a minute, before a quiet voice, slightly muffled from a large beard, croaks from behind the counter, “need any help?”.

The next thing I know, the bearded man is leading me up a narrow wooden staircase to a small office space. It smelt just as damp as the shop, but masked with the strong smell of incense and marijuana. “Sorry it’s a bit of a mess” he remarks. I just laugh nervously and tell him I don’t mind. The entire room was filled with old cardboard boxes of records. Most of them splitting at the seams and spilling onto the floor. There was a distinct lack of furniture in the room, just a few wicker chairs, a desk and a few battered IKEA shelves. The boxes were being used as tables, all littered with mugs, ashtrays and papers.

He rummages around for a few seconds as I look in amazement at the surrounding walls, all covered with classic album art, newspaper clippings and press photos of Bowie, Hendrix and even Tom Jones. There is a big green apple on the ceiling, a promotion for Apple Records I imagine. I still think it would be better in my flat then that damp room, but that’s irrelevant.

These musical artefacts make me feel strangely comfortable. The fact that I am alone in a small damp room with a middle aged stranger that has promised to find me something special doesn’t faze me. In any other setting alarm bells would be ringing, but the music lovers connection was muffling them. What I could hear, however, was a strange 60s blues record of some sort. I couldn’t see where it was coming from, and to this day I don’t know what it was, but it sounded great.

I start to bob my head along as the bearded man finally finds the box he was after, and clears off a wicker chair for me a sit in. “here, have a look through these”. He hands me a bulging cardboard treasure chest! Overflowing with gems (Some of which,  I had only ever seen photos off). Why was this stuff not in the shop downstairs? Well, he with the beard was not exactly salesman of the year.

I know that I can’t afford half of the stuff in this box, but then, without warning, there they are. The two words I dig around for in every record store I enter – Green Day. Not only was it a Green Day record, it was a Green Day record I didn’t have! An early US pressing, on Lookout records! Something that may not sound like much, but when I gripped that dusty 45 is my now shaking hands, I felt as if I might pass out.

I’m now stuck with the difficult task of trying to mask my excitement. I hold the record up and say (in what surfaces as a faux cockney voice for some reason) “how much is that one”. He puts the cigarette he is rolling down on a stack of 45s,  looks at the record and strokes his beard, ”hmmm, it’ll have to be twenty, but you can have the Bowie stuff as well”. (bargain, by the way!)  I pretend to think about it for a bit before (now, having dropped the cockney accent) sheepishly croaking “Ok, sounds good”.

Now, you don’t get that in HMV, do you…

The problems with my writing, however, can and do affect my life in a big way. To someone, and forgive me for generalising, who doesn’t struggle with everyday handwriting, this must be quite a hard concept to grasp. The feeling you get when you are unable to do something that should be as easy and basic as speaking can be crushing. I guess it is like the early stages of learning an instrument (something else I have tried and failed at, but am by no means alone in) but being surrounded by a professional orchestra. No matter how much you practice or how hard you try, there will always be a dominant feeling of uselessness and patronisation digging into you. The only difference is, that I will never be part of the orchestra. OK, perhaps if I really tried I could play the wooden block or hit a gong but I’m hardly going to be leading the strings.

I am aware that these views are negative, and often the fact that I let these things get to me leads to more depressive thoughts, but it occurs to me, that Dyspraxia and Dyslexia are often pushed to the shadows. Why is this? Why are conditions like Aspergers seen as life changing and (quite rightly) worthy of support, but us Dyslexics and Dyspraxics are shrugged off with a “oh, that means you can’t read very well, right?”. I know this might sound controversial, and by no means am I belittling the fact that Aspergers can be a very serious condition. I just wish that people would apply the same amount of concern and understanding to someone with Dyspraxia when they start to obsess about small things or get anxious and upset when certain situations change. I have come across professionals that specialise in helping people with learning difficulties that still make this generalisation!

Basically, what I am trying to say is that if someone says they are struggling with Dyspraxia or Dyslexia, don’t just ignore it. Ask if they are ok. Offer to help. They will appreciate it. I promise you.