Closet Romantic

I always cry at weddings. In spite of my sometimes cynical attitude towards the marriage institution, I find the sentiment behind two people making a heartfelt public commitment to each other deeply moving, and that little sparkle of romance left in my soul invariably swells up via my eyes, even more so since I tied the knot myself. I've reached that stage in life where every summer brings another two or three weddings, more excuses to buy new frocks and hats, and a chance for me to have a little cathartic weep as yet another pair say "I do". This weekend I shall be attending my first ever gay wedding. I refrain from using the term 'Civil Partnership', as to me it sounds rather formal and boring, and if I know Sham and James, their bash will be anything but dull. I am excited for lots of reasons - not least because they have asked me to sing at the ceremony, something I haven't done for a few years. From the ages of about 10 to 15 I sang in the choir of St Philip's Church Eastbourne, and was even Head Chorister for the latter years (I know, I can hardly picture it now, either!). As well as our usual Sunday duties, the junior choir would make a bit of extra cash by singing at weddings on Saturdays, for people who presumably didn't happen to know any good singers to ask. I've sung a couple of times at family weddings too, most recently at the reception of my cousin's big do in the Lake District last summer. But the last time I actually performed during the ceremony must have been for my Godmother Jood's marriage blessing, back in the early nineties. I remember it was on New Year's Day, so everyone was hungover, and it was freezing cold in church - not the ideal circumstances for singing - but I gave it my best, and it meant a lot to contribute to their special day in such a personal way. When Sham asked me to sing at his wedding to James, I had a feeling they would want something less traditional than I would normally choose for my voice (classical/sacred music is my forté), and so I had fun putting together a list of potential songs, mostly jazz standards, for them to pick from. These included 'Making Whoopee', 'Someone to Watch Over Me', 'Can't Help Lovin Dat Man' and for kitsch value, 'Nobody Does It Better'. Unsurprisingly, they went straight for this, clearly the campest option, which, although not really in my range, will be fun to perform. The lovely Brian will be accompanying me on piano, which makes me feel a lot more confident about the whole thing, and of course the fabulous full-length frock I've bought for the occasion will really help me feel the part. I'm also hugely excited because I've never been to a same-sex ceremony before, and it gives me a warm fuzzy feeling that British law has finally granted gay couples comparable rights, and the opportunity to express their love more openly than ever before. We've come a long way, and the added significance of this will be sure to make these particular nuptials even more poignant than usual. Let's just hope I can get the singing out of the way before I start to blub.

(Picture courtesy of Gino Ginelli on Flickr)

A Disappointing Dance Date

James Son of James, The Dome, 13th Feb 08

As a sixth-form drama student in Lewes, I was a regular visitor to the now sadly defunct Gardner Arts Centre, just up the road on the Sussex University campus in Falmer. I can clearly recall falling asleep on more than one occasion during some highly pretentious and dreary 'physical theatre' performances; usually involving lots of grunting and wailing; and subsequently struggling to find enough to say in the required post-theatre trip essay. Now and then there would be something good enough to keep my attention, and stop me from losing faith entirely in the so-called 'performance art' genre, in fact my second ever date with the now husband was to see an excellent Northern Stage production of Animal Farm which we both enjoyed, he being even more cynical than me. The only times I've seen such things in recent years have been at Edniburgh festival, when more often than not, I would again be disappointed at the cringe-making no-irony-intended archness of it all. But I still haven't given up hope of finding the odd gem in amongst a slew of ostentatious tripe, and was intrigued by the hype surrounding Irish dance company Fabulous Beast, whose latest production, James Son of James, in the absence of the Gardner, would be finding a home at the more central mainstream venue of The Dome. So I bought two tickets for me and the boy, hoping to bring back happy memories of our early courtship, and to make a change from our seemingly habitual gig-going excursions. Fabulous Beast calls itself a dance company, and the cast members are clearly talented dancers, but the moments of movement were few and far between - the production instead being punctuated by tedious, drawn-out scenes of stilted dialogue and sometimes painful singing. The story itself was predictable and sparse, maybe enough to fill a short festival-length piece of 45 mins, but too much to stretch over nearly two hours with no interval. The only bit I really enjoyed was I suppose the closest thing to a chorus number in this kind of show - a beautifully choreographed wedding scene in which the whole cast showed off their dance skills with an array of styles, from salsa to jive. But this only served to make the rest of the performance more of an anti-climax, and we both left feeling distinctly underwhelmed. I have a feeling it might be a good long while before I will be able to persuade 'him indoors' along to anything remotely similar in future. Back to gigs next week, then.

