Breakfast In Bed: Rowan Stanfield aka @Rowstar's Blog

Robin Hood at the Devonshire Park Theatre

2012-01-14T12:55:00.000Z

As has been the tradition for the past few years, on Thursday I went to see the Eastbourne pantomime in the final week of its run, followed straight afterwards by the crew's spoof version. This year's show was Robin Hood, an unusual choice, and all the better for it. Apart from the first panto I worked on in 1992 (Robinson Crusoe), it's felt like a never-ending cycle of the three favourites - Aladdin, Jack and the Beanstalk and Cinderella, so it was nice to see something more original, especially written for Eastbourne.

Since the town started producing its own pantomimes a few years ago, a distinct culture has been fostered around the festive production that is largely to do with the familiar faces that keeping popping up. Regulars such as Martyn Knight, Carl Patrick and David Alder have built up a warm rapport with the local audience over the years, making for an intimate, conspiratorial atmosphere. This year's token TV celeb was Eastenders' John Altman, aka 'Nasty' Nick Cotton.

Pantomime is by its nature formulaic. One expects and looks forward to the essential components: the 'he's behind you' scene, the slapstick chase, the soppy romantic bit, the duel, the songsheet, the transformation - all tied up with a good dose of bawdy humour and a sprinkling of innuendo for the grown ups.

I can remember as a chid being genuinely terrified by the panto villain, with his or her over the top make up and ominous green lighting, and if anything was missing from this year's panto, it was the lack of a convincing baddie. Karen Mann did an admirable job in the supporting role as Nottingham's mother, but the main man himself was more grumpy than menacing.

Tracey Penn was a textbook principle boy in the title role of Robin, belting out her numbers in a crowd-pleasing West End style. Some of the cast's other best singers, including David Alder and Nicholas Colicos, were disappointingly under-ultilised, but the choice of music was generally pleasing. I especially enjoyed Carl Patrick's rendition of The Lazy Song - a laid back reggae tune, nicely choreographed, that broke up the usual ballad/rock/ballad selection.

Although we all know it's a filler to allow the big finale set change to happen, I thought this year's songsheet scene was a little uninspiring. As always, the kids that got up on stage were the funniest part of this section. One of the boys, when asked who his favourite character was, replied in earnest "Peter Pan", which greatly tickled the cast and audience.

Overall it was an excellent production with plenty of laughs, that rounded off my festive season perfectly. The crew's Cod version - an institution that has grown from year to year - was, as ever, hysterical. Here are some little snippets to give you a flavour - though of course I appreciate it is funnier if you know the people involved:

Next year's Christmas production is to be Sleeping Beauty, another less conventional choice that I hope will bring opportunities for more experimental elements. I would love to see some other more obscure fairy tales given the Eastbourne panto treatment in future years, too. If they wanted to be really progressive, the producers could even let the town vote on what the 2013 show should be.

TV Review: The Fades on BBC 3

2011-11-01T20:49:00.000Z

I don't often wax lyrical about TV shows, largely because I don't have a TV and am therefore limited in my viewing, but something excellent that I came across recently via iPlayer was The Fades, described as a fantasy horror series. Having been disappointed with Being Human, True Blood and other potential Buffy successors in that vein, I didn't have high hopes, but was intrigued enough to give it a go. I'm glad I did. In just six episodes, the Fades managed to dispense with a whole lot of tired fantasy cliches, rolling up and reinventing the vampire/zombie/apocalypse genres into something refreshingly different and really rather good.

A short, six episode series, it was truly disturbing in places, laugh out loud funny in others. The combination of fantasy and humour is something I've craved since Buffy finished in 2003 and while others have tried and failed to achieve it, The Fades hit the right note exactly. A solid cast of stalwarts (including an all too brief appearance from Daniella "This Life" Nardini as a gun slinging lady vicar) and sterling performances from the younger leads - especially central character Paul and his best friend Mac - made for absorbing viewing.

The Fades to which the title refers are a breed of ghost-come-zombie-come-vampires, stuck on earth since the ascension process got broken by too many deaths in the Second World War, desperately bitter and hungry for justice. Noone can see The Fades except The Angelics, who become their nemesis by default as much as anything. About as far from the white-frocked, golden winged biblical vision as you can imagine, the Angelics are a rag tag bunch brought together only by their common ability to see and interact with the Fades. 17 year old Paul is special amongst the Angelics, with additional powers including the ability to heal, and a touching compassion for the Fades. The lines that have traditionally separated goodies from baddies are wonderfully blurred as the the Fades' motives are explored and the accepted interpretation of heaven and hell ripped up and re-imagined.

In between this apocalyptic unravelling, there is plenty of real life emotion and interaction as Paul tries to get on with the business of being a teenager (losing his virginity, getting through college), all the time haunted by terrifying visions of inevitable despair and destruction. I don't want to spoil the outcome for those who haven't seen it, but let's just say the ending is not as one might expect. And all the better for it.

Expect to be unsettled, challenged, disturbed and entertained. Here's a little taster:

Sound like your cup of tea? You can still watch The Fades for another week on iPlayer: http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0129tkw/episodes/guide Or you can always go old school and buy the boxed set, of course.

Pass It On: Brighton's Having a Maker Faire

2011-08-19T20:18:00.000+01:00

I've been pretty busy lately, what with looking after my poorly husband (he's got a slipped disc), working non-stop (and loving it), entertaining several boisterous nephews (and loving them) and helping to promote the upcoming Brighton Mini Maker Faire (probably the coolest event ever to happen in Sussex). I've got lots of news to blog about, including a brilliant festival I went to last weekend, but am probably not going to have a chance to write anything decent until the autumn.

So this is just a quick plug for the aforementioned Maker Faire, to persuade you to come along and to help spread the word - even if you can't be there it yourself (though I hope you can).

Maker Faire is an event that started in California (like most of the coolest things, let's be honest) and now happens in cities and towns all over the globe. We've never had one in Brighton before, or anywhere in the South for that matter, so it's pretty exciting. Here's a little video I made to give you a flavour for what it's all about...

Welcome to Brighton Mini Maker Faire 2011 from BuildBrighton Hackspace on Vimeo.

At Brighton Mini Maker Faire you can expect to see such mind-boggling things as self-balancing electric skateboards, gingerbread ghetto blasters, subsonic submarines, mechanical musical hats, an interactive mirror, a giant Etch-a-Sketch, a stringless singing ukelele, Japanese kanzashi flowers, battling daleks and robots and much, much more. And it's not just about watching - you can make things yourself, too. Learn to knit, crochet, felt and solder; see railway carriages being restored and have your brainwaves turned into sounds.

It’s all happening 2 weeks tomorrow – Saturday 3rd September at the Brighton Dome and we want it to be a big success. Which is where you come in...

If you're up for helping the cause and telling people about Brighton Mini Maker Faire (and believe me, they'll thank you for it), here are some simple things you can do to help spread the word:

Invite all your Facebook friends to the Facebook event page and ask them to invite their friends
Tweet about the event, using the #bmmf hashtag and @MakerFaireBTN
Post a link to the web site on your LinkedIn profile feed: www.makerfairebrighton.com
Write about it on your blog/Tumblr/Facebook page etc. Don’t forget to link to www.makerfairebrighton.com
Display a PicBadge on your Facebook and/or Twitter profile pic
Bookmark www.makerfairebrighton.com on your Digg/Delicious/StumbleUpon profile
And the old school one – email all your friends and contacts to tell them about it
Ask any journalists/media contacts you have if they can write/broadcast about it (or pass contacts on to me if you prefer)

Thanks in advance for helping us get the word out. And most of all, I hope to see you there (with all your friends and relations).

That Comedy Thing at the Lamb, Eastbourne

2011-06-16T20:21:00.001+01:00

Back in May I blogged about some of Eastbourne's upcoming cultural offerings, into which I was planning on throwing myself wholeheartedly as part of my reintegration strategy since moving back in December. So far, it's been a mixed bag of events. The two outdoor festival things were not so inspiring - partly due to bad weather in the case of Eastbourne Fiesta, but also I suspect, a lot to do with lack of creativity on the part of the organisers.

But it's not all bad. Last week I went along for the first time to my local pub's comedy night. It's a great pub and I go there all the time, but I didn't know what to expect from a stand up show in its bijoux upstairs function room. I was pleasantly surprised. The night, called That Comedy Thing, is organised by Eastbourne resident Jo Neary, who also happens to be an established comedian with a great network of funny friends. This helps a lot in attracting rather more glittering lineups than one might expect to a tiny (not really a) theatre in Brighton's poorer (culturally at least) seaside cousin.

Last week's lineup was especially appealing, including as it did Jim Bob from Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. I was a big fan of the band in my schooldays and introduced many classmates to such classics as Sherriff Fatman, Anytime Any Place Anywhere and The Only Living Boy in New Cross. One of my friends even had the Jim Bob haircut in the last year of school. Sharing the billing was Isy Suttie (aka Dobby from Peep Show), whom I had not encountered before, having never watched Peep Show. The venue was packed and both did brilliant turns.

Claiming confusion over his eligibility to perform at a comedy night, Jim Bob nevertheless managed to tickle us all with his witty ditties about Tesco self checkouts and a torrets-inflicted teacher, alongside some acoustic versions of old Carter favourites. Having never seen them live back in the heyday, it was a bit of a thrill for me (and my equally excited school friend Daniel) to be treated to such an intimate set.

Comedy with music is my favourite type of comedy, so I was pleased to see Isy Suttie rock up for the second half with guitar in hand. Hers was an inspired brand of storytelling comedy, following a quirky love story narrative and far more compelling than the average cynical stand-up. And it had songs. If you're off to Edinburgh Festival this summer, I highly recommend catching her Pearl & Dave show - for which the Lamb gig was a practice run.

There are several more Edinburgh warm up shows happening at the Lamb over the next few weeks - grab your tickets from Oxboffice. Meanwhile, a big 'yay' to Jo Neary for putting on such a great night right on my doorstep. I will definitely be a regular from now on.

Things to Do In Eastbourne This Spring

2011-05-04T21:39:00.001+01:00

Since moving back to Eastbourne from Brighton in December, I've been working hard to re-establish my roots here by making the most of local life. I do miss being able to step out of my house and virtually straight into any number of appealing restaurants, pubs and gigs and this feeling is especially evident with Brighton Festival about to start. But all those things are only a 30 minute train ride away and if you know where to look for them, Eastbourne has plenty of charms of its own. Lately there've been fabulous dinner parties with old school friends, lovely long walks along the peaceful seafront, many more family gatherings than before and a surprising number of interesting happenings in and around town.

Last weekend we went along to the Magnificent Motors vintage car show (see picture, right) in Princes Park and have signed up to a load more local events in the next few weeks. For those curious about what the Sunshine Coast has to offer, here are some suggested things to do in Eastbourne in May and June.

Sat 7th May - Green Fayre, Gildredge Park

A village fete with a conscience, Green Fayre is one of the more appealing events in the Eastbourne Festival 2011 calendar. Especially so to me, as I live just across the road from Gildredge Park, in Old Town. I'm particularly looking forward to the promise of gypsy swing and folk music, the 'Frock n Roll' clothes swap and some yummy organic/veggie food stalls.

Mon 16th May - Animal Collective, Winter Garden

When Beirut played at the Winter Garden last year it was absolute mayhem of the like rarely seen in Eastbourne's theatre district (or anywhere in Eastbourne for that matter). Although it's on a Monday night, expect similar excitement for Animal Collective, with bus loads of Brighton hipsters making the trip along the coast to see the band's only UK tour date outside of ATP Festival. For more details and tickets, see the Melting Vinyl website.

Sun 22nd May - Finzi Quartet, All Saints Chapel

Perhaps more hip replacement than hipster, this classical recital is part of the Meads Music Festival - a series of Sunday afternoon concerts at the beautiful All Saints Chapel. This one happens to be on my wedding anniversary, so I'm hoping for romantic string arrangements in the shape of some soothing Mendelssohn and Ravel.

Sat 28th - Sun 29th May - Eastbourne Fiesta, Western Lawns

Billed as 'Eastbourne's first cultural fusion of food, real ales, live entertainment and fun!', Eastbourne Fiesta is going down on the last weekend of the month in the pleasant Western Lawns - just a stone's throw from the marvellous Towner Gallery. Since the official website insists on making you download a PDF in order to access the programme, I've taken the liberty of embedding it on Scribd. I'd probably give the Sunday morning bagpipes a miss, but I do recommend local band Gadzooks, who are playing at 2pm that same afternoon.

Friday 3rd June - Magic Hat Ensemble, Under Ground Theatre

If you can get past its terrible website, the Under Ground has some pretty decent gigs going on. I've lined up folk, gypsy, swing, indie and classical music, but I couldn't let the season pass without a jazz fix - and this looks like the best option. If you're a jazz fan and have never heard of the Magic Mat Ensemble, give them a listen.

Tues 7th June - That Comedy Thing, The Lamb

This is a regular night that I've been meaning to attend since my return to The Bourne. It's at my local pub, so there's no excuse other than working too hard and being rubbish. But when a friend mentioned recently that the legendary Jimbob of Carter USM fame was doing a slot in June, I was finally spurred into action and have booked tickets. If you know what I'm talking about, you can get yours here.

***

So you see, Eastbourne isn't all cauliflower perms and zimmer frames - but don't go telling everyone, as I quite like the peace and quiet here. If you're in need of refreshment in between all this excitement (and I know I will be), I heartily recommend Central Eating - a very groovy new cafe that has popped up on Terminus Road. Expect a full write up of my other Eastbourne culinary adventures very soon.

March Madness: Too Busy to Blog

2011-03-27T17:38:00.001+01:00

March is nearly over and I find have completely failed to write about any of the recent cultural, culinary and societal diversions that have been pleasantly propelling me out of hibernation and into spring. So before another month goes by without a post, here is a whistle stop tour of the past month's activities.

Elaine Paige at the Congress Theatre, Eastbourne

This was always going to be more about comedy value than highbrow entertainment, but none of us were quite prepared for the pathos of EP's latest tour. As Natalie, Kim, Damien and I giggled, exchanging arched-eyebrowed glances, Ant sunk further into his seat as the diminutive diva insisted on flashing her stocking tops in a far too tight and far from flattering frock, whilst virtually dry humping her (much younger) male backing singer. I could have forgiven the inappropriate dress and lecherous granny behaviour if her singing had been on form, but unfortunately it was not. Apart from a couple of punchier tracks - one from Chess and 'I'm Still Here' from Follies - the vocals were disappointing. Sad, because EP could really belt it back in the day. Probably time to call it day and stick to Sunday afternoon radio instead.

Club Tokyo at the Towner Gallery, Eastbourne

At last, a club night for people like me - in Eastbourne. Brighton music promoters Melting Vinyl paired up with the Towner to put on a Japanese themed night, in honour of the Tomoaki Suzuki exhibition that was on at the time. It sounded like a promising collaboration, so Ant and I threw together what vaguely Japanese garb we could muster and went down to see what it was all about.We found an enthusiastic and friendly gathering of Eastbourne's alternative crowd - waifs and strays who presumably have nowhere else to go on a Saturday night and would normally be at dinner parties or over in Brighton. I was disappointed in the lack of interesting music on offer, but it was a very pleasant evening nonetheless. I hope to see more of the same coming up in the near future.

The Decemberists at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill

The night that Crabsinthe* was invented. But before that legendary moment was an equally legendary gig. See for yourself:

Kent Mini Break

A break from the 9-5 grind was needed, so we drove up to the Kent coast for a few days to explore bits we've never explored before, including Deal, Broadstairs, Sandwich, Ramsgate and Margate. The weather was miserably overcast the whole time, so we spent most of it seeking out places to stuff ourselves full of cake and other delectable treats. Foodie highlights included The Black Douglas and 81 Beach Street in Deal, Boho in Canterbury and the Winchelsea Farm Kitchen (in Sussex, not Kent). But the highlight of the trip was discovering the most unexpectedly alternative pub, The Blue Pigeons, in the tiny village of Worth where we were staying. Having popped in there for a pint while waiting for our B&B to open, we ended up going back for dinner and staying til closing, getting drunk with the locals - amongst whom was Sophie Parkin. If you're ever down that way, be sure to pay the place a visit - and tell the very glamorous rockabilly landlady that we said hello.

The Impellers at Coalition, Brighton

My big Brighton night out. Not my usual taste in music but a fun evening of drinking and bopping to funky tunes with a gang of my lovely colleagues.

The Unthanks at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill

And in a complete change of pace, the next night Ant and I went to see The Unthanks, though we very nearly didn't make it. Ant had been at a stag party the night before and could barely function, but he dragged himself along and was glad he did. It was a really sensational gig, that reduced an already fragile Ant to a gibbering, overawed wreck. This was the song that really did for him, though it's taken from a TV performance as no cameras were allowed at the De La Warr:

Twestival at the Smugglers Loft, Brighton

Somehow I managed to get myself involved in the last few weeks of organising this Twitter fundraising event, which despite a few technical hitches, went off brilliantly and made £3.5k for local charity, The Crew Club. If you don't already know what a Twestival is, or want to find out what happened at ours, my colleague Ben did a write up on our company blog. I also took a few photos, which should give you a flavour:

Spamalot at the Congress Theatre, Eastbourne

Twestival hangover in tow, I pootled down to meet Damien, Olly, Mum, Dad, Pete and Ali at the Buccaneer for a pre-theatre drink. The show was very appropriate hangover entertainment - not in the least bit challenging, just gently amusing. It's unashamedly cashing in on the Python legacy, but if you go in knowing that, you'll probably have a good time. As ever, Mum and I found ourselves laughing at bits that noone else did and as ever, I found myself turning round to tell someone off behind me. This time it was an annoying nerd who was quoting (and indeed misquoting) all the punchlines about 30 seconds before they were said on stage. I asked him if he knew the meaning of internal dialogue and that seemed to shut him up. My favourite bit of the show was the original songs, such as "This is the Song that Goes Like This" and "Whatever Happened to my Part?", both of which are particularly funny to those of us who have trundled our way though many a summer season and bad amdram production.

So that was just about as much excitement as I can handle in one month. I think I'll have a quiet night in tonight.

*Crabsinthe = a cocktail made from Crabbies alcoholic ginger beer and absinthe. Highly recommended, utterly dangerous.

Penguin Cafe at Brighton Dome

2011-02-21T21:50:00.000Z

In 1997, so the story goes, Ant had tickets to see The Penguin Cafe Orchestra in Manchester, but his hopes of seeing them live were dashed when founder Simon Jeffes died suddenly of a brain tumour. A couple of years later, when Ant and I started dating in Brighton, Penguin Cafe Orchestra's Concert Program was one of only a handful of CDs he owned and I quickly became a fan. Their unique folk/classical fusion has brought comfort and inspiration throughout the last decade or so of our life together and remains an oft chosen soundtrack to many an activity in our house.

The loss of Simon Jeffes and the demise of his wonderful orchestra was clearly more upsetting than any personal disgruntlement over the unusable concert tickets, but Ant has always expressed regret at never having seen Penguin Cafe Orchestra perform during their many touring years. Last weekend we were able to assuage that regret a little by going to see a new lineup assembled by Jeffes' son Arthur, now touring under the name Penguin Cafe. Continuing his father's musical legacy into the 21st Century with fresh arrangements and new compositions, Jeffes Jnr's output is very much in the spirit of the original and clearly a heartfelt tribute.

Supporting Penguin Cafe at Brighton Dome on Friday night were Portico Quartet, a modern jazz ensemble that lived up to its promise of modern jazz with admirable immoderation. But by the time Penguin Cafe had started their set in the second half, I was so swept up that I had all but forgotten the noodling jazz. Playing a mixture of crowd-pleasing old favourites and his own material, interspersed with touching anecdotes about his father, Jeffes had the audience (including me) in raptures.

Folding classical structures around folk, bluegrass and other World Music influences, the Penguin Cafe's music has always had the ability to unravel me and was the perfect Friday night tonic after a busy week. Essentially an augmented string quartet (violin, viola, cello, double bass) accompanied by ukeleles, guitars, piano, harmonium and percussion, the new pared down lineup nevertheless managed to capture the essence of the original (which featured oboe, trombone, fluegelhorn and accordion among other instruments). The difference was only really tangible on a couple of pieces that felt rather flat without brass. Other than that, it was a thoroughly enjoyable gig and we both came away feeling soothed and restored.

The current Penguin Cafe tour is now over, but you can catch them live at various festivals in the UK this summer. And I strongly recommend that you do.

The 90s Eastbourne Nightclub Hall of Fame

2011-01-25T20:17:00.000Z

Being back in Eastbourne has stirred a lot of long lost memories, especially when I keep bumping into old friends and reminiscing about our misspent youths here. The other morning I was sitting with a friend on the train into work, attempting to recall the names of all the Eastbourne nightclubs we once frequented and wondering what became of them. We realised that only one place out of all those old haunts has remained almost exactly as it was in name and style - and that is the legendary (for all the wrong reasons) TJs. But what about all the other dancing dives in which much of our teenage years were wasted?

Those I can remember, I have added (with commentary - click on a placemark to read) to this Google map :

View Eastbourne's 90s Nightclubs in a larger map

Please tell me if I have missed any classic 90s Eastbourne nightclubs from the list and share your anecdotes (if you can actually remember anything from those addled years).

Things I Love About Eastbourne #2: The South Downs

2011-01-04T19:33:00.000Z

True, the South Downs are not exclusive to Eastbourne, stretching as they do all the way from Beachy Head to the River Meon valley in Hampshire. And indeed I have spent many happy Sundays exploring the downland around Brighton, from Castle Hill at Woodingdean out to Ditchling Beacon, Devil's Dyke and all the way along to Cissbury ring. But there is something about the way Eastbourne's downland is visible from most of the town that makes it feel more familiar and friendly - an ever-present protector shielding us from the world beyond. As I child I imagined the sloping green humps of hillside to be sleeping dinosaurs (if you have ever read Dinosaurs and all that Rubbish, you will know where that notion stems from), ready to yawn and stretch into life at any moment. They were a place of magic and wonder and coming back to them brings much delight.

