Great Escape Festival 2007

Having spent the last few days indulging in one of my favourite hobbies - jumping up and down to live music - I am positively itching to blog about all the brilliant (and some awful) bands I've seen. But as I am off to Brazil in three days, and have a sales conference at work for the next two, it's unikely that I'll have time to write anything halfway decent. So instead, here is a photo-diary of my favourite bits of the festival...

One of the first bands we saw, ZZZ - from the Netherlands, were an eccentric mix of jazz hammond and hard rock drumming/vocals. Brilliant for stomping about to in my big green gig boots, and getting me well and truly in the festival spirit.

Wiflully kooky Icelandic songstress Hafdis Huld is produced by the delightful and hugely talented singer-songwriter Boo Hewerdine - and the influence shows in her witty lyrics and catchy melodies.

The very pretty guitarist from Californian rock band The Airborne Toxic Event. This was one of those fortuitous accidental gigs - we had expected to see someone else entirely - but they turned out to be really good. Definite shades of The Arcade Fire, but rockier and less tender.

There were various 'secret' gigs organised throughout the festival, for those subscribed to the text message info service. One of these was Foals, which kept being postponed due to weather conditions, and finally kicked off at Horatio's - a seedy karaoke bar at the end of the pier. Despite the odd choice of venue, there was a brilliantly spontaneous vibe about the gig, which complemented the youthful band's amazing energy and physicality. I spent the entire set dancing on the back of a sofa - trashing the furniture in true rock 'n roll style!

The Magic Numbers were one of the biggest names at a festival largely dedicated to 'new' and 'upcoming' bands. We hadn't actually intended to see them, but had bagged ourselves a good spot at the previous gig (Captain) in the same venue, and so decided to give them a go. Having been largely underwhelmed by both their (arguably over-produced) albums, I was pleasantly surprised and enthused by their infectiously ebullient and impressively rocking live performance.

Possibly my favourite shot of the whole festival, this shows one of the members Benni Hemm Hemm contemplating some sort of wacky home-made persussion instrument. This was at our final gig - part of an Icelandic music showcase at the Duke of York's - and a wonderfully mellow end to a rather frantic few days.

Loads more photos of The Great Escape, and other Brighton Festival happenings, are on my flickr page at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Heavenly Bodies

The Caesar Twins, Udderbelly, Brighton Festival Fringe, 10^th May 2007

Last year’s La Clique at the gloriously decadent Spiegeltent was undoubtedly the highlight of my 2006 Brighton Festival (see my previous blog Beautiful Freaks), and remains the subject of fond reminiscences among the group friends with whom I went. The combination of a uniquely atmospheric venue and a quirky mix of sideshow cabaret acts - all held together with a mutual sense of twisted eccentricity – appealed to my theatrical heritage, and sparked an interest in the Burlesque scene, which has since led me onto other events such as Lost Vagueness. Sadly, both the Spiegeltent and La Clique are conspicuously absent from this year’s festival - the former being replaced by a giant upturned purple cow, The Udderbelly, which is currently dominating the Steine gardens along with a collection of smaller animals. One of the acts appearing at this unusual venue is The Caesar Twins – a Polish acrobatics outfit (& yes, they are really twins) who have previously toured as part of La Clique (though not when I saw it), and were recently described by the Brighton Argus as: “like seeing a whole circus but with just two performers”. After all the hype - including an interview on the oh-so-glamorous BBC South Today - I was keen to judge for myself, and braved the elements last night to meet some friends in the Asahi Pasture (the official Fringe bar) ahead of my first festival outing of 2007.

The atmosphere in the beer tent beforehand was somehow enhanced by the inclement weather outside - as the usual festival suspects huddled together round the gas heaters, leaving it ‘til the very last minute to dash across the muddy gardens and into the colourful bovine arena. Rather letting down its strikingly wacky exterior, the inside of the Udderbelly is disappointingly underwhelming – especially in comparison to its lavish predecessor. This may partly account for the general lacklustre vibe of the show itself. It’s amazing how much the context can contribute to the overall experience of a performance – and this was a prime example. The acrobatic feats themselves were indisputably astounding, even at times arousing, but as a production it lacked the drama and atmosphere of La Clique. Theatre critic Lyn Gardner put her finger on the problem when reviewing the show for the Guardian last year, rightly observing that: “what has a big wow factor in small doses in cunningly produced shows such as the knowingly naughty La Clique, looks mighty thin when stretched to 80 minutes in a traditional theatre”.

