Ten Observations on Abstinence from Alcohol.

Ten Observations on Abstinence from Alcohol.

I am nearing the end of dry January. I’m not really a fan of dry January as a term, or a thing, but now I have experienced it I do understand why it is called what it is. It’s so called as then there’s an end date. 

10. Nothing tastes like alcohol. You can have a lemonade, a really posh one from Waitrose or Sainsbury’s or the Co-op but it just tastes like lemons and sugar. 

9. On the reverse, taste-wise, a glass of wine poured reverentially into a glass, smelt, swirled and sipped, soaks every tastebud like it belongs. Apple juice does not do this, it twangs on some forcefully and then leaves a sweet taste. I like my aftertastes to burn. Or so I now know.

8. Time. Every hour is 60 minutes long and every minute 60 seconds. There is no relaxing of this rule when sober. 

7. My shoulders are up by my ears. Stress is not relived in the traditional way. How now to relieve it?

6. The Wind In The Willows effect. There is a chapter towards the end of Wind In The Willows when Ratty and Mole walk out of the Wild Wood and through a human town. It’s Christmas and families, people, humans generally are gathered indoors. The endless dark of the winter months means the glow is from within, never from without. I am on the outside looking in. I am Ratty, or Mole. 

5. I still can’t get out of bed. Everyone talks about a lightness suddenly aiding their step, the abstinence aid. I have not experienced this. 

4. You don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone. Well, I think I did. I was really ready for a break from booze. I have learned to love drinking for the taste, the chat, the mood heightener and deepener. On New Year’s Eve I was so fed up of the stuff that I had to think practically about what I could drink so I would enjoy it, nothing too sweet, nothing too heavy. This was not much fun, and neither do I miss the days where anything went, 'yeah I'll have a glass of Perry' (translate: bottle of Lambrini.) I like that I have learned to enjoy stuff I can and cannot afford and that I could happily share my iota of knowledge about wine and beer with anyone that cares to listen. (Hence the mention of an unoaked chardonnay, not being a ponce, the stuff tends to have a smell of old socks. I quite like that.)

3. Health. I’m not sure my liver knows what’s going on. I definitely am more aware of bits and bobs, but this is frightening. In House they are always hunting the mysterious factor that has caused some mystery debilitation, or Lupus. I worry they will now search for my debilitation and realise that my body requires alcohol to function. Red wine to keep the blood stirring, beer to keep the muscles relaxed, unoaked chardonnay to keep my vision clear, gin to remind me to feel, whisky for a really good debate about nothing. Cider, well, I feel like I could give or take cider having drunk so much apple juice. 

2. I really have no idea what everyone is talking about, this being a good thing. My skin is not any clearer and not all my ailments have magically cured (I don’t really have any ailments but y’know, that’s what clearing out the alcohol is supposed to do.) 

1. We’ve all seen that image of the chicks in a nest, their whole bodies existing to stretch their beak and neck higher over their siblings to get the worm when it flies in from above. That’s my tastebuds. They know something’s missing. I can feel them, jostling and vying for the best position should something glorious tumble past my lips. 

An Open Letter (ish?) to Bridget Christie

I’ve been wondering how to frame my reaction to Bridget Christie’s show A Bic for Her. Bridget mentions in the show if you want to send her an email, you can, but of course then I’d have to ask people for her email and they’d probably say no, so I’m writing this instead, an open letter if you will.

If you’re reading Bridget, many congrats on the Comedy Award nod, lovely to see two nice ladies joining the funny funny funny funny funny funny funny ten men on the list of twelve people.

Bridget’s show is one of the most incredible stand up shows I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen loads of comedians: David O’Doherty, Daniel Kitson, Hannah Gadsby, Susan Calman, David Kay, Tom Bell, Greg Proops, Ellis James, Claudia O’Doherty and Tim Key that make me really really laugh, and lots of others that have raised a chuckle. But last Monday morning, sneaking out of work to queue up and watch Bridget alone, (alone as in I went by myself not alone alone as the queue was really big,) I wasn’t aware what was going to happen. This isn’t a review and this bit is just context. I suppose the idea  is that I’ve seen comedians and laughed at them, and I laughed non-stop through Bridget’s show so it was even more affecting that it was both so funny and bashed away at my conscious like a woman at the door of a men’s-only golf club.