From my new house, I can walk up onto the Downs in less than ten minutes, with the bulk of that walk being through the elegant manor gardens of Gildredge Park. At the other side of the park I come to a lush green golf course - where the very polite golfers refrain from hitting balls while I walk across the footpath that crosses it - and come out at the bottom of Paradise Drive, in whose woods, so the story goes, my brother was conceived. A stomp up the hill brings me out at the Dew Pond, where the ashes of a beloved family pet were once scattered and around which many games of Star Wars were played during childhood dog walks. On a clear day you can see right across to Beachy Head, and out to the jaggedy spur of land that is Hastings on the other side. This picture was taken in 1998, when I brought a gang of London friends down for a visit. I hope they'll come again now that I am back and spoiling for more hill-bound adventures. Others are welcome too, of course.

More lovely pictures of the South Downs can be found on Idleformat's Flickr profile. Watch this space for more from me.

Things I Love About Eastbourne #1: The Marine at Christmas

2011-01-02T20:10:00.000Z

Now that I'm settling back into Eastbourne life after fifteen years away, I'm actively seeking out all the things I missed about the place during my Brighton and London years. As well as being a bit of a nostalgia kick, it also helps stave off any potential regrets about leaving Brighton, reassuring me that I have made the right decision coming back.

As the festive season is drawing to an end, today felt like the perfect time to head to the Marine pub, whose epic Christmas decorations are legendary. It's a nice enough pub at any time of year and for me holds many memories of happy times with amdram cohorts, but in December the Marine transforms into a sparkling grotto of festive kitsch, a shimmering marvel of a place. Any Brighton people who remember the Regency's glory days may recall its OTT decorations, but that was but a token gesture in comparison to the Marine's gloriously garish shrine to Christmas camp. Behold:

If only Ant had worn a more fittingly festive jumper, the scene would be complete. Maybe next year.

My Favourite Songs of 2010

2011-01-01T17:25:00.000Z

More than photos, diary entries or spoken anecdotes, music is the most dependable keeper of memories; a song has the power to conjure a lost moment from the dusty archives of the heart and brain, bringing it into vivid life once more. For the last few years I have made an annual compilation of the music that has punctuated the year, to share with friends and for my own posterity. Looking back at each mix, I can tell a lot about the happenings of any particular year and the sort of mood I was in.

On the first day of 2011, here are my favourite and most poignant songs from last year - each holds a memory or moment and all were released in 2010. There seems to be a prevalence of ethereal female artists, muddled with a generous helping of proggy post-rock and the occasional splash of cheesy electro. I don't know what this says about my mood, but it was certainly a year of ups and downs. As I sit here in my new house (house!) suffering the after effects of too many prosecco and mead cocktails last night, it feels like a fitting soundtrack.

I hope you'll enjoy my playlist and perhaps treat yourself to one or two of the most excellent albums from which these songs come. I heartily welcome your own recommendations of 2010 musical discoveries and favourites, too.

Create a MySpace Playlist at MixPod.com

Ten Years in Brighton: A Retrospective

2010-12-03T11:04:00.000Z

On Monday I am moving back to Eastbourne, after a decade of living in Brighton. Most people, when I tell them this, look at me in a puzzled way and ask "why would you want to do that?". Or politely lament my departure whilst clearly thinking the same thing. There are many reasons for the move, not least the desire to live in a bigger place with an upstairs and the prohibitively expensive housing market that makes doing this in Brighton impossible. It's also about family and friends, many of whom are there.

Brighton has been so much fun and I have absolutely loved every moment of living here - even the dramas, fallouts, bust-ups and hangovers. I've met some truly inspirational characters who I hope will be friends for life. I have lived it up and indulged in all the cultural and hedonistic pursuits that this brilliantly bohemian city has to offer. And I don't plan on giving those things up, but I do find myself increasingly craving the peace and quiet of home.

To be able to walk all the way along the seafront - from the marina to the beautiful Italian gardens at Holywell, even on a Saturday - without having to fight my way through hoardes of holidaymakers, merrymakers and troublemakers. To walk through town without being bombarded by f**king hipsters at every turn. To be able to walk round to Mum's or my sister's and to help out more with my gorgeous nephew, who is growing up so quickly.

As I sit here surrounded by boxes, getting ready to move, I can't help but look back on all the events and happenings of the last ten years in Brighton and all the wonderful things about living here. Here are a few classic memories and Brighton traditions that spring to mind.

New Year's Eve 1999/2000, aka The Millennium Party

Although I wasn't officially living in Brighton at this point, Ant was, and we were in the first heady days of our courtship - the beginning of our Brighton adventure together. Pedants may say that strictly speaking the millennium was the following year, but everyone knows that we partied like it was 1999 in, well, 1999. Both of us had stinking colds that day, but after dosing up on Day Nurse, Red Wine, Cava and some unknown substance scored from a bus driver, we managed to scare the germs out of our bodies and have the night of our lives. After fireworks and other entertainments in Victoria Gardens, we gatecrashed the Hobgoblin festivities via the back door and ended the night with some legendary table dancing (sorry James).

Moulin Rouge Party, 2002

There have been many fabulous theatrical parties over the years, but none quite compare to the Moulin Rouge party we threw at our first Brighton flat together in Bedford Place, not long after the film had come out. There was Absinthe, debauchery, campery and misbehaviour - well it's not a real party if you haven't thrown someone out by the end of the night. As I handed round a bowl of skittles mixed with M&Ms (a sure fire way to confuse drunkards), I remember someone saying "this is the best party ever". I think they were right.

Big Beach Boutique, 2002

It was one of the 'were you there?' events that has gone down in Brighton history for both good and bad reasons. 250,000 revellers (twice the population of the city) hit Brighton beach to catch Norman Cook (aka Fatboy Slim) and friends do their thing. Many had come from out of town and were stranded at the end of the night as public transport struggled to cope. Luckily we only lived a couple of minutes walk from the sea and were able to saunter home easily and provide sanctuary to friends who could not get home. Ant couldn't cope with the crowds and made a bid for freedom before Fatboy Slim's epic finale, but I had a brilliant time bouncing up and down on the pebbles, making friends and chastising boys with whistles. I'm not sure I could cope with such a night these days, but I'll always remember it as the epitome of Brighton hedonism.

"What Noise Does the Tardis Make?" 200?

Ant and I were on a night out, we'd been for dinner at Blind Lemon Alley I think, and were in high spirits. In the tradition of the "did you ever have a poodle?" Eastbourne episode (which is another story entirely), we decided to start asking people in the street to demonstrate the noise that the Tardis makes. Some people just looked at us with puzzled expressions and scuttled past, others gave it a shot, then wandered off red-faced as they reasiesd that it's trickier than you'd think. But one group of guys embraced the challenge with gusto, spontaneously breaking out into a symphony of sounds and accompanying movements that had Ant and me in stitches. It always sticks in my mind as one of those 'very Brighton' happenings.

Kneel Before Ming, 2003, 2004, 2008 & 2009

Of all the Brighton fancy dress get-ups Ant and I have concoted during our time in Brighton, Ant's Ming the Merciless was without doubt the most impressive and frequently revisited. First created for our Bitches & Baddies party at the Sanctuary, it was also trotted out for Halloween later that same year, the Greatest Hits party I had with Neel and as a camped up 'Ging the Merciless' variation for our Spaced Out party. But the first outing was the most memorable, mostly due to the reaction it got when we arrived on-mass for a post-party boogie at the Gap Club. I had arranged guest list for our motley crew of scoundrels and villains, and Ant led the way as we paraded past the queue outside, proclaiming "kneel before Ming" - which everyone did without hesitation. Inside, he continued to steal the show, with some excellent podium dancing and shape-throwing. Only the Ring Wraith falling down the stairs that night was funnier (sorry Mark).

Getting Married, 2004

Our wedding was unconventional in that we didn't spend two years planning it, or a small fortune paying for it. 20 of our nearest and dearest witnessed us tie the knot at Brighton Town Hall, where my mum recited The Owl and the Pussycat and Natalie sang a moving rendition of Let It Be Me, which made even the registrar shed a tear. We had lunch at the (sadly now no more) Strand restaurant and a big party for all our friends in the evening, upstairs at the Freemasons. We didn't hire cars - I walked to the Town Hall along the seafront with Neel fussing with my hair along the way and a trail of assorted family behind me, and walked back with my new husband, getting whoops and cheers from people along the way. The most expensive thing about the day was the Choccywoccydoodah cake, followed I think, by Ant's boots. How very us.

Poppet & Marcel, 2005-2010

I suppose I could have listed 'buying our first home' as a top memory, but truthfully, the most exciting thing about moving into our flat was being able to make it a home to a pair of rescued cats, Poppet and Marcel. And one of the most emotional things about moving out is the feeling of leaving behind Poppet, who we sadly lost earlier this year. In between all the parties and socialising and eating and drinking, my mogs were always here at home to keep me company and keep me grounded. I hope that dear Marcel will not mind too much being an Eastbourne cat.

Pub Quiz, 2005-2010

The tradition of Thursday nights at the Barley Mow is one I shall miss greatly. In our glory days (before Jo got pregnant and Tim moved to Lewes Road), we rocked the quiz on a weekly basis, even sometimes when it was just Ant and me on the team. In the last year or so, the prevalence of smartphones and people blatantly using them to cheat has made it less appealing, but it didn't stop us form going to one final quiz last night. And missing out on victory by half a point. Gah.

La Clique, Brighton Festival 2006

Every Brighton Festival has brought its thrills and merriments, but one year in particular stands out. It was when the Spiegeltent first came to town and was pitched down on the Steine gardens. Damien, Natalie, Ant and I went to see La Clique, where we also bumped into and ended up sitting with Sham and James and their friends. It still stands up as the best cabaret entertainment I've ever seen (and I've seen a lot), not to mention one of the most fun nights out. I wrote about the show here if you want to know exactly why.

Cocktails

A signature feature of Brighton life, and one I'm not sure we'll be able to replicate to the same extent in Eastbourne. Bar Koba and Bar Valentino have been the main sources of our obsession with Cocktails, though there have been plenty of experiments at home, including the notorious Sicilian Martinis evening of which we do not speak. At Koba, the chocolate martini was always a big hit with everyone we took there and Valentino's Bonzo Dog concoction has tipped me over the edge on many a late night session.

I could go on, but these are the sort of things that have made living in Brighton a pleasure and an adventure. If you're reading this and have been one of the people with whom I've shared the ride over the last ten years, thank you. And please leave your own memories of our escapades and special moments in the comments below - I am sure I've forgotten some classic ones.

Legally Blonde the Musical, Starring Sheridan Smith

2010-11-14T15:52:00.001Z

I have never seen Legally Blonde the film, nor do I have any particular desire to do so, but when I heard the hype around Legally Blonde the Musical, I was intrigued to see what all the fuss was about. In fact it was Ant who first suggested we go and see it in the West End, having read Stephen Fry's enthusastic Twitter review. Of course I couldn't even consider going to such a thing without my dear pal and fellow lover of musicals, Damien. It took us the best part of year to get our arses in gear to get tickets and go up to Town, but last night we finally made it.

After all the months of anticipation, the three of us were giddy to the point of hysteria when we met up at Brighton station yesterday lunchtime. Our excitement continued throughout the day as we made the most of the trip by taking in the René Gruau exhibition at Somerset House and indulging in a spot of window shopping around Covent Garden. After a bite to eat at my favourite little Moroccan haunt and drinks next door at the wondferfully rustic Beaujolais, we were just about fit to burst.

One of the most lauded things about the West End production of Legally Blonde the Musical is its current leading lady, Sheridan Smith. Having never seen Two Pints of Lager... or indeed any of her other noted TV or stage performances, I had no expectations either way, but was duly impressed by her sparkling performance as Elle Woods. The rest of the cast were equally outstanding, giving it their all from start to finish and clearly relishing every bonkers minute of it. Someone else whose musical career has so far evaded me is Denise van Outen, who recently joined Legally Blonde as the hapless hairdresser Paulette. She, too, was surprisingly accomplished; I had no idea she could sing so well.

Of course I'd anticipated high camp and energetic dance numbers, but wasn't quite prepared for the bizarre, almost magical-realism dimension to the production (Riverdance? Talking dogs? WTF?). It was unashamedly and zealously inhabiting the World of Musicals and all the insane poetic license it allows. It was also genuinely very funny (think Glee/Sondheim-esque New York-Jewish humour) and at even at times, moving. And I LOVED it. As I glanced either side of me at Damien and Ant's beaming faces, I could tell they did too. Feeling thoroughly entertained, we giggled and grinned all the way home (via a nightcap at my old student hang out the Retro Bar).

I defy anyone but the most cynical anti-musicalites not to enjoy Legally Blonde the Musical, and would especially recommended it to anyone in need of a pick-me-up. The charming Sheridan Smith will only be in it for another few months, so hurry.

Brighton White Night 2010

2010-11-01T21:49:00.002Z

Brightonians don't exactly take much persuading to dress up and stay out all night at the best of times, but for the last few years White Night has given us an offical excuse to celebrate the art of noctural recreation. A free festival that takes place across the city, White Night marks the clocks going back and celebrates the extra hour we get, by encouraging people to stay up and participate in all sorts of activities throughout the night.

I've been away for White Night the last few years and so this year's was my first one. The city was buzzing anyway with Halloween antics, and the massive Beach of the Dead walk that also happens every year got everyone into the spirit early in the day. By nightfall there was an amusing mix of ordinary punters, gruesome zombies and other ghoulish Halloweenites lining the streets. My first glimpse of White Night activity was as I turned into the North Laine to spy an opera singer belting out from the balcony above the betting shop on the corner of Bond Street. Unfortunately I missed a later performance in that same spot, reported by SessionLeopard on Twitter: "Brighton... where else can you watch a black drag queen dressed as a cloud singing barbara streisand above a betting shop?". Shame, but there was so much else to do.

My first proper stop-off was at the Brighton museum, which involved wending my way through the Pavilion Gardens, where little pockets of action were afoot all over the place. Inside the museum it was pretty much business as usual, apart from a few crafty making sessions and the presence of some willowy ladies in period clothing draped about the place. It did make me giggle to see zombies wandering about soaking up culture, but I drew the line at a man dressed as a spiderman clown and escaped to go and meet Steve and Linda at the Pavilion garden gates.

From there we decided to head for the Sealife centre, where I was utterly enchanted by the huge turtles and tiny seashorses. Not so endearing were the drunken youths flagrantly ignoring the 'please don't touch the fish' signs and whose behaviour was later reported to have started a riot. Things were altogether more civilised at the Library and though outside on Jubilee Square was heaving, the live spray paint artists there were well worth a stop. Inside, we had a play on a big dance mat that was wired up to a percussion loop programme, and enjoyed the relative calm before heading back out into the throng.

Kensington Street was another hive of activity, with both the Lighthouse and the Basement open for business and a multimedia installation called the Epiphany Dome outside. After a heavy dose of art, we were ready for some music, but not before swinging by Infinity cafe to re-fuel with soup hearty soup in a roll. At the Corn Exchange, a French music showcase was in full swing, but surprisingly there were no queues for the venue. Amiens in France also has a White Night (or Nuit Blanche as they call it) and our towns do a musical exchange for the night. When we arrived, a band called Oregone were playing. I had a little dance around and then spotted Ewan (aka Euzie) at the bar. It transpired that he and Linda both grew up in Wolverhampton and used to hang out in the same pub. Much disbelief and delighted cries of "you know so-and-so? No way!" ensued.

Next door in the Dome there was nothing much happening other than some pumping dance music and a couple of interactive installations. The night was flying by already and by the time we got down to the beach, the Bandstand happenings were dying down, with only a few half marathon runners straggling about. Walking back along the prom, we gained another cohort in the shape of Rob, who accompanied us up through the Lanes and eventually up to the Phoenix Gallery, which was one of the only places still going. By then the clocks had officially gone back, we'd gained our extra hour and I had completely lost track of what time it actually was.

A quick hot chocolate at the buzzy Cafe Moksha - where live music was still going on - made a very civilised end to the evening (or should I say, morning). My first White Night had been a riot (though thankfully not in the Sealife centre sense), but it was time for bed.

Robyn at the Concorde 2

2010-10-30T10:35:00.000+01:00

I go to a lot of gigs, mostly in seedy pub function rooms or muddy fields at festivals and that's the way I like it. The last time I went to a genuine pop concert was back in 2008, when Neel persuaded me to go and see Kylie at the O2. It was certainly an experience and a brilliant night out with one of my favourite people, but I can't imagine ever wanting to go back to that particular venue. I do really like a fix of uncomplicated, energetic electro-pop, though, so when I saw that Swedish popstrel Robyn was coming to the Concorde 2 (and not the awful Brighton Centre), I was quick to snap up tickets.

I've heard Robyn described as Sweden's answer to Britney before now, presumably because she too was a child star. Certainly both share a history of catchy pop tunes and a massive gay following, but somehow Robyn's Swedishness makes her quirkier and more interesting by default. In the flesh she is less kooky and more unabashedly Euro-pop than you might expect, which endeared her to us even more. It made a pleasant change to be at the Concorde amongst a bouncy crowd of excitable gaylords and giggly girls, as opposed to the usual hipster chin-stroking contingent - although interestingly there were a few of those around too.

There's nothing surprising or challenging about Robyn's material, but it is bloody good pop music. I like to think of it as a cleansing of the musical palette - a sort of sorbet gig, if you will. And she puts on a great show: energetic, enthusiastic and emotive. I couldn't help but dance. Lots. Particular highlights were 'Dancing on my Own' (my favourite track from Body Talk Pt.1) and 'Hang with Me', a more stripped back almost-ballad which showed off her true vocal abilities. The best thing was being so up close and personal with such a big personality and an even bigger sound in an intimate venue. It could only have been better if dear Neel had been here to enjoy it with me instead of thousands of miles away in Melbourne.

Middle Farm Apple Festival 2010

2010-10-26T20:07:00.000+01:00

You know autumn's arrived when Apple Festival rolls around. It always seems to be the event for which everyone finally relents and digs out their winter coats and hats and sturdy boots for a stomp around Middle Farm. And even though the sun does tend to shine on Firle for the weekend, the temperature has definitely taken a dive since those last days of summer just a few weeks ago, at the end of September. This year was no exception, with a definite nip in the air and even the faintest hint of dragon breath on Apple Festival revellers. I wished I'd worn more layers, but thankfully inside the tents it was cosy, and a dance around to some of the energetic bands soon got the blood circulating.

This year Apple Festival was extra special because it was my nephew Nat's first festival and a delight to introduce him to the joys of dancing along to live music amongst a rosy cheeked, gently cider fuelled crowd. He seemed to love it - as you can see from the above video - and I'm hoping this will have been the first of many festival outings we'll have together. The grown ups had fun too, especially appreciating the extra food stalls and hot spicy apple juice for those of us who were driving. I went home armed with cheese and biscuits from the food hall and numb fingers from holding my dandelion and burdock ice cream float; what a silly idea on a cold autumn day. But oh, so tasty.

Middle Farm Apple Festival 2007

Waving at Strangers from Trains and Other Childhood Joys Rediscovered

2010-10-13T21:46:00.003+01:00

I was travelling back from a meeting in Guildford today, getting frustrated by technology (Macs. Argh.) and staring out of the window, when suddenly I was seized by a compulsion to wave at passengers on a passing train. I can only assume that my inner child was fighting its way out, urging me to break free from the shackles of work responsibilities, if only for a moment. And what a moment it was when after 30 seconds of bemused looks and uncomfortable shifting in seats, someone finally waved back.

From the grin on his face and enthusiastic flailing of arms, it was clear that my fellow waver had also been possessed by, and was utterly embracing, his inner child. It was a good feeling to have passed along a little joy and shared an uncomplicated interaction with a stranger, and to know that there are others out there who still want to act like kids occasionally, too.

It got me thinking about other little things we do that recapture the simple pleasures of childhood. Like the other morning when I arrived at work to observe a colleague slowly collecting and contemplating conkers from the path up to the office. He's six foot four and beardy, but for those few minutes he projected all the calm simplicity of a five year old enthralled by the wonders of nature and the possibilities of conkers. It was heartwarming, truly.

Intrigued by the notion of simple childhood joys, I asked some friends* how they like to release their own inner child; the responses were prolific and most entertaining. Here are my favourite suggestions, which I encourage you to try (go on, let go a little. You'll feel better for it, I promise). Feel free to add your own.

Top Ten Ways to Stir Your Inner Child

Waving at strangers on a passing train
Collecting conkers
Eating cake mix
Shouting really, really loudly
Writing 'BOOBIES' into a calculator
Turning down the TV and making up dialogue for the actors
Asking "why?" repeatedly
Running (or even better, doing roly-polies) down a steep hill
Splashing in puddles
Making up stupid poems or song lyrics (and saying them loudly)

*Thanks to Nick, Ben, Roger, Katie, Karen and others for their contributions.

Photo by Minusbaby on Flickr

The Very Lovely End of the Road Festival 2010

2010-09-15T23:10:00.000+01:00

Ever since I arrived back from last year's End of the Road Festival, I have been trying to persuade Ant that he would have enjoyed it, despite his professed hatred of festivals in general. It's unfortunate that to date his only festival experiences have involved excessive rain and mud (Green Man, Fleadh, Roskilde) or boring mainstream music (Isle of Wight), which meant that it was a bit of an effort to convince him that End of the Road is brilliantly different and much more up his street. I couldn't promise no mud, but based on 2009's experience, it seemed there'd be a fair chance of sunshine and I could confidently promise great music and a charming atmosphere. When I also mentioned the on-site therapies, real ale and abundant use of camping chairs, he agreed to give it a try.

Arriving on site on Thursday evening, there was a definite feeling of trepidation on my part as I sensed his misgivings about the whole proceedings. But by Sunday evening, wine-fuelled, music-soaked and massaged to within an inch of his life, a grinning Ant gracefully admitted that End of the Road had restored his jaded faith in festivals. Phew. I'd had a wonderful time too - there were so many good bands it'd be impossible to review them all, but highlights included Wolf People, Mountain Goats, Three Trapped Tigers, Citay, Ben Ottewell and Mountain Man. Aside from much musical enjoyment, we indulged in plenty of people watching, dancing, bantering, cake eating, curry eating, pizza eating, pie eating, chilli eating, tea drinking, stargazing and laid back bimbling. Once again, the sparkly woods provided much magic, especially the spontaneous late night jams and secret acoustic gigs on the woodland stage.