Despite my artistic reservations, I couldn’t say I was ever actually bored during the performance. There were some interesting (if not particularly well executed) ideas in place, and I found the whole set-up intriguing from a psychological perspective – closely contemplating not just the (frankly, fucking hot) bodies of Pablo and Pierre, but the intricacies of their twin-ship, and the way in which it evidently affects their onstage relationship - both physical and otherwise. This was reinforced by various photo and video montages of their lives together – from childhood gymnastic tournaments, right up to a near-fatal accident in which Pablo fell 40ft from the ‘Wheel of Death’ during a live performance in 2002. These more serious elements were balanced out by some welcome moments of humour, such as a cheeky stunt in which one of the twins cunningly flicked off his trousers mid-backflip, whilst bouncing on a giant inflatable mattress (kind of like a bouncy castle without sides). This saucy manoeuvre had most of the girls in the audience instantly shedding layers of clothing and fanning themselves, while the menfolk shuffled in their seats, self-consciously contemplating their paunches. A torrent of giggling girls in the ladies’ loo afterwards was testament to the rousing effects of this dextrous duo – perhaps best summed up as the thinking woman’s answer to the Chippendales…

Djinn of the Tin

In between drinking gallons of ale (my new favourite tipple), buying a purple steston and some matching converse trainers, grooving to swing at a working men’s club in the East End, and making several abortive attempts to complete the Guardian crossword with a hangover this bank holiday weekend, I have also inadvertently become a virtual spiritual guide to a complete stranger. Allow me to explain… During the first instalment of Bank Holiday Indulgence (or BHI for short), I was in The Basketmakers with some friends - reading, as you do, the various scribblings stashed within the vintage tins that are nailed to its walls (see my previous blog ‘Brighton’s Best Pubs’). Some of these notes are mildy amusing observations, others barely legible drunken scrawlings. At the same time, Ant was handing out his shiny new Moo cards, and I was suddenly inspired to leave my own diddy calling card (I had them first!) in one of the tins, just to see what would happen. Of course I accepted the fact that I might gain a stalker, or that my image would be torn up and used as roach material by some grateful stoners, but my adventurous streak won over and, egged on by Damien, I picked a suitable tin – fairly high up the wall – in the hope that someone equally adventurous would find me. Two days later, whilst slumming around recovering after another night of BHI with friends in London (see my Flickr page for photographic evidence), I received a photo text of the tin in which I had left my card, simply saying: ‘found u in this tin’. After a few seconds hesitation, I playfully replied: ‘I’m the genie of the tin, you have three wishes… Be careful what you wish for!’, hoping that my finder would be on the same wavelength, and join in my little game. Maybe it’s something about living in Brighton, and the sense of eccentric affinity that exists between many of its residents (particularly in lovely ‘locals’ pubs like The Basketmakers), which made me pretty confident that they would - and my instinct proved right when the following text exchange then took place:

‘Djinn of the Tin, my first wish would be to meet you in the flesh’

‘Ah, but since I am non-corporeal this may prove somewhat problematic.’

‘Ok, ethereal states it is! In that case may my first wish be the privilege to text you at any time as my non-corporeal spirit guide offering astute guidance! Hehe’

‘You may call upon my infinite wisdom as requested, but beware – I shall not be accountable for the consequences of any advice so bestowed…’

‘Your disclaimer is duly noted. I shall not squander the wish that you have granted. Just about to take my first steps into a giant purple cow!’

‘Oh Genie of the Tin, my second wish is to have permission to keep the card that I discovered, rather than returning it to whence it came.’

‘I shall grant this wish, but on the condition that after your third wish, you become the genie and leave your own image in the tin for the benefit of another lost soul.’

‘Oh Genie of the Tin, I will honour the wish that you have granted. I would now call upon your infinite wisdom to ask, are all love stories the same? And what should I serve for dessert this evening?’

