Zombies, Magpies and Thomas Truax

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.

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.

Going La La at Shambala

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.

Fun in the Sun at Camp Bestival 2009

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.

In Which I Finally Get Frocked Up and Go Dancing

You wait five months for a big night out, then two come along at once... I may occasionally possibly have mentioned once or twice lately my frustrations about not having been out dancing since my birthday back in September. It was a sorry state of affairs, which I am relieved to report has now been rectified with a double whammy of social festivities.

Brighton Twestival, 12th Feb

On Thursday Ant and I joined the Brighton Twitterati for Brightwest at the Black Lion, part of the global Twestival fundraiser, which I've already written about for the C&M blog. It was a fun evening of putting real faces to avatars and shooting the breeze with like minded, passionate and interesting people. Unlike the majority of attendees - whose morning-after hangover Tweets provided much amusement - I stayed sober for the duration, which was just as well because Friday night brought an altogether more epic and energetic adventure...

Last Tuesday Society Ball, 13th Feb

One of London's many 'alternative' nightlife purveyors, The Last Tuesday Society has been putting on weird and wacky events since 2006. The latest (and reportedly final) event was an anti-Valentine's affair entitled 'Loss' which took place, appropriately, on Friday 13th. I was there with the lovely Angell, whose acquaintance I made almost exactly two years ago at another alternative night - from the currently dormant Lost Vagueness. After fuelling up with vintage rum and hearty pasta on board Angell's cosy houseboat, we made our way to Notting Hill, where a queue was building up outside the Tabernacle. Most had made a decent effort with their attire (the theme being 'Decaying Beauty'), but as always there were one or two conspicuously under dressed punters, who were frankly just begging to be mocked.

Inside, peacock feathers were being handed out in a half-hearted attempt to furnish those without costumes, but unfortunately there was no dressing up area like at Lost Vagueness, leaving the towny element at the mercy of our ongoing contempt. Embarking on the obligatory exploration of the venue, with which neither of us was familiar, we discovered an atmospheric central room with a stage and dancefloor, and a surrounding mezzanine - perfect for people-watching. The rest of the space was a warren of less theatrical flourescently-lit side rooms and corridors, where various activities such as onion chopping (to make you cry) and a life drawing class had been laid on. It was in such areas that our more colourful encounters occurred, though the dancefloor did afford some quite sociable dancing episodes.

The highlight of my night - apart from Angell's charming company of course - was a storytelling session in a tiny side room, for which we demanded that the annoyingly intrusive lights be switched off. Six or seven of us huddled in a broom cupboard in the dark were just able to make out the flowing ginger hair and emphatic expressions of our rakish raconteur, who treated us to a spellbinding Arthurian tale, told faultlessly from memory. The gloriously sonorous storyteller was Giles Abbott, a true stalwart luvvie (in the best possible way) if ever there was one.

Both the live bands we saw were good fun, particularly The Guillotines, whose Saxophonist I'm sure I recognised from Brighton. I particularly relished flagellating the singer (upon his request, I might add) with a large stuffed tiger which had been pulled from one of the many bundles of cuddly toys hanging from the ceiling. An 'avant-garde' (i.e. wanky) drag mime act died on its feet and spelled the beginning of the end when punters began to boo and throw things at the stage. It didn't help that the bar had run out of spirits by 1am (note to self: conceal hip flask in stockings in future), and people were getting increasingly tetchy about it. But despite these slight hiccups, the atmosphere was a friendly one, and we had an excellent night of random conversations and wanton mischief.

Back at the boat, Angell and I polished off the best part of a bottle of rum and stayed up chatting til sunrise. I can't remember the last time I did that, and it was especially magical to do so from inside a houseboat on the Thames, which provided a most stunningly dramatic view. The following day was spent watching the world go by on the river whilst listening to an eclectic selection of tunes and reminiscing about our exploits the night before. I finally dragged myself back to Brighton in the early evening, feeling far less wretched that I ought to have done considering, and with my dancefloor cravings firmly sated.