A game of Kubb on Sunday was a new experience for us both and something we'll definitely be looking to make or purchase for our own back garden. A Swedish skittles-chess hybrid, Kubb involves throwing large blocks of wood to knock out an opposing team's pieces; shins beware. The things that have grated at previous festivals - shouty teens, grotty toilets, epic walks between stages and back to camp, conspicuous security and bag searching, the sound of nitrous oxdide balloons emptying every few seconds - didn't really factor at End of the Road. The only thing I wanted for was a shower (there is only one block on site), but apart from that it really was a very very lovely festival and I shall definitely be going back next year. Based on his reaction, hopefully so will Ant.

Here's a little video I made of some of the bands we saw and the other activities in between. The sound quality is a bit rubbish on a few of the clips, but hopefully it gives you a flavour for the event.

Beirut Live in Eastbourne

2010-08-28T19:11:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite bands, Beirut, played to a sell out crowd at Eastbourne's Winter Gardens last night, and it was a very special gig. Being best known for its blue rinses and tea dances, it's rare that Eastbourne attracts such hip artists, unless they have a connection to the town. I've no idea why Melting Vinyl chose the Winter Gardens, perhaps it was cheaper than the Corn Exchange in Brighton (which is probably the equivalent in terms of capacity), or maybe the band fancied doing something a bit different. Either way, they managed to pull it off, drawing fans from all over the country for Beirut's only English gig on this tour.

I've wanted to see Beirut live ever since I was introduced to them back in 2007. They rarely play the UK and I missed their last London gig because I was poorly, so when I read that they were coming to my home town, I was doubly chuffed. I have a strong personal connection to the Winter Gardens - my first ever am-dram show was in the Gold Room, I have sung in many music festivals there and even worked backstage during my time on the Eastbourne Theatres' crew. I was stunned to see a queue snaking around the corner when we arrived last night and even more taken aback when we got inside and it was bursting at the seams with hipsters.

Beirut were on good form, complimenting the 'classy venue' (perhaps they were being sarcastic?) and generally crowd-pleasing with their energetic klezmeriachi (I just made that up). I was plagued with annoying shouty people on all sides, but managed to wangle my way down into a less garrulous section of the audience for the last few songs, even finding enough room for a little waltz with Ant. Afterwards the streets outside were teeming and confused looking drivers struggled to navigate their way past the skinny-jeaned swarm; I'm pretty sure Compton Street has never seen anything like it.

Sussex Gastro Pub Series: The Ginger Dog in Kemp Town, Brighton

2010-08-16T21:30:00.000+01:00

On those rare Saturdays when we haven't got anything much on, Ant and I will usually find ourselves a-wandering down the hill to Kemp Town for a mooch - perhaps picking up a paper and grabbing a coffee in Spinelli's, indulging in a haircut and some people-watching at Barber Blacksheep, browsing the shelves of the Kemp Town Bookshop or picking up indulgent foodie supplies from Bona Foodie or Kemp Town Deli. More often than not, we'll end up still knocking about at lunch time and grabbing a meal at one of the many pubs or cafes in the village.

On our last one of these perambulations a week or so ago, we discovered a new addition to the Kemp Town gastronomical circuit, which has popped up where the not-so-glamorous Wellington pub once was. The latest addition to the 'Gingerman' local restaurant chain (which includes the original Gingerman restaurant, The Ginger Pig and The Ginger Fox), The Ginger Dog is tucked away on College Place, sat between The Golden Cannon and (our favourite local) The Barley Mow on the Kemp Town pub trail. Having heard good things about the other Gingerman restaurants, we were chuffed to find one practically on our doorstep and decided to give it a try.

With its muted buff walls, rustic mis-matched chairs and funky artwork, the newly decorated interior certainly looked the part of a trendy gastro pub and the friendly staff were a vast improvement on the pub's previous incarnation. Not wanting to spoil our afternoon by being over-stuffed, and still having a big hill up which to scamper, we both decided on sticking to starters, along with an extra portion of chips (just in case). I had a goats cheese and baby onion gratin, which came with a slab of griddled bread (ciabatta I think) and a salad garnish, Ant went for the salmon tartare - something he'd never sampled before. Both of us were happy with our choices, which were nicely presented and beautifully cooked. The chips were the icing on the cake, perhaps the most perfect pub chips I've had - lightly crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, not too greasy - and a vast improvement on the awful ones we'd been served at the Open House the week before.

All in all it was a delightful, if rather indulgent, Saturday lunch and I'm looking forward to going back for the full three-course experience one evening before too long.

Morris Dancing, Moonlit Swimming & Getting Away from it All

2010-08-02T20:15:00.000+01:00

Lately I've been working my butt off (hence the lack of blog posts) and though most of the time it's fun, every now and then I need a break from the constant demands and responsibilities that my job now entails. So when a business meeting down in Devon found its way into my diary, I seized the opportunity to combine it with a picobreak, staying with the lovely Harriet (who I miss terribly) in Slapton. It so happened that she had arranged a shindig that night at the local pub with her Morris dancing side, Beltane Border. And yes, they are those scary looking blacked-up variety - though it's not a racist thing I'm told.

As I arrived at Harry's, the sun was shining and I was feeling blissfully detached from the office, being so many miles away from Brighton on the beautiful South Devon coast. As Harry and Linda donned their costumery and prepared for the dancing, I sat soaking up the sunset and drinking cider, my brow swiftly un-furrowing as I watched the world go by. The pub was buzzing with tourists and locals, all intrigued by the gathering swarm of imposing black-clad figures. The sound of a lone fiddle and accompanying Celtic drums signalled the start of the show and everyone nodded and bobbed along as the various energetic dances unfolded, each introduced with an anecdote, myth or theme to add a splash of colour.

Fuelled with cider and pagan magic, I helped Harry get a fire on the beach started and kicked back with her fellow dancers and other assembled groupies for a classic evening of bonfire bantering, ale swigging and moonlit swimming. I hadn't felt so relaxed since our holiday in France and was sad when the night came to a natural conclusion just before dawn and it was time to say goodbye to new found friends and start thinking about the long drive back in the morning. A final swig of chai and a quick didgeridoo jam in the back of a campervan (thanks Amy, Jon & Lee), followed by toast and marmite back at Harriet's and it was time to place my happy head on the pillow and dream of future adventures.

This little video has some highlights of Beltane's dances (plus a bonus feature at the end) and you can see some of our beach antics via this Flickr set of mine. Fellow camera geek (and excellent chap) Jon, who I met on the night, also has this brilliant set of pics on Facebook which is well worth a look.

UNKLE Live at the De La Warr Pavilion, Bexhill

2010-07-14T23:01:00.001+01:00

Last weekend I was dog-sitting in Eastbourne while my mother escaped to her annual spiritual retreat at Walsingham cathedral; I was glad of a change of scenery after what had been a gruelling and emotional week and am always happy to spend time with the lovely Pascha. It so happened that some friends of mine were off to the De La Warr Pavilion - just up the road from Eastbourne in Bexhill - for a gig on Saturday night and suggested that Ant and I should come along, since we were in the neighbourhood. I didn't know much about the band that was playing, though Ant seemed excited when I mentioned it to him, so we booked tickets and tagged along.

The band was UNKLE, aka James Lavelle and Pablo Clements, who were being accompanied by the De La Warr's own Heritage Orchestra for a special performance as part of their current album tour. What had been a scorchingly sunny day turned into a beautiful evening on Bexhill seafront and as always, the DLWP crowd was buzzing with arty types from all across Sussex. I bumped into several old childhood friends from Eastbourne and spotted mates from Brighton including the couple who used to live upstairs from us. It was a great convivial atmosphere in which to soak up what turned out to be a magical gig.

UNKLE's dreamy, symphonic trip-hop sounds were beautifully interpreted by the 30 piece classical orchestra and two vocalists, and for the first half of the set I was totally swept away. After a good start, it all got a bit self indulgent towards the end when Lavelle took to the mic and started gushing and that combined with the sweltering temperatures up on the balcony was enough to make me lose my appetite for an encore. Even so, it was a fantastic evening, topped off nicely with a nightcap on the refreshingly breezy balcony of the De La Warr, chatting to friends old and new.

If you want to hear more about the gig itself, there's an excellent write-up on XYZ magazine's blog, and this YouTube video from a recent gig at the Union Chapel will also give you a flavour. For a bit more background on UNKLE in general and the Heritage Orchestra collaboration in particular, pick up a copy of the latest East magazine, where you'll find an interview with James Lavelle on page 35. For details of other upcoming performances at the De La Warr Pavilion, have a read of their Live Music Blog or the Events & Performances page of the website.

Ode to Poppet

2010-07-06T18:16:00.001+01:00

Poppet came into our lives five years ago when we liberated her from the Raystede animal rescue centre near Ringmer. Out of all the beautiful and charming cats needing new homes at that place, I was drawn to her intense one-eyed stare which seemed to say "take me away from this place and I will reward you with love". She came as a pair with Marcel, who, it soon transpired, was her nemesis rather than her companion; they were a classic double act in the Tom and Jerry sense. She would chase him down and beat him up daily, but I do think he eventually came it enjoy it and would even occasionally venture a retaliation.

When we first arrived back at our flat with the two furry beasts, Poppet strutted straight in and staked her claim on the place, while poor timid Marcel hid under the bed and various other bits of furniture for two weeks before being gradually coaxed out. A creature of many moods, Poppet was by turns the most affectionate, spirited, cross and characterful cat I have ever known. She'd sit on you and purr for an entire evening and be most put out if you needed to get up - and heaven help anyone who tried to move her when she didn't want to be moved; the memory of that rage-fuelled "leave me alone" hiss still sends shivers down my spine. Her voluminous ginger fur seemed to change colour with her temperament and could be anything from deep amber to bright strawberry blonde. She was magnificently beautiful, and she knew it.

At the risk of sounding like a mad cat lady (and honestly, I don't care if I do), I have loved my mogs as if they were my children. When you get to my age and have yet to breed, your maternal instincts have to transfer somewhere - and I am not ashamed to admit that mine have been poured wholeheartedly into the two dear creatures with whom I have shared my home, my bed, my heart these past few years. They have been my constant companions, providing warmth, comfort and entertainment throughout happy times and bad. Poppet in particular would always be waiting behind the door for me when I got back from work, looking up with that "where do you think you've been?" glare, demanding attention - which I was only too happy to give.

When a lump on Poppet's neck was diagnosed as an inoperable tumour a few weeks ago, I was devastated. At first she soldiered on as normal, but gradually the growth in her mouth made it more difficult to eat, and last weekend we had to make that most awful decision to have her put to sleep. I have lost many family pets over the years, but this was the first time I'd been responsible for making that choice and to have been present while it was carried out. I held her in my arms as she slipped away, felt her heartbeat fading under my fingers and her so familiar body go limp; It was the saddest, hardest, most heartbreakingly harrowing thing I have ever done.

Losing Poppet has left a massive hole in my life, but I have no regrets about bringing her into it. She gave back as much, if not more, than I put in and though I'll never get to stroke her soft fluffy coat or watch her chase an excited Marcel down the garden ever again, I know she'll always be around. Thank you, darling Poppet, for all that you were and are to me.

Ash Cloud or No Ash Cloud, I'm Having a Holiday and Just You Try and Stop Me

2010-07-01T23:37:00.000+01:00

Ant and I were due to go on holiday to Sicily back in May, but thanks to the Icelandic volcano and its pesky ash cloud, our flight was cancelled and our carefully constructed travel plans scuppered. Determined to find adventure regardless, we threw some camping gear in the back of our ancient Nissan Micra, and hopped on a ferry to the continent from Newhaven, praying that the old jalopy could survive another long haul jaunt.

We'd booked ahead for one night's accommodation in Orleans, but the rest of the trip was a complete fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants mystery tour. My GCSE French was tested to its limits, frantically reserving hotels over the phone and ordering dinner in the remote rural non-English speaking villages in which we found ourselves. The camping thing didn't really work out (we're getting separate air mattresses next time), so we ended up bimbling between B&Bs as we made our way down towards the South coast, taking in Montpellier, Le Grau du Roi and Sete along the way. A visit to the beautiful hillop town of St Guilhem le Desert - with its picture postcard perfect winding streets and rustic monastery - was a highlight of the Languedoc stretch of the trip.

From the sparkling blue waters of the Mediterranean we swung a right and ventured into the majestic surroundings of the midi-Pyrennes and by pure luck and some garbled Franglais, found ourselves a delightful farmhouse gite in which to kick back and wind down for a few days. The village of Bourieges has nothing but a church, a (lovely) cafe, post office (only open on the Third Thursday of every month) and a handful of rustic houses. We were welcomed by Mr & Mrs Pous, who also left us several bottles of locally brewed plonk, including some from their own vineyard and an excellent Limoux bubbly, alleged to be better (and cheaper) than Champagne. I'd have to agree, it was super.

Having fond memories of cave paintings from a childhood family holiday in France, I was keen to explore the famous Niaux, just a short drive from where we were staying. Poor Ant came along too, despite his fear of small spaces and caves in particular. It was a magical experience, a small group of us trekking into the darkness with only handheld torches to light the way and mind-blowing underground landscapes all around. I have been known to get spooked in very dark outside spaces, but the womb-like surroundings felt somehow comforting as I imagined men and women making the same journey some 13,000 years before into what archeologists believe to have been some kind of spiritual sanctuary.

The paintings themselves were fascinating and surprisingly accomplished - considering the tools with which they would have been working back then. On the way back out of the caves, I asked if anyone in the group minded us all switching off our torches to experience complete darkness. It's an amazing sensation being in such pitch black that you can't seen your own hand in front of your face, or even the faintest outline of a person next to you.

Another adventure in these parts was to Carcassonne - the fortified town that inspired the game of the same name (now available as an iPhone app, FFS). Much like the famous Mont Saint Michel in Normandy, Carcassonne is overtly touristy, packed full off naff souvenir shops selling everything from frdieg magnets to medieval costumery. But it was a pleasant place to wander around and the castle itself was most interesting and well presented. We drove back from Carcasonne to Bourieges via the quaint little cloistered town of Mirepoix, which I shall always remember as the place where I received news of our dear old family cat Go-Tabs having to be put to sleep. The disproportionately large and rather pretty catherdral there made a perfect sanctuary in which to reflect and have a little cry.

Heading North back in the direction of Dieppe, we'd arranged to stay with friends in the Dordogne for a couple of days. After a quick pit-stop in charming Albi (where we just missed the opening hours for the Toulouse Lautrec museum), we arrived at Bellevue, near Bergerac, where we were thoroughly spoiled with wonderful food, stunning surroundings and exceedingly good company. We were even introduced to 'Click', a Carn family favourite after dinner game involving dice, paper and in this case, a generous helping of Alan's hearty homebrew. The Sunday market in Issigeac was one of the loveliest markets I think I've ever been to and Ant even managed to find a sunhat to fit his massive head there.

Our final stop off was in the little town of Azay-le-Rideau along the Loire, where we found a very cute B&B just around the corner from a spectacular Chateau - which proved a lovely place to bimble around on a sunny day. As we got behind the wheel once more for the final stretch of the trip home, I was frankly amazed that poor old Lottie was still going. It may not have been the highly-planned Sicily trip we'd hoped for, but we'd certainly managed to pack in a decent amount of adventure and a whole huge helping of stunning scenery to boot. And we discovered pear jaffa cakes, which really was the icing on the cake.

It's All Happening Now - The New Thomas Truax Video

2010-06-20T11:43:00.001+01:00

Back in January I wrote about a rather peculiar Sunday at the end of the Christmas holidays when Ant, James and I were involved in a zombie music video shoot with Thomas Truax at the Under Ground Theatre in Eastbourne. I've been eagerly awaiting the outcome ever since and was thrilled when last week, the video was finally released onto YouTube. Unfortunately Ant's sterling zombie performance didn't make it into the final cut, but I am clearly visible as one of the dancing magpies and you can spot James in a blink-or-you'll-miss-it moment around 3:10.

The video was timed to coincide with the release of Truax's new album, Sonic Dreamer, described in this Drowned in Sound review as "different...knowingly funny, and...very very special". I have yet to get hold of a copy myself, but am very much looking forward to giving it a spin and wish the lovely Thomas all the best with his current album tour and promotional junket - do catch him at one of these live dates if you can.

The Fifth Great Escape Festival, Brighton 2010

2010-05-24T20:09:00.001+01:00

We've been going to Brighton's own Great Escape festival ever since it started back in 2006. It's been a brilliant way to keep up with all the latest breakthrough bands and pack in a load of gigs early on in the year without having to rough it in a tent. Not that I mind roughing it in a tent one bit, but the prospect of sleeping in his own bed means that Ant will join me a lot more willingly. Some of the excellent bands that we first discovered at previous Great Escapes include Foal s, GaBLé, zZz, The Low Anthem (wow, that was an amazing gig), John & Jehn, Black Mountain and Benni Hemm Hemm to name but a few.

This year's Great Escape festival was, I am sad to report, something of a disappointment. Our overall enjoyment was somewhat hindered by Ant's unfortunately timed man-flu attack, but regardless of that, I felt it was a less than inspiring line-up. After an excellent start with so-French-it-hurts electro-cheese-meisters Chateau Marmont, we seemed to wander from gig to gig, struggling to tell the difference between a string of identikit babyfaced Sixth Form Indie bands with only a single melody between them. It wasn't until Saturday that things started to improve and the festival really redeemed itself for me.

An Emerald City © by Rowstar on Flickr

Braving the seedy environs of the Freebutt to see The Bewitched Hands on the Top of Our Heads on Saturday afternoon, I finally felt like I was onto something a bit different. Jangly psychedelic retro-pop with the occasional touch of Arcade Fire urgency, it was a breath of fresh air after all the bland Indie crap. Later that evening in the atmospheric setting of the Basement, we swayed along appreciatively to the pleasing Bolly-prog sounds of Kiwi newbies An Emerald City; I must give a special mention to the bassist whose multipurpose cape-come-guitar-strap was a visual highlight of the festival. These were followed on stage by the equally esoteric but slightly less versatile antipodeans Bridezilla, who took a while to get going but really rocked out towards the end when the free-jazz style fiddle and sax element really came into its own.

Trembling Bells © by Rowstar on Flickr

From the Basement we strolled over to the Pavilion Theatre (why is it always so hot in there?) to catch the excellent Trembling Bells (who I first discovered on Freakzone) and couldn't help but smile at the conspicuous absence of hipsters in attendance - a most unusual situation for the UK's most skinny-jeaned, wayfarered festival. Presumably it's not cool to like Folk music and Trembling Bells are undeniably Folk, carrying on the tradition of bands like Fairport Convention and The Incredible String Band, but with an intriguing 21st Century flourish. It felt somehow fitting to finish the festival in the more familiar company of middle aged men and floaty hippy chicks, so we called it a night after that and left the clubbing and after-parties to the young-uns.

Although I shan't be living in Brighton come next May (more on that later), I expect I'll still come over for Great Escape 2011. 2010's offerings may not have been the best compared to previous years, but at £35 for the three days (with the early-bird ticket price), getting even four or five decent gigs out of it seems like a bargain. And it'll be an excuse to stay in a groovy Brighton B&B, which is not something I've ever done. If you were at the Great Escape this year and had a better experience, let me know - what brilliant bands did I miss? where was all the action? And most importantly, who had the pointiest shoes?

Most of the bands I really liked at the Great Escape Festival don't have commercial recordings available as yet, so you'll have to explore their MySpace pages to get a listen. I've made a little playlist here.

Little Sis Gets Hitched

2010-05-11T09:10:00.004+01:00

Megan & Nick's Wedding from Rowan Stanfield on Vimeo
Original photoset by Rowstar on Flickr

Last weekend, my little sister got married. The same little sister with whom I spent hours and days playing epic games of Sindys and doll-dressing-dolls (as we called them); darling cute Megan got all growed up and tied the knot. Somehow this seemed more grown up even than her buying a house or having a baby (which she did in 2008). Why? Because, I suppose, it's a conscious choice one makes to get married, you have to make arrangements and send invites, whereas a baby can come along and be a complete surprise (not that this was the case with hers, I should emphasise). The decision to get married is a public statement of settling down that somehow propells you into adulthood like nothing else.

And for a big sister, watching her youngest sibling walk down the aisle and being her Matron of Honour (yes, I think I am too old to be called a bridesmaid) is an emotional business. But also a wonderful one. Megan and Nick's wedding was an utterly joyful occasion, filled with smiles, laughter, music, friendship and love. My own contribution to the day, apart from aforementioned duties, was to sing them through their register-signing with a rendition of 'Now I've Seen You' from the musical Honk. I also threw in a spontaneous chorus of '(I've Had) the Time of My Life' at the end of the night, aided and abetted by Natalie (well, if someone would leave a live mic switched on in the room with us two there, what do they expect?). It was a day (and night) to remember in so many ways and I am so very happy for both bride and groom.

Some of the highlights, including both my rehearsed and impromptu performances, are captured in this video/slideshow. The embarrassing bit is right at the end, so I'm counting on noone having the patience to watch it all the way through.

The Grand Glee Finale: End of Act One

2010-03-31T19:25:00.001+01:00

Warning: Luvvie Alert (if you have have an aversion to campery or showbiz of any kind, you may as well stop reading right now. If however you are fond of a showtune or two, or like me, are a fan of Glee, welcome to the party...)

Since I first raved about it back in January, Glee has become my only must-watch TV show (oh, OK, there's Mad Men too), providing wry satire and sparkling musical entertainment every Monday night, which, I think you'll agree, is just what Mondays needed. Like any long-running series, it's had its occasional 'nothing much is happening this week' episodes and a few ill-conceived or just plain vomit-inducing musical numbers. But on the whole it's been first-rate.

We've followed the ever more complicated fates of a group of High School misfits and their equally troubled teachers as they prepare for Glee Club sectionals, an inter-school musical performance competition traditional in America. We've wondered who will end up with who, whether the club will survive its many slapstick bust-ups and whether they will make it through to the next stage of the competition.