‘All love stories have definite similarities, but differ according to the lovers’ individual experience. Personally I favour lime & chocolate cheesecake.’

‘I am most grateful for your words of wisdom this evening. I think we each choose our own paths through each experience life has to offer. Lime and chocolate cheesecake sounds delightful. I shall not disturb you again today.’

I still don’t know whether my wisher is male or female, or anything else about them for that matter, but I am enjoying my new-found status as a virtual spiritual guide, and am rather tickled by this spontaneous/anonymous exchange. I wonder what their third wish will be…

Glastonbury - I'm So Over It

Glastonbury may be considered the apogee of the UK music festival circuit, but personally I find the whole set-up all rather too intimidating these days. Even when I last went in 1998, it had become self-consciously commercial, boringly mainstream and knackeringly vast to negotiate (especially in the mud). This year's prohibitively convoluted ticket-buying process then served to drain any remaining dregs of enthusiasm and sentimentality I may have had for Mr. Eavis's legendary West-Country shin-dig. Happily, there is no shortage of alternatives now on offer, with new festivals popping up all over the place every year – so many in fact that it's becoming increasingly difficult to choose. So here are own humble suggestions – an entirely subjective selection, based on personal taste and anecdotal evidence, and as always open to further recommendations from fellow festy enthusiasts...

Great Escape, 14^th-17^th May, Brighton
As Brighton resident, Great Escape offers me the chance to take in 3 days of top bands in my home town, get a good night's sleep in my own bed, take a hot shower every morning, and even pop home to use the loo without having to wade through muddy fields to do so... ah, bliss! So I had to include this civilised urban festival option which, even if you don't live in Brighton, has much to recommend it. You could stay in one of hundreds of cool, kitsch or traditional hotels, B&Bs or hostels, and enjoy the general buzz of the city-by-the-sea in May, when the now massive Brighton Festival is in full swing. This year I'm particularly excited about seeing Nouvelle Vague, CSS, Archie Bronson Outfit, Hafdis Huld - and of course will be on a mission to discover new bands amongst the diverse line-up.

Latitude, 12^th-15^th July, Henham Park, Suffolk
Billing itself as 'More Than Just a Music Festival', Latitude started in 2006 and was widely praised for its alternative take on the usual festival set-up - offering a variety of activities beyond the standard music and stalls combo. Set in the bucolic surroundings of the historic Henham Park in Suffolk, Latitude promises a relaxing rural vibe in which to take in these eclectic diversions, which include literature, comedy, theatre, cabaret and children's activities as well as an impressive bands line-up – this year topped by the hottest hipsters of the musical moment, Arcade Fire. Having been bowled over by their performance in London last month, their presence alone would be enough to tempt me Suffolk for a second sampling, but I have a feeling that ‘The Fire’ will just be the icing on what looks to be a very tasty cake of a festival. And if AF is the icing, then Dylan Moran, who I have just heard will be playing the comedy arena on the Saturday, will be the shambolically sharp Irish cherry on top.

The comedy tent at Latitude 2006

The Green Man, 17^th - 19th August, Glanusk Park, Brecon Beacons
Also set in a beautiful countryside location, Green Man is essentially a folk festival, but stretches the boundaries of this genre in its eclectic line-up - with everything from folkatronica to folk-rock on offer. Last year I discovered Archie Bronson Outfit (who are now one of my favourite contemporary bands), and with 3 stages - all within easy walking distance - there is no excuse for not expanding one's musical horizons by taking a chance on new and unfamiliar bands. The general vibe is chilled and respectful, with lots of families - and children running about happily amongst the friendly, un-threatening crowd. A myriad of global culinary treats on offer puts the usual festival burger and noodle bars to shame, and the condition of the conveniences remained refreshingly salubrious in comparison to my distressing Glastonbury experiences. Reason enough to make the trek to Wales in my opinion…

Marshmellow, 24^th-26^th August, Somewhere in Sussex
I only just came across this low-key local festival, when a flyer was thrust into my hand whilst at a Rock Karaoke/Can Can night (don't ask) in Brighton last weekend. I have no idea what it will be like, or even where it is as yet, but from what I gather so far, it seems to be aspiring to a Lost Vagueness type set-up - with burlesque cabaret acts appearing alongside local unsigned bands, as well as alternative therapies and other such hippy-stoner malarkey. Watch this space for further info if, like me, you are intrigued…

