Mariah Mariah Mariah - I Shudder To Think

A dear friend of mine, from Christmas offices past, often shares pop music with me as she's just that kinda lady. This is what I found on my wall (not chimney) this good morn.

The product placement extravaganza opens with a white gloved wrist and a bell. No MJ’s not been digitally recreated, and photoshopped into a handbell pose, it’s Santa. Duh. He’s on the street, and he’s jolly as fuck. His sack of presents is very small - recession on the streets y'all. A ‘hiii—aaaah’ brings Mariah into shot between not one, not three, not four but oh actually just four Christmas trees. She’s standing against a wall, provocatively, Mariah, leaning up against walls in a very very low cut, high leg dress and ringing a bell probably isn’t going to invite the right kind of attention. Oh shit – it’s a chimney – I get it. The sha-do-ba-de-do-waps begin (does anyone remember sho-do-ba-de-do-waps from the original?)

In comes Bieber with a shopping trolley – stolen from ASDA carpark on a crazy night out. And scoots past Mariah on some kind of insane supermarket sweep – she winks at him (has Dale heard MazC is stealing his moves?) another four Christmas trees flank Biebs. WOAH. You’d never guess which season they are evoking.

Bieber and chums spot Mariah sho-do-be-do-wapping Bieber enthralled; his friends less so, I’d say one of them is downright confused and unsure where he is. You are IN Chistmas dude, DEAL WITH IT.

And it kicks in. I’d really never noticed how gormless* Biebs is – although I’ve never spent that long looking at him. *Bieber fans – gormless means exceptionally-attractive-boy-child. Mariah turns to the wall to sing, maybe Santa’s stuck in there and her vibrations and bat calls are the only way to free him? Oh no – it’s fine, santa’s fine outside ring ring ringing his bell.

At this point it becomes clear either a.) Mariah doesn’t have any rhythm b.) Mariah is a one trick pony or c.) Mariah doesn’t really know what a bell is. RING IT WOMAN, don’t just toy with it.



Now Justingle starts singing. I tried to get a good freeze frame of him really needing a poo but worried about my flat getting burnt down, trust me, around 1.45-1.51 there are lots of good ‘Justingle desperate moments’.

I think my favourite thing about this musical desperado – besides now knowing all I wanted was a generic-games-console-DS from Macy’s – is how brilliantly Biebs & MazC’s voices clash on the shuddering. (Shuddering is a Christmas singing style in which you effectively impersonate chime bells through pop music, but not as prettily.) There’s a good example of class shuddering at 2:17.



Mariah, for the last time – put that bell DOWN if you are not going to use it properly. Anyone noticed how when Biebs comes down off a high note he looks both confused and pleased with himself? Oh god Biebs and MazC are in a Sleigh. With a puppy. Sorry ya’ll I can’t keep on with this, I keep imagining Justingle tripping in some reindeer wee and bashing his face off santa’s merry sled.

Ah and the quiet of unstepped on snow and saintly baby Jesus has been restored.

Miriam Attwood watches X Factor, paints her nails, eats a bacon roll (mayo mustard tomato) drinks 2 cups of tea and daydreams a bit about whether the crying and going my life is over if I don't get through would be a good tactic for any further interviews I get. (THIS BIT IS CONTEXT - they always do that on the guardian live blogs)

It was TWO HOURS LONG so that was too much to live blog, but I made some notes of some of the best bits, I may have been out of the room for some or other of the best bits but I think I got all of Johnny's chats.

The Judges were all in different posh houses with infinity pools. I can't remember what happened at the beginning of the show as it was TWO HOURS LONG. But Johnny was featured in the before the credits bit saying something adorable and camp and self-deprecating.