There's decent eye-candy in the form of mohicaned bad-boy Noah 'Puck' Puckerman (or pretty boy Finn Hudson if that's your thing), but the undisputed comedy star of the show is cranky sports teacher and cheerleader coach Sue Sylvester, whose cutting one-liner comebacks are legendary. My favourite from this week's episode: "You'll be adding revenge to the long list of things you're no good at, right next to being married, running a high school glee club and finding a hairstyle that doesn't look like a lesbian." Genius.

The highlight of each episode for me is invariably the big showstopper number, generally performed by the group or two main characters in the midst of a poignant storyline. The episodes that fall flat are always those in which they get the showstopper wrong. Thankfully for the mid season finale this week, they got it very very right with a magical rendition of 'Don't Rain on My Parade' from Funny Girl:

As someone who performed in many musicals as a youngster and harboured aspirations towards professional singing, I was right there with (the talented but irritatingly fame-obsessed) Rachel as she stole the show at the Glee Club competition sectionals. Her heartfelt performance perfectly encapsulated the hunger and drive I so vividly remember experiencing as a teenager treading the boards; it was thrilling, infectious and rousing - bringing back a rush of teenage yearnings.

Both Ant and I have been humming the tune ever since and going back to watch this video of said performance to re-experience the tingling sensation all over again. It was so powerful that I can't even recall what the other songs in the episode were. Now that's what I call showbiz.

If you are still reading and have yet to experience Glee for yourself, you can catch up on the last few episodes via 4oD, or order the DVD from Amazon.

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Twestival Strikes Again

2010-03-24T21:39:00.001Z

Have you heard about Twestival? It's a global Twitter meet-up that happens every six months or so in hundreds of cities around the world.

At the first Twestival a year ago, I didn't really know anyone except my other half (aka @meeware) and my then brand new boss (aka @rogerwarner) - whose presence ensured that I remained sober and sensible for the duration. It all felt a little cliquey but I met a couple of cool people and it led to some fruitful online conversations in the following months. I did a little write-up of Twestival 1 on the Content & Motion blog if you're interested.

Twestival 2 was a whole different kettle of fish. @meeware was away and I'd ditched the 'no drinking in front of the boss' policy. There were quite a few more familiar faces, if only recognisable from their Twitter avatars. There was role play and murder mystery which really broke the ice and got everyone out of their cliques.

After an excellent night of non-stop ranting and a fair bit of dancing, I ended up at the infamous Bulldog pub (of all places) until four in the morning with a gaggle of hardcore Twitter reprobates. Classy. The picture on the right (by Clive Flint) shows me pulling a classic "I'm not at all drunk, oh no, not me" face, about half way into the evening. Thank goodness there are none from later in the night.

Tomorrow night (Thursday 25th) it's time for Brightwest 3, I'm going with a whole crew of recently converted Twitter cohorts and am all set to DJ - I just hope the Brighton Twitterati are ready for my eclectic selection. This time there's a Speakeasy theme and we're being encouraged to dress up, as if I needed persuading.

As always, the proceeds all go to charity and loads of fabulous goodies have been donated for an auction and 'Twombola'. So if you're a Brighton Twitter person, or even a Brighton non-Twitter person who'd like to see what all the fuss is about, you should definitely come along. Tickets are available online or at the door. Here's a map, too, just in case you get lost. If you're a non Brightonian reading this, you can find your nearest Twestival via the official website. Come on, it'll be fun.

Thomas Truax Gig in Brighton

2010-03-15T20:58:00.000Z

Ever since I discovered him at a Freebutt gig around this time last year, I've been raving about Thomas Truax, the eccentric one-man band with a penchant for weird homemade instruments. If you read my Great Escape 2009 write up or a recent post on the zombie music video shoot, you might be forgiven for thinking I was stalking him. You might even be right. He's one of those performers who taps right into my own personal madness and throws something even stranger back. Here's a little taster:

Thomas Truax Prove It To My Daughter

Uploaded by WowtownTV. - Watch more music videos, in HD

If, like me, you're game for a bit of oddball entertainment, you should get yourself down to the Freebutt in Brighton on Friday night, where Thomas Truax is playing again, along with Woodpecker Wooliams and Dug Champion. I'll be there, come and say hello. Londoners can also catch Thomas at the next White Mischief event on 27th March.

Watch this space for more gig recommendations coming soon.

Tunng Live and Acoustic At Resident Records

2010-03-03T20:25:00.000Z

One of the nicest things about living in Brighton is that there's never a shortage of happenings, even on a Monday night. Admittedly it's rare that I make the most of Mondays, being content to crawl under a blanket on the sofa and watch a DVD after a hard day at work. But this week I broke the mold and accepted an invitation (thanks Steve) to see Tunng do an acoustic set at Resident Records in honour of their latest album release, And Then We Saw Land.

If you've never been to Resident, picture a small shop with a big shelving unit right down the middle and space at either side filled with Brighton hipsters, music lovers and middle class culture junkies (I won't tell you which cliche I consider myself to be). A pared down version of the band, minus drummer and usual array of percussive accoutrements, shuffles into the narrow space in front of the till and warns the excited crowd: "this might be a bit quiet". In fact it is the perfect volume - thanks to the fact that it's one of those polite occasions where people refrain from talking during the set; if only the same could be said for all Brighton gigs.

Having seen the full Tunng line-up live at Green Man Festival in 2007, I wondered how they'd come across without the trademark twiddly electro tinges, but actually the softer folkier sound of an unplugged performance suited them. I found myself swaying along and drifting away as they played mostly songs from the new album. Even the little tiny baby next to me (who, I should point out, was accompanied by its mother) seemed rapt throughout and hardly even squeaked. It was a jolly lovely start to the week and a pleasant change from the usual Monday night torpor. I must remember to make the most of Mondays more often.

Find Tunng on MySpace or buy the new album on Amazon:

Doing Our Bit: A Haiti Fundraiser Event

2010-02-22T22:57:00.002Z

Last Thursday I dusted off the camera kit for my first photography gig of 2010, a charity fundraising night organised by a gang of Brighton music promoters and community groups in aid of the Haiti earthquake emergency appeal.

Despite the torrential weather, hoardes of revellers showed up to support this great cause and dance the night away to some of Brighton's grooviest bands. The performers, who all donated their time for free, included Manouchska, The Fat 45, Pollito Boogaloo, Kalakuta Millionaires, Fanfara and Nhasitafara.

There was a real festival atmosphere in the air as the packed venue buzzed with frantic dancing and feelgood factor from 8pm til 2am (and on a school night, too). When bands weren't playing, there were DJs in every room, spinning everything from the Star Wars cantina theme to swinging Rock n Roll. I was in my element, capturing the action both on stage and on the dancefloor and throwing a few moves of my own at the same time. You can see the results of my efforts here in this slideshow, which is also available on Flickr.

As well as snapping away all night, I was also playing the part of intrepid reporter, interviewing unsuspecting punters, promoters and artists for the official video of the night (currently being edited together by filmmaker, Scott Lawson). All in all it was a super night, which raised nearly £3,000 for the Disasters Emergency Committee Haiti Appeal. A big slap on the back to all the performers and organisers who made it happen, not to mention the punters who dug deep and partied hard to make it go off with a bang.

If you couldn't make it along last Thursday, but would like to do your bit for Haiti, you can donate online here.

Top Five All Time Worst Hangovers

2010-02-17T19:28:00.000Z

When you're in the midst of one, it's not even remotely amusing, but the great thing about hangovers is that you can look back and laugh... Laugh at the mortifying memory of pressing your face against the tiled bathroom floor and praying for death, laugh at the preposterous excuses with which you tried to palm off your boss to avoid having to work on the Morning After, laugh at the person you shared it with who was even worse than you. Let's face it, hangovers are funny.

These days my hangovers tend to be more easily acquired but less intense in nature - perhaps a symptom of my reduced capacity for alcohol combined with an increased sense of moderation. The last Hangover Horriblis - and possibly the worst ever - was almost a year ago, but still strong enough in my memory to curb my propensity to over-indulge. That particular one was so bad that it has become a regular subject of rueful reminiscence between me and my better half, with whom I shared the whole sorrowful experience.

The other evening we were discussing that very day and started comparing it to other epic hangovers of the past. As a result, I came up with this list of my top five worst ever hangovers, which I present now for your enjoyment. Please feel free to laugh, I did.

In reverse order of severity:

Eastbourne, 1993

A fairly typical case of teenage intemperance, this one is memorable for its humorous Morning After scenario. At the time, my boyfriend Chris and I were house-sitting for my dad and step-mum, who were away sailing round Europe. We used to have friends over to stay quite often, most notably Natalie and Craig, who lived in Hailsham and could save on taxi fares after a night out by crashing on our sofa bed. On one such occasion, we'd all been out with the usual theatre crowd, most probably to TJ's (still going strong), I imagine it would have been a Thursday. I remember Carlo being there on the walk back to Longstone Road and he, Natalie and me all rolling down what felt like a never-ending hill side but turned out the next day to be merely a small grassy bank.

The next morning I couldn't face going into work, not least because my workplace (the now defunct Torq the jeweller) was a small glass box on a sunny corner and not the most pleasant place in which to endure a hangover. Feeling too feeble and scared to do it myself, I asked Natalie to call in sick for me. She was happy to do so, but neither of us had thought to come up with a plausible story before she dialled. My boss picked up and Nat calmly informed her "Rowan won't be in today, she's got a stomach upset". "Who is this?" asked my boss. A look of panic struck Natalie's already bloodhsot eyes "It's ....[long pause].... her.... auntie" she said, entirely unconvicingly. My boss never exactly confronted me about this flagrant truancy, but the arched eyebrow that greeted me on my next shift was enough to ensure I never attempted such a stunt again.

Exeter, 2007

The occasion was Brian's 30th, the venue was a pub in Exeter town centre and then back to Brian's student digs (he was studying for his PCGE at the time). I had been suffering from 'flu and necking Benylin like it was going out of fashion. That and the bottle of Captain Morgan's that I polished off (with a little help from Nick, pictured right - this was the point at which the hangover became inevitable) proved to be a savage combination.

Ant and I were staying in a B&B but didn't make it back there until the wee small hours and had to check out again soon after. God knows how Ant, who was in a bad way too, managed to chauffer the whole Brighton gang home again later that day. I was supposed to be sharing the driving, but could barely function enough to help with directions. Ant said it was like driving an ambulance, or a Hearse, as the rest of us slumped silently in our seats for the entire five hour trip home.

Brighton and Eastbourne, 1999

I have an excuse for this one, other than the usual wanton self-indulgence. It was the funeral of one of my oldest and dearest friend's mother, just months after the death of another close friend and contemporary. The only way to get through it was to drink. A lot. I was living back at home in Eastbourne after uni and working at Brighton Waterstone's at the time.

After drowning my sorrows right through from the afternoon wake through to some ungodly hour in the morning, I dragged myself into work after very little sleep and proceeded to hide at the back of the ground floor, in what was then the travel section. It quite quickly became too much though, and I told my very kind and understanding boss that I needed to go home. She called my mum to come and collect me because by then I was too sickly to negotiate public transport. Noone explicitly mention the H word, but everyone clearly knew the reason for my green gills and fevered brow. Bless my mum for not as much as tutting when I asked her to pull over so I could throw up in the gutter at Peacehaven.

Harrogate, 2005

It happened whilst working on an HR exhibition during my time at Wiley. Somehow after dinner, my colleagues and I managed to blag our way into a Guardian party at the hotel where we were staying, at which the free booze was flowing. I don't remember much about the evening except for singing Joni Mitchell songs in the lobby, accompanied by Darren (who just happened to have his guitar in his car) and desperately guzzling pints and pints of water before bed at 5am, hoping that I'd sober up by 8 when I had to be up again. It didn't work.

By the time the hangover kicked in, I was on the stand at the exhibition, the glaring halogens burning through my tattered soul. It quickly became apparent that I would be of no use to anyone and one of my colleagues took pity and gave me his car keys so that I could go and lie down on the back seat. I never thought I could feel that awful again, but four years later, I did.

San Francisco, 2009

Nobody wants to spend the last day of their holiday asleep in bed, but that's nearly how we finished our time in San Francisco last Spring, when the mother of all hangovers consumed us both. I blame the guys at the PWN Depot, who had plied us with punch at their party the night before, on top of a whole load of cocktails we'd guzzled at the Elbo Room en-route. There's a detailed account of the night's proceedings and its painful consequences here, but for the purposes of this post, I shall reiterate the worst bits.

The first thing I knew about the post PWN Depot hangover was when the sun came up and straight through the flimsy drapery that passed for a curtain in our room the next morning. After several hours of fending off daylight with T-shirts slung over our aching eyes, we eventually braved the outside world in search of sustenance and found ourselves in the amazing Boogaloo cafe (pictured left). Once fed and marginally repaired, we wandered over to Dolores Park hoping for a quiet lie down under a tree, little expecting to be confronted by a full-blown Mexican festival. Not the most obvious hangover cure, but actually surprisingly soothing, the Marichi band was a welcome distraction from the persistent nauseau and regret, and at least made us feel that we had done something cultured with the day.

******

Tell Me About Your Hangover and Win Free Stuff

Now it's your turn. Share your worst ever hangover and why it was so awful - gory details and embarrassing facts included, please. Whichever one makes me laugh the most will win a hangover survival kit. Closing date for comments, Feb 28th 2010.

Jesca Hoop at the Latest Music Bar (and Other Adventures)

2010-02-08T16:31:00.017Z

After the cultural and social wilderness that was January, it was a pleasant shock to the system to kick-start February with not one but four nights out in a row. This tetralogy of delights began on Wednesday evening with a few pints at the Barley Mow in Kemp Town, followed by a ride in Jen's girl-racer vintage sports car and coffee back at ours accompanied by the excellent new Charlotte Gainsbourg album, Irm, which I'd just bought that day.

On Thursday Ant and I made a last minute decision to go and see Jesca Hoop at the Latest Music Bar, our first gig of the year - and what a show. I'd heard and liked Jesca Hoop on 6Music and via Last.fm, which is why she'd popped up on my recommended gigs feed. In the flesh she was spirited, accomplished and utterly transporting, affecting me in the way that only a select few (mostly female) artists have ever done before. I'm thinking particularly of such memorable gigs as My Brightest Diamond, Camille and Carina Round, who all possessed, and indeed still posses, a certain sensual je ne se quoi that oozes out through their performance.

With its gorgeous three-part harmonies, foot-tapping rhythms and perfectly enunciated lyrics, Jesca Hoop's music is infused with all manner of influences - from folk to blues, gypsy to bluegrass - but her style is very much her own. It felt like a real privilege to see her in an intimate venue at what feels like a tipping point in her career. I was far too swept away to remember to get my camera out during the gig, so the above video is from Jesca Hoop's acoustic set at Resident Records earlier that day. Gigs in Bristol, Leeds, Middlesbrough, Glasgow, Aberdeen, Edinburgh, Manchester, Dublin, Galway and Belfast are coming up in the next couple of weeks - I strongly recommend you get yourself along. For more details of the tour, visit Jesca Hoop's MySpace page.

I've learned to expect the unexpected on a night out with Angell, but If you'd told me in advance that I'd be peeing behind a curtain in the basement of a disused fabric shop in Dalston during his birthday celebrations on Friday, I may have raised an eyebrow. It all felt a bit Hernando's Hideaway tapping on the door, uttering a password and having 'c**t' stamped on our hands before being allowed into what was clearly not the most legitimate of club nights. Despite the basic facilities and smoky conditions (people smoking inside, how retro), it was a good night. We drank copious amounts of rum and danced to all manner of cheese, including the classic You Got the Love (the Candi Staton/Source version) to which I have a vague embarrassing memory of throwing shapes. Oh dear.

Saturday's jollifications were a little more sedate but no less entertaining. Damien's birthday drinks in the Park Crescent rolled on into the early hours back at his and Olly's place, where we were treated to Olly's magnificent Squidgy Chocolate Log. I can't think of many better ways to round off a Saturday night, can you?

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Leaving January Behind with Glee

2010-01-28T18:03:00.008Z

I don't know about you, but I can't wait for January to be over and done with. It's not been a bad month exactly, just a completely uneventful and torpid one; I've barely socialised since New Year's Eve and what with the bank balance recovering after Christmas excesses, there hasn't even been a decent retail therapy session to perk me up. The most exciting thing to happen was the snow and even that turned out to be a royal pain in the arse once the initial novelty wore off. But now as the first month of the year draws to a close, the invitations are starting to trickle in for February and March, giving me something more diverting to look forward to and I am willing away the last dreary days.

There really has been so little going on these past few weeks that I've been carving through the DVD box sets (24 series 6, Six Feet Under series 3) at an unprecedented rate and even getting hooked on current TV shows - like the outstandingly entertaining Glee. For most of the year I barely turn on the TV except to watch films and haven't been bothered enough about anything lately to get into watching it religiously, but for Glee I make an exception. On first glance you might presume it to be a schmaltzy High School Musical wannabe, but actually it veers much more towards being a parody of such cheese-fests. To me it is also enormously nostalgic, since I was a member of the UK equivalent of High School Glee Club and the politics and histrionics take me right back. Even Ant, who is not a fan of musicals or American teen drama, is enjoying it immensely. If you have yet to catch on, you can catch up via 4oD - it's well worth it, honestly.

While we're on the subject of TV highlights, this week saw the return of the glorious Mad Men - an altogether different, but equally compelling affair. I have yet to watch episode one and am dying to discover how things will pan out following season 2's tumultuous ending. Will Betty take her incorrigible gigolo of a husband back? Will the frocks be even more fabulous than last series? Who will have an affair with who? How will I ever cope with having to wait a whole week between episodes? In fact I'd better stop writing and settle down for my fix right now. See you in February, when I will hopefully have more to talk about than what's on the box.

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A Festive Finale, the Devonshire Park Theatre Way

2010-01-14T18:42:00.016Z

Officially the Christmas festivities finished on Wednesday 6th Jan, also known as Twelfth Night, when decorations should have been down and mince pies eaten up ready for the obligatory New Year dieting regime - but I managed to stretch it out one more day by going to see a pantomime on Thursday 7th. Tacky, garish and predictable, pantomime is a great British tradition widely loved (including by me) for exactly those reasons. Anyone who grew up in this country and got taken to pantomime as a child will be pre-programmed with all the necessary responses - "he's behind you", "oh no it isn't", "boo, hiss" etc - to be able to participate without thinking. It's a shared experience, comforting in its familiarity.

For those of us on the inside, there is another great tradition that accompanies the pantomime season and that is the crew Cod panto - where the backstage team get dressed up and mercilessly (but fondly) mock the show for the enjoyment of its actors. Having worked for Eastbourne Theatres for many years back in my teens and early twenties, I am lucky enough to get an invite to see the Devonshire Park's annual Cod - this year 'Jack and His Big Stalk' which took place after the public show last Thursday. Quite apart from the enjoyment of seeing old friends donning drag and prancing about camply, the Cod was genuinely amusing by virtue of its sharply side-splitting script - written by the DP's resident Stage Manager (and my dear friend), Paul Debreczeny. You can catch a few highlights in this little YouTube video of mine.

The Turns and Twirlies (aka actors and dancers) took the ridicule in good part and actually seemed quite impressed at the previously hidden talents of their behind-the-scenes colleagues. My own dear mum (who works on the stage door) even bagged herself a cameo, showing off her theatrical pedigree - which was again something of a revelation to many of the assembled. What with the added bonus of free-flowing wine throughout the show and catching up with old friends afterwards during a lock-in at the Buccaneer pub next door, it was a very jolly way to round off the seasonal festivities. And a stack of cash was also raised for the Sussex Air Ambulance charity in the process. Good work, chaps.

Zombies, Magpies and Thomas Truax

2010-01-05T13:52:00.024Z

What better way to relieve the end of holiday blues than by being a zombie in a music video? That's exactly what we felt last weekend when the call went out on Twitter for extras to appear in Thomas Truax's latest video shoot on Sunday. Best of all the shoot was happening just down the road from us in Eastbourne, at a venue close to my heart - the Under Ground theatre. Once just the plain old Library Theatre, the Under Ground was the setting for many amdram adventures of my youth, most notably Godspell and the Pajama Game which both hold extremely happy memories. The place hasn't changed a bit and walking in there was like walking straight back into my mis-spent youth.

Since discovering him at the Freebutt last year along with all his wacky homemade instruments, Thomas Truax has fast become one of my favourite artists (so much so that he made it into my new blog header) and I was delighted to have the chance to star alongside him. Despite all the dressing up over the years, I've never been a zombie before, and thought it would be a fun experience. As it turned out, I still haven't been a zombie because I unwittingly volunteered myself to be a magpie instead. This involved wearing a big magpie head, out of which I could see very little, and dancing in step (not very easy with a big magpie head on) with a fellow magpie called Robin (was I the only one to see the humour there?) who had been 'volunteered' by his girlfriend for the part. Ant and James enjoyed being the tallest zombies on stage and milking their roles - as you can see from this snap of them barbecuing a (fake) human heart. Everyone involved was jolly nice and we even went for a pint with some other zombies in the Dewdrop afterwards.

The video won't be ready for another couple of months, but in the meantime I strongly recommend that you have a look at one of Thomas Truax's previous (and also very brilliantly odd) videos here on YouTube, or even better, buy one of his excellent albums. You can see more photos of the zombie video shoot on my Flickr page.

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2009 in Photographs

2010-01-04T10:29:00.003Z

The Christmas festivities are over, the New Year hangover subsiding. I'm thinking back over 2009 - a year of highs and lows, adventure and discovery - and looking ahead to 2010. While the memories are still fresh, I have chosen my favourite photographs from last year, which you can see below. What I love most about these snaps is that everyone in them looks so genuinely happy - there's not a forced photo-smile to be seen. I am very lucky to be surrounded by so many vivacious, passionate people and I look forward to spending more happy times with them all this year. A joyous and fruitful New Year one and all.

All the photos in this slideshow are from my Flickr stream. Come on over and see more: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Avatar: Utterly Ridiculous, Gloriously Entertaining

2009-12-24T13:12:00.011Z

Star Wars, Star Trek, The Matrix - where would we be without silly sci-fi films to transport us away from the monotony of daily life into another dimension? Certainly it is one of my favourite things to sit in a cinema with spaceships flying towards me, losing myself in unfeasible plots and wondering whether it's wrong to fancy weird looking aliens.

