Yo! What happened to health and safety?

My mate, punk-rock blues guitarist Gary Lammin, witnessed a fine bit of irony at the public launch of the "Yo! What Happened to Peace" exhibition at The Foundry in trendy Shoreditch on Tuesday.

Some bright spark had decided that mood of the cafe upstairs from the collection of anti-war posters would be enhanced by the use of naked candles stuck into the necks of wine bottles.

This being the opening of the UK leg of the international tour, it drew a heaving crowd.

You know what happens next.

One young black woman in a long scarf and permed hair passes too close to a candle and the next thing her scarf's alight, her coat's alight and her hair's on fire. Everyone's gawping while she's screaming. Gary has the presence of mind to leap across the room and smother the flames, singeing his own fingers in the process, not an ideal situation for a guitarist about to head off to America and record with Pierre De Beauport, the Rolling Stones' guitar specialist.

She's in shock. Gary's in shock. No-one calls an ambulance and now the venue managers are apparently telling her it's her fault because she was wearing a long flammable scarf.

The cherry on the icing on the cake is the reaction from the yuppie at the bar. Before dashing over to save the distressed damsel, Gary had plunged his hands into the nearest liquid in the room: a pint sitting on the bar.

He returns to the bar and the disgruntled yuppie who says,

"Excuse me, that was my drink."

"Frightfully sorry. Would you like me to buy you another one?"

"Yes, that would be the thing to do."

Gary, his blood up, racing with adrenalin, and still with the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils, is commendably restrained for a diamond geezer. He says,

"I will buy you one, mate. But before I do, consider this. You won't be drinking it, you'll be wearing it."

Gary and his mate Mark leave the yuppie scum to their deathtrap jollities and head off to find one of the few remaining working-class pubs in the area where the clientele act like human beings and not Fellini grotesques.

Yo! What happened to health and safety?

My mate, punk-rock blues guitarist Gary Lammin, witnessed a fine bit of irony at the public launch of the "Yo! What Happened to Peace" exhibition at The Foundry in trendy Shoreditch on Tuesday.

Some bright spark had decided that mood of the cafe upstairs from the collection of anti-war posters would be enhanced by the use of naked candles stuck into the necks of wine bottles.

This being the opening of the UK leg of the international tour, it drew a heaving crowd.

You know what happens next.

One young black woman in a long scarf and permed hair passes too close to a candle and the next thing her scarf's alight, her coat's alight and her hair's on fire. Everyone's gawping while she's screaming. Gary has the presence of mind to leap across the room and smother the flames, singeing his own fingers in the process, not an ideal situation for a guitarist about to head off to America and record with Pierre De Beauport, the Rolling Stones' guitar specialist.

She's in shock. Gary's in shock. No-one calls an ambulance and now the venue managers are apparently telling her it's her fault because she was wearing a long flammable scarf.

The cherry on the icing on the cake is the reaction from the yuppie at the bar. Before dashing over to save the distressed damsel, Gary had plunged his hands into the nearest liquid in the room: a pint sitting on the bar.

He returns to the bar and the disgruntled yuppie who says,

"Excuse me, that was my drink."

"Frightfully sorry. Would you like me to buy you another one?"

"Yes, that would be the thing to do."

Gary, his blood up, racing with adrenalin, and still with the smell of burning flesh in his nostrils, is commendably restrained for a diamond geezer. He says,

"I will buy you one, mate. But before I do, consider this. You won't be drinking it, you'll be wearing it."

Gary and his mate Mark leave the yuppie scum to their deathtrap jollities and head off to find one of the few remaining working-class pubs in the area where the clientele act like human beings and not Fellini grotesques.

Two blondes, one headshot

Has anyone ever seen Heather Mills and Ann Coulter in the same room? Which is which in the headshots?

Yup, Macca actually married Ann Coulter and this is what she has over the old liberal softie.

Heather is a snob and a social climber but she doesn't deserve the level of vitriol she's getting from the press. Even so, an unfortunate resemblance to Ann minus a brain and fight-skills does set my teeth on edge whenever I see her. Especially as she dissed the 189 bus route that Macca was rather fond of and which does remarkable service round these here parts.