More photos from the Last Tuesday Society Ball at: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

My Nephew the Jedi

Usually the first thing that my nephew asks when he comes to stay is "please can I wear my Wall-e costume?". He's been obsessed with the lovable yellow robot ever since seeing the film (four times - once with us) at the cinema earlier this year. We bought him the costume as a special treat and it now gets brought out as a reward for good behaviour (there's nothing wrong with bribery, OK?), although if it were up to him he'd go everywhere in it (including the bath). It pleases me immensely that the little boy seems to have inherited my penchant for dressing up, but I did wonder whether it was more a fixation with that particular character than anything else, so last weekend we tried something different and dressed him up as Luke Skywalker. He already has the blonde wispy hair, so all I needed was an old white shirt and of course one of Uncle Ant's lightsabers (which Isaac very sweetly still insists on calling light savers - I think I did the same as a child). I had to stifle a laugh as he inspected himself in the mirror with a mixture of solemn pride and awed excitement, announcing "I'm just checking to see how cool I look"; he's four. I had already dusted off my Princess Leia wig and gun (originally worn on my 30th birthday), and we proceeded to run around the flat re-enacting scenes from Star Wars, much to his (and my) delight. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, Uncle Ant then appeared as Darth Vader in a black cape and cycle helmet and challenged 'Luke' to a duel. Isaac's face was a picture! And all this excitement on top of the Lego Wall-e and M-O (another character from the film) we'd made for him the day before - I'm not sure you could have much more kudos in the eyes of a small boy.

I hope that this little episode will be the start of a new tradition between me and my nephew. My own childhood was filled with ongoing imaginary games played out with my siblings, often involving dressing up and props (provided by our theatrical parents). And we all still get great pleasure from pretending in our own ways - whether it be fancy dress parties or role-playing games. Not surprisingly, Isaac already has a lively imagination; I'm having so much fun helping him to foster it and re-igniting my own in the process.

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

Frocks, Freaks and Fabulous Friends

The last time I got dolled up to go dancing was probably for Born Bad vs Gypsy Hotel at Komedia back in July, which actually turned out to be a bit of a let down, so I was really looking forward to celebrating my birthday at The Magic Theatre at the weekend. I'd chosen this event specifically because it was in London, and I fancied a change from the usual Brighton party circuit. I discovered that it is quite difficult to persuade other people out of their seaside comfort zone though, so it turned out to be a small (but perfectly formed) gathering of a few game Brightonians and some London-based friends - all of whom looked fabulous in an eclectic assortment of costumes. I went for a Bugsy Malone-inspired vintage ensemble, including a dress purchased from eBay especially for the occasion, accessorised with bits and pieces from the dressing up trunk.

We knew as soon as we walked up to the Bloomsbury Ballroom that we were in for an interesting night - a motley assemblage of smokers loitering at the door gave a hint as to the type of punters we'd find inside: weird and wonderful, bold and theatrical, wantonly disturbing and sexually ambiguous - suddenly the outfits in which we had felt so self-conscious on the bus from Hackney appeared positively pedestrian in comparison. Inside we discovered an elegant Art Deco ballroom, perhaps a little too polished and corporate-feeling for this type of debauched event, but pleasantly light and airy, with plenty of places to perch. Oh, and the toilets were immaculate, which is always a bonus.

Photos from The Magic Theatre by Jaded Lady

People were friendly and talkative, and each of us found ourselves making new friends and coming back together with stories to tell. The music ranged from show-tunes to rock 'n roll to jazz standards, and when I wasn't dancing I was merrily singing along to everything from 'Bad Guys' to 'Mein Herr'. Entertainment was laid on in the form of a couple of (frankly baffling) cabaret acts and a live band - The Voodoo Trombone Quartet - who got everyone dancing with their infectious funky brass rhythms. The night went by in a flash of sequins and salacious gossip, and suddenly I was wafting about to Edith Piaf, saying appropriately theatrical goodbyes to friends old and new. I wish more of my Brighton cronies had been there to enjoy what turned out to be a super special night, and well worth the trek up to Town - but big love to those who did make the effort, and thank you all for giving me a birthday bash to remember.

More photos at the Magic Theatre Flickr page.

Eight Random Things

Apparently this game has been going on between bloggers for ages, but I've only just been 'tagged' by my sister-outlaw (my brother's girlfriend, and mother of my gorgeous nephew) to join in. Basically, as the title suggests, you have to list eight random things about yourself, then 'tag' other bloggers to do the same. Like some kind of digital chain letter I suppose, but without the threat of imminent catastrophe if you fail to participate. But just in case I forgot to read the smallprint, and am at risk of reprisal (not that I'm at all superstitious, oh no), here are eight random things about me:

I'm really good at parking, and can squeeze into tiny little spaces, even without the help of power steering.