I didn't know much about Avatar before we went to see it - only that it had cost a shedload of cash to produce and had been 15 years in the making. I'd seen a few snippets of willowy blue people with bows and gung-ho American soldiers brandishing guns, but that was about it.

Ant decided that we should go for his birthday, even though he was intent on hating it. I was actually looking forward to it, especially the fact that it was in 3-D. In the end we both loved it for all its gloriously overblown Hollywood silliness. It had spaceships, it had half naked aliens, it had clear cut goodies and baddies, it had romance. It also had summer season style UV garishness and the most obvious, flaky plot ever - but that's beside the point.

Unlike Ant, I didn't want to sit and pick holes in Avatar, I wanted it to excite and amaze me - and was quite prepared to turn a blind eye to its flaws in order to be utterly swept away in a sea of fantasy escapism. If you are out for cerebral stiumlation and astute observation, Avatar is not the film for you. If, like me, you just want to be entertained - don't miss the chance to see it on the big screen in 3D. It is truly a spectacle to behold.

Official Avatar Movie

The Giant Jaffa Cake: Recipe and Philosophy

2009-12-20T16:49:00.009Z

Inspired by my friend Madame Jo Grey's impressively accurate giant French Fancy (baked for her daughter's 2nd birthday last year), I decided to attempt a similar feat with the humble jaffa cake. Like most sweet-toothed Brits, my other half Ant is a big fan of the jaffa cake and I loved the idea of presenting him with a home-baked giant version for his birthday. After much pondering and a little online research, I settled upon the method below - a mixture of existing recipes, intuition and my own invention. I was rather pleased with the result, which you can see pictured here (next to a standard jaffa cake to demonstrate scale).

The Giant Jaffa Cake was served at Ant's birthday party last night and became the subject of much admiration and discussion as it sat waiting to be eaten all evening. But the proof is in the pudding as they say, and I am happy to report that there was a big thumbs up all round from our guests, who scoffed the lot enthusiastically within minutes of it being cut.

Giant Jaffa Cake Recipe

Equipment & Ingredients

Wok or large curved frying pan (make sure this will fit in the oven), lined with greaseproof paper
Curved breakfast plate or shallow dish
Note: the wok/frying pan is to make the base and the plate will be the mold for the jelly, so make sure the two are the right proportions in relation to each other to create a convincing jaffa cake.

For the jaffa cake base:
225g unsalted butter
225g caster sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
4 large eggs
200g self raising flour
25g cornflour

For the jaffa cake topping:
Jar of shredless marmalade
Packet of orange or tropical fruit flavoured vegetarian jelly crystals (available from any good healthfood store)
150ml double cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 teaspoon unsalted butter
150g dark chocolate, broken into small chunks

Method

Preheat the oven to 180〬c/gas mark 4

Cream the butter and sugar together, by hand or in a mixer, until light and fluffy. Add the vanilla and then the eggs, one at a time. As spoonful of flour between eggs will stop the mixture from curdling. When well combined, add the rest of the flour and the cornflour and finally a little milk to bring the mixture to a sticky batter consistency.

Pour the mixture into the lined frying pan or wok and check after 25 minutes. Use a cocktail stick to see if it is cooked through - if it comes out with cake mix on it you'll know it's still raw in the middle and will need to give it a bit longer. When's it's done it should look golden brown and feel springy to the touch. At this point, remove from the oven and leave in the wok on a rack for 10 minutes or so before carefully turning out the cake to cool completely.

Meanwhile, make the jelly using half the amount of recommended liquid. Because I could only find tropical flavour vegetarian jelly, I made it up with a mixture of orange juice and water (boiled together). Add a dollop of orange marmalade to get that extra tanginess and mix with a fork until everything has dissolved. Pour into the plate or shallow dish, leave to cool then put in the fridge to set.

When both bits of the giant jaffa cake are cool, carefully slice the top off the cake to make a flat surface for the jelly. Mix a tablespoon of marmalade with a little freshly boiled water to make a paste. Brush this onto the centre of the cake where the jelly will go and leave to go sticky. Now comes the tricky bit. Carefully lift the cake and turn it upside down, lowering onto the plate of jelly. Holding both bits together firmly, turn the cake back over and hopefully the jelly will come loose. You may need to do a little adjusting to get it to sit centrally on the cake.

And now for the chocolate topping. Rather than using unadulterated melted chocolate - which is difficult to spread neatly and may melt the jelly - I prefer to use a ganache icing, which goes on cool and is much easier to spread. Pour the cream into a heavy bottomed saucepan and add the vanilla, butter and chocolate. Bring to the boil, agitating as you go to stop the chocolate pieces clumping. As soon as the chocolate has melted, remove from the heat and whisk until thick and glossy.

Allow the icing to cool for 10 minutes or so, whisking occasionally to keep it smooth and making sure it doesn't start to set. Using a spatula or palette knife (I use the scraper that came with my Kenwood Chef), dollop the icing onto the cake, starting at the top of the jelly and spreading around evenly, working your way down in stages and making sure not to let it drip onto the underneath of the cake. Smooth everything over as much as possible, then use the side of your spreader to mark lines across the top in a criss-cross pattern. Go in opposite directions for each line to get the best effect.

Pop the cake in the fridge to set, then serve with pride.

Thanks and credit are due to my culinary guru Nigella Lawson whose baking bible How to Be a Domestic Goddess proved an invaluable resource in the development of the Giant Jaffa Cake.

A Drunk in a Midnight Choir

2009-12-16T12:37:00.011Z

“Like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free” Leonard Cohen

As a devout young choir girl (head chorister no less), I used to take umbrage at the hoards of ‘Christmas Brigade’ punters who would rock up at midnight mass having not seen the inside a church all year except possibly for weddings, Christenings and funerals. It seemed unfair that I should be there every Sunday doing my bit while they just got to saunter in for the fun part once a year. Little did I imagine that one day it would be me rolling drunkenly into the back pew for a sing-song on Christmas Eve.

But why would a confirmed agnostic/pantheist indulge in such institutional religious rites? A sentimental attachment to old times is partly to blame - my spiritual life may no longer be tied to the church, but I still find immense comfort in the traditions and surroundings that were such a big part of my childhood and early adulthood.

The other main attraction is the music. Having been trained and immersed in it for so many years, my singing voice comes alive to sacred music, particularly the good old Christmas carol. My heart does not belong to Christmas until I have belted out the soaring descant to Oh Come all Ye Faithful by candlelight. The past few years I have been exercising my lungs on Christmas Eve at our local church, St George’s in Kemp Town, where I get an extra thrill from knowing that some of my favourite performers have also sung there. But it’s not just about sentiment and singing.

Christianity may have appropriated many of its festive traditions from the Pagans and Romans, but Christmas is Christmas now (not Yuletide or Saturnalia) and there’s no getting away from it. So whether you believe in Jesus or not, it only seems fitting to pay one's respects to the tradition that gives us that precious time off work to argue with family, max out our credit cards and over-indulge on rich food and booze.

Joking aside, I may not be religious but I am a sucker for tradition and ritual and there’s nothing like candlelit mass for conjuring ceremonial magic and summoning the festive spirit (figuratively speaking of course). So call me a hypocrite, but come Christmas Eve I’ll be there giving it all I’ve got in my once a year pseudo-spiritual seasonal devotional. And pious choir girls, please don’t hate me for it.

*******

Nothing to do with midnight mass but suitably festive, the above video is from this year's Wainwright/McGarrigle family Christmas show, 'A Not So Silent Christmas' at the Royal Albert Hall. I recommend the CD or DVD of the occasion as excellent festive listening and have also picked out a few other favourite alternative Christmas albums for fellow music lovers. Enjoy...

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Sussex Gastro Pubs Series: The Lewes Snowdrop Reborn

2009-12-10T09:00:00.001Z

Lately I've been trying to expand the circuit of pubs, cafes and restaurants that we frequent, rather than sticking to the same old places. There have been a few good discoveries this year, though I'm afraid we haven't branched out as much as I'd hoped. So last Sunday, in an attempt to broaden our horizons before the end of the year, we re-visited an old haunt that had gone gradually downhill in recent years but was reported to be back on form.

The Snowdrop in Lewes was a favourite back in my Sixth Form college days, when it was a bit of a crusty/biker/wicca hang-out, serving hearty vegetarian food and pints of Snakebite and black. I hadn't been for years until I started working down the Cliffe end of Lewes earlier this year and popped in to find it a shadow of its former self and barely able to scrape together a sandwich, let alone a decent Sunday lunch. I am delighted to say that this sorry situation has now been rectified by the pub's latest landlords, who have restored the place to its former glory - albeit with a few (pleasant) changes.

In place of the old bric-a-brac stage-set style decor, the inside of the Snowdrop now sports an array of homely canal boat style furnishings, while the exterior has been painted in a fetching shade of pale green. It is back to being a freehouse for the first time in ten years, serving an impressive range of local ales, Bavarian beers and posh ciders on tap, as well as a good selection of bottled booze.

But the most exciting development at the all-new Snowdrop is the all-new menu. The veggie roast I had there on Sunday was one of the best I've ever eaten at a pub - only my own home cooked roast would top it, and even then it would be a close thing. The nutroast was moist and flavoursome and packed with tasty ingredients like capers and sunflower seeds. There was a wide selection of veg including red cabbage, parsnips, peas, broccoli, roast potatoes and cauliflower, all cooked to perfection and packed with flavour. The only (very slight) criticism I could possibly raise was that I would have liked more of the delicious gravy - but then that is probably just me being greedy.

At most Sussex country pubs you'd wait at least half an hour, sometimes up to an hour, for Sunday lunch. Ours came in about ten minutes, even though the place was bustling. Unlike the previous landlords, the staff were friendly and chatty and justifiably proud of their efforts to transform the pub from seedy dive to cosy gastropub.

I'm looking forward to going back to the Snowdrop again for the C&M Christmas lunch next week, when hopefully I'll get to see what the upstairs looks like these days. Let's just pray that my colleagues behave themselves during the festivities, because I'd hate to get barred so soon after re-discovering this once again fabulous joint.

Another Year, Another Mixtape: The Annual Christmas Compilation

2009-12-05T16:12:00.016Z

With the end of every year comes a string of essential rituals - some imposed by religious and historical tradition, some of our own making. For me one of the best year-end ceremonies is to sit down between Christmas and New Year's Eve to go through all our photographs from the year and put the best ones into an album - something we've been doing as a couple almost since the beginning.

Another rather more self-indulgent custom is the making of the annual 'Ant & Ro' CD - a compilation of our favourite and significant music from the year, usually dominated by bands we've seen live. These are distributed to friends and family who visit over the festive period and sometimes posted to other musically minded comrades.

As our tastes have grown more and more eclectic over the years, it's become trickier to compile a fluent mixtape of accessible music. Whilst my motivation is to share cool new discoveries and inspire musical exploration, I appreciate that not everyone cares as much as I do for the more esoteric Freakzone-ish end of the listening spectrum.

A couple of days ago I started thinking about this year's mix and jotting down some ideas for what might go into it. The hardest part has been whittling it down to just one CD's worth of tunes, from what has been an outstanding twelve months of musical enlightenment; what with four festivals and plenty of local gigs in between, my musical cup literally floweth over with bands that I want to shout about.

The other difficulty is actually tracking down recorded versions of unsigned material, which usually involves various emails to band members and ordering homemade CDs recorded in bedrooms and sold from dubious looking websites, hoping that they'll materialise. But this is all part of the ritual, and gradually the mixtape has started to take shape. It's not 100% finished yet, but what with the impending festive frivolities, I may not get another chance to share my annual compilation here.

The above YouTube playlist contains all the tracks that I could find in a reasonable format, but by the nature of the platform is of varying quality. Below is a complete tracklisting with download links and an Amazon preview widget that lets you listen to snippets from each song (if you want to hear more, go to the band website). The only one missing from the widget (because it's not available from Amazon) is Quack Quack, which I strongly recommend you listen to here (but only if you are into rambling energetic contemporary prog).

Ant & Ro 2009
1) Charlie Darwin by The Low Anthem from the album Oh My God Charlie Darwin
2) There is No Light by Wildbirds & Peacedrums from the album The Snake
3) Purée Hiphop by GaBlé from the album 7 Guitars with a Cloud of Milk
4) I Always Hang Myself with the Same Rope by Birdeatsbaby from the album Here She Comes-a-Tumblin'
5) Stone in my Shoe by Boo Hewerdine from the album Toybox no.2
6) The Wanting Comes In Waves/Repaid by The Decemberists from the album The Hazards Of Love
7) No Flies On Me (Ballad Of The Jam Head) by The Witch And The Robot from the album On Safari
8) Black Tambourine by Thomas Truax from the album Songs From The Films Of David Lynch
9) Kathy Ray by Joe Gideon & the Shark from the album Harum Scarum
10) Beggar's Prayer by Emilana Torrini from the album Me and Armini
11) Boat Behind by Kings of Convenience from the album Declaration of Dependence
12) Manty by Sebastien Tellier from the album Sexuality
13) Frida Found A Friend (Live) by Efterklang from the album Performing Parades
14) In the Upper Room: Dance V by Philip Glass form the album Dancepieces
15) Aeon by Antony & the Johnsons from the album The Crying Light
16) Mars by Quack Quack, available from Run of the Mill Records
17) Night Terror by Laura Marling from the album Alas, I Cannot Swim
18) Join the Dots by Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band with Tim and Sam from the album Put Your Slippers On

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If you would like a copy of the final CD, leave me a comment and I'll see if I've got one spare at the end of the festive season.

Sussex Gastro Pubs Series: The Lion & Lobster Has an Upstairs (Who Knew?)

2009-11-28T16:51:00.007Z

Things are always changing in Brighton & Hove - it's one of those towns where cafes come and go and pubs change hands in the blink of an eye. It can be disconcerting to discover that somewhere you've known and loved has changed beyond recognition, but then again, sometimes you can be pleasantly surprised.

Last night I went on a nostalgic walkabout with Jo around some of my old haunts in Hove borders - the Cooper's Cask (which hasn't changed a bit) and the Lion Lobster (which has). Back when we were living in Bedford Place, the Lion & Lobster was our local and has remained a favourite watering hole whenever we're in those parts.

It's been over a year since I last popped in for a scoop and I was surprised to discover some substantial developments had occurred in that time. Having already been extended to include a row of cosy booths off the back room, the pub has now doubled in size with an upstairs bar and restaurant and even an upstairs beer garden. The sectioned off cosy restaurant - with its higgledy-piggledy pictures and homely lamps - has the atmosphere of a private members' club, and though we were too late to sample the standard cuisine, we did indulge in a pizza from the late night menu (available til 2am Fridays & Saturdays) so that we could sit in the swanky bit. I'm looking forward to going back for a proper meal in due course - but do let me know what it's like if you have eaten there yourself.

Photo of the Lion & Lobster by Koschi on Flickr / CC BY-NC 2.0

A Rainy/Sunny Weekend in South Devon

2009-11-18T17:28:00.021Z

Having tried living in Sussex (Brighton, then Beeding) for a short while last year, my dear friend Harriet decided she needed to be somewhere more rural and departed for the rugged and windswept South Devon coast. She bagged a job at the Field Studies Centre in Slapton, and now resides on site, just a stone's throw from Slapton Ley National Nature Reserve (it's the biggest lake on the South coast, you know) and the nearby sparse shingle beach and rocky shore.

Now I love the countryside, but I could never possibly live somewhere so remote (unless of course I had a little pied-à-terre in Town as well). I've always loved Sussex for its pleasing balance between the bucolic and the urban and have grown to take for granted having certain amenities on tap. Knowing this about me, Harriet has always been at pains to stress the abundance of activities on offer in her new adopted home territory in an attempt to coax me away from my cosy townie existence for a visit.

Last weekend I finally succummed and went to see what all the fuss was about. I've been to Devon many times before - on childhood holidays and camping with Ant in the early days before we could afford jaunts to California and the like - but never to this particular area. As we were driving down the A303 on Friday night in the howling wind and rain, we began to wish we'd arranged something sooner and come in the summer months like any sane person would.

Opening the curtains to reveal a stunning panoramic sea view from our cosy B&B the next morning, we watched a lone dog walker struggling against the elements and resigned ourselves to a weekend of indoor activities. The first thing Harriet did when we arrived in Slapton was to take us down to the beach. In the rain. And the wind. Oh and did I mention the rain? Luckily I had my wellies and waterproof with me, but this didn't stop me from getting wet knees when the waves crashed up more energetically than anticipated. After a "walk" that basically involved us staggering about getting soaked for five minutes, we decide to cut our losses and head for civilisation.

The nearest 'happening' place to Slapton is Totnes, which is a lot like Lewes, only slightly less haughty. Inland, the weather was less severe and a few patches of blue sky had even started appearing. I was right at home amongst the endless hippy shops and lush organic delis, but my ultimate shopping nirvana materialised when I followed a glimpse of sequins spied through a dark doorway into a vintage clothing and costumery cavern the like of which I have only ever dreamed of before. I could easily have spent several hours and many hundreds of pounds indulging my fancy dress habit, but there was a carpe to diem and lunch to be had.

You can't go to Devon without having at least one cream tea and so when we found ourselves in Dartmouth later that day, we made it a priority to find one. We also took the opportunity to stock up on local cider and ale, some of which we drank by the pretty riverside right there and then, as day sloped into evening. Back in Slapton, Harry's boyfriend Ben cooked us up a hearty pie, made with hand-gathered chestnuts. When the booze supply started thinning out we walked around the corner to the pub for a scoop or two before closing and found ourselves surrounded by a bizarre mix of rowdy university students and chatty locals.

Thankfully I was not at all hungover the next day, because Harriet had optimistically booked us onto a guided geology walk at 10am. I haven't been on an organised walk since the days of Girl Guides night hikes but clearly they are popular in those parts, because we weren't the only group assembling in the car park in Prawle. Our enthusiastic steward was flagging down anyone in hiking boots, asking them "are you here for the AONB walk?" to which one grumpy lady disdainfully replied "no, I hike alone". She didn't know what she was missing, because not only was it a stunning tour of a truly dramatic bit of coastline, but I actually learned a lot about rocks along the way.

It had been a packed weekend of activities as promised, and I was sad to have to go home again so soon. I'm looking forward to going back in the spring when I'm assured there will be even more natural delights to see, perhaps even a seal or two. If you are passing down that way any time soon, I can highly recommend Frogwell B&B in Strete, who were friendly and accommodating and entirely free from chintz. And if you happen to be sinking a pint at the Tower pub in Slapton, say hello to Harry from me - because she's bound to be in there.

* * * * * * *

Unfortunately my camera was stolen just after we got back, complete with all the film I'd shot over the weekend. So the above photo of Slapton Ley comes courtesy of me'n thedogs' on Flickr / CC BY 2.0

The Best of Breakfast in Bed

2009-11-13T10:04:00.011Z

I was reading the latest post on Simon Hickson's excellent blog, Mummified Fox, when the idea struck me (or rather, I shamelessly stole it) to do a roundup of my favourite posts from the last four years of my own blog. I set up Breakfast in Bed around this time of year in 2005 and finally got round to publishing my first post in January 2006. It makes me slightly sad to think of all those stories languishing in the archive, so I have compiled a list of what I consider to be the best ones in the hope that they will be read and enjoyed once again. So without further ado, here they are:

March 2006 - I Love Taj. A hymn to my favourite Brighton food shop.

May 2006 - Neil Innes at Komedia. One of the first ever Breakfast in Bed gig reviews, this write-up was also published (in a slightly edited version) in the Independent.

May 2007 - Djinn of the Tin. A bizarre and very Brighton episode in which I acted the part of genie to a random stranger via SMS.

August 2007 - Thoughts Like Bubbles. How I went from melancholy to philosophical to down right jolly all in one day through the power of people watching.

January 2008 - An Obsession Explored. A classic fancy dress adventure with me as Karen Carpenter and a look back at how the whole costume fetish began.

February 2008 - Life Through a Lens. My journey from film to digital photography.

July 2008 - A Cup of Tea and a Cake. Some of my favourite places in the world to go for a freshly baked bun and a brew.

November 2008 - A Smile Restored. The end of a fairly miserable and physically painful chapter of my life.

May 2009 - San Francisco, You Stole My Heart. Bit of an epic this one - all about our wonderful holiday in California.

August 2009 - Bring Back Trevor & Simon. A gleeful "welcome back" to my ultimate comedy heroes, whose genius podcasts have been tickling me rotten these last few months.

September 2009 - A Sparkly, Spangly Place. The best music festival of 2009 was undoubtedly End of the Road. Good food, great company, outstanding music and sparkly woodland groves made for a brilliant finale to the summer.

So that's it - some of the highlights from an eventful few years as brought to you by Breakfast in Bed. Thanks for reading and do stay tuned for further adventures coming very soon.

A Family Holiday in Brittany

2009-11-05T17:10:00.016Z

When you are five, life is a confusing mix of alluring fantasy and half-learned reality. Little wonder then that until witnessing proof to the contrary, my little nephew was convinced that sharks did not exist - a fact about which he corrected me repeatedly whenever the subject was raised. Presumably he perceived them as a mythological creature in the realms of dragons and unicorns - the likes of which he is now emphatically grown up enough to refute.

It was the most charming experience to observe my nephew's little face as we entered the shark tank at Saint-Malo Grand Aquarium during a recent holiday in Brittany. "Wow" he exclaimed - much as one might upon encountering a real live pixie during a walk in the woods - "sharks really do exist". The magic of the moment was magnified by its resemblance to a certain scene in The Box of Delights in which the hero Kay Harker (played in the classic 80s BBC version by my nephew's father, my brother Devin) cries "A phoenix! I've really seen a phoenix!"

This was one brilliant moment in a holiday full of memorable firsts: for us, the first time taking Isaac away, for him the first time properly abroad (Guernsey family trip notwithstanding), plenty of new foods sampled and the beginnings of new language skills introduced. It was a completely different kind of holiday for Ant and me, who usually spend our days thinking about where to eat in the evening and our evenings eating and drinking too much. Because there was no chance of a lie in and I was struggling with a grotty cold for the first few days, we tended to be tucked up in our four poster with a good book before 10 o'clock.