James Son of James, Fabulous Beast Dance Company

Becoming a Dental Tourist

Whether justified or not, the British have a reputation for having bad teeth, and considering the cost of dentistry in the UK, this is hardly surprising. Even if you are lucky enough to get onto the books of an NHS dentist, you would still find yourself at the mercy of a prohibitive system that doesn’t seem to want you to help you get your teeth sorted. I am proud to say that until recently I did not count myself among the dentally challenged nation, having boasted perfect teeth all my life, with not so much as a filling (thanks mum for limiting my sweetie intake). It was only when I fell off my bike and ruined a fair proportion of these immaculate pearlies, that I discovered just how awful the British dentistry system really is for anyone without the means to pay for private treatment. Until the accident, I had been quite happy to stump up the cost of a check-up once in a while at a lovely private dentist, who actually told me not to bother coming back for a couple of years at my last visit! After breaking eight, and completely losing two teeth in the accident, I was forced to transfer to an altogether less friendly NHS practice, since there was no way I could afford the £400 per crown that would be needed to mend the broken teeth, let alone the £2k+ I was quoted for dental implants to replace the missing ones. I was then told by my new dentist that although there is an upper limit to what the NHS can charge you (£194 for one or more crowns) they would only allow the practice to administer a maximum of two at a time, without a special dispensation that could take up to six months to approve, meaning that I would have to go back every couple of months, paying the £194 each time, and dragging out the already traumatic process to a ridiculous extent. And you cannot get dental implants on the NHS - the only option offered is dentures, or a bridge – which would mean drilling down perfectly healthy teeth on either side of the gap. Not wanting to be saddled with dentures at the tender age of 32, I was beginning to consider re-mortgaging the flat and going back to my private dentist, when someone suggested the possibility of going abroad for treatment.

There is a growing dental tourism industry, particularly in Hungary and Poland, both of which now have entire towns built on incoming foreign dentistry trade. So I started looking at the options, reading about the possible pitfalls, asking around for recommendations, when I was forwarded an email from a friend about a forthcoming consultation happening with a Hungarian dentist in Eastbourne - my hometown, just 25 miles along the coast from Brighton. It felt like one of those kismet moments, when things fall into place just at the right time, so I made an appointment to meet the dentist. We met a couple of weeks ago on a sunny Saturday in a seafront hotel, and I knew almost straight away that it was the right thing to do. Quite apart from my vanity and confidence having taken a severe knock, I haven’t been able to eat properly since losing the teeth (oh, how I miss pizza so), and the permanent discomfort has inevitably worn me down. Yesterday I booked a date to start the first stage of the implant surgery, and just knowing that it is definitely happening makes me feel so much more positive already. The first step (a detailed description of which – not for the faint-hearted - can be read here) involves having two metal screws put into my jaw, which then take four months to fuse to the bone before I can go back for the remaining treatment, after which, all being well, I will have a full complement of teeth once more. I’m trying to decide how to make the two trips to Hungary with minimal carbon footprint, and am considering rail travel for at least some of it, depending on the cost. But even with the travel and accommodation, my dental bill will be 1/3 of what it would have been in the UK. And I will be getting the most up-to-date, state of the art treatment, which is currently inconceivable via the NHS. I am trying hard not to resent the fact that I have had to resort to this course of action, having looked after my teeth so conscientiously all my life. It seems unfair that had I broken one of my limbs and needed surgery, this would be automatic on the NHS, but to repair accidentally broken teeth, one must stump up the cash, and even be forced to travel to the other end of Europe to be mended! The thought of my first post-surgery pizza is the only thing keeping me sane in the face of such frustration - goats’ cheese and spinach at the Walmer to be precise.

Restoration & Recreation

My poor bicycle, I call her Hedwig, has been sat in the hallway looking a bit sad for the last six months, since we were both damaged in an accident that resulted in a broken jaw and smashed up teeth for me, and a blown tyre and a few scratches for her. I finally got round to taking her in to get fixed at the weekend, with a view to getting back on the saddle in the next few weeks. Now that the weather is improving and the evenings are getting lighter again, cycling to work is becoming a more enticing prospect, and I think I am about ready to tackle the psychological challenge. So I dropped Hedwig off at G-Whizz, a great little second-hand bike and repair shop down in Hove borders, which is also handily only a stone’s throw from my favourite café in Brighton & Hove, The Sanctuary. At first glance, the damage was apparently not too bad, but she will be given a good once-over, and I will be able to collect her next weekend. This was a small but significant step for me in getting over the whole ordeal, and now that plans are also afoot for a Hungarian dental trip, I’m starting to feel a lot more positive in general. A celebratory lunch at the aforementioned Sanctuary café was inevitable, as was a visit to Taj, the best ever food shop (in Brighton anyway), also just around the corner. The clement weather only served to reinforce this upbeat mood, and sunlight was streaming through the windows as I sipped my mango and passionfruit smoothie, and wolfed down a plate of delicious potato wedges with garlic mayonnaise.

