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Hi Vanlifers.

Fergus has been living in his van since the mid 90’s. He is pushing 40 and still skates or surfs everyday. Crayfish Films (The Shaper) is making a new documentary about one man’s commitment to living a constantly stoked life. Through following his life on the road and using incredible archive footage of the 90’s surf and skate scene, #vanlife will change the way we look at life on the road for ever.

How you can help:

We need Instagram style snaps of other van dwelling surfers and skaters to use in a montage for the opening sequence of the film. Pictures of your van in remote and beautiful places, the back of your wagon stuffed with boards, you and your buddies sitting around the camp fire. If you are looking for inspiration… An English version of http://www.arestlesstransplant.com is in the ballpark.

We don’t have a budget so we won’t be paying you for your square vanlife snaps but we will thank you in the credits of the finished film for helping to bring Fergus’ story to the world.

To submit send pics as large as you can to rob.lockyear@gmail.com

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Wonder Weasel Coffee

Comment: Dear Mr, Ms., Have you ever tried the most expensive coffee in the world? Have you ever tasted fresh roasted coffee from the Central area of Vietnam coffee fields? Do you know how exited your friends, family or colleagues would be after trying this exquisite beverage? The answer is Wonder Weasel coffee. The story of our alluring coffee originates in Southeast Asia’s exotic Indonesia. The Bahasa Indonesia word “kopi” mimics the pronunciation of its English translation, coffee, and “Luwak” is the name of a local civet. Together, they make Kopi Luwak or Weasel coffee, the Vietnamese equivalent. Civets are picky eaters. During snack time they chose to eat only the ripest, sweetest cherries-a kind of natural selection process. Their digestive process mildly ferments the bean to actually improve the taste, resulting in a less bitter, sweeter coffee, with a lovely bouquet of caramel and cinnamon. What makes the Weasel Coffee story so unique compared to the traditional: Most expensive coffee – most sold farmed weasel coffee market price ranges from $800 – $1300 per kilogram. Wild civet coffee ranges from $3,000-$6000 per kg however only 700kg is being produced annually. Unique processing – Civets eat only the ripest, sweetest cherries-a kind of natural selection process. Their digestive process mildly ferments the bean to actually improve the taste, resulting in a less bitter, sweeter coffee, with a lovely bouquet of caramel and cinnamon. Made for a most memorable experience – Imagine serving Weasel coffee to your loved ones or colleagues on a special occasion. Tell them they are enjoying the most exclusive and expensive coffee in the world. After they drank the Wonder Weasel you can explain them what it is all about and excitement is guaranteed. For more information you can go to wonderweaselcoffee.com. In case you have further questions don’t hesitate to contact us. We are looking forward to your positive reply. Yours Sincerely, 

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MSF feast – Feb 13, Ben’s Canteen

Book for 7pm HERE. Book for 9pm HERE.

Mission Street Food were the pioneers of the modern street food movement. They were about taking a classic dish and doing what ever it took to make it better. Whether it was adding crispy duck skin to a burger or robbing some molecular gastronomy to tweak a fried chicken sandwich MSF went the extra mile. I’m hosting a dinner night at Ben’s Canteen to celebrate the mighty MSF. Let me introduce you to the dishes.


Mission Street Food feast – Pork Belly on Buttery Flatbreads.

I made these flatbreads for my Dad at his place in Miami after eating some shoddy kerbside BBQ – they are stupidly good and the perfect sheath for sticky, juicy, smokey pork. Repetitive prep can send you insane but making these butter laminated beauties is a joy (if I had to do it everyday I might put a gun to my head though!). I portioned the cornmeal dough into 30 plum sized balls, pancaked them with a rolling pin and buttered liberally. The discs are then rolled into a tube, coiled and flattened again – a spiral of molten butter unravelling from the centre of the bread like a fat-laden hypno-disc. Griddle these babies and they tear apart like a fresh baked croissant. I made 30 and it took me time! I’ll be prepping over 100 for Feb 13.

These breads are going to be loaded with brined and slow roasted pork belly – this is cooled, portioned and deep fried to serve so the crispy pork bark bursts with juice as you bite it, house pickled jalapeños and daikon radish for a sour edge, and slick of coriander aioli.

These “tacos” are one of the best things I’ve ever eaten. The rest of the menu is below. There are two sittings – 7pm and 9pm follow the links to book.

Chinese New Year – £30 Set Menu

BB’s PB Tacos

Deep fried pork belly, pickled jicama radish, jalapeno and coriander aioli on buttery flatbreads.

MSF Fried Rice

Duck fat fried rice, with confit duck, crispy duck skin, seared cauliflower and shiitake.

Coffee & Cigarette Burger

Granulated burger patty, topped with coffee braised beef short rib, Montecristo cigar infused date jam and monterey jack.

Milk & Cookies

Vanilla malt shake with bacon and apple cookie.