There was a large amount of forgettable action, there was a band with some boys who I'm pretty sure were just there to advertise Topman, some little class jokes (the posh one did a posh voice and another one did a rap), and loads of braces; a bit 2009 ladies? There were several raps. Tulisa got annoyed cause one of them didn't do their own rap and did Tiny Tiddles rap instead. She said 'You know I don't like it when they do that.' There was lots of pink lipstick and tears and people sitting on stuff gazing. Some of them stood up to gaze. And cry. They ALL cry.
Two Shoes were on fine form - I like them as they do not cry as much as the other ones. I think they have job satisfaction in Essex as it is: 'You will eivver change your liafe completely or (in unison) you just dont.' Well said ladies.

Kelly looked very pretty. J-Hudz was her chum being a celebrity helper. They were very pretty and said nice things about the pretty (forgettable) girls that sang.
Jade Fae Fife said of going on a speed boat in Miami bay: 'I've only been in a rowing boat so I was nervous about that' (points at boat.) I no longer care that she just does Adele - I want her to win so we can here more insights from her life fae Fife.

Gary and Robbie did some jokes about being 90s pop-stars and falling out again. The fat annoying kid from Essex with the dad that bought him singing lessons sang terribly out of tune and out of time. Gary and Robbie cringed, it was really really bad. I think his singing teacher maybe should have taught him more than one song. Another forgettable youngster, possible surname Vickers (any relation of Diana?) was titled as as 'Amusement Park Squirrel, aged 19' when he came up to sing. The one that The Sun had claimed posted himself having a wank on Youtube was nowhere to be seen.

Louis and Sinitta may have well just handed over proceedings to Johnny Robinson.
Johnny on Sinitta: 'I was hoping it would be Cilla, but we got Sinitta so I can't complain'
Johnny on being a wee bit browner than usual: 'Yes Dermot, I had a spray tan'
Johnny on life on the X Factor 'Look - I can't believe I got this far. Did my audition on stage - I think the judges liked it as I got a standing ovation.'
Johnny on his sleeping arrangements 'Where I live is very pokey, just a bedsit.'

Benefit Fraud, ahem, Friends.

The constant and lingering existence of ads for the film Friends With Benefits has reached a point I can no longer avoid. From bus ads across cities the world over (Edinburgh), to the leading film add for Cineworld’s current audience recruitment campaign I feel I can go no longer without commenting on the marketing for this, 2011’s ‘summer date night film’. For ease, I have numbered my discomforts.

ONE: I do not want to see that nightmare-edged Black Swan Mila Kunis holding her thumb and forefinger in close proximity whilst squeaky-shoes-squeak-voice Timberlake gazes absent mindedly into the middle distance with a forefinger ready to slot into the aforementioned universal scuba diving symbol for OK.

TWO: Why would I want to go on a date with someone and suggest that we are not as sexy and kooky as some sexy kookier young (mid 30s) NON-couple who have adventures on the Hollywood sign? Why would one not want to see a Norwegian subtitled faux-documentary about Trolls or a Steven Spielberg (ok, JJ Abrams) suspense marathon with the delightful Dakota Fanning and an alien with the tendencies of a magpie?

THREE: Typically with rubbish there are too many despicable alternative names for this rom com. Will You Do Me Now - Is Anyone Else As Pretty As Us? - Will STDs Be A Problem? - Of Course (Pretty) Boys And Girls Cannot Be Friends – Did Not Natalie Portman And That One Married To Demi Moore Do This Film About A Year Ago?

FOUR: The whole jumble of pseudo-misogyny allows Justin Timberlake’s press tour soundbites to sound a little like this, ‘yeaaah, it’s nice to be in a film with a girl with guts you know? To have someone to play off’ Piss. Ye. Off.

FIVE: IT IS NO LONGER SUMMER. The heating is on in the office (and I work for a charity), my feet are constantly blue and crackly and the skin on my face and hands is dryer than a martini off a much more seamless ‘date movie’ starring an age avoiding agent from a non-existent portion of UK intelligence known as 007. Even if this is a date night film, don’t drag ‘summer’ through the dirt with it – remember Summer? The kooky Zooey one in summer date night film 500 Days of Summer. Oh fuck it, drag away, it's not stopped raining for three months anyway.