An obliging Nikki, apparently mid-sentence, on the South Downs Way

A long overdue girlie night ensued on Saturday evening, with a trip to the Hanbury in Kemp Town for We ♥ Pop, the perfect cheesy night for one very excitable gay man and five willing fag-hags. We danced our little socks off to everything from Kylie to the Beatles, and enjoyed the laid back vibe of the refurbished venue (it was done up a while ago, but this was the first time I’d been since the change in ownership), complete with ironic wallpaper and an extremely well-stocked spirits bar. A remarkably hangover-free Sunday brought more delightful weather, and a chance to get out into the countryside. My photography homework this week was ‘portraits’, and Ant was very long-suffering in letting me take endless snaps of him sitting in trees, pausing at gates and even tucking into a hearty brunch from the little café in Stanmer village. The intense winter sun was perfect for capturing the surrounding colours of the countryside, already sporting the first signs of spring - with the odd crocus bursting up, and even blossom on some of the trees. Nikki joined us for a walk, giving Ant a break from the constant modelling, as I subjected her to some paparazzi action on the way up to Ditchling Beacon. Brian was waiting outside, keyboard in tow, when we arrived home, and we rehearsed for next weekend’s big wedding – my first same-sex civil ceremony – at which we shall be performing ‘Nobody Does It Better’, with tongue firmly in cheek. This pleasantly eventful weekend was rounded off with the hilariously bad Ghost Rider, starring a typically hammy Nicholas Cage, complete with dodgy toupee. It is certainly a strong contender for the ‘Top Ten Best Bad Films’ blog, which I’ve been thinking about for a while, and am now newly inspired to write, so watch this space.

Banter and Bayonets: Scott Matthew at Bush Hall

By far and away my favourite film of last year was Shortbus, a risqué alternative romantic comedy that explores the complicated relationships and sex lives of a bunch of New York misfits. From the same writer and director as one of mine and Ant's other favourite films (and shows), Hedwig & the Angry Inch, it was always destined to be a hit in our house. I loved the refreshingly upfront and un-contrived characters (played by largely unknown actors), who expose their darkest thoughts and fears in a series of intimate conversational scenes. There is also a lot, and I mean a LOT, of explicit sex, but it is by no means pornographic in the traditional sense. I had to try and explain this to my mother at Christmas, when she had purchased the DVD from my Amazon wishlist - initially oblivious, then subsequently shocked - as to its content. In fact, many of the sex scenes are extremely moving, sometimes hilariously funny and often just touchingly familiar.

One of the best things about Shortbus is the soundtrack; compiled from a relatively obscure assemblage of musicians; the songs often feel integral to the story, rather than simply accompanying it. The most predominant name on the soundtrack is Scott Matthew, who actually appears in the film as part of the house band at the 'Shortbus' club after which the film is titled. His emotive voice beautifully echoes the characters' bruised souls, reflecting moments of hope and despair with an impressive vocal range. In the absence of any other commercially available material, I have listened to the six Scott Matthew tracks from the Shortbus soundtrack relentlessly over the last few months, eagerly anticipating the release of his first solo album, due this March. My heart literally leapt when I saw on his myspace that there would be one UK date on the pre-album tour. It would mean going up to London, but my god, it would be worth it! The gig was last night, at Bush Hall a tiny Edwardian dancehall in W12 - all flaky ceilings and faded glory - but perfect for an intimate gig such as this - I can only imagine that St George's Church in Kemp Town could have been better.


A striking figure by virtue of his eccentric attire and untamed facial hair, an evidently jet-lagged Scott Matthew shuffles onto the stage in a manner that could easily be mistaken for pretentious aloofness, but soon transpires to be genuine awkward shyness. He looks, and sings, like someone who has experienced life's ups and downs perhaps a little more than most, and has taken it all rather to heart. My skin

is permanently tingling as he delivers one of the most haunting performances I have ever had the good fortune to attend (and I have been to a LOT of gigs) - at once fragile and determined; mellow and confrontational. The very opposite of 'easy' listening, but in the best possible way. The audience's warm reception seems to put Scott at ease, and a lovely rapport develops in which everyone is suddenly and joyfully aware that they are in the midst of a special and rare musical moment. The goosebumps turn to a lump in my throat, and then finally actual tears, with his final offering – a devastatingly heartfelt rendition of Joy Division's 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'. Unable to move or speak for several minutes after the gig has finished, I feel exhilarated in the way one does after a good long sob.