Bestival, 7-9^th September, Robin Hill Country Park, Isle of Wight
The first thing that attracted me to Bestival was the massive fancy dress procession which takes place on the Saturday night, that and the fact that it has to be more appealing than the island's other uninspiringly mainstream festival earlier in the summer, which, frankly, left me cold last year. I've only heard positive things about Bestival from friends who’ve been, and I’m hoping to judge for myself this year. So far the line-up doesn't particularly appeal, but this will only force me to be more adventurous in my choices of bands, and hopefully come away with some new gems - always a big plus of festival-going in my experience.

All this festy talk is making me come over all giddy with anticipation – still, at least I’ve only got 3 weeks to go until the first one on my hitlist, and I don't even have to dust off the wellies for it... result!

Complicated Lives Seem Less So By Candlelight

“She knitted a jumper, it was child abuse…”

Nick Sheldon, 2007

If only I had been carrying a notepad with me in which to record the many inspired, insane and occasionally profound utterances of my friends over the last few days, I would have enough material for my own (admittedly, surreal) stand-up show. Not that there’s ever a shortage of witty banter amongst my social group, but this weekend’s spontaneous assemblage afforded some of the most quotable yet. I discovered Nick’s immortal words scribbled in my barely legible handwriting on a piece of paper in the garden this morning, having no recollection of writing them or indeed of the context in which they were spoken (perhaps Nick or Harry can help me out?).

It all kicked off on Thursday, when a quick drink after work resulted in accidental tipsiness and the drowning of sorrows between a few emotionally fragile friends, or as we’re now calling ourselves “The Fuckest-Uppest Club”. Then on Friday, Mat arrived back in Brighton with Erika, his visiting Californian friend - who shares with me a penchant for showtunes and sarcasm - and soon there was singing in the street and bonding over chocolate martinis. After a suitably robust hangover brunch in the garden on Saturday morning, the three of us spent the day soaking up the sun on the beach, catching up with other friends, and consciously staying sober (on my part, in an attempt to avoid a repeat of last weekend’s beer-bender-fuelled antagonisms). A highlight of the day was a tour of Embassy Court - the recently refurbished art-deco building on the seafront (previously referred to as ‘Sarajevo Heights’ - before its restoration) in which Mat’s friends Sue and Paul own a flat with the most amazing view over Brighton. Then I discovered that Erika had never tried (or even heard of) Pimms, and my desire to provide the complete British seaside town experience outweighed my not-drinking-until-after-7pm resolve. We sat out in the garden back at home, joined by Damien - who kindly brought with him the essential Pimms accoutrements – and so began another evening of jollity and inebriation.

A quick pint at the Barley Mow was followed by a session at the (not nearly so nice) Sidewinder, at which virtually everyone I know in Brighton, plus a generous supply of non-native weekend visitors, appeared at some point. Being such a balmy night, we took over the beer garden and sat bantering by candlelight until we were forced back inside (the perils of pubs in residential areas). I did feel for Erika, being parachuted into a melange of random strangers - a significant percentage of whom are currently sporting the emotional scars of recent romantic vexations (although one or two embody the exact opposite – you know who you are, lovebirds!). But in typically laid-back Californian style, she charmed her way around the assortment of casualties, distracting us from our complicated lives (thanks love!). An abortive mission to go dancing (we’d left it too late to get in anywhere) was substituted by a brief session on the beach, during which Matty Mo was on one of his bonfire missions. I’m still chuckling to myself at the mental image of him walking towards us with a 12 foot scaffolding plank, then enlisting the help of passing strangers in finding further kindling, including an entire tree – roots and all. Further hilarity ensued when one of these conscripts compared Matty’s fire-building determination to that of Frodo the Hobbit, taking the ring to Mordor (it’s not the first time Matty’s likeness to a Hobbit has been pointed out). Feeling chilly, and slightly nauseous thanks to the toxic fumes from melting tetrapaks, Erika, Mat and I left Matty/Frodo with his new-found friends and made our way back up Freshfield Road. In his intoxicated state, Mat rather endearingly described the sensation of walking uphill as “like walking along a flat surface, but with your head inclined at an angle”, or words to that effect. Also feeling pleasantly altered, I found myself physically attached to Erika the entire way, but luckily she was cool about it.