Henry Pitter: The End Of An Era (Part One)

At the end of this week Harry Potter: The Final Fandango hits cinemas. Emma Watson has dressed as a swan and cried, JK Rolling has cried (surely just sobs to cover the mixed emotion that the sentiment ‘I’m just too rich’ produces in the inconsolably rich) and Danny Radcliffe has given up booze. It’s funny hey Dan, when you’re first offered a glass of wine for free you drink five, and then by the time you get to 25 you realise it’s difficult to drink and count piles of cash. Blurred vision’s a nightmare.

When I first read Harry Potter I didn’t get it. We didn’t own the books at home, and it just didn’t appeal. My first read of the opening chapters filled me with nothing but nonsense and piffle. My second encounter with The Philosopher's Stone saw me enchanted – you just have to get past all that stupid being in a cupboard stuff. Who do you think you are Harry, Andy Peters? You need a hand puppet for starters. But now – having fallen in love with the idea of being a wizard, oh come on, fighting dark lords and managing not to kill Hermione or snog Ron for 7 whole bookish years? I realised the similarities between myself and Harry. Loosely. One of my childhood houses had an amazing cupboard-under-the-stairs and by my third and forth read I dreamt of being back on St Andrews Road, in the cul-de-sac reading Harry Potter in that cupboard with dad’s defunct cameras and that weird 80s carpet cleaner. Chuck in a good wadge of teenage angst and general anger at another house move and I felt as distant and outcast as Hazza. I also have a scar on my forehead.

It would be an understatement to say I loved those books, my mum brought them home from school for me to read and I would read as I walked from class to class, onto the bus, in the car, I remember getting a lot of reading in during Miss Young’s Spanish classes (between her tears at the whole tutor group’s contempt for education) and probably spouted some arrogant revolting cheek along the lines of ‘err, Miss, I’m reading, and it’s not like I’m going to learn any Spanish from you anyway.’

When the films were announced, I discovered kindred spirits in several other HP fans in my class who thought the films were gross misconduct. I mostly thought the films were a problem as I wasn’t in them – and yes I did send off a letter to the address on Newsround when they announced open casting.

Anyway a bunch of us traipsed off to see the first film that soggy Christmas – and we discovered one thing. Not only were the child actors terrible, but it was delightfully camp. Harry Potter fans will know that when the first film was produced JK Rowling was still writing, and the Order of The Phoenix was a heart aching three years after Goblet of Fire. Kate Pyper and I came up with a plan. Based on the style of film one, the principles of consequences and using MSN messenger – and our Spanish lessons – we would write the fifth book before JK Rowling could be arsed to.

Thus, Henry Pitter and the Infamous Plan X was born.

Return to Oz. Sans notebook.

This jumble of words has been a long time in the offing. Apologies to all who have had to suffer the indignity of waking up heart in mouth after a night of fitful dream filled sleep, imagining stories of theft, overly sentimental reviews of films, stories of absolutely nothing - in short, searching in vain for a new Vamoosh post on a social network, only to discover one’s subconscious cried out in vain.

I like to wait until content's no longer relevant before writing; think of me as the Radio One of blogs. So with that in mind – here’s this year’s time down under. (I have also lost my notebook so it’s not that funny – all the witty OZ stuff was in the notebook that I lost – thank shiz it’s not another blog about me and my possessions ey, ey?)

Four months anywhere is a good length of time. Four months in Adelaide is a length of time. Besides my slightly ridiculous love affair with the Central Markets – and fierce distaste for the Garden of Unearthly Delights, or rather, what has clearly trampled on a quite spectacular Fringe venue (the Garden of Unearthly Delights maybe five, ten years ago) it was a gentle four months of wine, The Wire, sulks, mosquitoes and cough inducing laughing fits. I lived in two houses, one in the Forest of Dreams and one in Mitcham, ‘posh Adelaide’ in a large house on my own, with a silent Possum, and hobbit home and a stash of pirate DVDs. But less of that – and more of the Forest.