Milky Snixwerteers Kat

Candy bar terrine with a Brasillian Santa Alina cold brew coffee beer.

Fortune Cookie

Book for 7pm HERE. Book for 9pm HERE.

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My Morning Commute

New job, new commute. Love riding in the winter. Roll down Effra Parade and hang a left onto Atlantic Rd. Butcher shops line this street with aproned cleavers chiming a bloody beat like a halal glockenspiel. Slurries of foul smelling crushed ice cling to the gutters from yesterday’s trade. A black and white kitten poses in a grocer’s doorway, his nose to the air – sniffing at the piles of glossy-eyed fish?

Meet some cyclists at the lights outside Argos and roll off together. Cyclists clump together in a similar way a dung beetle collects shit. Tough guy in a Southampton Triathlon jersey squeezes to the front of the dung ball and then can’t get into his clips.

Nice flat run to Oval down Brixton Rd passed the boozer that is also a carwash. Overtake a parked bus and upset a motorcycle. He flicks up his visor.

“One day you will go under a bus and i’ll be there to see it.”

Is he some kind of travelling gypsy throwing out cycling curses?

Navigate the lethal and idiotic cycle lanes at Kennington Park that fracture and reform as they please. another long straight passed the scruffy townhouses that should be posher before arriving at the four lane vortex of death that is Elephant and Castle. Triathlon guy has squeezed to the front again. He dribbles out in front of oncoming traffic while he scratches around on his pedals like a farmyard chook. I shamelessly leave him for dead and run the gauntlet. I take the Borough exit with the obligatory truck pinching the corner and head for the Shard which looms like a neo-pagan obelisk.

Nice slow climb to the apex of London bridge. Feels good to stand in the pedals and leave the nasty mesh of buses behind. The view is masked only by the river of charcoal suits. It’s like March of the Penguins on that bridge.

Hit Bishopsgate. Potholes and suicidal city folk who throw themselves in front of your wheels like bodyguards taking a bullet for the President. RBS clock says 8:53 followed by -1. Cycle couriers edging into the arterial Great Eastern St to get a little head start. I wait for the lights. Dog leg onto Bethnal Green road and rattle my bones on the cobbles of Redchurch. Navigate the 50’s librarian girl sporting horn rims and cherry neck tatt. Think about explaining the one way system in place but makes me feel boring.

Open the door of the packed cafe and feel embarrassed to be wearing Lycra suddenly. I cover my genitals with my bag.


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The Shaper

Here is a movie I made with my buddies Rich and Jeremy. We call ourselves Crayfish – I’ll explain later. It won awards at London Surf Film Festival, Byron Bay Surf Festival and Carve Magazine! Yeeeeeew!

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My rejected flyer

My rejected flyer

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My Morning Commute

This is my morning commute. 7.4 miles.

Brixton. Acre Lane. Down the Long Road through Clapham Common. The long stretch of Latchmere Road leading to the battered Battersea Bridge. Dawn is breaking, the smoke stacks of the factory are reflected in the glossy Thames. Can’t gaze too long – lot’s of potholes and articulated lorries. Take a dog leg on Fulham Road and push on through the mansion blocks of Cranley Gardens. No broken glass on the side of the road in Kensington. Dodge the traffic at Hight Street and escape into the park. Sunrise if I’m starting late, pitch black if its early. Black shapes shifting on the benches – wonder who they are? Try to cycle the length of the park no hands. Sitting tall in the saddle lets the air back into your lungs. Put my hands under my armpits. Why do I have fingerless gloves? Bayswater is the final stretch of traffic before slinking through the sleepy homes to Westbourne Grove. A coffee and a banana taste good. It’s pretty chilly out there.

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The Wrong Side Of The Bar

Hmmm, that coffee’s been sitting there for a while. Maybe I should take it to the table myself.

“Coffee away!”

Hmmm still nobody coming to get it. I think I’m going to take it myself.

“Drinks up!”

Still no one. Shit! OK just go to straight to the table and don’t look anyone in the eye.

“Hi guys, who’s got the flat white?”

“That’s mine thanks.”

“There you go.” GO, GO, GO!

“Excuse me?”

Shit! “Hi”

“Can I order with you?”

“Er I’m really just… sure. What would you like?”

“What’s the soup of the day?”

Shit! “I’ll just find out. Charlotte, what’s the soup of the day?”

“Spicy pumpkin.”

“Thanks. It’s spicy pumpkin ladies.”

“Ooh no, I’ll have the chopped salad.”

“OK and for you madam.”

“I’ll have the corn fritters. No, the hotcakes. No, the cornfritters. Oh I don’t know it all looks so delicious, ha ha ha.”

“Ha ha ha I know what you mean!” Shit! “Can’t go wrong with the hotcakes.”

“OK I’ll have the hotcakes. You couldn’t bring us some more water please?”

“Sure.” For fuck’s sake!