I've recorded at Abbey Road studios. I even have the obligatory zebra crossing shot to prove it. My singing has taken me to such glamorous locations as Eastbourne Winter Gardens, Chichester Cathedral and the Library Theatre, but Abbey Road was undoubtedly the most exciting.

The dimple on my right cheek is actually a scar that I got when I fell out of a bunk bed onto a pencil. Seriously.

It's no secret that I *love* fancy dress, but it might surprise you that during my long and illustrious history of dressing up I've been all of the following: (click on the links for photographic evidence): Cinderella, a Bellydancer, The Queen Mother, a Witch, The Virgin Mary, Princess Leia, Pierrette, a Flower, Balthazar (one of the Three Kings - and yes, I was made to black-up), a St Trinian's Schoolgirl, Axl Rose, a Fairy, Florence from the Magic Roundabout, Tank Girl, Trinity from the Matrix, Ava Gardner, a Golden Buddha, The Absinthe Fairy, Titania, Catwoman, Sally Bowles, a Vampire, Lara Croft, The Chinese Ambassador, Death, a Medieval Babe, a Wild West Hooker, Mrs Mia Wallace, Sybil Fawlty, Annie Lennox, a Ninja, a Bollywood Star, Princess Leia (again), Peter Pan, a Bad Cupid, a Tiki Lounge Lady, Penelope Pitstop, a Sadist, a Naughty Nun, Barbarella, a Disco Pirate, The White Witch, and most recently, Karen Carpenter. I may have forgotten one or two, but I've even surprised myself with that list!

I once sold books to Mick Jagger whilst working in the Richmond branch of Waterstone's. Somewhere I still have a copy of the receipt with his signature on it. I'm not embarrassed to admit that I found him strangely attractive, for an old wrinkly.

Celery makes me sick. No, really, I can't abide the stuff. I mean, what kind of vegetable comes with its own dental floss? Ugh!

Thanks to a brief stint with an evangelical church group back in the late eighties, I can recite the books of The Bible by heart, both Old and New Testament. It can come in handy, occasionally.

Trifle is my favourite dessert, and I'm always concocting new and exciting fruit/alcohol combinations - most recently I made a chocolate orange version for my friend Brian's birthday, which contained two whole bars of chocolate (one dark, one white) and half a bottle of triple sec.

*****

Now is the part where I have to 'tag' a list of eight fellow bloggers (only cringing very slightly) to reveal eight random things about themselves. So I'm choosing a mixture of friends and Brighton bloggy people whose writings I regularly read. OK, here goes, I hope you're game guys:

Tag! You're It...
Abbi at http://sesheta7.wordpress.com
Jen at http://www.alienspouse.com
Shaun at http://www.idleformat.com
Beth at http://bethgranter.wordpress.com
Ant at http://www.reithian.blogspot.com
Sophy at http://www.wellieswithwings.org
Rosie at http://www.rosiesherry.com
Rowan (the other one) at http://www.rowanjanuary.blogspot.com

When The Cat's Away...

With the better half away Up North visiting family this week, I've been happily filling my evenings with the sort of activities that he wouldn't necessarily appreciate, and enjoying the opportunity to catch up with friends in a girlie/one-on-one context. I'll miss him of course, but I don't mind the odd week to myself every now and then. On Tuesday night, my wardrobe mistress skills were once again called upon, this time by Brian, who was wanting to become a pirate - à la Treasure Island - for the World Book Day festivities at his school. I was happy enough to oblige - pirates are easy, especially with all the leftover stuff from the recent Seasick! party. Later that same evening, I was responsible for another transformation - this time turning the lovely Harriet back into a brunette (from being a semi-blonde for the last few years) - a change which suits her immensely. Then last night I popped out to meet Jo at the Duke of York's, to see Juno - a bittersweet drama about teenage pregnancy. From the premise, you'd be forgiven for thinking it might be a tad depressing, either that or sickeningly cloying, but thankfully it's neither.

