I took a trip up to London town this weekend to see some old friends from university. It seems this is the only reason I ever come to London, that and to see the odd gig. Maybe it is the fact that I have seen it all before and I have to come up by train that start me off on the wrong foot. It seems my negativity towards London is unique as the place is packed.

Walking around Leicester Square, Piccadilly Circus and Covent Garden I am amazed by the amount of foreign tourists knocking about. A quick straw poll would no doubt have highlighted that the English contingent are virtually non existent.

Our foreign cousins are obviously not put off by London’s high prices, overcrowded transport system and surly residents. For an English summer’s day it is characteristically pissing it down and I for the life of me can’t fathom why an Italian from say Rome would bother to darken our doorstep. Do they all just come once thinking they will meet the Queen and return home penniless and disillusioned?

It’s not just the tourists. Forget your Antipodean bar staff, the expansion of the European Union is bringing tides of Bulgarian plumbers, Polish carpenters and Romanian fortune-tellers to our shores. Quick, someone phone the Daily Mail but don’t mention Asylum seekers, it upsets them.

We order some overpriced lunch from a trendy gastro-pub and I am served by an Eastern European girl. From her accent I guess she is from Czech Republic. The rest of the staff seem to be from the same neck of the woods. I pay the bill and resist the urge to ask what her motivation is to move to London to work in a pub less I be confused for an immigration officer and beaten up by her gang master.

It isn’t just in the tourist haunts that this phenomenon seems to occur. My friend is staying in a swanky Knightsbridge hotel on business. The 5 star establishment is just around the corner from Harrods and as we enter the lobby there isn’t a single white face to be seen. By their appearance the clientele seem to be made up entirely of middle Easterners. Have I just been transported to Abu Dhabi or is this some sort of Arab oil conference?. Whatever the reason it is an unusual sight.

I know London has a few things going for it. It is a good place to get a decent job, you can come here to learn English (albeit with an Aussie accent) and there is money floating about if you have your finger in the right pie.

Sacrifices have to be made I guess.

There are many criticisms you can make of Dan Brown’s "The Da Vinci Code". It is poorly written, contains plot holes the size of the Lourve and is completely implausible in many areas. Despite its short comings, 40 million sales have made its author a very wealthy man. I can’t remember a book that has caused so much debate and generated as much attention since…well, the Bible.

After being swept along with the hysteria I succumbed and finally read the thing but I was left disappointed mainly due to Brown’s need to make every page a cliff hanger. He crams in so many twists that the plot lurches from one unlikely explanation to another like a tiny sailboat in the high seas managing to keep afloat despite being repeatedly submerged by gargantuan leaps in logic.

The book’s saving grace is that at its core it does put forward an interesting view on the whole topic of Jesus Christ’s place in history. Was he the son of God or just a charismatic man who lived to make the world a better place? A sandal wearing Bono, if you will.

Ron Howard’s big budget adaptation is not as bad as reviews have suggested. The story still remains true to the book which is no mean feat after the intense lobbying from bible bashers world wide when it got out that the book would be made into a film. The use of flashbacks and computer generated jiggery-pokery actually help the Da Vinci Code virgin to digest the history lesson at the centre of the story that is harder to visualise in the book.

However, the film cannot disguise the clunky story line and much of the supposition the viewer is supposed to make about Da Vinci’s work, secret societies and their motivations and how within 3 minutes of entering a remote Scottish church the vicar can summon 20 grail disciples including the lead’s grand mother. I’m not ruining the story am I, don’t tell me you haven’t read it?

Tom Hanks is surprisingly bland and unengaging as Harvard symoblogist Robert Langdon who inadvertently gets embroiled into this flight of fancy with the equally unremarkable Audrey Tautou when an elderly curator gets murdered at the Louvre. Thankfully the film’s atmospheric visuals and a couple of good performances from Sir Ian McKellen as an eccentric grail-chaser and Paul Bethany as the sinister masochistic monk on their tails ensure that the 148 minutes are not as painful as wearing barbed wire round your leg for your sins.