“My fork’s dirty.”

“Just a jiffy.”

“Can we have another round of coffees?”

“Sure thing.”

“I didn’t want ice in my coke.”

“Let me just fix that for you.”

“Is there dairy in the cornichon dressing?”

“I’ll just find out for you.”

Never, ever leave the bar.





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“So why is it called pulled pork?” she asked with naive anticipation. “Well,” I said as I scraped the very last flecks of flesh from the fibrous knot of muscle with my tongs, “the shoulder has been brined overnight and then slowly roasted for ten hours. This makes the meat so succulent and tender that you can literally pull the meat apart with your fingers”. I was sweating from the effort. I put down the tongs and poked the porky tumour with the tip of my knife. How the fuck is this meat still intact? What else do I have to do to it? I started running the blade back and forth across the pork as I watched the frosty winter air turn the juices to orange lard. The fibres pinged one by one as the knife passed through, relieving some of the tension in the stubborn nugget. I heard once of a cable snapping on a oil tanker. It cut a man in half. I wondered if my pork harnessed that sort of potential energy. I wet the dry meat with lashings of tangy sauce and passed over the sandwich. I took her fiver and savoured her kind smile and friendly eyes knowing I would never see them again. Another punter, seduced by the empty promises of my blackboard, approached. I covered the remains with a piece of foil. “Sorry mate, completely sold out”. He looked gutted. I closed the hatch and hid.

The shed belonged to a butcher – the meat supplier of the restaurant where I made coffee. The restaurant owner and I had become friendly with this intimidating chap. A bear of a man with boxer’s hands and a bloodied apron. It was part of the dream. He was the essence of butchery and our bond of flesh, bone and blood legitimised us as budding restauranteurs. I spent a week clearing the out-house of cobwebs, filling the rat holes with cement and scrubbing back an old butcher’s bench with wire wool and bleach. I sealed the concrete floor with a shock of blood red paint – a homage to the animals that had supplied their flesh and my sacred oath I would honour them. “You should do burgers,” he said.

Every Thursday afternoon I would prep the meat in the restaurant office. The chefs found it difficult to tolerate my intrusion. That kitchen was balanced with culinary feng shui and I was taking a dump in the sandpit every time I took the boning knife or moved a tea towel. The office became my prep area. Amongst invoices and boxes of wine I would lovingly season the pork shoulders with smoked chipotle, fennel seeds, dried onion, mustard powder and salt. My fingers would stain from working the rub into the crackling scores. The following day I would take the marinated meat from the cold store, smoke it with oak chips on the stovetop and seal it in foil with a slick of cider vinegar and water to keep the massive neck ends from drying out. The sous chef was to deploy the glistening pork bombs into the oven after service. As you peeled back the foil, the rendered fat would gush forth coloured blazing amber with roasted spices. Ten hours of cooking would break the pork down. It would fall apart in your hands like a love letter retrieved from a fire.

The sous chef looked at me the following morning as I looked at her for an explanation to why my pork was still in the fridge. Fuck you for asking me to do ANYTHING after a Friday night’s service. Fuck you for getting me in trouble. Fuck you for taking my boning knife and moving my tea towel, and fuck you for coming in here and glory cooking you half-arsed wannabe prick. It’s amazing what you can pick up from a single expression. I was at the shallow end of a learning curve that was not steep enough. The restaurant hired a new head chef who liked to get his meat from smallholdings in the Orkneys. The Orkneys are the Notting Hill of meat production. The pigs are macro-biotic and have names like Artemis or Winklepop. The butcher didn’t take kindly to this. “At that price that meat is coming in on a Polish truck I promise you that”.

The email that ended it cut straight to the point and the bone. “The meat wasn’t even cooked properly most of the time. I thought there was going to be a bit of variety not just some dodgy bits of pulled pork. I wanted you to do burgers”. I hope he enjoys his new shed.

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Festival time!

Starting to apply for this summer’s festivals. I’m an outdoorsy kind of guy so the prospect of doing my thing in a field always lifts my spirits. Here are some of the things that make me love the life of a festival barista.

Wellingtons and short shorts – surprisingly few opportunities to bust out this outfit.

20 hour days fueled by too much caffeine, too much cider and too much adrenalin. Guaranteed best sleep of your life that night even if your tent is  pitched right next to a giant generator.

Fitness – Packing and unpacking, ferrying supplies too and from the support van which will be parked 10 miles away, going back because you left your float in the glove box, doing the coffee making dance for 20 hours straight, forgetting to eat because you are too busy/excited… buff by September! Well, not fat at least.

Friends – Meeting and working with great people. The festival crowd are a happy bunch!

People excited about coffee – Wake up in a collapsing tent with a stinking hangover, don’t have a shower, prepare yourself to traipse through a field of mud, realise you didn’t bring a raincoat – tell me you don’t need a coffee. Kisses and hugs from strangers all day long!


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