If I were her mate, I'd say, "Girlfriend. Shut the fuck up. Enjoy your thirty million and put some meat on your skinny behind. You can afford to eat proper now you've ditched the veggie pensioner. Be happy. Get fat. Make some women friends."

Of Ann, Henry Rollins puts it best in his testosterony way, in his Love Letter to Ann Coulter. If you want to have a go at a mad blonde, don't pick on Lady Mucca who is obviously in distress, try this or this or this.

Like The Thatch, Ann tests even my sisterly virtues. But let us not forget it is her womanhood that is her one positive asset. The rest she gets from the lads.

Two blondes, one headshot

Has anyone ever seen Heather Mills and Ann Coulter in the same room? Which is which in the headshots?

Yup, Macca actually married Ann Coulter and this is what she has over the old liberal softie.

Heather is a snob and a social climber but she doesn't deserve the level of vitriol she's getting from the press. Even so, an unfortunate resemblance to Ann minus a brain and fight-skills does set my teeth on edge whenever I see her. Especially as she dissed the 189 bus route that Macca was rather fond of and which does remarkable service round these here parts.

If I were her mate, I'd say, "Girlfriend. Shut the fuck up. Enjoy your thirty million and put some meat on your skinny behind. You can afford to eat proper now you've ditched the veggie pensioner. Be happy. Get fat. Make some women friends."

Of Ann, Henry Rollins puts it best in his testosterony way, in his Love Letter to Ann Coulter. If you want to have a go at a mad blonde, don't pick on Lady Mucca who is obviously in distress, try this or this or this.

Like The Thatch, Ann tests even my sisterly virtues. But let us not forget it is her womanhood that is her one positive asset. The rest she gets from the lads.

Priorities, much?

While the Left burns, this is the sort of thing happening in the big wide world.

One woman was so incensed by the war in Iraq that she exercised what we all thought was her freedom of speech and read out the list of British soldiers killed there at the Cenotaph on the Day of Rememberance in 2005.

So Kafkaesque is life under Labour that peacenik Maya Anne Evans was arrested and fined £250. She now finds herself facing prison for acting on a point of principle and not paying a fine that most people would consider an absurd waste of the police and court's time anyway.

But in the greater scheme of things, her moving expression of a wish for peace is regarded as a bigger travesty than an invasion that has left over a million Iraqi war dead and 171 dead British soldiers.

Maya reminds us that, three years ago this Thursday, when allied forces bombed the town of Fallujah with white phosphorous bombs - a substance that burns to the bone - 550 out of the 700 bodies recovered were of women and children. What a horrible way for anyone to die. It cries out for protest, not a slapping down of dissent.

I'm actually in awe of people like Maya and her associate, Milan Rai, for their courage even to the point of going to prison, as Milan has already done and Maya may yet have to do. If the Left was stronger and hadn't been hobbled by sociopathic cliques over the years, perhaps Maya and her fellow activists would find themselves better supported by a wider vibrant anti-war movement. As it goes, best of luck, Maya.

Priorities, much?

While the Left burns, this is the sort of thing happening in the big wide world.

One woman was so incensed by the war in Iraq that she exercised what we all thought was her freedom of speech and read out the list of British soldiers killed there at the Cenotaph on the Day of Rememberance in 2005.

So Kafkaesque is life under Labour that peacenik Maya Anne Evans was arrested and fined £250. She now finds herself facing prison for acting on a point of principle and not paying a fine that most people would consider an absurd waste of the police and court's time anyway.

But in the greater scheme of things, her moving expression of a wish for peace is regarded as a bigger travesty than an invasion that has left over a million Iraqi war dead and 171 dead British soldiers.

Maya reminds us that, three years ago this Thursday, when allied forces bombed the town of Fallujah with white phosphorous bombs - a substance that burns to the bone - 550 out of the 700 bodies recovered were of women and children. What a horrible way for anyone to die. It cries out for protest, not a slapping down of dissent.

I'm actually in awe of people like Maya and her associate, Milan Rai, for their courage even to the point of going to prison, as Milan has already done and Maya may yet have to do. If the Left was stronger and hadn't been hobbled by sociopathic cliques over the years, perhaps Maya and her fellow activists would find themselves better supported by a wider vibrant anti-war movement. As it goes, best of luck, Maya.