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.
Wednesday, 21 August 2013
Sunday, 2 June 2013
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.
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…
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.
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.
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.
Wed 26, Thu 27, Fri 28 June.
Billy Boyd doing some kind of Hip Hop?
In.
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.
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.
Thursday, 21 March 2013
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.
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, 12 February 2012
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.
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.
Friday, 2 December 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
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.'
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.'
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