Sadly I wasn't allowed to take photographs during the show, although this did mean that I had a totally undiluted gig experience for once. I couldn't resist taking one quick snap of the stage just before the performance though (see above), complete with a bottle of red wine which was then duly devoured during the set – only serving to endear this charming man to me even more.

Scott Matthew's self-titled debut album is OUT NOW on Glitterhouse Records: www.glitterhouserecords.co.uk

Scott Matthew on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y2zXhAjYock

Pancakes!

So eager was I to eat my pancakes last night, that I completely forgot to take any photographs before wolfing them all down (with help from Mr M of course), so this account of our Shrove Tuesday conconctions will unfortunately be illustrated in words only. My history of pancake-making is a mixed affair, which has sometimes ended in disaster and disappointment, but I am pleased to report that this year's batch was particularly successful, no doubt due to the inspired addition of beer to the batter mix. Apparently this is a traditional method, and results in a lighter, and, I can now confirm, tastier, pancake. We usually make a whole batch and keep them warm in the oven before digging in, otherwise the poor chef has to stand at the cooker while the other person does all the eating - not my idea of fun (me being the chef). Fillings are then applied ad-hoc from a pre-assembled collection of sauces, toppings and appropriate accoutrements - the pinnacle of which this year was the winning combination of Ice Cream (vanilla Swedish Glace to be precise), advocaat and chocolate sauce. For years I had always dismissed advocaat as the kitsch tipple of 70s housewives, but have become a complete convert since a recent visit to Belgium, where it is generously added to all manner of desserts and drinks. The 'Snowball' cocktail (a mixture of advocaat, lemonade and lime) was a surprise hit at our Christmas party last year, when Tim described it as "like fizzy white chocolate" before knocking back several glasses of the stuff.

Now that I have seemingly mastered the art of the perfect crêpe, I intend not to limit their consumption to a once a year ritual, but to celebrate this simple yet versatile meal on a regular basis. I also think some ongoing research into further uses for advocaat would be more than justified.

People, Finally

After two weeks in a row of landscapes, a subject about which I am generally quite photographically uninspired, I was finally allowed to shoot some actual people for my latest photography homework. The remit was to experiment with the various white balance settings on the camera, whilst also telling a story over 20 pictures. Since I was meeting up with the family on Saturday anyway, I thought it would be lovely to use them as the subject, and simply tell the story of a family meal round at Mum’s. I did get accused of being like the paparazzi as I was relentlessly snapping away over lunch, but it was worth the effort, as I ended up with a few good pictures, and got to know my camera a bit better in the process. Here are a few of my favourites:

Retox Weekend

I never understand why so many people decide to detox by giving up booze right after Christmas. January is the most boring, cold and brassic month of the year, so staying sober just seems foolish to me. Much better to save one's dry month (if you must have one at all) until summer, when there's plenty else to do, and everything seems more fun to start with. So I was most perturbed when 'him indoors' announced on New Year's Day that he would be abstaining for the next four weeks. This may have made him feel very virtuous and wholesome, but it actually meant that I ended up drinking twice as much, since I find it almost impossible not to polish off a bottle of wine once opened. It felt like a long month for both of us, so I was most relieved when 1^st February rolled around and I could gleefully thrust a beer into his hand and welcome him back to the land of the lush with open arms. This glad occasion also happened to coincide with a busy weekend of socialising that kicked off with the Concorde 2 21^st birthday party on Friday and rolled into Damien's birthday on Saturday. The Concorde celebrations were most disappointing, and felt more like a sixth form leaver's ball than a swish corporate function at a top live music venue. I didn't even manage to get any decent photographs (except this one below). But Ant's euphoric reunion with beer thankfully distracted him from getting too agitated at the awfulness of it all, and we actually both enjoyed having a bit of a scathe before staggering back up the hill.

Son of Robot at Concorde 2

Saturday's far preferable jollities involved a session in the Regency, which always seems to lead to much singing and campery, followed by Ookey Ook at the Engine Room. I finally got to have a decent boogie (after several abortive attempts in the last few weeks) along to exactly my kind of music, and although the Engine Room unfortunately does smell pretty bad (I don't even want to consider of what), it has a certain seedy charm and is only a short walk from the Regency, a major bonus in such blustery weather as we are currently experiencing. Ookey Ook is a monthly night put on there by the same people who do Born Bad at Komedia, and they play similar sort of 50s/60s swing, soul, ska etc, but it's less girlie-centric. I'm not sure what time we stayed until, but I knew it was time to leave when the boys started doing a three-way pole dance that involved some rather disturbing mutual bum-slapping. See how much better life is under the influence of alcohol...

Brian, Ant & Tim - three-way pole dancing