The show was very special for me as I spend a lot of time being nervous, sweaty and explanatorily-annoying about being a feminist.
I’m not in a political movement, I am, I’m not, I am.
I’m not threatened by the patriarchy as I rise above it and don’t let it affect my life. It does, it doesn’t, it does, it doesn’t; or actually maybe it just does as we should all be vocal about it to help those that are unable to be.
I think Caitlin Moran is bang on the money, she’s not, she is, she’s not, she is.
GAH Women’s Hour stop missing the point and asking women in places of power what they’ve had to give up to gain access to the heady heights of sucess, you did, you didn’t, you did you didn’t.

You catch my drift. (If you haven’t caught my drift please give up now OR read on knowing it’s probably not going to get much clearer.)

The brilliant impassioned thing about Bridget Christie’s show, which by the end had brought me close to tears (and although it’s a rousing call, I don’t think her aim is heightened emotions), was that every one of her exhaustions I’ve countered and tried to either ignore or explain away. Ignore or explain away as it’s exhausting to fight all. the. time. One gets so fucking tired of fighting. Saying no, no, no, I don’t feel that’s correct, it’s not fair for you to make that judgement; it’s not right for you to presume anything about me because I’m a woman.

Bridget’s commentary is both so subtle and so clear, her performance so funny and so poignant. The repositioning of Beyonce, she is not a feminist icon, she is role-model. So gut-wrenchingly simple I have no idea how I’ve not managed to put that into words before. How John Inverdale is such a wanker I’m not even going to waste my time wishing him dead…. How much time I have wasted.

Bridget works wonders with the blatant comedy in all the most ridiculous gender prescriptive parts of our society. A pen for girls, yes, because the Bronte’s struggled so hard to write WITH MEN’S PENS. The fact that women were invented ages ago any maybe by now WE SHOULD BE USED TO THEM. The fact that small children can see sexually explicit images of women lathered across newspapers in any old shop EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK. And I’d like to add my own onto this, dear men, when you come into my office, the office to which I have left the door open so you can happily come through for a natter no matter your question, creed or countenance, DO NOT PAW ME OR STROKE MY ARM, I AM NOT A CAT.

This is maybe the point at which I should just say go see Bridget’s take on all this, as every scrap of subtly has been etched out by my womanly hormones that made me use caps lock frequently. Or perhaps there’s a simpler explanation, maybe it’s just because I'm not using a keyboard specially designed for women.

My Bling List - Edinburgh International Film Festival 2013

Several years ago, on this blog, I wrote a sulky response to failures at the EIFF.

From an audience member’s point of view, the festival wasn’t about us anymore, and aware as I am how important it is to spoil promoters and industry types, it is important that audiences get a fair deal. Priced out of the festival, I didn’t see a single film in 2011.

2013 seems to be the year OF the audience. Several different price bands for repeat visits is all that’s required to get many people buying tickets for more films than they can realistically schedule into 10 days. With more of a do and less of a moan, here are my selections so far for this year’s Edinburgh International Film Festival.

The Battle of the Sexes.

Fri 21, Sun 23 June.

A documentary about Billie Jean King taking on former men’s tennis champion and self-proclaimed male chauvinist pig Bobby Riggs (who ironically I’ve never heard of) after he claimed at the age of 55 he could beat any woman. I don’t know whether I’ll be angry, or enthused, but I’m happy with either. Apparently there’s a great soundtrack… 1973? Expect Suzi Quatro, Bowie and err, Slade…

Blackbird

Tue 25, Thu 27 June.

Without fail the EIFF guide always seduces me with its promo images. And Blackbird was the first image to sell a film to me, 3 pages in. Kinda pathetic. A UK film, Blackbird isn’t the first film to bemoan the loss of talent in villages and the lure of the big city. But as folk music is both wrecking-ball bashing (Mumford and Blah) and beautifully seeping back (village open mic nights) into the common consciousness, I couldn’t resist the idea of it seeping into the film festival as it should be, played by people that have lived and learnt. Let's be aware of the legacy of older generations – and how if we don’t share their stories now, they won’t be around forever, a strong sentiment for celluloid.

The Bling Ring

Sat 22, Sun 23 June.

There’s been a lot of press coverage of Sofia Coppola’s new film. So there’s little to add here. Two weekends ago, battered by hen dos, weddings and weekends away, I spent the whole Sunday catching up on films, including Coppola’s 2010 Somewhere, which is absolutely superb, subtle, self-aware and a real insight. Looking forward to the follow up.

Comrade Kim Goes Flying

Sat 22, Thu 27 June.

Triumph in adversity on trapeze? What’s not to love?

Another gorgeous image pulled me to this, coal miner Kim Yong-Mi and her dreams of joining the circus becoming reality. A reassuring premise for the PR who dreams of joining the circus.

The copy is like candyfloss. We’ll see if the film turns out to be full of air or real spun sugar.