The Forest Of Dreams – Hurtle Square to your TomTom Crew – so named in the 80s by a German Artist who was commissioned to make art for one of the many CBD city squares* and plonked large wrought iron letters stating The, Forest, Of, Dreams on each corner of the centre of the square (traffic lights). I lived in Of. Dreams housed a Barn Owl, I had a nice clamber on Forest in the early hours of my 25th year and The and I really didn’t get on. It was quite a magical place, 56 Hurtle Sq, with a porch and some quite wonderful people. I whiled away many hours going ‘Woah I’m going to miss having a porch back in Scotland.’ I’m back in Scotland, I don’t miss having a porch here.

I spent some time in Melbourne, Gemma lent me a bike. It was cooler in Melbourne in March than one would presume, so I wore my skinny jeans and fell off the bike mid dismount several times. I also cycled roughly 5kms to Brunswick Street – the best place in Melbourne – with a hand drawn map. Reciting over and over in my head that bit in that Baz Luhrmann Sunscreen high school leavers’ message style rap, (rap?**) where he says, ‘do something everyday that scares you’ and tried to keep my brain from replacing ‘scares’ with ‘kills’. I did not cycle any such distance alone again.

I spent several days in Sydney. I nearly killed my friend Jeremy and may or may have not aided and abetted his premature leave from full time employment. What? No, he resigned…*** But I did spend four blissful hours dancing to badly rehashed house with many of Sydney’s gay Sunday night partiers, and was told at 25, yeah, I am getting too old to dance until 5AM.

Oh and I worked at a festival. He was inspired, she was funny, that was woooooah look out for that. Fuzz found fodder to laugh at me the day after shows besides their hilarious content almost every time. I'm still not sure what they were thinking and that made mine and Emma's day.




*Someone told me this once. I can’t remember who or if it’s true.
**Someone told me this. I can’t remember who, or if it’s true.
***Someone told me this. I can’t remember who...

Cutting Out A New Fringe

So here we are again. 5AM seems like a reasonable time to head home, eating has stood down to make room for free wine, running between shows and taking calls from increasingly fatigued media types.

I’ve never blogged about festivals before. Too wary of saying anything untoward about a show, a venue, a person, a blog, a newspaper, a broadcasting corporation, one of my colleagues, one of my team, how everyone at fringe towers fancies men, how eating falafel every other day feels very comforting, how one gradually loses their mind and then finds it again deep in a venue specialising in physical theatre and invisible trapeze hidden beneath a secret door in a letter box.

My idea was to try and capture the uniqueness of working arts festivals. The sudden change of pace, the ability to get up for work and be productive after 4 hours sleep and too many glasses of wine on an empty stomach. The idea that everyone suddenly knows someone everywhere and it’s not odd to have several places where one knows there will be company. And good company at that.

The consuming factor of festivals, for me, is the idea that someone super random may make some kind of discovery, see something wonderful they wouldn’t usually – and all through no particular art or design. The simplicity of open arts means that working within a festival makes me no different from a punter; if it did, maybe I wouldn’t have had a muffin thrown at me from the stage to pull my concentration into check in a dozy moment mid show on Thursday night.

In the last week, I have laughed, pondered, seen some amazing dance moves, discovered Dave Callan is the best man in the world, stood in the pouring rain to put the Fringe on the tele box, seen a willy, seen glittered breasts, diluted my hangover into a 30 minute walk to work rather than a full day blackout on more than three occasions, been annoyed at people’s poor wording and sometime objectionable behavior, been cheered by umpteen more people’s great wording and supremely wonderful behavior. I have yet to cry; that day may come. I have yet to make a complete idiot of myself in front of someone off the tele; that day will come.

Four Stars

I have always had a problem with nail biting. Let’s hope Portman can get it under control before the baby (wee Oscar) comes. Four star Black Swan has been openly referred to as ‘bananas’ and ‘bonkers’ which yes it is, but very quickly, is that because it’s a film about a lady going crazy in a mostly mysterious profession? Mysterious, bar the stories of broken bones, vicious ego and stifling competition.

