Twestival Strikes Again

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.

Top Five All Time Worst Hangovers

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.

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

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.

As If By Magic...

How appropriate that the first photo of me flashing my shiny new gnashers should be whilst dressed as an evil magician, flanked by Ant in drag as my 'lovely' assistant (who I accidentally sawed in half). Says it all really. The picture was taken on Saturday night during a Halloween party at Sara & Sean's house - my first major social occasion since returning from the recent dental trip. It was a great party, especially as most people had risen to the costume challenge so enthusiastically, and were a real pleasure to photograph. I finally pulled the drag card on Ant, nearly a year after he gave me an IOU last Christmas, promising to go out in women's clothes upon my whim. He was initially a little sulky about the whole prospect, but soon got into character and upstaged me as always. Frankly he's lucky I used it for a fancy dress party and not just a family wedding or something (though I can't say I wasn't tempted)! The other guests included Myra Hindley, Harold Shipman, the Joker, Papa Lazaru, the Devil, and the usual compliment of zombies, freaks, witches and ghouls. If you're feeling brave, have a look at the rest of my pictures from the night at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar/sets/72157608596540144

An Obsession Explored

I was supposed to be having a quiet day on Saturday. I'd even done all my usual weekend chores on Friday night, so that I could just sleep in and laze about all of the next day, and recharge my batteries in anticipation of a big night that evening. To be fair, I did get the much-needed lie-in, but then woke to a voicemail from Jen asking for help with her costume for the aforementioned party (Matty's housewarming). She had decided to go as Janis Joplin (the theme being famous dead people) and wanted to rifle through my dressing up box for hippyish accessories.

There seems to be a fancy dress party at least once a month in Brighton, and it gets harder and harder to better one's previous efforts, especially when, like me, you have a reputation for going all-out. As a self-confessed fancy dress fanatic, I have built up a decent collection of costumes and accessories over the years, and have become the unofficial wardrobe mistress to my comrades, who invariably turn to me for help when inspiration and wherewithal are lacking. So I wasn't entirely surprised when Jen's call turned out to be the first of many, meaning that my supposedly restful day instead became punctuated by a string of visitors and frantic trying-on sessions.

Luckily I had sorted out my own attire well ahead of time – I already owned a suitable wig, and had found the most perfect Karen Carpenter (Seventies era) frock on ebay. I'm really not complaining about the disruption to my envisaged tranquility, in fact there's nothing I like more than putting a costume together and watching a character come to life before me (cue maniacal Dr Frankenstein laugh). It's incredibly satisfying looking round a room full of fabulous, flamboyant, and sometimes disturbing party-goers, knowing that the credit is at least partly yours.

It turned out to be an excellent night, and most people had made a big effort to look convincingly like their chosen deceased, who included: Frank Zappa (Ant), Jimi Hendrix (David), Steve Irwin (Stewart), Dick Turpin (Matty), Janis Joplin (Jen), Mae West (Alice), Marylin Monroe (Charlotte), Paula Yates – complete with baby (Harriet), Jim Morrison (Sheldon), Random Suicide Bomber (Dave), Freddie Mercury (Ross), Jackie Onasis (Abbi), Klaus Kinski (Tim), Cleopatra (Nikki), John Bonham (Damien – who looked SO weird with long hair) and, disturbingly, Myra Hindley (Tania) - apologies if I've forgotten anyone on this weird and wonderful role-call. I did a turn on the decks – naturally playing only tunes sung by dead people - and we were also treated to some live music from Barulho, and an as yet unnamed gypsy klezmer band. Most people guessed my costume once I'd prompted them with a line or two of “Close to You” – although I did get accused of looking like some kind of Hammer Horror freak on more than one occasion, though to be fair, so did Karen Carpenter in her more emaciated periods.

Damien, Tim and Me, as you've never seen us before

Every time another costume bash comes up, and I get that giddy tingle of anticipatory excitement, I ask myself from whence this obsession of mine came. I can certainly put it partly down to my theatrical upbringing – both my parents were in professional theatre, and I used to love playing with the various costume cast-offs that made their way into the family dressing up box.

My sister Megan and I would often adorn ourselves and put on plays for our parents and their friends (who were always very good about humouring us), and so I learned from an early age how much fun reinventing yourself can be. Then along came the wonderful Mr Benn – one of my very favourite children's TV characters - whose visits to the fancy dress shop sparked no end of exciting escapades, reinforcing the idea that dressing up equals adventure.