The Great Hip Hop Hoax.

Wed 26, Thu 27, Fri 28 June.

Billy Boyd doing some kind of Hip Hop? In.

Keep Smiling. (Gaigimet)

Fri 28, Sat 29 June.

Georgia Mother of the Year 2010. I’ve never seen a Georgian film before, and this seems like a stirring premise. Could this highlight the twisted nature of our obsession with the mums in popular culture? The Dutchess HAS A BUMP. Stacey Soloman HAD A FAG. Kerry Katona WRONG RIGHT WRONG RIGHT. Katie Holmes LEFT HUSBAND TO PROTECT CHILD IN LILY POTTER TYPE STAND OFF.  Coleen Rooney WHY ALWAYS K? Everyone POST BABY BODIES. Everyone ON THE SCHOOL RUN. Everyone HAS TO HAVE IT ALL. Everyone KEEP SMILING.

The Sea.

Sun 23, Mon 24 June.

An adaptation of the Man Booker Prize-winning novel by John Banville. Always interesting to see novel adaptions without the $300mil price tag, and it wouldn’t be the EIFF without at least one Irish film under my belt. 

So that's the initial list of tickets bought on one of the excellent bulk ticket deals. 

I will attempt to wang on on here about some of the above - if you'd like to come with me to any of these films, tweet me and I'll email you the dates I'm going.

Stating the tweein' obvious

I don't want to discuss the 'self' as a brand, (is it all not exhausting enough?) but I want to ponder twitter, and the throw away snippets flung out onto the internet.  Tweets are honest accounts of thoughts, reactions and opinions - but as fine-tuned ponders or vents, they present a very reflective but never entirely true self. Either honesty, or spin, and with the opportunity to get it right first time.

If I was tweeting as a large organisation using front-facing third-person correspondence, 140 characters would be a considered reflection of that organisation's goals and 'character'. The handle is entirely accountable for the bigger picture, and tweeting in third person places the correspondence one away from the respondent. This 'comment' therefore requires sensible and considered content, which can absolutely be light-hearted and informal, but does need to reflect the organisation as a whole. So while shouty jokes about being unable to pick an exhibition to feature on a museum account (i.e 'as they're all ace') is fine, but a joke about 'oh my god are we serving horse to the queen' at a theatre hosting royalty isn't ever going to fly as the news agenda is going to swoop in, no matter how much silly nonsense it really is. 

When tweeting as myself some these filters just don't need to apply, it's not likely I've fed an economy burger to royalty is it? So if I tweet it, it's not running a risk of news or upset. I'm aware of the nature of tweets becoming news, or being libelous, so clearly my twitter account does neither - it goes without saying. In the same way that if I spoke to the who or whatever I'm responding to, I would be ready to discuss my personal reaction to the content. Fair's fair innit. And by nature I question, so my twitter account should too no?

I have been very surprised by the reaction, where after a tweet, offline, there has been an assumption I would not be willing to discuss my comments. Hiding behind a tweet? (My twitter handle is my full name.)  I've had brilliant and enlightening discussions with many people on twitter, I know the medium and I'm ready to explain myself if and when. For a million and one reasons being totally honest and uncensored on social media is a TERRIBLE idea. From unsolicited monologues about a new baby through to propaganda and bullying and much worse, we should all be trained to use social media responsibly. But responding to a situation one finds oneself in shouldn't be an issue. Least of all something you should fear will be received as a cowardly, sly response. One is entirely accountable, and I'm always ready to be, and ready to hear the other side to the story... otherwise, I wouldn't post. I'd call someone and have a natter.  

I always strive to be honest online, and although I do change my mind on comments before I press tweet and consider the response to every comment, but I've never expected tweeting to be something to hide behind for a 'real' character? It's a jungle out there when considering the amount of brand identities, the celebrity waves and strategic communications, but I'm talking about many accounts just using twitter as a (maybe a little better spoken, and more precise) extension of self. I'm also always going to be ready to defend my comments; why else would I say them? There's no need for anyone to worry that I'm a monkey sitting in a bin of banana skins heaving at the confusion and exaltation of having EATEN ALL THE BANANAS.  If you're pondering my waffling, don't. Either chuckle, or move on. 

 

 

I Went To See Some Art.

On Saturday I went to see the Damien Hirst retrospective at Tate Modern. This year seems to have been a big one for art, and not solely as I work at a gallery and swim in Titian, Munch and new commissions and acquisitions but more cause Hockney happened and everyone got all excited and Joey Barton tweeted about going to galleries on his days off. 