The medieval cottage we rented in Dinan - much like the town itself - was like something out of a fairy tale. A huge stone fireplace, crooked beams and a rugged spiral staircase all made for a wonderful atmosphere that infused our days and nights. Isaac was in awe of his huge attic playroom and looked tiny curled up in the corner in his bed at night. Apart from the odd drunken student staggering loudly back towards the Youth Hostel at night, it was serenely quiet - despite being in the heart of town. I relished the lack of television and internet connection which gave us the rare opportunity to actually read books and have lengthy conversations.

Besides the awesome aquarium adventure, we explored many of Brittany's other delights including Dinan's castle ramparts and picturesque riverside, the sprawling sandy beaches of Saint-Malo and Dinard and the rockier coast further West. Isaac seemed to grow in confidence as the days went on - swinging form the trees in a fantastic adventure park, clambering over rocks at the seaside, ordering his own pudding - 'une glace du chocolat' - in French at a restaurant and steering the little motor boat we hired to explore the river. There was so much inspiration in the way of castles and knights and boats and pirates and the like, that we barely heard mention of the dreaded Spiderman or Optimus Prime and instead fostered Isaac's growing interest in all things Asterix.

While we were entertaining their Son across the Channel, Isaac's mum and dad (my brother and his girlfriend) were enjoying their first holiday away alone since he came along - in the pictureqsue but apparently sodden Isle of Mull. So I like to think I can take at least part credit for the engagement that ensued as a result of this rare romantic break - about which you can read here. Congratulations to the future Mr & Mrs Stanfield - and thanks for the loan of your boy, he really was a treat.

Kings of Convenience at the De La Warr Pavilion

2009-10-21T18:12:00.008+01:00

Last week Ant and I went one of our rare midweek semi-spontaneous date nights, to go and see Kings of Convenience at the De La Warr Pavilion in Bexhill. Unless you have seen the De La Warr, you may wonder why on earth any band would choose to perform in Bexhill of all places, but even before you step inside this striking Art Deco building, you start to appreciate the draw. Ever since its refurbishment in the early noughties, the De La Warr has been attracting illustrious artists from Goldfrapp to the Penguin Cafe Orchestra and is well worth the 45 minunte trip from Brighton.

Kings of Convenience may not be the most challenging of bands, but they win the prize in my eyes as the most soothing; their dulcet harmonies and expert intricate guitar playing are the musical equivalent of morphine. Way back when Ant and I were first living in Brighton we would often kick back with a glass of red and wind down from the trials of London commuting to their 2001 debut album, Quiet is the New Loud. It's up there with Ben & Jason's Emoticons (just available on Spotify by the way) as a sentimental classic of our 'early years' together.

It felt very special to finally see Kings of Convenience live and in such an atmospheric - and acoustically blessed - venue. The band were in good spirits all evening, playfully bantering between songs and telling us tales of their early days and first ever gig in East Sussex. With their permission I captured the above video snippet which - even though it is only recorded on a basic point and shoot - reveals something of their musical artistry. For the full experience, you will have to go and see them for yourselves.

The new Kings of Convenience album, Declaration of Dependence, was released in the UK this week.

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Grab Your Glad Rags Honey, It's The Blind Tiger Club!

2009-10-12T19:15:00.030+01:00

Brighton clubbing to many people means the garish seafront strip of venues populated by stag and hen parties and scantily clad teens. Fortunately for those of us to whom this scenario is tantamount to torture, we also have the likes of Born Bad, Da Doo Ron Ron, Dynamite Boogaloo, Vive La Fip, Carnivalesque and Balkaneasca to satisfy our boogie cravings. These are all fun nights, but rarely is there anything on the scale of last weekend's Blind Tiger Club - billed as a "backstreet speakeasy".

If the organisers had wanted it to be a truly clandestine event, they presumably wouldn't have advertised it on Facebook, but the idea was a laudable one all the same. The secret location turned out to be the old music library in the North Laine, an internally dilapidated 1920s building on three storeys, recently opened up for creative community events after years of standing disused. I was right at home in the prohibition era dress code - a vintage style for which flat chests and short hair are de rigeur. Being an "any excuse to dress up" kind of town, most people had also entered into the spirit, with an eye-pleasing array of trilby clad dapper gents and feathered up ladies strutting their stuff.

The faded grandeur of the venue gave the night a suitably speakeasy feel, although the (distinctly un-vintage) security staff and festival style outdoor portaloos did detract from the retro vibe slightly. The irrepressible pedant in me was irked to hear the odd burst of more recent (albeit 1950s) music, as if everything before 1960 should be banded together as "the music of yesteryear". On any other occasion I'd be the first to get up and jive, but in this context found it physically impossible to reconcile Rock n Roll with my flapper get-up. There was also no sign of the promised "live magic shows, cabaret, walkabout performance, grand piano and table service". But mild disappointments aside, I was in heaven - throwing myself around to a jolly selection of swing, jazz and big band and employing all sorts of half-remembered dodgy amdram moves.

Each of the three levels maintained a very distinct vibe throughout the night, with most of the action happening down in the wonderfully seedy basement, where all the more danceable bands were playing. Everyone piled down there for the much hyped Correspondents, but I was non-plussed about them and took the opportunity to enjoy the more easygoing atmosphere upstairs. It was there that I discovered The Roulettes, whose somewhat sinister take on the Puppini Sisters' swing-punk schtick made for entertaining listening indeed.

By 5am I was hoary-eyed and footsore, but still bouncing along as I toddled home - accompanied for part of the way by Matty Mo, who'd been working behind the bar. And the swell thing was that despite the excessive absinthe consumption, there was hardly a whiff of hangover the next day. Copacetic.

Photos from The Blind Tiger Club on Flickr.

I Am a Shooting Star: a Spaced Out Sci Fi Party

2009-09-29T20:51:00.017+01:00

Ever since the Green Man Festival 2007 I've been trying to track down a song called 'I am an Astronaut', played in the dance tent there by Pete Fowler of Monsterism fame as the final track of his stormingly groovy DJ set (to which I can be seen dancing here).

All I could ever find, though, was a downbeat version by Snow Patrol which you'd never want to play at a party (unless you wanted people to leave). I managed to determine that the original was by Ricki Wilde (younger brother of Kim) and was originally recorded in the 70s - but never actually found anywhere to download or buy it.

When we decided to throw a space themed party for my birthday this year, I knew I had to include the song in my DJ set, and renewed my quest in earnest. With a little more online know-how and some purposeful determination, I eventually found it.

The 'Spaced Out' theme inspired some of the best costume efforts I've ever seen amongst my friends, and with the addition of a robot dancing competition, a superb Clangers cake (made by my talented sister), a screening of the legendary Turkish Star Wars and some out of this world live music from St Anthony's Fire, it truly was a night to remember.

Finally spinning the tune I've been dreaming about for the last two years, I watched affectionately from behind the decks as my drunken amigos stumbled around in a cloud of glitter, hugging each other in that end of the night "you're brilliant, no you're brilliant" way. I like birthdays.

A Spangly, Sparkly Place: The End of the Road Festival 2009

2009-09-16T22:05:00.002+01:00

It's not often you leave a music festival feeling perkier than when you arrive, but that's exactly what happened to me at the End of the Road festival last weekend. Unfortunately, this wasn't anything to do with the reviving qualities of the festival, but more due to the fact that I'd only had three hours sleep the night before it started. I'd had a brilliant evening on Thursday at Brightwest II, playing 'Murder She Twote', chatting to the assembled Twitterati and knocking back a pint or five of ale at the Black Lion. How on earth we went from this relatively civilised gathering to a seedy all-nighter in the Bulldog (I know!) is anyone's guess . It must have seemed like a good idea at the time; not so much when the alarm went off at 7am the next morning.

"How much muesli does one man need?"
Steve, upon arriving at the End of the Road Festival armed with a mountain of cereal

But the End of the Road was calling (in so many ways) and I had other people relying on me to get them there too. I'd planned on having a disco nap when we arrived in Dorset, but as it turned out, it was all far too exciting. Set in the picturesque Larmer Tree Gardens, the End of the Road Festival is now in its fourth year, and fast gaining a reputation as the serious music lover's festival. Some would call the line-up alternative, I'd say fundamental. Much to my own personal delight, End of the Road is largely a festival for chin-stroking, album-buying, real ale-drinking DINKYS and empty nesters, with only the occasional obligatory festy crusty and over-excited tween.

"Do you consider yourself worthy of a poetic license?"
Paul, to me, sometime in the early hours of Saturday morning.

There were so many highlights during the weekend that it would be hard to boil them down into a single readable blog post, but a few bands stood out in terms of atmosphere and sheer accomplishment. The one I'd been most excited about was the Low Anthem, who I'd discovered back in May at the Great Escape Festival and have been raving about to anyone who'll listen ever since. I was extra thrilled when it turned out they were playing not one but two sets during the weekend.

"Unless it's cake, it can f**k off"
Matty, on my aversion to brandy other than in pudding

The first Low Anthem gig was in the smallest venue - the Tipi tent - which looked cute from the outside, but turned out to be a terrible space for live music. Despite persistent sound problems and noise pollution from the neighbouring tent, Low Anthem appeared composed as they delivered an intimate set, mostly of their more obscure material. But it wasn't until their second gig on Saturday that the band really shone, bringing a packed out audience at the Garden Stage to its metaphorical knees. I've never heard a quieter field of festival goers as in between songs during the Low Anthem's End of the Road performance. Rapturous applause gave way to mesmerised silence after each song as we all eagerly awaited the next. So many other bands get by on catchy tunes and adequate musicianship, that it's impossible not to be affected by the sheer arresting intensity of the Low Anthem's immense talent and potent delivery.

"In the light, I can tell when people's eyes are glazing over"
Nick, on our general inability as a group to pay attention

Efterklang came in a close second as most enjoyable set of the weekend with their uplifting New Wave tinged Post Rock. Not many of the bands I went to see were particularly danceable, though I did have a silly strut about to Herman Dune and hurt my neck moshing to The Heavy. With a choice of four different stages, plus the odd spontaneous gig in the woods, it was sometimes difficult to choose where to park yourself. I tended to wander round until something caught my ear and then stick with it. Out of all the festival's venues, The Local (curated by esteemed promoter Howard Monk) yielded the most exciting new discoveries, including my final band of the weekend, Quack Quack, who succeeded in fulfilling my (quite vocal) craving for a prog fix.

"Behave, or you'll get turned into sausages"
Linda, getting all teacherly on us

I was also really taken with Wildbirds & Peacedrums, who can only be described as 'Drum n Blues' - the set up being a female bluesy singer accompanied only by drums and various percussion noises. Her powerfully husky voice was enough to carry the lack of any other instrumentation, and I have not seen such fervent drumming since the Muppets. A namecheck must also go to Faceometer and his friend the Dapper Swindler, whose unofficial woodland jamming kept us all enthralled, and distracted me from the disappointment of being told not to climb trees by security. To be fair to security, they were pretty laid back in their fun-spoiling, even in the face of my loud protestation: "I climb trees all the time when you're not here. There's no law against climbing trees." All power to Nick for beautifully diffusing the situation, and winning a bet at the same time, when he offered the guy in question £50 to dance the Can-Can for him.

"You're my best sparkly forest band I've ever seen"
Michael, to Faceometer and the Dapper Swindler

It was exactly this kind of jovial, conspiratorial atmosphere that kept everyone smiling at the End of the Road and made it so easy to make new friends along the way. The lack of Hippy Shit and abundance of excellent food and ale also helped a lot. I sincerely hope the organisers are never tempted to increase the capacity, because it felt nicely intimate at the 5,000 mark. I came away feeling as though I'd shared a special moment with a chosen few, and I like that feeling very much. More of the same next year, please.

More End of the Road photos by Rowstar on Flickr

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Happily Hysterical: Steph & Russ Tie the Knot

2009-09-07T21:06:00.003+01:00

When two people you love profess their love for one another to the world, it is a deeply moving thing. This is my way of saying that I always cry at weddings. When you get to my age, summers are peppered with weddings and, increasingly, christenings (or naming ceremonies), and it gets harder to find something glamorous to wear that won’t have been seen at a previous event. It also seems to get harder to hold back the emotions that accompany such ceremonious happenings.

The latest do at which I found myself touching up smudged mascara and lending concealer to a complete stranger in the ladies’ loo was the marriage celebrations of my good friends Steph and Russ, who finally tied the knot last Friday after eleven years of courtship.

I wasn’t present for the actual ceremony, but was waiting outside Brighton Town Hall to greet the newlyweds, along with a full Samba band, who serenaded them through the streets of Brighton and onto the party buses which took us to the reception venue in Shoreham. I am not a great lover of Samba myself, but on this occasion it was a touchingly fitting tribute to the pair, who are well known for their love of hip-swinging tunes and for being committed purveyors of the carnival spirit.

But the thing that really lodged a lump in my throat was the groom’s refreshingly sincere speech later that day. In contrast to the best man’s traditionally humorous and anecdotal address, Russell’s speech was a gushing (but in no way sickly) appreciation of his new wife. The icing on the cake was their immaculately ~~rehearsed~~ spontaneous first dance, about as far from the improvised epic Bollywood spree Ant and I spontaneously chose for our wedding, but equally appropriate to the couple in question.

The entire day was bursting with joy, and as the above video testifies, even the most cynical souls were touched by the romance of it all. After throwing themselves into the festivities, the happy couple eventually departed to their swanky Kemp Town hotel, while their guests kept on celebrating - some into the next day I am told.

Personally I was happy to collapse into bed and steal myself for another misty-eyed ritual in the shape of my youngest nephew’s first birthday party the following afternoon. Tomorrow the older one starts school and I know I will howl when I see a picture of him in uniform. Thank goodness I have a festival lined up this weekend to recover from all this emotion - though I am certain something will make me cry during the proceedings. It doesn’t take much these days.

Going La La at Shambala

2009-09-02T22:29:00.014+01:00

Usually when I go to festivals, it's all about the music – discovering new bands, hero-worshipping favourite ones and generally jumping up and down in a field (or tent) for three or four days. Of course many of the more interesting festies these days also have other stuff on offer – theatre, comedy, cabaret, craft activities and more - but to me the music is always at the heart of the festival experience. So it was a bit of a shock to the system to go to Shambala, where the music turned out to be more of an afterthought. Unless you are big into smugadelic funk and uber-jolly world music, you would probably feel the same.

Apart from the odd burst of more moody and interesting bands - Kid iD, My Panda Shall Fly, The Legend of the 7 Black Tentacles - variations on a funky theme was pretty much the order of the day. I can handle this kind of music in small doses, maybe even enjoy it for a night, but four days solid is a bit much. Luckily there were plenty of other diversions on offer, not least the hoardes of like-minded, friendly people. After music, people-watching and photography are two of my favourite pursuits, and there was plenty of opportunity for both at Shambala. Once I'd got over the lack of musical inspiration, I threw myself into the spirit of the occasion wholeheartedly, working the colourful fields and woods of Kelmarsh estate with camera in hand and mind firmly open.

The things I remember most from the weekend were the random encounters and conversations, though I am sure there are plenty of those I have also forgotten. As is so often the way, the best party action was all going down in the tiniest tent in the far corner of a field, where those who dared to venture found kindred spirits and music to lift the soul. Saturday's fancy dress parade provided a feast for the eyes, with highlights including the complete cast of Sesame Street, a Tetris troop and a pack of Crayola crayons. I'm sad to say that my own costume efforts were rather more understated, but thankfully more than made up for by my illustrious friends' various ensembles – which you can see in glorious technicolour above.

After dancing and ranting the night away on Friday and Saturday, Sunday brought more sedate activities in the form of a chin theatre, an animatronic horse display and some excellent cabaret, including a pole-tango-acrobatics routine (it has to be seen to be believed) that rounded off my weekend beautifully in a flourish of theatrical splendour. And in the absence of interesting music, theatrical splendour is the next best thing.

Discovering Liverpool

2009-08-19T18:22:00.010+01:00

Before I met Ant, I hadn't seen much of the North of England - just a few childhood trips to Hull to visit family friends and that was about it. Based on this limited experience, I'd always imagined it to be a depressingly grey and industrial place and not at all holidaying material. In the last decade we've been up to Lytham to see Ant's family at least twice a year - exploring other bits of the North at the same time - and my eyes have been opened to its many delights.

One place that we'd never visited until now though was Liverpool - strange considering it's only an hour's drive from the in-laws. Having been brought up on the Beatles, Liverpool has always intrigued me, so this trip just gone we decided to finally check out the home of the Fab Four and take a day trip down.

I'm not sure what I'd expected from Liverpool, but I was pleasantly surprised. When we arrived it was lunchtime, and I had already looked up a place to eat - the Egg cafe - which had also been recommended to me by one of my Twitter contacts, @misscay. A rustic studenty loft serving homely vegetarian grub, it reminded me of the cafe at the top of Affleck's Palace, one of my favourite Manchester haunts. After a hearty lunch of spicy stew and salad, we came out of there and straight into a funky indoor market, where we lost the next hour or so ooh-ing and ahh-ing over the wondrous selection of vintage clothes.

I was particularly charmed by the glamour of Liverpool - everyone was very dressed up for a Saturday afternoon (especially compared to scruffy Brighton), with lots of maxi dresses and girls in curlers (again, not something you'd ever see in Brighton - unless it was part of a fancy dress costume), presumably preparing for their big night out. Even if I had long hair, I could never be fagged to go to such efforts, but am in awe of anyone who would.

We found the alley where the original Cavern Club once was - now only a boarded up doorway with some pictures and historical bumph. On the other side of the street, a load of Japanese tourists were misguidedly taking pictures of the venue's namesake pub. I Didn't like to shatter their illusion. A quick visit to the the Beatles store on the corner resulted in Ant purchasing himself a rather fetching Beatnik hat - the sort of hat you'd only ever buy on holiday, but marvellous nonetheless.

After that we wandered down to the Dockside to have a look at the murky Mersey and take a bimble round. A visit to the Tate concluded with us bopping on an underlit dancefloor in the middle of a sculpture gallery, listening to 70s funk on silent disco style headphones. As you do. A couple of kids joined in, but I think the other grown ups presumed we were part of the exhibition. It was nice to see Degas' Little Dancer again, especially with the atmospheric addition of a glitter ball's spangly lighting.

I am not a fan of shopping malls, but Liverpool's L1 - an open-topped shopping centre that flows nicely into the surrounding areas - is an exception. It goes without saying that most of the shops were pretty generic and the same as you'd find on any high street, but there were a few gems. I actually ended up buying a load of stuff from Hennes, just because the Brighton branch is comparitively small and always rammed. I was almost goaded into buying a silly holiday hat too, but resisted.

And so my first visit to Liverpool came to an end - though I hope it will be the first of many explorations of this stylish and sassy city.

Picture of 'Sculpture Remixed' taken from: www.artinliverpool.com/blog

Bring Back Trevor and Simon

2009-08-05T22:13:00.022+01:00

Whenever confronted about my 'unconventional' sense of humour, I tend to blame the Dada comedy on which I was raised - Monty Python, The Bonzos, The Goons and co. These guys certainly gave me an appreciation of the surreal, but the drollery and sarcasm can be traced back to a much more contemporary source - those legends of Saturday morning kids' TV, Trevor and Simon.

During my formative teenage years, Trevor and Simon punctuated the weekends with their sardonic sketches and eccentric, often manic or contemptuous characters. Say to anyone of my generation "swing your pants" or "let's roll on the floor" and it's guaranteed to raise a smile of nostalgic recognition. We loved Trevor and Simon because they were the least patronising children's "entertainers" of the time, and best of all, because they ripped the piss out of many an annoying celebrity on Going Live and Live and Kicking. I was such a fan that I even went to see them live - at Brighton Dome in 1991.

Looking at the more offbeat character-based comedy shows of today - Mighty Boosh, Little Britain, Mitchell and Webb - all written by and starring 30-somethings who grew up in the 80s and 90s - it seems obvious that they owe a debt (whether conscious or not) to Trevor and Simon's silly Saturday antics. But whatever happened to our deadpan childhood heroes? By the late nineties we were all off at university and sleeping in on Saturday mornings and they seemed to have disappeared into obscurity; the much-loved Stupid Video started gathering dust on the shelf. Occasionally I would hear of other projects they had going like the Circus of Evil at Edinburgh Festival, but they never seemed to find another niche outside of their original territory.

Then just the other week, Ant came home with amusingly windswept hair and a sporting new goatee, when suddenly Trevor and Simon's World of the Strange popped into my head. Of course I went straight onto YouTube to substantiate the comparison, and found myself heading off on a right old trip down memory lane. This in turn led to a string of other online discoveries, including the revelation that Trevor and Simon were on Twitter (why had I never thought to look before?). But best of all, I found their blog, on which is published a Trevor and Simon podcast.

Having listened to the latest podcast in the series, I am pleased to report that the duo have lost none of their bantering chemistry and are still as waggishly witty as ever. It was a delight to find myself immersed in a world of strange tangents and acerbic rants, delivered by the comfortingly familiar voices of my childhood heroes. The other five installments I am saving for an upcoming roadtrip Up North. All power to the duo for taking the task of a Trevor and Simon renaissance upon themselves - welcome back boys, we've missed you!

Links

Latest Trevor and Simon podcast.

Trevor and Simon's blog (you can also download the other podcasts here)

Simon Hickson's blog

Trev and Simon on Twitter

Simon Hickson on Twitter

Trevor Neal on Twitter

Fun in the Sun at Camp Bestival 2009

2009-07-29T20:38:00.007+01:00

Summer wouldn't be the same for me without festival season. The magical combination of random dressing up, musical discovery, people-watching, dancing on the grass and sleeping under canvas - you can't beat it. The first festival in my annual calendar is always Great Escape in May, which doesn't really count because it's not in a field and you get to sleep in your own bed at night - but it breaks you in gently at least.

Last weekend I went to the first full-on festival of the year, Camp Bestival down in Dorset. I'd heard good things about its mellow family vibe, and though I don't have littleuns of my own, I always find that their presence at such event makes for a more respectful, salubrious and less manic environment. We took advantage of the small 'non-family' section of the campsite so as not to be woken too early by excitable youngsters, but other than that, I welcomed their input to the weekend's proceedings.