Some of my earliest fancy dress costumes (invariably made from scratch by my talented and creative mother) included Cinderella, Pierrette, one of the Three Kings (for which I was made to black-up!) and the Queen Mother – for Charles and Diana's wedding street party. Then when my 18th birthday came up, I decided to throw what turned out to be the first of many fancy dress parties of my own, the most memorable of which include Moulin Rouge, Gay Icons, Wild West, Bitches & Baddies, and most recently, Seasick! I have thrown non-costume parties too, but I always find that being dressed up gives things a jollier atmosphere, breaks the ice between strangers, and makes the photographs much more interesting.

I'll admit that it does nettle me when people turn up to a clearly labelled 'fancy dress' party in their normal clothes. Call me a fancy dress fascist (I won't deny it), but my good friend Neel will back me up here, in agreeing that to appear at such soirées in 'civvies' is frankly impolite, it makes everyone else feel uncomfortable, and breaks the magic for those of us who like to immerse ourselves in the experience. To put it into perspective, you wouldn't turn up to a black tie ball in trainers and jeans, or walk into a historical re-enactment in modern day clothes, and still expect to be included, would you?

I accept that not everyone enjoys dressing up as much as me, and so am never offended if they choose not to come along for that reason. But, like any team game or hobby, it only really works if everyone joins in. Luckily, lots of my friends in Brighton do love dressing up (nearly as much as me), hence the regular merry-go-round of themed parties, and those inevitable 'fancy dress SOS' phone calls. Maybe it's time I started charging for my services, or at least demanding compensation of the chocolate variety – “will lend wigs for Mingles” - I like that.

Paula, Natalie, Megan & Me - an early fancy dress outing as St Trinians on Red Nose Day

Seasick!

On Saturday night I celebrated my 32^nd birthday exactly two months late. The delay was down to my bicycle accident back in August, when I fractured my jaw in two places, rendering me unable to party for a while. Having been such a long time coming, and being my first big social occasion since the accident, the sense of anticipation was stronger than for the average party – I was excited and nervous, not least because I had no idea whether my stamina would last out the night. But despite sporting ridiculously high-heeled boots in which it was virtually impossible to walk - let alone dance - and a restrictively tight corset that led to several light-headed episodes, I had a ball! All my friends had risen to the challenge of the theme (Seasick!) with admirable imagination and enthusiasm, making for an impressive array of costumes and characters, and a fantastically silly atmosphere. Some live folk music from The Unisexuals, a misfortune telling booth, a tattoo parlour, and some ‘Stick It On’ type DJ-ing, all helped the night go off with a bang, and by all accounts, a good time was had by all - especially me.

Thoughts Like Bubbles

You know those days when you just wake up feeling down for no apparent reason - at odds with the world, out of sync, anxious - and yet you don't really know why? I had one of those mornings on Saturday - perhaps the subconscious effect of a bad dream, or buried tensions from the week bubbling up through the release of the weekend. Whatever the reason, I was off-kilter. Often it can take the littlest thing to dislodge a disquieted mood – an unexpected phone call from a friend, a smile from a stranger – but there are times when I have to consciously steer myself out of it. One way I do this is to latch onto those little moments going on around me, borrowing from other people's joy to feed my own. So, as I was sat waiting my turn in Barber Blacksheep on Saturday, feeling a rising tide of unexplained melancholy washing over me, I decided to distract myself by making a list of things around me that raised a smile... A grinning dad with a newborn in a sling; reading the superman comic strip on the pants of the skinny gay hairdresser in front of me (and wondering if Superman wears gay hairdresser pants); Someone quite clearly thrilled with their new haircut and proudly prinking in the mirror before paying; a glamorous old lady on the street with a flamboyant scarf and huge retro shades... These little observations, combined with the vanity boost of my own well-needed shearing, started to put me back on track, and in turn led me to accept a last-minute party invitation on a whim, when I had intended to stay home and wallow. I was glad I did. Just as a black mood can descend without warning, so a spontaneous adventure brings unexpected mirth. Piling into the back of Nikki's car, with some of my favourite people also in tow, I began to shed the earlier gloominess and let the spirit of summer fun take over. Trying not to think about the bit where I'd have to sleep on the floor with a bunch of strangers later in the night (not something I really do these days), I embraced the opportunity that mingling with strangers can afford – the chance to reinvent oneself, with the conspiratorial collaboration of one's own 'gang' - and to observe, influence and record the interactions and dynamics of an unfamiliar social circle. Interactive People-Watching! Continuing in the observational bent, I also felt compelled to complement the usual photographic evidence with some written notes of the night's proceedings, the highlights of which I shall share here – make of them what you will...

Heard & Spoken

“You can tell you lot are from Brighton, you look...alternative.”


“You can't get a haircut like that in Maidstone...”