Sunday entailed the inevitable after-effects of over-indulgence, but was much improved by a decent brunch at Café 32, followed by paper-reading in Queen’s Park all afternoon - during which we were joined by Damien and his current (rather lovely) squeeze, Gavin. Mat & Erika deferred their reluctant return to London and stayed to partake of the roast dinner that I’d drunkenly promised Nick and Harry the night before - and a civilised start to the evening (vomit anecdotes notwithstanding - thanks Harry) descended into the expected rum-swigging session, and further noteworthy sound-bites (see above). My sorry physical state today is more than compensated for by an underlying sense of wellbeing brought about by the love, humour and kindness of those beautiful people that I feel honoured to call my friends. Photographic evidence of this lovely weekend, and those gorgeous folk who absolutely made it, is online at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar.

Is Binge-Drinking a Sin?: An Experiment in Unholy Immoderation

“Did you ever take drugs, stay up late, just to see what you would see?”
Boo Hewerdine, from 16 Miles

During one of the Holy Week services at my mother’s church, members of the congregation were encouraged to publicly acknowledge and purge their ‘sins’ by writing down a particular personal failing on a piece of paper for all to see. Predictably, these vices ranged from ‘vanity’ to ‘intolerance’ to ‘arrogance’, but also apparently included, much to mother’s amusement, that most modern of transgressions, ‘binge-drinking’. This story was relayed to me at the annual Hot Cross Bun fest at the family home in Eastbourne on Good Friday, at which I invariably arrive hungover from my own traditional ‘Last Supper’ dinner party on Maundy Thursday (This year being no exception). In keeping with my recent rebellious tendencies, I chose to ignore the possibly pointed subtext of this anecdote, and instead continued to embrace an ‘unholy’ weekend punctuated by excess. This ‘sinful’ behaviour included an all-day drinking session on Saturday, during which the phrase “someone’s tired” was rather acerbically aimed at my belligerently over-inebriated other half. Needless to say, he was suitably contrite and satisfyingly crapulent the next day, as I left him wallowing in his own shame, to pursue further inebriation and indulgence with friends in London.

The final chapter of this immoderate Easter weekend was rather less excessive, despite taking place in the pub. Almost exactly one year ago, I blogged enthusiastically (http://rowstar.blogspot.com/2006/04/lovely-boo.html) about seeing of my musical heroes, Boo Hewerdine, live at Komedia. So imagine my excitement at having tickets to an even more intimate gig at which he was accompanying Irish folk singer Heidi Talbot in one of my local pubs, The Greys. A tiny, rustic watering hole in the heart of the drinkers’ haven that is Hanover, The Greys has a reputation for hosting quality live music (mostly of a folky nature) as well as excellent food and an impressive array of Belgian beer. It is also one of the only venues in Brighton in which I can feel young and trendy, amidst a clientele that is largely bearded and balding. So, with self-esteem thoroughly restored, and a rather elegant glass of Kriek in my hand, I was ripe for some soothing folk music to conclude my holiday weekend. The combination of Heidi’s ethereal vocals, Boo’s gracefully impassioned finger-picking, and some spell-binding fiddle-playing from the esteemed Tola Custy had an immediate spine-tingling effect. Their set comprised a pleasing blend of traditional Celtic ballads, folksy covers of jazz standards, and several of Boo’s own distinctive compositions. I had a tearful moment when Boo sang ‘Patience of Angels’ during a solo spot – his voice never fails to affect me, and on this occasion the lyrics were particularly poignant. This also gave me the opportunity to show off a little, when the audience was encouraged to join in with the chorus of “There’s a door, in a house, in a street, in a town etc…”. Since I was sat right at the front, my contribution was duly noted and later acknowledged - at which point I was forced to feign complete mortification of course!