Though it didn't have the edginess of more musically esoteric festivals like Green Man and End of the Road, Camp Bestival scored on many other counts and was a fun and relaxing (and mostly sunny) few days. The facilities were good - especially the compost toilets, which actually became something of a talking point amongst the kids (and some of the adults), who seemed to enjoy throwing sawdust on their poo. Everything felt very well organised, apart from the shortfall in programmes which made it difficult for those without one to find out what was on when.

One of my main gripes with other festivals, especially now that I'm getting on a bit, is the lack of somewhere to sit other than the grass. I love sitting on the grass, but it's nice to kick back somewhere more comfortable when the cramp sets in and the joints start seizing up. Camp Bestival had this covered, with four-poster beds, double deck chairs, sofas, daybeds and other snug reclining options dotted about the place. They also had a real ale tent, which despite its slightly odd location in the kids field, was a cool place to hang out, with acoustic gigs from little folk bands turning out to be some of the best music of the weekend.

On the main stage, Hayseed Dixie got everyone into the festival spirit with a foot-stamping sing-a-long set on Friday afternoon. All the cool kids ploughed down to the front for Florence and the Machine, who provided much entertainment with her flailing dance moves and slightly unhinged banter. Other main-stage highlights included Mercury Rev, Alela Diane, Nancy Elizabeth and 70s soul legend Candi Staton, who still glitters with showbiz brio 40 years after her first hit record. I was surprised to see some of the more popular acts including PJ Harvey, Bon Iver and Laura Marling appearing over in the Big Top, which meant that many disappointed punters ended up watching them on the screen from outside.

After-hours we avoided the big dance tents - from which non-stop 'boom-boom' house music was blaring - and instead got our boogie fix at a groovy little 'secret' bar we discovered that played lots of ska, jazz and funk, with the occasional live band. We also sampled the bawdy delights of the Time for Tease cabaret tent, where burlesque scene stalwart Des O'Connor (not that Des O'Connor) was doing his thing, introducing a variety of camp, coarse and sometimes just gleefully crap, acts.

On Saturday night we ventured into the Big Top for the Silent Disco, a first for both me and Harry. I remember peering into one of these years ago at Roskilde Festival in Denmark and being most perplexed at the sight of people bopping around in silence. They've since become more widespread but I'd yet to sample one for myself. You're handed a set of headphones on the way in, on which you have the choice of two channels from two different DJs, each fighting for your allegiance. It's hilarious to hear 500 people belting out their chosen track, obliviously out of tune and dancing out of synch with each other. Apart from the obvious benefit of being able to keep the party going for longer, Silent Disco is also great for us oldies who like to stop and have a conversation in between dancing. If it hadn't been for Harriet's dodgy ankle, we'd have stayed all night.

Beyond the musical entertainments, there were plenty of other activities to keep adults and kids entertained. We enjoyed a couple of giggly walks round "Dingly Dell", where a troup of very po-faced performance artists were acting out a literal struggle with red tape in some sort of political allegory. We also drew each other in the 'Trace a Face' tent, a simple but most amusing diversion.

The official fancy dress parade was on the Sunday, but this didn't stop folks from donning wigs, masks, face paint and all manner of wacky adornments throughout the festival. Unfortunately I hadn't had the time to create anything very special myself, and my half-arsed bat costume looked embarrassingly lame next to Steve's hand-felted doggy ears and tail, Linda's intricately painted leather bird-mask and fancy wings and Harry's glowing abdomen. But despite my fancy dress inferiority complex, I was well in the spirit with flowers on my face, good friends by my side, ale in my hand and a spring in my step. And that's what festivals are all about.

Looking Back with New Eyes

2009-07-11T20:10:00.004+01:00

It’s been a curiously nostalgic and reflective week, thanks to a string of out of the blue, blast from the past encounters.

The first was a random Facebook chat with an old High School friend - someone with whom I’d had a passing but happy acquaintance before changing schools in the second year. Our bonding at the time may have had more to do with a sense of solidarity over the fact that we both had unusual names than anything else, but this is as good a reason as any to be friends when you’re 12.

Looking back at those days tends to make me feel slightly uncomfortable. I always considered myself an outsider, never having the right clothes or attitudes to be one of the gang, but also never wanting to compromise my convictions to fit in. That in mind, it was touching and somewhat heartening to be told by someone who knew me then that they’d always remembered me for not having followed the crowd, and now respected my then alien opinions.

Apparently I once told her (though I don’t remember this) that it was far better to be proud of getting a bargain than to show off about how much you paid for something. In the materialistic climate of the 1980s, this was revolutionary thinking indeed; these days it doesn’t seem so radical.

The very next night, another chat window popped up from one of my old theatre cronies - someone I’ve known for going on two decades. We shared many a crazy night back in the day, but were never really what you’d call bosom buddies. I was a few years younger than most of the crew at the time, and always felt that they tolerated my presence rather than embraced it. So it was nice to hear that he apparently thought my youthful pontificating and feminist views endearing.

How strange that the lingering insecurities of youth can be so easily dispelled by such spontaneous and unexpected conversations.

The nostalgia trip continued when on Thursday night I was in my local, getting ready for pub quiz, and in walked a face I haven’t seen since Sixth Form. We exchanged the usual ‘how’ve you been?’ ‘what are you doing now?’ formalities, then quite unprompted, he uttered the three magic words: “you’ve aged well”. I could have kissed him right there. As if that delicious little ego-boost wasn’t more than enough to make my night, Ant and I rather embarrassingly went and won the quiz with our team of two. And we hadn’t even done any research.

That night I slept marvellously and dreamed that I bumped into a friend from university with whom I have sadly lost touch. That is one era from which I don’t have any particular hang-ups in need of resolving, but it would be nice to see her again all the same. Sandra Borra, if you’re reading this, come out from hiding and join me on my trip down memory lane; it’s turning out to be really rather enlightening.

A Special Weekend in Sunny Sussex

2009-07-06T18:43:00.012+01:00

The Annual Secret Beach Picnic

The only thing better than a picnic is a picnic on a sandy beach in the sunshine with good friends.

Last year I wrote about my long-overdue pilgrimage to a secret beach in Sussex on which I'd played and picnicked as a child. Together with a small gang of special friends, I'd rediscovered this magical spot, and we'd spent a happy day of munching, bantering and kite-flying. It was so lovely that I decided to make it an annual event, and this year I took a few more people, just as much food, and enough games and activities to keep even the most restless among us occupied for an afternoon. Once again we were blessed with beautiful weather, though there was not enough wind for kites (which was shame as we had brought three). Instead we played badminton, frisbee, Nerf ball and tennis; some of us even swam - though the water was a little like seaweed soup.

My freckles went crazy and a few of the boys turned pink, despite the suncream being forcefully dished out by yours truly. I think most people even enjoyed the mile and a half hike along the cliff edge to get there. The route along the rocky beach - accidentally taken by certain others who shall remain nameless - was perhaps less enjoyable, but worthwhile all the same. During the course of the six hours we stayed, there were moments of frantic sociable activity, and moments of quiet contemplative calm. After a manic few months of almost non-stop work (hence the lack of blog posts lately), it was the first chance I'd had to sit and really unwind since America. It was quiet and still and beautiful, and I felt truly blessed to be sharing it with such a lovely bunch. One small voice of mild hysteria emerged as the tide started to come in, but we all made it out alive - and if anything, improved by the day's experiences.

Hanover Day, 5th July 2009

The next morning Ant complained of aches and pains from our various exertions, but I felt fine and raring to get out into the still-blazing sunshine. It was Hanover Day here in Brighton - a mini festival in what is perhaps the steepest neighbourhood in town. Southover Street was closed to traffic and several stages had been erected about the place. Along the side streets, locals pedalled their bric-a-brac to eager kids with pocket money to burn. We bimbled about, bumping into familiar faces at every turn, and eventually settling down in the courtyard of the Hanover Community Centre - where my ex-yoga teacher's band, Gin Club, were playing.

After Gin Club's foot-stomping dirty blues spectacular, Kate's Kitchen Band took to the stage for a Ceilidh and poor Ant's heart sank at the site of accordions. But he gracefully agreed to partner me for a dance, and was soon Do-si-do-ing along with glee - even doing it with a four year old on his shoulders the second time around. I haven't done country dancing since my school days, and had forgotten what a riot it was. Unfortunately the combination of sweat-inducing hoedown and dry dusty courtyard made for some very grubby legs - but who cares if you look like an urchin, it's Hanover Day! As we strolled back up the hill past clusters of rosy-cheeked revellers lolling around on street corners, it became clear that most people were too cider-fuelled to notice anyway.

I had managed to make it through a triumphantly active and sun-soaked weekend without a hint of hangover, injury or sunburn. I even look a little less pale than I did before - and feel a good deal more relaxed. Weekends don't come much better than that.

"Rowstock" Summer Mix Tape

2009-06-13T15:54:00.015+01:00

This was going to be one of those scathing posts about yet another disappointing cabaret that I went to see last week. The cabaret in question was undeniably shambolic, but I had a hilarious evening anyway, and it seemed a shame to tarnish the memory with a disparaging tirade. So I decided for a change to let the offending performers off the hook and write something positive instead.

So in a more upbeat spirit, and in the absence of anything else to write about this week, I offer you my Summer playlist - a video 'mix tape' of music that I've been listening to repeatedly these past few weeks as the sun has been gracing us with its presense. It's a fantasy festival line-up of spirit-warming tunes, all of which go extremely well with a glass of Pimm's and a cucumber sandwich.

The highlight, and my top Summer listening for 2009, is the first track, from Tim and Sam's Tim and the Sam Band with Tim and Sam, whose invigoratingly euphoric post-folk lights up the room and everyone in it. Whenever I have played the 'Put Your Slippers On' EP in the company of friends, they have invariably asked "what's this? It's lovely." without any prompting. I hope you'll feel the same. I'm also particularly fond of track two - Charlie Darwin by The Low Anthem - which is so hauntingly harmonious it makes me cry (but in a good way).

I could easily go on, because they are all lovely - but the proof is in the pudding as they say. So tune in, kick back, grab that Pimm's and enjoy...

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Antony & the Johnsons and other Bristol Adventures

2009-06-08T21:32:00.010+01:00

After our fleeting but fun-filled trip to Hay-on-Wye, the bank holiday adventures continued with a visit to Bristol and yet more cultural exploits. The last time we'd visited Bristol was to catch up with a friend who was working in the Revolution bar, and we spent most of our time hanging out there with her. I don't think we saw the best of the city from that perspective, so it was nice to go back and get the tour from some other friends who recently moved there (though are thankfully not working in bars).

Our very picturesque and sunny drive took us down through the Welsh mountains, and we arrived with our hosts mid afternoon. After the obligatory cup-of-tea-and-catch-up, we wandered down to the waterfront for a drink and some people-watching. By early evening it was still scorching hot, and the world and his wife were lining the streets and bar terraces.

Apart from catching up with friends, the other main purpose of the Bristol visit was to see Antony & the Johnsons live at Colston Hall. Tickets for the Brighton show had sold out before I’d heard about it, and Bristol was the next nearest - so I’d suggested it to Shaun and Morwenna and they’d been game.

I’m not used to sit-down gigs, and this was in a proper theatre, with proper seats. We had an excellent view from one of the side galleries, which when I tell you about the support act, you will realise was both a blessing and a curse. Rather than get an up-and-coming band to warm up for him, Antony had chosen instead to employ the talents - and I use that word derisively - of a ‘contemporary dancer’.

This ‘dancer’ appeared on stage in a disturbing mutated animal costume and proceeded to flap her arms around to grinding industrial music. There was no ‘dancing’ of any sort, and this bizarre and entirely unmoving spectacle went on for what seemed like hours. It was in reality about 15 minutes. Which is actually a long time to sit and watch someone flapping their arms. Ant whispered to me that he was going to his ‘happy place’ while I continued to gape open-mouthed, recoiling in horror when the rest of the audience actually applauded, presumably out of relief rather than appreciation.

Finally the band appeared on stage, at least we presumed it was them - the lack of lighting meant we couldn’t be sure. But when that unmistakable voice soared out of the darkness, we knew it was Antony’s, and the horror of the travesty to which we had just been subjected began to melt away. By the end of the first song, darkness still prevailed. Someone wailed from the audience “when do we get to see you?”, to which a shy voice replied “just a minute”. Gradually the lights did come up a bit, but it still felt more like a dingy basement than a 2000 seater concert hall. Presumably this was intentional, and it certainly didn’t detract from the power of the performance.

I think I must have been the only person in the audience to have actually listened to the new album (it’s good), because everyone else seemed totally fixated on the material from the (ahem, Mercury winning) I Am a Bird Now, clapping at the start of songs whose opening chords they recognised. I found this odd, and rather rude behaviour. It’s like saying “I don’t care about your new material, I only want the ones that were on TV”. But a forbearing Antony took it on the chin, gracefully indulging their mainstream appetites.

Occasionally he would talk between songs, revealing a little of the man behind the voice. A quirky, droll and somewhat sheepish individual, he is clearly more comfortable singing or spinning fanciful stories than engaging in the sort of idle banter employed by most musicians. I found this trait utterly endearing and it made the music even more affecting. The singing voice itself - at once tender and powerful - is a strange and beautiful thing which I have grown to love dearly over the years. To hear it full-blast and up-close was truly magical - and I think all four of us were unexpectedly moved by the occasion.

The next day we went for a hearty breakfast at The Boston Tea Party, followed by the grand tour of the city - including a boat trip and a walk along the famous Clifton Suspension Bridge. Still buzzing from the gig, and enjoying the good company of friends, it was the perfect end to a lovely anniversary weekend.

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Photo: Banksy street-art in Bristol by Heatheronhertravels on Flickr

Jane Birkin at Hay Festival (and a Yurt!)

2009-06-01T21:12:00.009+01:00

Ever since my days of PR-ing at the Edinburgh Book Festival, I've been pining after a yurt. These magnificent Mongolian tents were then used (possibly still are) as the green room area for authors and their entourage in the pretty setting of Charlotte Square gardens. I remember most fondly lounging back on the cushions and rugs, chatting away to all manner of verbose and vivacious scribes, and enjoying the free Glenmorangie and Danish pastries. Certain local authors, who weren't even appearing (you know who you are), would pop in to avail themselves on a regular basis; and who can blame them, because it was a really funky and irresistible little sanctuary.

So when I saw that boutique camping company Tangerine Fields was setting up at Hay Festival this year, I quickly booked a mini-yurt for me and Mr M. It's impossible to get a hotel in Hay unless you book months ahead, and we'd only decided to go when we discovered quite recently that Jane Birkin was appearing, so the yurt was the perfect solution. It was also suitably romantic to fit the bill for our fifth wedding anniversary.

I hadn't been to Hay Festival since 2004 (the year we got married), and never purely as a punter - so it was a totally different experience this time around, with no authors to look after. Also, the site had moved from the school in the centre of town to a field a mile or so down the road, which meant less time mooching around secondhand bookshops and more time people-watching on the grass between talks. After checking into our splendid little yurt - which was carpeted and everything - we hopped on the shuttle bus down to the site just in time for Jane Birkin's packed-out talk. Sometime squeeze of the late French pop legend (and hero of mine) Serge Gainsbourg, Birkin is perhaps most famous (or should that be 'infamous') for her contribution to the risque late 60s classic 'Je T'aime... Moi Non Plus'. She's also appeared in a number ofcult films
and is these days a tireless activist for various causes.

For an OAP with a genuinely Rock 'n Roll history, Jane Birkin is in amazingly good shape, and still sparkles with childlike wonderment when recounting her mis-spent youth. Philippe Sands acted as interviewer, but in reality little prompting was needed to get Birkin to open up, and even if you weren't remotely interested in French music or the Swinging Sixties, you couldn't help but be charmed by her stories.

With a twinkle in her eye, she told of the night she first went out with Gainsbourg - how he took her to all sorts of wacky Parisian clubs and eventually back to his hotel. Fearing she had been too quick to accept his advances, she stalled for time in the bathroom and was relieved upon re-emerging to discover Gainsbourg passed out on the bed. He was so drunk that he didn't hear her sneak out of the room and back in again with a 7" single of 'Yummy Yummy Yummy I've Got Love in My Tummy' - which she tucked between his toes before creeping out again, virtue and dignity in tact. This was apparently the first of many such romantic gestures between the two as love blossomed into a 13 year relationship and creative partnership that also produced a daughter - the acclaimed French actress Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Later the same evening, after a pub dinner at the Three Tuns, we returned to the festival site to see Jane Birkin perform. Although she has written and recorded a significant catalogue of her own music over the last forty-odd years, this particular show was largely dedicated to former lover Serge - who clearly still holds a special place in her heart. The same ingenuous allure shone from the ever-smiling starlet as she lent her own distinct husky charm to many a Gainsbourg classic. The set also had its more serious moments - with a movingly heartfelt call to action over the Burma situation, in particular the imprisonment of Aung San Suu Kyi, against which Birkin is a high-profile campaigner. This earnest outpouring only made the audience love her more, and even though we all knew we'd miss the last bus back to town, an encore was demanded. There followed a chilly, starry walk back to Tangerine Fields and the yurt, where some of the neighbouring Tipis were quietly buzzing with young literary buffs discussing the day's offerings.

As a special anniversary treat for Ant, the next morning I'd booked us tickets to a lecture by the Astronomer Royal, Martin Rees, which I actually enjoyed a great deal too. He talked in a most accessible and often humorous way about the possibility of life on other planets, and answered some of the more painfully nerdy questions with surprising grace. I had wanted to ask him who or what had first prompted his interest in the stars, but the microphone never came my way. After a picnic lunch from the festival foodhall, and a final round of people-watching, we said goodbye to Hay and our lovely yurt (which sadly was too big to sneak into the boot) and took the scenic route down to Bristol. But if you want to know what happened in Bristol, you'll have to come back another day because I'm saving that adventure for its own post...

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Not Just for Hipsters: Great Escape Festival 2009

2009-05-26T17:36:00.024+01:00

If you've never been to The Great Escape, you'd be forgiven for dismissing it as a purely 'young and trendy' festival, full of the sort of bands loved by hipsters in skinny jeans and Wayfarers. You may also be aware that it's a music industry festival, organised as a showcase for new and emerging artists and attended by hundreds of journalists and music 'people'. Personally I think it's pitched as a hipster festival because they are perceived as having the most clout in the rise or fall of pop music. But beneath those layers of industry spin and round-the-corner queues for the Maccabees, there is almost a separate festival going on, if only you know where to look.

My Great Escape motto this year was "If they wouldn't play it on Freakzone, I'm not going", and I pretty much managed to stick by this philosophy throughout. There were a few more mainstream bands on the agenda, but even those were at the alternative end of the spectrum, and more likely to be played by Radcliffe & Maconie than Jo Whiley. I also have a strict policy against queuing at the Great Escape. I can't see the point in standing in line for ages to possibly see the last ten minutes of a set when there's so much else on offer. If I really really want to see a particular band, I'll book tickets to one of their tour dates rather than hold out for them at a festival.

For me, Great Escape is all about expanding my music collection, not worshipping bands that I already love. Apart from Thomas Truax, who I had seen only recently (and wanted to introduce to Ant, who hadn't), all the bands that we saw this year were totally new to us. About half of them were good enough for me to want to go out and buy their CD, some were sufficiently amusing to stay and watch for a couple of songs, and one or two made us run for the hills. But all in all, it was a good festival, and we hardly had to negotiate any hipsters (although I did laugh at plenty in the street) along the way.

The first band we saw on Thursday night was Gablé, whose billing as a 'lo-fi avante-garde experimental trio from Paris', seemed to fit nicely with the Freakzone-ish prerequisite and also appealed to my Francophile leanings. Feeling terribly self conscious as the only ones waiting outside the venue, we almost didn't go in, but I'm so glad we did - I cannot tell you how much I loved this band. Their strange and sometimes unnerving tales - told with amusing relish and furnished with all manner of lo-fi accompaniments - revealed a deep appreciation of the weirder side of life, and made us laugh out loud.

A few more stragglers turned up during the set and eventually there were enough of us to make some well-deserved appreciative noises between songs. Despite the poor turnout, the band members - two guys and a girl - all continued to smile in a strangely contented manner that seemed to suggest they were in possession of a delicious secret. I went away feeling as though I had acquired a brilliant secret of my own in having discovered them, and thinking that it would be hard for any other band at the festival to live up to their bonkers brilliance.

After Gablé, we stayed on at the Unitarian church to watch Soap& Skin, who I'd listened to and liked during my pre-festival Spotify/Last.fm/MySpace research. I'd been intrigued by the sweeping piano arrangements and melancholic Sigur Ros style vocals, and was hoping for a tingly, intimate experience in this atmospheric little venue. What actually happened was an unfortunately discordant conflict between grand piano, laptop and unsteady vocals - and a swift exit by us. After this less than pleasing experience, we hopped across the road to the Pavilion to see The Acorn - a much more agreeable Canadian alt-country band with a touch of the Paul Simon about them. I had a little dance around, my first and last bop of the festival.

It has become something of a Great Escape tradition to end the day in a civilised fashion at the Duke of York's, which is where we discovered the next big delight of this year's festival, The Miserable Rich - a Brighton band who had somehow escaped my notice until now. Essentially a string quintet with a singer, these five hugely talented blokes bring a touch of classical elegance to their affectingly contemplative folky repertoire. So swept away was I by their performance, that I have failed to remember anything much about the band that followed - Teitur - although I think I enjoyed it.

Friday began at the Prince Albert with a disappointing set from Hanne Hukkelberg - who, Like Soap&Skin, had sounded promising on Spotify, but failed to pass the live performance test. After that we heard about five muffled minutes of Obijou from behind a huge pillar at the Arc, and decided that although they sounded interesting, the venue was just too crap to endure. Unlike in previous years, there didn't seem to be much of anything going on in the daytime, so after accidentally wandering into a (distinctly underwhelming) Charlatans rehearsal, we acted our age and went home for a quick disco nap.

The Naive New Beaters shook us well and truly awake again with their giddily ironic French hip-hop, but we were distinctly unimpressed with Django Django, who came on next at Above Audio. A quick skip down to the end of the pier to catch the end of an intense set by Norwegian rockers Harrys Gym was worth the windswept trip, then it was back into town for The Phantom Band at the Pavilion. But the day's real revelations didn't commence until we went entirely on spec to see Elizabeth at the Basement. Both venue and band were brand new to us, and both were equally impressive. The Basement is a cosy underground spot in the North Laine, with unusual stepped sides, where you can lay back on cushions to watch the band, and the perfect place to enjoy the eerie offerings of electro-opera-marvel Elizabeth.