“There were 19 badgers trying to eat my map of Surrey”


“The Amish beard is dead to me now”

"Are you married? Because you make a great cup of tea."

“What happens to those lost thoughts that evade one mid-sentence to float away and burst like bubbles? Do they sit in a corner, depressed because no one is using them, or do they just disappear forever?”

“The word 'jaded' sounds far more beautiful than the thing it describes"

“I tell you what is the great anomaly – the duck-billed platypus”

Mis-heard, Mis-spoken

“Drugs are SO Tacky”

“I was reberellious once”


“There's a cruel space between the walls”

“The friendly gay with a guinea pig”

A little bit of pixie dust...

Since dressing up as Peter Pan for Matty's 30th birthday (see picture) exactly one month ago, I seem to have absorbed something of that legendary character's traits, namely, to avoid being a grown-up. This has manifested itself largely in my rekindled party spirit following that crazy 'Magic & Mayhem' night. The fact that it was also the starting block of the festive season's inevitable social merry-go-round can't have helped either. As per my previous post, the office party took place hot on the heels of Mat's do, hangover barely subsided, for 'round two'. The absence of blogging in the ensuing weeks can largely be put down to the fact that I've been stumbling round in a semi-drunken haze ever since. Not that I'm complaining, far from it. I sincerely thank the spirit of Peter Pan for reminding me that there is more to life than mortgages and housework. While most of my friends are settling down to have kids, I'm determined to have one last stab at being one myself!

Party Season

Yes, it's that time of year again... out come the frocks and heels, and plenty of glitter, all just so you can embarrass yourself in front of your colleagues at the institution which is the office Christmas party!

Mine was last night, and the following email was sent round this morning which kind of says it all really:

Xmas Work Quiz
1) Which staff member was caught relieving himself in the now golden streets of Lewes (by the police)?

2) Which advertising team member got stuck in the pavement and was helped by a man wielding a lighter?

3) Which staff member’s slick moves on the dance floor shocked and inspired the rest of the company?

4) Which member of staff seemingly bored a senior colleague to such a degree that he mysteriously fled mid conversation?

5) Which worker was asked to leave a Brighton club for being too drunk whilst trying to rescue the below staff members?

6) Which 2 members of staff were told they were too drunk/old to attend a Brighton Club?

7) Which staff member turned up to work in last nights clothes?

8) Which staff member was sick at a Newhaven railway station and various points along the way?

9) Which male and female staff members started a bread roll – bagel tossing competition whilst the starters were being served?

10) Which staff members had a terrible case of food poisoning and couldn’t make it into work today?

11) Which entire department has been in a “un scheduled meeting” since 9am this morning?

12) Which staff member had several glasses of the free bubbles by stating “do you know who I am”?

13) Which staff members were encouraged to practice frottage with a certain other staff member’s fishnets?

Answers on a postcard to the advertising dept ……..


I'm not telling which of these (if any) involved me, but let's just say there's a shared sense of fragility around the office today!

Unlikely Sex Symbol

I'd never considered Sybil Fawlty a sex symbol, so when Ant & I decided to 'do' the Fawltys for a 'comedy characters' theme party last night, I had resigned myself to being a frump. I usually like to try and give my fancy dress outings an element of foxiness (Princess Leia, Sally Bowles, Wild West prostitute are some examples), but this was just too good an opportunity to pass up. Ant has a definte touch of Basil about him anyway and we couldn't think of any other more fitting comdedy couples.

I trawled the charity shops of Chichester, and good old eBay, and found myself a hideous peach coloured Windsmoor high-collared blouse, pearls, a suitably severe suit, and of course the necessary wig. Ant already owns a tweed jacket, so only needed to find a cravat, some too-short trousers and bad 70s shoes. Walking down to Mat's in Hanover in costume last night was quite amusing, as passing people weren't quite sure if we were in fancy dress or not! Most of the other party-goers clocked our ensemble straight away, especially when I did my best Sybil laugh and pretended to kick Basil in the shins. Many of the other costumes were lost on me, not being au-fait with a lot of contemporary comedy shows, but most people had made the effort which was pleasing.

What surprised me most about being Sybil was the amount of attention I was getting from the guys. I wasn't feeling particularly hot in my beige tights and bouffant wig, but I was propositioned by several lads who apparently found the look arousing. My response was to screech "BASIL!", to which Ant usually came scuttling in to rescue me, in character of course. I can't imagine what it is about Sybil that is so alluring - perhaps it's the dominatrix thing, or some kind of oedipal fixation, or maybe the blokes in question just all happened to be unhinged, but I was pleasantly surprised that I managed to inadvertantly project some foxiness after all.

Photographic evidence will be available on Flickr shortly.