If you haven’t read the book my advice is not to bother and maybe to wait until this comes out on DVD before you learn how we have been lied to for 2000 years. If you have waited this long for the truth you can wait another 6 months can’t you?

It’s the final day of the musical extravaganza that is the Great Escape and the punters are out in force.

We opt for a low-key start and check out Plaster at Sumo, a venue more used to playing funky house and serving overpriced cocktails then catering to bearded indie kids.

Plaster are Montreal based Canadians who combine live instruments, samples and various gadgets to create some thumping dance music. I used to think that being bottom of the bill meant you were the shittest band. Not so, they are the best thing we see that night. The keyboardist seems to be doing about seven things at once as he creates an ambient element to the sound but the live bass and funky breakbeats really get things cooking.

If I was drunk I would have broke out into some body-popping but instead we do our nodding dog impressions.

Next we have Tuung who are tipped by the Barfly as being worth a listen. They start badly as they have some sound gremlins and have to stop before they get started. It doesn’t look hopeful when we realise that the sound engineer looks like he has been dragged through a hedge backwards and is more concerned with getting some Rizlas then sorting out the sound.

Once they get going they veer from tuneful to decidedly amateurish and some of their songs remind me of our little Christmas get togethers with me bashing away on the guitar while the rest of the gang howl along to Do They Know It’s Christmas? O.K, they are not that bad but my suspicions are confirmed when they invite one of the audience to shake a maraca and sing backing vocals. Bless the wierdy beardies.

Because of the 30min delay our schedule has been compromised so we have to rush to our intended destination to see The Kooks. I had a feeling the venue was going to be popular draw. What I didn’t realise was that everyone and there dog would turn up early ensuring that by the time we had got to the Old Stein there was a queue for the queue and there was no hope in hell we would get in.

Shame, but like ex-boyscouts that we are (I’m not sure about Barfly, he may have been too busy with his many paper rounds to bother dib-dib-dibbing) we had a plan B. Unfortunately, that too went tits up along with pland C and D as all the other venuse had big fat queues in front of them. So you will never hear how great/crap The Kooks/Tapes ‘n Tapes/Morning Runner/Longcut ‘cos we wcouldn’t get in. This would be my only criticism of the festival. Demand had outstripped supply on the Saturday and unless you were lucky or really early you ended up watching rubbish.

We that in mind we finally got into the Ocean Rooms who didn’t have bands that anyone had heard of on the bill. We catch the last three songs of Fell City Girl who look exceedingly young and have a vocalist with a voice reminiscent of Thom Yorke. They sound pained but promising.

Clearlake headline and according to Barfly having been knocking around for a few years and are signed to Franz Ferdinand’s Domino label without really getting anywhere. It’s easy enough to see why. Despite being competent enough they rarely get out of second gear and come across as a poor man’s Bluetones/Muse depending on whether they intend to sound dark or jaunty.

The singer stupidly asks whether we had been here all night. He is quickly told, no. He seems to be impressed that there was such a large turn out for his band. He continues his unadvised ramble about getting into the Spiegeltent (where the Kooks are playing) later to get drunk. He is quickly told that like most of the audience, he won’t get it. Why do you think people would choose your rubbish band ahead of the better stuff on offer? They redeem themselves by playing a song that sounds like Girls Aloud’s "Love machine".

All in all the festival is a great showcase for music on the fringes and I predict that it will be bigger and better next year.

It’s part 2 of the musical tapas that is the Great Escape Festival and feeling the worse for wear after my half a Babysham last night I was in need of a pick me up. What better remedy then attending my first ever death metal gig. Probably not the best cure for a headache admittedly but I was willing to give it a go as I was under the wing of the 20six’s resident death metal guru Jilted Barfly.