Once again, we concluded our evening with tea and cake and a comfy seat (yes, we are old) at the Duke of York's, where Friday night was Nordic night. Jolly Icelandic band Hjaltalin kept us awake with bassoons and violins and some kooky between-songs banter, then Norwegian Thomas Dybdahl soothed us off to sleep (almost) with his surprisingly authentic-sounding alt-country Americana.

On Saturday we were joined by my 18 year old cousin Barnaby, and I was a little nervous that he might not be into the more alternative stuff on mine and Ant's gig wishlist. But thankfully he's not a typical teenager, and was quite open-mindedly up for some more esoteric musical exploration. After a couple of lame daytime gigs that do not even warrant a mention, we decided to abandon the Great Escape for a couple of hours and do some Open Houses instead. Things rebooted in the evening with Mechanical Bride at the Sallis Benney where the combination of a refreshingly decent PA and the band's tight, experimental Celtic-tinged folk was a good kick-off. But nothing could have prepared us for what came next.

In the less than salubrious setting of the dingy Ocean Rooms basement, I lost my heart, soul and all sense of reality to The Low Anthem. Even the usual clique of chatty bints behind me were swiftly silenced when singer Ben Miller opened his mouth; such a haunting and utterly disarming voice I have never heard. My legs turned to jelly as I stood breathless and in awe throughout their mind-blowing set. The other two band members, Jeff Prystowsky and Jocie Adams, proved just as jaw-droppingly skillful, switching with ease between all kinds of instruments and providing spine-tingling vocal harmonies. Just as you found yourself bestilled and bewitched by a delicately sorrowful ballad, they'd shake things up with a rugged, whisky-swigging country rock-out. It was all totally unexpected and beautifully accomplished, knocking spots off anything else we'd heard so far.

It would have been difficult for even the finest of acts to match such a deeply affecting performance, but I doubt whether Mothlite would have impressed me in any context. Now I'm all for noodling electro post-rock, but this was the most humourless, self-indulgent tosh I have heard in a long time. It was like watching four guys having their own personal bedroom stoner sessions, oblivious to each other and their audience. Ant seemed to be enjoying it though, so we stayed to the end, trying to see the funny side. Things picked up back at the Albert, with Woodpigeon, who sounded nice - but the room was so hot that we had to leave after one song. Kate Rogers Band at the more temperate Unitarian church was pleasant enough, but felt so pedestrian after The Low Anthem, so we left that and hung out until the grand finale of the festival, Thomas Truax.

I wrote about Thomas earlier this year, after I saw him live at the Freebutt. Since then I've reviewed his latest album, Songs from the Films of David Lynch, and was keen to see the new stuff performed live. Apart from the fact that his set was curfewed after only a few songs, it was a stonking gig and a good lively turn-out. I could tell by the appreciative grins on both Ant and Barnaby's faces that they were as swept up in the madcap world of Truax as I had been the first time, and it was the perfect end to another Great Escape.

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A Classic Example of Kitsch Entertainment

2009-05-21T17:46:00.015+01:00

Last night some friends and I went to see The Interstella Circus at the Spiegeltent, my only festival outing this year - apart from some Open Houses and of course the Great Escape last week (which I shall write about shortly). I suppose the mis-spelling of the word 'interstellar' should have been a clue as to the dodgy nature of the outfit, but it was my only free night, tickets were still available, and it was in one of my all-time favourite venues.

I've seen quite a few of these nu-circus type shows before - including the Caesar Twins, Le Grande Cirque, various acts at Lost Vagueness and other such nights, and the best of all by far, La Clique. Watching the incredible things acrobats and contortionists can do with their bodies never ceases to amaze and excite me, and I love the whole feel of a well executed sideshow cabaret. La Clique gets it so right with a wonderful mix of risque humour, seamless flow of acts and a great variety of talents. Unfortunately The Interstella Circus is nowhere near a well executed sideshow cabaret, nor did it posses any of these qualities.

From the moment the seedy compere came on stage reciting bad poetry not very well, it was clear that we were in for an evening of less than classy entertainment. To be fair to the individual acts, there were some impressive stunts and a few 'ooh' and 'ahh' moments, but where the show really fell down was during the links between acts. The re-rigging took much too long, without any adequate fill-in, leaving the audience shuffling uncomfortably in our seats.

Partly thanks to the beer consumed beforehand, and partly due to our collective appreciation of the more tawdry things in life, my friends and I were able to see the funny side. And to me personally it felt almost nostalgic, reminiscent of my summer season days in Eastbourne; an end-of-the pier nudge-nudge-wink-wink type show with more sequins than substance.

There is something strangely pleasing about this distinctly British variety of shabby entertainment, and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. We laughed, perhaps not for the right reasons, but still. We almost cried in memory of Judy when the singer (although I am not sure she really qualifies for that title) started to growl her way through the finale number, Get Happy. We swooned at the token eye-candy's rippling biceps, though were disappointed when only his T-Shirt was removed. We loved every cheap and tacky moment of it.

La Clique it most certainly isn't, but if you're in the market for some seedy seaside frolics, you could do worse than to down a few pints and 'roll-up roll-up' to the Interstella Circus. But don't blame me if you are appalled; because that is really the point.

San Francisco, You Stole My Heart

2009-05-17T16:56:00.080+01:00

"San Francisco has only one drawback. 'Tis hard to leave." - Rudyard Kipling

It is our first day in the city, and already I am falling in love. After the peace and quiet of Marin County, San Francisco feels loud and bustling, especially here in Chinatown. The silly hire car has been returned, and we're now exploring on foot. It's around that time of day when refreshment is required, but we're struggling to find a salubrious looking cafe. We sit down in the first half-decent looking place, only to discover that we have accidentally parachuted into the middle of a militant tea brewing lesson, hosted by a couple of hilariously camp Chinese tea-aficionados. Far too British to get up and leave, we sit tight and tacitly agree to run with it. Several tiny thimbles of weird and wacky teas and a fair few tea anecdotes later, our caffeine levels are nearly restored, and we politely buy a $12 packet of Lychee Black Tea, (good for the digestion, apparently) and scuttle off.

Back at the apartment over in Noe Valley, we're getting to know to our hosts, Tania and Philip - and feeling wonderfully welcomed already in their fabulous home. They recommend a local pasta joint, Emmy's, as a good place to eat nearby, and we head out for our first taste of San Francisco cuisine. Emmy's is packed, but we're happy to sit with a bottle of wine and wait for a table. When the food arrives it is hearty and plentiful, and well worth the wait. Thanks to an amusingly stoned waiter, we've had more than our share of wine, and are feeling rosy-cheeked and replete.

Thursday is designated shopping day, and I'm dragging Ant around the thrift stores of Mission, in search of vintage frocks. It's 11am and nothing is open (what time do people get up around here?), so we go and have cake and decide to head across to Castro. Apart from Cliff's Variety store - an amazing emporium of stationery and wigs - there is little in the way of shopping for me here, so we hop on a bus to Haight. I am in shopping nirvana; even Ant buys a couple of things. The day is going well. Then we reach Amoeba Records and all other plans are abandoned for the foreseeable future.

We're on our way out to dinner, walking down Valencia. Staggering across our path with an unwieldy shopping trolley, a wild-eyed woman stops suddenly to inspect the contents of an overturned wheelie bin. "What's with all these lemons?" she exclaims in an overly exaggerated Brooklyn accent, glaring accusingly at the huge pile of squeezed orange skins that are strewn across the road. Just managing to contain my laughter until we're out of earshot, I proceed to annoy Ant all evening (and for the rest of the holiday) with my new catchphrase.

Friday night. I'm standing outside the famous Mitchell's ice cream parlour, fortifying myself for an evening of partying ahead, and I start talking to this guy Ron - a friend of a friend of Philip and Tania. We cover the usual 'getting to know you' banter - where are you from? (San Francisco), what do you do for a living? (graphic designer), what else apart from ice cream is good in the neighbourhood? (parks, shopping, Margaritas). We're getting along famously, and I'm thinking he's probably the kind of guy who'd like the same sort of stuff as me, so I ask if he knows of any cool happenings in the city this weekend. He mentions a couple of exhibitions, then drops in casually "there's always the Masturbate-a-thon". I nearly choke on a piece of Oreo; half delighted, half appalled by the idea. Somebody else chips in, confirming the sordid truth: "yeah, it's a sponsored charity event - but you can pay fifteen dollars if you just want to watch." Only in San Francisco - or possibly Brighton - I think to myself . The conversation moves swiftly on, we finish our ice creams and head uptown.

Later that same night, after a cocktail of two at the Elbo Room, we’re standing on the mezzanine floor of the PWNDepot - a converted warehouse in the Mission - mingling with the San Francisco Geek Elite. This madcap place, advertised on AirBnB as ‘4600 Square Foot of Rad’, was where Ant stayed the night before I arrived, and we’re here on the invitation of its residents - his new found friends Brendan, Preston, Steve, Lisa, Laura, Michael, Bill, Jason, Sarah and Jed. Ant is being plied with some sort of stronger-than-you-think pink punch while I struggle not to gawp at the bare arse of the person wearing only a thong to my left. The conversation inevitably turns to our accents and I’m not sure how to react when one of the guys admits “I’d like to have a beer with him, but I want you to be my schoolteacher.”

It’s Saturday afternoon, the last full day of the holiday. The thin bedroom curtains are doing nothing to protect our jaded souls from the daylight and we are reduced to throwing t-shirts over our poor delicate eyes. The misery of the hangover is compounded by self-loathing and regret at the loss of the passing day and our pathetic inability to seize it. A voice inside of me keeps saying "if you get up and have breakfast, you'll feel better"; finally, I obey, shaking the lifeless body beside me until it also submits. We stumble out into the street in search of carbohydrates and undeserved redemption. Catching last orders at the Boogaloo cafe, our prayers are answered with a tear-jerkingly good 'morning after' breakfast that gradually begins to repair us.

Breakfast was amazing, but I am now stupidly full and in need of a lie down. Dolores Park is just around the corner, so we head over in the hope of finding a shady spot under a tree. I wonder if I am actually still at home in bed dreaming when we find ourselves plunged into the middle of a Mexican festival - Cinco de Mayo - complete with Mariachi band and Tequila-fuelled leathery old men doing Mexican dad-dancing (a lot like English dad-dancing, but with marching and saluting). Perhaps not top of most people's list of hangover-cures, this bizarre and unexpected cultural cocktail actually goes a long way to lifting our spirits, and it turns out that Mariachi bands are a lot more soothing than you might think - especially when accompanied by a copy of The Onion and a patch of soft cool grass.

By some miracle we are recovered enough to make it to our dinner booking - an end of holiday romantic meal at the famous Green's. The food is superb, but by the end I am flagging and in no fit state to negotiate public transport. Our taxi driver turns out to be the best local eccentric yet - an ageing hippy complete with white ponytail and tales of sixties counter culture rebellions. His anecdotes wash over me as I watch the city at night go by outside the window, thinking about all the things I never got to do here.

Just one last breakfast, better make it a good one: St Francis Fountain, a Nebulous Potato Thing, a Sherbert Shake and a handful of retro candy. The adventure is nearly over, but somehow it feels like only the first goodbye of a love affair that will last a lifetime. San Francisco, you stole my heart, and I will be back to claim it.

Windswept and Wild: Adventures in Marin County

2009-05-07T23:11:00.027+01:00

Three intense and sweltering days (not to mention the accompanying crazy nights) in New York left me feeling frazzled to say the least, and ready for some chill out time in my next stop - the more temperate climate and rural terrain of Northern California. The no-frills flight across with American Airlines wasn't the most comfortable ever, but I did have the luxury of a companionable (and camp as chips) neighbour whose arch conversation and flamboyant anecdotes made the journey infinitely more bearable.

Ant met me at SFO airport in a fancy sports car - which he *apparently* bagged for peanuts in a special deal with the hire company - and we hit the road to Marin County. A brief stop for dinner in San Francisco gave us our first taste of the city's eclectic culinary offerings - with some surprisingly satisfying East German cuisine at the Mission District's Walzwerk restaurant.

Crossing the Golden Gate bridge after dark, we bombed up Route 101 into Marin, then off down a series of B roads to our destination, Point Reyes Station and Knob Hill Cottage. At the end of a pitch black country lane, we tiptoed down the path to our little cabin, to be welcomed by a giant moth and a note to say the door was open. Whether or not the two were connected, it was a brilliantly bizarre and somehow strangely comforting start to our stay. After all the hustle and bustle and constant traffic noises of The Big Apple, this remote sleepy place felt eerily quiet, and blissfully conducive to sleep.

The days that followed now merge in my memory as a dreamy montage of wild sandy beaches, soaring skyscapes and a staggering abundance of breath-taking flora and fauna - including wild irises, Black-Tailed Deer, Turkey Vultures, Pelicans, Egrets, Elephant Seals, huge ancient Redwood trees and a whole host of other un-identified natural-world showstoppers. We had hoped to catch sight of some migrating Gray Whales - which can sometimes be spotted from the Point Reyes lighthouse - but none appeared on the morning of our visit there, and being the windiest spot on the Pacific Coast, it was really just too blustery to hang about.

Apart from the magnificent wildlife and mind-blowing scenery, the other most notable thing about Marin and Sonoma was the cuisine. For a tiny little town in the middle of nowhere, the (almost entirely local and organic) foodie possibilities of Point Reyes Station were impressive. We ate breakfast everyday in the local all-American cafe, the Pine Cone Diner, whose hearty pancakes and wholesome granola topped anything similar I've had here in Brighton.

Several interesting delis along the highstreet displayed a mouth-watering selection of colourful produce, and the marvellous Palace Market was perfect for picking up picnic supplies. The food at the Station House Cafe (the main restaurant in town) was less consistently inspiring, especially for vegetarians - although their salads were excellent. Beyond Point Reyes itself, the gastronomic delights of Marin and Sonoma continued to abound; even the seemingly hicksville roadside pitstops, such as the Dry Creek General Store, turned out to be veritable foodie havens.

Though we went to Marin armed with a guidebook and list of possible activities, in the end we just tended to roll from place to place, picking up recommendations from locals along the way, and stopping wherever fate took us. The windy coastal roads made for some interesting driving experiences, and a few missed signposts, but then, as Chet Baker once so elegantly suggested, getting lost is half the fun.

One sunny afternoon for example, we'd failed to notice the turning for Stinson Beach - where we'd hoped to find hot springs - and were contemplating where to go instead. Tangled Up in Blue was playing on the car stereo and I suddenly saw a sign for Dillon Beach. Despite the different spelling, it felt serendipitous enough for us to make a detour, and at the end of another long meandering road, we found ourselves on a windswept waterfront, utterly deserted apart from a gaggle of frisky seabirds. Huge tangled trunks of kelp and other curious seaweeds bestrewed the sparkling sandy beach, and the whole idyllic scene made us forget about the hot springs entirely.

Though perhaps a little more dramatic than the South Downs, I was amazed at how familiar much of the landscape in Marin and neighbouring Sonoma felt; the cliff-scape at Drake's Bay was strikingly similar to the Seven Sisters in Sussex, and many other parts of the coast could have been straight out of Pembrokeshire or the Gower peninsula in Wales. It was a welcome reminder to appreciate the scenic wonders that are on our own doorstep - though of course there can't be many places in the UK where you can see all of the aforementioned wildlife, hang out with eccentric arriviste hippes, have a sunny sandy beach all to yourself, stand in awe under a 300ft tree AND eat your own bodyweight in fine organic cuisine...can there?

We only had a few days in and around Marin before heading back into San Francisco - and I feel like our trip only scratched the surface of everything the area has to offer - but it was if nothing else a fabulous taster for future adventures. If you are planning a trip out that way yourself, you might like to check out this Google map of my recommended places - or if you have been before, please feel free to suggest highlights that we may have missed for next time. Because there will be a next time, of that I am certain.

Coming soon: Part three of my US adventures - San Francisco.

Being a Part of It (New York, New York)

2009-04-26T15:38:00.015+01:00

I didn't come to New York to do the tourist thing, but I suppose it was inevitable that one or two 'attractions' would wangle their way into my itinerary. It's hard not to feel a certain sense of alien wonderment when you are confronted by iconic buildings and legendary road names at every corner; and then there's Central Park, slap bang in the middle of Manhattan and impossible to ignore.

I arrived during a heatwave that everyone was calling the start of summer, a noticeable seasonal spring in everyone's step. Strolling through Central Park yesterday, I felt as though I'd stepped into a parallel universe in which jogging, cycling or blading was the natural way of getting about, and I was unusual for merely walking. Passing the Metropolitan Museum, I thought about going in, but deterred by the huge noisy crowds, carried on South to the ferry port and did the only vaguely intentionally touristy thing on this visit - a boat trip to Staton Island. I'd been told this was a free way to get a seaward view of the Statue of Liberty and Manhattan skyline, and the idea of a sea breeze appealed on what was a meltingly hot day. The boat was absolutely rammed full of people, all craning to get exactly the same photo of that legendary green goddess. Why not just buy a postcard?

Apart from this one excursion, the rest of my (short) time in New York was spent just people-watching, eating and hanging out with friends. The blissfully air-conditioned subway trains are a million miles from the London Tube, and a great place to witness the melting pot of people that reside here. We went to a couple of bars, had a classically hearty American brunch, sat in a secret cherry blossom grove eating almonds and laughing at people with ridiculous dogs, celebrated the 1st anniversary of Harlem's only yoga studio with its adorably cute gay owners and their sausage dog, and generally just appreciated the clement weather and its affirmative effect on everyone.

My favourite New York moment of all though was last night, sitting on the roof of Erika's apartment block with her lovely flatmates - sipping beer, eating tacos, playing guitar and singing Woody Guthrie and Cat Stevens songs. To me, this was much more 'being a part of it' than any number of Statue of Liberty snapshots for the holiday album.

Photo of Central Park (c) Rowan Stanfield - more pictures from my NY trip at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157617698561432

When the Twit Hits the Fan

2009-04-23T12:00:00.000+01:00

If you follow me on Twitter you may have been party to an unfortunate 'twincident' recently in which I had to apologise to a neighbour who'd taken offence at a couple of my tweets complaining about his sound polluting activities. Admittedly, my comments were on the scathing side, but if he had ever bothered to get to know me, my neighbour would have realised that the barbed humour on which he found himself at the receiving end is not generally to be taken seriously. Even my closest, dearest friends are accustomed to being insulted on a regular basis - it is just the nature of my humour. In fact the language to which he took particular offence was a quote from a TV programme we were watching at the time - which just goes to show that you should never jump to infer an insult from a statement without knowing its full context.

I'll make no secret of the fact we don't get on with 'them upstairs' - things started out cordially, but far from warm, and lately we've been lucky if we're acknowledged in passing with as much as a grunt. We tried to make the effort in the early days, but our social invitations were never even acknowledged and attempts to be friendly, unrequited. And it's not the first time we've come to blows over noise levels - sometimes it's like living inside a drum, and every now and then they properly drop the bomb. Our attempts to deal with these incidents in a rational, friendly manner have always incurred the most defensive and indignant responses. They have made it quite clear - stated it to our faces, and in company so loudly we could hear it downstairs - that they have no respect or consideration for us.

It was particularly unfortunate that on this occasion they had caught us during an already stressful weekend; for deeply personal reasons which I shall not go into here, we were both feeling extremely on edge. So when the music started thumping out, accompanied by loud stamping around on the ineffectually insulated floor/ceiling that divides us, we threw out a couple of frustrated but hardly serious tweets. Why? Because we know from bitter experience that an hour can very easily lead to eight, neither of us could face another confrontation, and we both needed a decent night's sleep.

In hindsight I admit that my Twitter outburst may have seemed OTT, but was it really any worse than the insults we've often over heard them throwing our way during previous domestic disputes, just because it was published online? If they'd been nicer and more considerate neighbours to begin with, it would never have come to this. Based on our previous interactions, I'm sure they won't see it that way, and of course there's a good chance they'll be reading this and fuming.

It is not my intention in writing this to further aggravate the situation, but I would like them to see it from our point of view. Not content with blitzing our domestic peace on a regular basis, they're out there, reading this and every other online utterance we make, anonymously stalking our every move - when they can't even bring themselves to talk civilly to us in person. We find this disturbing. There's not a lot we can do about it, but I only hope that when and if they read this, they'll realise how completely unreasonable they have been, and we can begin to get back on cordial terms. Once, we had hoped to build friendships, as we have with many other neighbours here and elsewhere over the years. Now we just want a bit of peace and quiet, and not to feel threatened in our own home.

***

With huge thanks to Ant for his contributions to this post, and for the ongoing moral support without which everyday life would be much more of a trial.

Remembering Paula

2009-04-14T20:48:00.007+01:00

It hardly seems possible that ten whole years have passed since my dear childhood friend Paula lost her fight with cancer, just months after giving birth to miracle baby, David. Today is the 10th anniversary of her death, and I have been honouring her memory in my own way - thinking about times we shared, playing music we liked and talking to other people who knew and loved her. Last night, reading my sad diary entries from that terrible time in 1999, all the grief and heartache came flooding back. Even up to the very end, she was such a forceful presence; sometimes I still can't really believe that she's gone.

Today I have been trying to focus on happy memories, as I know she would have wanted. Some of my fondest childhood recollections are of being with Paula and Natalie - at Guides and in St Philip's church choir together, running around playing games of (and swooning over) Robin Hood (Michael Praed* era of course), making up stupid stories, giggling in the cinema and generally perpetuating The Madness. One time I particularly remember was when Paula and I camped out in her back garden and were terrified by rustling noises outside the tent in the middle of the night. Taking various kitchen implements as weapons for self defence on the second night, we later disovered that our tormentors were nothing more than a couple of inquisitive hedgehogs. It became a longstanding joke between us ever after.

In what was otherwise a retrospective and somewhat melancholy day, I was delighted to receive from baby David's father some recent photos of his and Paula's now strapping 10 year old boy this evening. Seeing her unique spark twinkling on in his eyes brings immense comfort - she would have been so proud to have seen how wonderfully her little boy turned out, against all the odds.

*The copy on this website is genius