As if this feast of musical delights wasn’t enough, the evening also proffered some diverting entertainment of the conversational variety. During the interval I found myself accosted by one of the enthusiastic beardies, who had overheard me (jokingly) refer to the local 9-piece folk band The Copper Family as Rottingdean’s answer to Arcade Fire. Evidently oblivious to the concept of sarcasm, he proceeded to enlighten me as to the illustrious history of this esteemed musical clan, who, it transpires, have been performing since 1898. My jesting continued to go undetected as he then earnestly informed me that no, it wouldn't be the original line up performing at the upcoming (and sadly sold-out) gig at The Greys next week. After the gig, Boo & co stuck around for a drink with the punters, and I was honoured to buy the man himself a glass of wine, in return for which he indulged me in a little (hopefully not too cringe-making on my part) fan-banter. Pleasantly beer-fuelled, and more than a little giddy at having hung out with one of my musical heroes, I bounced back up Southover Street and then sat up ‘til 1am adding Boo tracks to Project Playlist, so that he can have his rightful share of my myspace jukebox. Tired, but still buzzing, I’m sat at my desk having lunch, listening to 16 Miles – an appropriate anthem for my weekend of unholy immoderation…

Saturdays are Made of This

Today has been a fairly average Saturday. But the very fact that it's been Saturday makes it automatically pretty damn good. For so many years, as a student, and in my bookshop days, I worked on Saturdays, and sometimes even Sundays, so now that I inhabit the grown-up world of 'Mon-Fri, 9-5 work', weekends are always something of a celebration. Sundays are great too, but right now I'm feeling the Saturday love, and am inspired to share some of the things that define my own personal Saturday utopia...

Sleep... The all-important signifier that the weekend has landed... being woken by one's biological timeclock at 7am, opening one eye to look at the clock, then blissfully realising that you don't have to get up for work, and returning into a smug, mellow doze for several more hours. On finally rising at one's own pace, two cups of tea are essential to reinforce that feeling of weekendly indulgence.

Pampering...This could involve anything from a long hot bath, to a massage or facial, but today took the form of a well-needed haircut at my funky local unisex barber in Kemptown - Barber Blacksheep. In the lovely Sonja, I have finally discovered someone who understands my unruly mop, and so getting a trim has become a pleasure rather than a trial. As I sat waiting my turn, enjoying the mellow ska being played on the salon stereo, I also indulged one of my other weekend pleasures - reading the paper. I admit to deferring the intake of serious news in favour of heading straight for Jon Ronson's column in the Guardian magazine. His witty, informal style of writing is the sort of journalism to which I aspire. The lady next to me, with whom I happily shared my supplements, was also a big fan.

Shopping... The art of weekend shopping (as opposed to pressured lunchtime missions in Lewes) falls into three distinct camps - cultural (books, music, films), aesthetic (clothes, shoes, accessories) and food (from anywhere other than the supermarket). I am pleased to report that I successfully pursued two out of these three whilst out and about today. Hanging out in the outstanding Rounder Records is almost a hobby in itself - chatting to (and out-geeking) the knowledgeable and ever so-slightly snobby staff, and coming away with way more CDs than I intended to buy - typically a few bargain 'classics' and one or two current/chart albums. But I must confess to a rare infidelity on this particular outing, as I was sucked into Fopp, which seems to be the music shop equivalent of Ikea - tempting you with endless bargains that seem too cheap to resist, causing you to splurge unintentionally. Today I was tempted by: Amy Winehouse - Frank (I've been loving the new album, and it was only a fiver - see! SEE! that's how they get you!), LCD Soundsystem - Of Silver (a 6Music favourite that's got under my skin) and Bright Eyes - Digital Ash in a Digital Urn. I still love you Rounder, please don't be cross.

Food... Obviously eating is an integral part of every day, but Saturdays afford the opportunity to indulge a little more than usual in the art of culinary appreciation. My home-cooked veggie breakfasts are rather fine, if I do say so myself, and there is nothing nicer than lunching out at one of Brighton's many excellent cafes (regular favourites include Food for Friends, 32, Bill's, The Sanctuary). Rather unusually though, today's foodie moment didn't happen until this evening, when I concocted home-made stuffed vine leaves, a first-attempt and a personal triumph!