Portman’s Nina is seething with such exhausted frustration that she manages to keep it together for over half the film is a wonder. That feeling of a tightening all through ones’ world – wanting to just ask questions, accept some soothing love and spill out mind whirls is a reality few people avoid completely. Portman pushes hard on the emotional realities of insecurity about who one is. Her desperately competitive and malicious mother makes the first hour of this film deeply troubling to watch; barely watching a created being, no sense of self exists for poor Nina.

Not unlike our discovered protagonist in Catfish. So unsure and full of longing that the only natural conclusion is one of sprawling deceit. I wouldn’t want to ruin this documentary – debate rages about whether this is a documentary or an elaborate ruse – to me it’s a documentary as that’s how the filmmaker wants it to be received. I see no further reason to tear possible falsities or coincidences apart. Well, maybe a wee bit of tearing. But without spraying spoilers all over this blog like a wet dog – the creation of characters and their obligations to others first and foremost are extraordinary. Film subject Nev Schulman at one point asks why his brother, the filmmaker, insists on continuing to film as he feels more and more uncomfortable with where the story is headed. He, as us, is reminded he has agreed to whatever was going to happen, and therefore has handed over more than expected to his sniggering brother, his mate, and a couple of reasonably shoddy handheld cameras.

Over the last month I have seen several stellar films. Several of these films fall into a great human nature ditch – to what extent to we control our fate. Allow me to illustrate. Exit Through The Gift Shop is one of the oddest laugh out loud films I have seen in a while, besides True Grit, but I get a feeling the Coen Brothers' rider was laughing gas and shrooms. For those of you that know little about what is commonly known as ‘The Bansky’ film – this documentary is the work of Bansky – rather than a film about the pesky stencil wielding Bristolian. The subject becomes Mr Brainwash, or just Terry, a man, who quite astonishingly created a multi-million dollar fortune which, through Bansky’s eyes, was created through absolute sheer gall and one massive misunderstanding.

There is a sense in which all the pondering and insecurity the world stirs maybe should be kept to the cunning and relaxed approach of Bansky on screen, or even the gentle and honest approach of Catfish, a film which sees lives thrown about like a cat in a washing machine, (emerging soggy, shuddering but eventually proud and unperturbed after the ordeal.) Black Swan is a tough watch, and the music of Swan Lake, though spectacular, is not wholly soothing. I wonder how many broken people, determined to make their graceful mark on something (swan analogy) and longed to reach the top of something since wished that Bansky’s cynicism post Terry had hit them... ‘I used to encourage everyone to make art, not so much now.’

Hot Hot Heat

My next blog was going to be about films. I finally succumbed to checking my blog hits (smash) and the blogs about films seemed to be most popular. So I was going to just write them, then, in the style of a flash flood, tsunami or hurricane, weather (otherwise known as 'things that happen in Queensland') got in the way. This is some chat about 40 degrees, and some.

The Sunday just past – the one that ran over the end of January like a ‘hey, get over it, it is freekin’ twenty eleven and you were scared of the millinium bug. Pah, try adulthood.’ Was forty degrees in Adelaide, South Australia. I was not aware it was over 40 degrees until I had walked over 2kms in it. I was sweaty. And not the sexy Slave 4 U Britney kind - the normal kind - where hair sticks to your face in a comb over and one has to walk like a duck-cum-penguin to prevent a childless future because ones upper thighs have sought each other’s company in a simultaneous battle against sweat and becoming sandpaper. Here are my observations of plus 40 degree days and Australia.

Air Conditioning. People who don’t have air conditioning are very hot, and people who do say they love the heat.

People in Australia drive their cars everywhere. Pedestrianism is tantamount those London dawn scenes in 28 Days Later. You're in your own world on the pavement. When it’s hot, drivers look at walkers with even more concerted confusion.

British people get their asses in the sun. Yay! Skin cancer!

Hollering "This is the wrong country for that" at Australian dog owners seems perfectly reasonable.

Hollering "stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat" at Australians seems perfectly reasonable. (This is because it is reasonable - stop asking me how I'm coping with the heat. Ask your fudging dog.)