Gojira are French and are slated as being one of the most fearsome bands on the death metal scene. Quite an introduction into the blood soaked hell pit that is death metal. I realise that my usual suave look is not going to cut it in the raging inferno of the Concorde and consider making myself up to resemble Marilyn Manson’s lovechild. Instead I opt to wear a black t-shirt with a skull on it. Rock ‘n indeed Roll.

I am surprised by the demographic of the audience. It seems that the local primary school has decided to schedule a trip down here as well. Seriously, the kids here are just so young they could potentially be our children (not mine and the Barfly’s as that would be hideous).

The Barfly explains that there are many different genres of metal these days and he has lost touch with all the different variations. Apparently "shredding" is very popular. I’m glad to hear these youngsters enjoy fresh salad after attending these events.

Surprisingly, I find the whole spectacle quite amusing as the young crowd go crazy and smash into each other in the "pit". On the surface it looks like mindless violence and looks like someone will get hurt. However, I notice that when one of moshers gets punched to the floor he is helped up by one of the guys who has been belting him. It’s what Satan would have wanted.

Gojira actually have a recognisable rhythm once they get going and there is no doubt they play with energy. Even the singer’s cookie monster growl isn’t too irratating.

Next come Johnny Truant, another metal band from Brighton whose lead singer seems to be quite a retiring character.

"Does anyone in the audience want to suck my cock"

We consider his offer and politely decline. The band thrash out a similar frenzied energy with multiple guitarists but I find the singer’s voice grating and there is nothing for me to appreciate now the novelty of teens bashing into each other has worn off.

We bust a move to the Hanbury Ballroom, a cool converted church with a Da Vinci style painted ceiling. There is a queue and as it is pissing down and we wish we’d arrived earlier. We witness some brazen attempts to enter by drunken idiots who think they are invisible or Jesus Christ. Finally, we are in.

Midlake are from Texas and dish out a harmonious, whimsical, electro-folk which pleasantly washes over you without any leaving any lasting impression. They have so much equipment they occupy more space than the crowd. One of their number has a molester’s moustache which upsets the Barfly.

Lets not mess about, the reason most of the audience have bought tickets is to witness the majestic Richard Hawley in the flesh. I have wittered on about him before on these very pages. His music defies comparison so I’ll just say it is beautiful, sad and brilliant. Live, the band sounds incredible and his baritone is so warm you could insulate your house with it. Richard is from Sheffield, this is quite clear when he speaks, and it’s hard to believe it’s the same person, such is the transformation. The crowd go crazy and I pat him on the back as he walks off stage. Safe to say it is probably the highlight of his evening.

Day 1 of the 3 day festival that sees 180 bands play across 17 venues around Brighton. A handy little wrist band gets you in to any of the venues and everyone is seen peering into their gig planners hoping to spot the next Nirvana, Radiohead or Chaka Demus and Pliers.

First up are Figurines at The Zap who we see quite by accident as the queue for the MTV2 sponsored line-up at The Beach had too many spotty teenagers for our liking. Figurines are from Denmark and are surprisingly good. I mistakenly liken them to Pearl Jam after one song but their alt-rock is more interesting than that. The lead singer sometimes sounds like Justin Hawkins which is no bad thing and their set thumps along nicely. Can you name another Danish band? No, me neither.

A short walk across town and we are at the Ocean Rooms. Another darkened club converted into a music venue for the weekend. I am suddenly aware how little I have been clubbing in the last few years. Holy Fuck are from Canada and are lazily described as "Blip-Hoppers". They play modern electronica with live instruments and they rock. The crowd are overcome with emotion and one excited punter offers to buy them breakfast. I think he might be drunk. I can tell they are popular as photographers almost outnumber the crowd. Does everyone with a digital camera think they are David Bailey?

Moving along to the Komedia, a more upmarket venue which is used to hosting world music rather then grungey indie kids. C.O.R.D are from Norwich are as uninspired as their hometown. Their lumpen sub-Radiohead meanderings are unremarakable in almost every way.