I had not been fussed about the Damien Hirst, I saw a guy on Channel 4 News with a Gin & Tonic live from Inverness in the April sunshine selling the 'it’s not art' line quite well, whilst the studio pundit did a rather shit job of defending Hirst’s status. Plenty of people have been to see it but wasn’t until a colleague recently recommended it (and was genuinely surprised at my disdain) that I decided maybe it was an opportunity to really decide, for myself, first hand, where I stand on Damien Hirst. 

The exhibition got itself off to a good start without Hirst’s help but as my companions, two school friends, are some of my favourites to wander round galleries with. The first thing to hit us was young Hirst in Dead Head – the smirking art student pulls his head up to a severed head in an anatomy lab. It becomes increasingly obvious why this work opens the exhibition, more so than the Dead Cow Head In A Box (labeled by the artist as A Thousand Years) Dead Head expresses in an instant, the devilish look in Hirst’s eye, the cheek and the scandal, this is a man obsessed with the path through life, and the world after death. Not what happens after death, but how the human processes it and how we play with it in the world around us. Let's be honest, he's hardly the first artist to be intrigued by death and anatomy.

From the pocket of stagnant air seeping out of A Thousand Years – through to the life cycle of In And Out Of Love, (the butterfly room) on past the huge microscope slides like slices of whole cow cracked in two, complete with embryotic sac and calve deep inside – seeing Hirst’s work as a whole changes things. It’s no longer the wanker with the shark in a tank, 'or god, I painted dots on my bedroom wall at 15' (I did – I’m that much of a wanker myself, mine are more Sol LeWitt than Hirst mind, and I'd never seen either) but you see a fastidious obsession with form and continuation. My favourite work took me by surprise, Lullaby The Seasons, at first look a glittering series of display cabinets lined with various ‘every day’ pills on their long mirrored shelves, each of the four cabinets has a different colour scheme, and glancing at the name makes the obvious blatant. Pills for the seasons; pulling your year along one swig and swallow at a time. 

Rachel and I chatted on the tube hours later about whether Hirst was more valid than Miro - recently on in the same space in Tate Modern. In the exhibition I found myself unsure as we walked round whether I could compare Munch and Hirst; both men’s work is defined by deeply personal preoccupations.  I’m still not sure, but I do know as we looked round we ripped at ideas and were repulsed or intrigued with different works – so I’d say, although no Damien I don’t want to spend £1,800 on a poster in the shop the curator definitely wins – this is an exhibition. Like wandering through Hirst's mind, it is most definitely art to make such a performance of your inner ponders and curiosities.

Top Nine Films of 2011

It has been a while since I've posted anything up here and I was hoping to make my Top Ten Films an annual thing but what with new jobs, soul searching and general anxiety and distractions including going to the cinema, running and drinking beer I've not just sat down and written.

They are a Top Nine as I have a feeling one of the three films I desperately regret not seeing Hugo, Drive, Tyrannosaur would easily have been in this list so there is a space to represent my inadequacy at not always making it to the cinema.

I would also like to mention the Edinburgh International Film Festival. In 2010, many of my favourite films were viewed at the fantastic June festival, in 2011, the lack of a inviting 'buy loads of tickets - save some money' offer meant I attended nothing. Thank shiz I still caught The Guard (no. eight) post the festival. If you feel the same - I implore you to support film makers who need audiences and someone to take a chance on their film - by letting the EIFF know we will come and see film upon film and take lots of risks if we get a leeeeetle bit of help.

My top Nine films of 2011.

Nine
My Week With Marilyn
Michelle Williams. Tis all. (Oh and Judy Dench playing Judy Dench)

Eight
The Guard
'Where are you getting your cocaine, cause those are different streets to where I'm getting my cocaine'

Seven
Senna
For certain events and moments, the team had over 20 different options of footage. Do not for a second consider any knowledge of Formula One to be relevant. A truly extrodinary documentary.

Six
Super 8
'Guys watch out'

Five
Rise of the Planet of the Apes
Just super brill. Perfectly paced.

Four
Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
'There's a mole.' And it's been a long time since he spent his weekends down by the river with Ratty.

Three
Bridesmaids
I have no words. If only my life was this funny* *I sometimes think it's this funny in my head.

Two
Weekend
Utterly beautiful, the accident that is love, and lust, and cups of tea (sans sugar).
And I can testify, in all soppiness, two days are not nothing, or at least, they weren't for me. (I do not feature in this film as a gay man.)

One
We Need To Talk About Kevin
I have never so nearly walked out of a cinema as it got so uncomfortable, yet this film really is almost perfect. I stuck it out and it stuck in my head for months... Lynne Ramsay is a genius.

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.