Drink... Not exclusively a weekend pursuit, but usually commenced in earnest on a Friday, the vino-moment is somehow more special on a Saturday, when the aforementioned activities have induced a different kind of thirst to the slumped-on-the-sofa-swigging-at-end-of-working-day kind you get on a Friday. The Saturday glass of wine is to be sipped and savoured, usually as a precursor to further drinking of the spirit variety, and often a means of warming up before heading out on the town. In anticipation of a home-based weekend, my wine rack is currently satisfyingly well-stocked, and in between typing I'm sipping a cheeky Rioja from one of my over-sized wine glasses. I really want a set of those whole-bottle sized ones, but am aware that this may not be a particularly sensible idea... just one glass... hmmmm....

Dancing... Sadly this is the one pleasure in which I shall not be indulging today. But then I am still recovering from a few hectic weekends in which there was much drunken flailing, and am consciously conserving my energy for some planned party excursions to come...

Bonding, Boozing and Bantering

Having been left to my own devices for two weeks while Ant's away walking in Spain, I've been keeping myself busy, reaffirming old friendships and cementing new ones. Several of my close comrades have recently split from their partners, and so are back on the party circuit, and in need of the comfort of old friends - and whilst I'm sad for them that their relationships didn't work out, I'm delighted to be seeing more of them again as a result. The wonders of the www have also facilitated the renewal of regular contact with another, rather less gregarious chum, with whom I've been chatting online most days in the last couple of weeks. I don't make friends all that easily (probably due to a combination of my intolerance and perceived stand-offishness), but recently I've been pleasantly surprised at the surge of kindred spirits to have crossed my path. On Friday I spent a drunken night in the pub with two of these new mates - Harry and Nick. I'd met Harry down in Exeter at Brian's 30th a few weeks ago, and we'd stayed in touch via myspace, so I was pleased when she said she was planning a visit (her first) to sunny Brighton. I knew she'd love it here, being a self-confessed eco-warrior/hippy chick, and felt honoured to toast her first pint in my beloved home town. Nick joined us later in the evening, and so the hardcore banter began. I've known Nick for a while through mutual friends, but we never really hit it off until recently, possibly because we are in fact rather too similar - both scathing loud show-offs! But we'd finally clicked during our recent West Country jaunt, and established a playful repartee (in between rum-swigging and improvised 12-bar blues) which was re-ignited in the Park Crescent on Friday, much to Harry's amusement. After four pints of rather nice German beer, I bounced back home up Southover Street, listening to Kasabian, and smiling at fellow revellers falling out of pubs along the way.

On Saturday, after a much-needed lie-in, Harry and I met up again for lunch, both mildly jaded from the night before, but soon revived by the wholesome fare on offer at the legendary Terre a Terre. After a little retail therapy, during which I purchased some cute disco-pirate-esque shoes and a floaty summer dress, I hopped on the train up to London for a long overdue reunion with some old friends from my first publishing job. Molly -who escaped the underpaid world of books in favour of a career in law - was celebrating her 30th birthday, and I hadn't seen her since my own big three-zero, 18 months ago. It had been even longer since I'd seen Michael (who still works at Frances Lincoln), and so I was chuffed that he made it along too. Having warmed up with a couple of beers (Belgian this time) and some nostalgic chitchat, I hooked up with Mat, who was heading down to Brighton for a big house party, to which half of Brighton had apparently been invited. He and I only met properly at Christmas, despite having several mutual friends in common. Our friendship was born during the mayhem of Matty's 30th party, at which a shared sense of humour and mutual horror at the various goings-on kept each other sane (almost). After a jovial, rum-fuelled train journey, we alighted at Preston Park and found ourselves once again in a den of hedonistic frivolity - a typical Brighton house-party in other words. I was surprised to see a couple of work colleagues there, as well as several good friends, but not so impressed when the police rolled up and arrested two party-goers. This pretty much killed the atmosphere for me, and it felt like a good point to escape the madness, whilst also saving myself the embarrassment of becoming completely out of control and possibly telling the police officer that I loved her. I reckon this was about 3am - quite respectable for me really. Sunday was spent sleeping, eating and generally basking in the pleasant glow of amity. To any of my friends (old or new) who may be reading this - thank you for being so very lovely and keeping an old bird happy! Let's do it again soon...