I said this about Madrid and I’ll say it about Adelaide. Walking through an alley and through an extractor fan is rubbish, and smelly, but you pass through it and avoid that alley in future. Being in a hot wind that is produced by genuine weather is tough. Because the wind is hot. It’s like being stuck in a toaster, but no one is sticking a knife in to get you as even if they lifted you out the toaster it’s emitting such heat it’s inescapable, (and no one likes getting stabbed really.)

I’ve been doing weird things with fans since the heat subsided trying to move cool air into my hot house. Generally I’m pretty lazy, so this effort must be the 40 degreeness.

Silly band names' accidental reference in general conversation gets annoying. Oh lord, I can't be arsed with this hot hot heat. Warning: Dogs die in hot cars Sheila. Wham I can't cool down. Oh lord, to fall by accident into an oasis in this desert of unforgivable warmth. Ah mate? It's all a blur... you get the idea. Yes this is a crowded house – molecularly.

Tea cools you down? Lies.

Films That Start With The

Being comfortable in your own skin seems to be a wonderfully superfluous link running very skimpily between several films I have seen in the last week. Now you know it’s always my intention for this blog to draw a chuckle –I think I may have hit the ridiculous tea splutter nail firmly on the head with this one.
So here goes, two films that are linked by more than Australian general release dates. Honestly.

On the surface, Angelina and Johnny are beautiful and seeing as going to the pictures is much about looking at things – one would imagine this is a sure fire ‘looking at’ winner. I think if The Tourist was say, a calendar, twelve beautiful images curated so one can cope with them for roughly thirty days whilst bearing a passing resemblance to the months they preside over, it would fulfil some purpose. I have taken the liberty of drawing the two major problems out, in spite of the general prettiness and that.

Firstly, Ange & Johnny don't really want to do each other. Now, this is a problem on several levels. Sexy sex is not always necessary in a romcom – Look at Romeo and his Juliet, we never saw them doing it, but the tantalising lark/nightingale quip was enough to make us feel the sexual tension. The ‘I do not want you to leave my bed’ clause is not a problem for Johnny, as he’s not invited in. They look more like they are playing with the idea of being something other than pretty and can’t be bothered to invest in steely gazes or genuinely fancy le (silk) pants of each other.

Secondly, twists. With a twist, one should have an idea one is coming, or not at all. I almost missed it in this one – all on screen looked so thoroughly ready to go home by that point. I hope someone involved is ravaged by a container full of Twister ice lollies angry at their wasted investment. There now, a film in which Johnny and Ange fight a container full of Twisters may have some mileage.

The King’s Speech is an account of a very personal demon juxtaposed with a huge moment in the world’s history. Albert is comfortable in his own skin, trusting that situation shouldn’t take an unexpected change. I would imagine most people watching would know it does take him down an alternative route – not least from reading the film blurb – or most from having paid an iota of attention in GSCE history. How those on screen come to know themselves is great to watch, the sense of obligation, that one will have a role, and some of it will be through situation, some through personal choice and some will be prophesy making good. You tell a child they’re something they will often be it, or take it to adulthood unthinkingly – in the simplest terms. You are this, you cannot be that, and we know you best. And ol’ Albert (King George VI) had one crazy upbringing. His brother was locked away and died at thirteen for starters.

Some of the beautiful moments are watching how one responds to a situation they never expected to be in. (A bit like Ange and Johnny? Where the heck are we? Can we play with these boats? Yay! A Russian!) Lionel (Geoffrey Rush) never expected to coach the King, Albert never expected to have any friends.

Colin Firth is wonderful, and Helena Bonham Carter steals it. It’s generally a beautiful thing apart from there is maybe a bit too much skin/face time for the big screen. There are moments where it mirrors a Clearasil advert, or worse a facelift clinic, the before to The Tourist’s after. But then we all prefer a chip in our porcelain, it lends personality.

Since I wrote this the Golden Globes happened: I’m the only one constructively criticising then, best joke of the night though Ricky - it was almost topical!