We endure their thankfully short set in order to see The Feeling who I have been keen to see and are frankly one of the few bands I have actually heard of on the bill. There songs are undeniably catchy with some great harmonies and take you back to early 80’s M.O.R. bands such as E.L.O and the Buggles with their unfettered feel-good vibes. They are perfect Radio 1 fodder and undoubtedly will go far. My partner in crime Barfly is disappointed at them not sounding like Hall ‘n Oates and troops off to find something that will make his ears bleed.

I am left hands aloft in Radio Ga Ga mode with the rest of the audience who happily clap away safe in the knowledge they are the least coolest people in Brighton.

This weekend I witnessed Shaolin Monks smashing paving slabs over each other’s backs followed by a Chinese acrobat with her head between her legs balancing candles on her arse. For desert I had French pyrotechnic artists fly around an inflatable globe on a rocket belching fire in hail of fireworks.

No, I didn’t eat too much cheese last night. We happen to be slap bang in the middle of the 40^th Brighton Festival, a smorgasbord of street performance, dance, theatre, exhibitions and music, and this happens to be a small part of the wierdness on offer

One of the things I miss about living in Spain are the street parties, processions and firework displays that are organised through the many fiestas that take place throughout the year, where everyone gets out on the street and has some fun. The Brighton Festival though a touch too highbrow in some areas does attempt to recreate the carnival atmosphere and broadens horizons as artists from around the world congregate in the town over the course of 3 weeks.

I don’t think this kind of event would do so well in Barnsley (no offence Barnsleyfolk), maybe because Brighton is cosmopolitan and supposedly chock full of artists and people with alternative lifestyles (not to mention poncey idiots) that such a varied palate of entertainment can be offered without the worry that a question and answer session with Melvyn Bragg about the 12 books that changed his world is only going to be attended by one mad man and his invisible dog. Virtually every one of the events has sold out and believe me there is some weird shit on the bill.

In the morning you can go to a workshop on the art of physical comedy (you are recommended to wear loose clothing) followed by a lunchtime qanun recital (its an arabic zither apparently). In the afternoon you can have tea with Julian Clary and see an exhibition on Victorian lace art. In the evening you might opt for some Senagalese afrobeat or the Budapest Symphony Orchestra. Either that or you can watch Deal or No Deal on box. Choice is yours.

Admittedly, there are few people in the line-up that I have ever heard of as I really am not down with my French avant-garde mime artists. I, and a great many average Joes, will no doubt be left cold by a lot of the acts on the menu but there might be one or two things that just tickle your fancy and would probably never have gone to in a million years unless they were free.

This explains my little morris dancing interlude yesterday. Whilst cycling about town I spotted a group of middle aged folk in black who looked remarkably like a poor man’s Kiss (faces painted black and white) albeit with beards ,jackets made of multicoloured rags and hats replete with pheasant’s feathers and Green King IPA drinks coasters. A crowd had gathered to see grown men and women dance about to the groovy sounds of the accordion whilst banging sticks with one another and shrieking to the jaunty beat (this might have something to do with the pints of ale and cider they were knocking back).

I was surprised to see people liked this still existed and wondered whether they were local or from what part of Somerset they had come from. When one of the outlandishly attired woman stopped for a fag I had a chat and was told that their group had come all the way from Oxfordshire and there were 39 other troups all invited down for a morris dancing mash up at the Royal Pavillion that afternoon ( I guess it’s a bit like the Run DMC v Jason Nevins video when they face off against each other and wave handkerchiefs about in a threatening manner…fa shizzle ma nizzle)

Safe to say that I was morris-danced out at this point so I declined the offer. Plus I think she was about to induct me into their wife swopping, gender bending, morris dancing vipers nest and I was scared of being taken advantage of by women with Doc Martens and fat men with bells and beards.