Deadpan high school misfit Juno, played by a believably adolescent looking Ellen Page (in real life she's 21), is unfortunate enough to get pregnant the first time she has sex - with her geeky running-obsessed best friend, Bleeker (Michael Cera). Seemingly taking the experience in her stride, Juno initially opts for abortion, telling the bemused father: "I'm just gonna go ahead an nip this thing in the bud. Cuz you know, they say pregnancy often leads to, you know…infants". But, perturbed by the oppressive abortion clinic ("..and the receptionist tried to get me to take these condoms that looked like grape suckers and was just babbling away about her freaking boyfriend's pie balls!"), and the idea of her foetus having fingernails already, she decides she can't go through with it, and instead sets about finding the perfect couple to adopt her baby. Predictably, all doesn't go quite to plan, but the outcome is ultimately uplifting, without being overly sentimental. We see Juno transform from flippant carefree teen to knowing young woman; and although I found myself welling up once or twice, there are also laughs-a-plenty, particularly if, like me, you dig the darker end of the humour spectrum. The quirky, stylised dialogue (see examples above)- which could have easily fallen flat in other hands - is wonderfully executed to hilarious effect by Page, not to mention an excellent supporting cast. The soundtrack is pretty cool, too.

In complete contrast, tonight I shall be going to see Zorro the Musical, on its pre-West End stint at the Congress Theatre in Eastbourne (of all places). Scored by the legendary Gipsy Kings, I'm expecting plenty of over-the-top flamenco numbers, and campery in abundance - so of course I'm taking along the GBF, who's bound to love it. Watch this space for my own thoughts on the matter...

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

Born Pirate

Piratechno, Komedia, 19th Jan 08

Last Friday was set to be my big comeback into the world of clubbing, after a protracted absence since the accident. I'd been psyching myself up all week, all month in fact, for a girlie evening of cocktails and dancing at Brighton's best retro night, Born Bad at Komedia. But my immune system had other ideas - landing me with yet another stinking cold and having to cancel my plans at the last minute. I was relieved, if a little frustrated, that said cold had conveniently disappeared by Saturday morning (why couldn't it have abated just one night earlier?!). But thankfully all hope of a sociable weekend was not completely lost - and I set about digging out my corset and stripes for a pirate-themed night hosted by swashbuckling troubadours, Piratechno. Boasting genuine pirate blood (according to my stepmother, the genealogist), my fondness for all things piratical runs deep, and I never feel more at home than with a bottle of rum in my hand, decked out in the flamoyantly theatrical clobber popularly associated with these sea-faring fiends (see previous evidence here and here). I was delighted to discover a whole room full of equally enthusiatically-garbed punters skulking around the suitably dingy back bar at Komedia, making me feel instantly at home. Being armed with a conspicuous camera in a room full of exhibitionists always seems to be a great way of making friends, so there I was - snapping away, occaisionally stopping to have a jig along with the crazy dancing wenches - utterly in my element, thinking, 'why can't every night be Pirate Night?'

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.

The Ride of My Life

Life has been so hectic lately that I hardly know where to start with the backlog of potential blogging material that has accumulated. Adventures in Brazil, training for (and successfully completing) the London to Brighton Bike Ride, a spate of live music exploits, a growing addiciton to Crackbook, er, I mean Facebook, writing freelance music and book reviews for various websites and magazines, as well as holding down a 9-5 job, has meant that my self-indulgent 'life journal' writing has been put on a bit of a back-burner, which I plan to try and rectify this week. But while I'm still buzzing from yesterday's big bike ride, I shall share a few thoughts about the day...

As most of my friends are well aware, I managed to avoid, and indeed consciously spurn, any kind of meaningful exercise for the best part of 30 years - unless of course you count the drunken flailing that happens when I hit the dancefloor. So when I decided to start cycling 8 miles to work in Lewes last year, the result was something of a revelation. I surprised myself by actually enjoying it! After several months of two-wheeled commuting, I found myself bursting with energy and several dress sizes smaller. My friend Mat also cycles to work - about 6 miles - and we both thought it would be fun to put our calf muscles to the test by doing a sponsored ride, so the London to Brighton seemed the obvious choice. As well as cycling, we both also share a passion for dressing up, and couldn't resist the opportunity to show off in front of thousands of fellow cyclists, not to mention the many appreciative spectators:

Me and Mr Smith as Penelope Pitstop &the Hooded Claw

Having opted for the earliest start time - 6am - we stayed over with friends in London the night before, and were up and raring (well, almost) at 4.45am. There was a bit of a queue at Clapham Common, and we finally got away around 6.45, after an hour or so of jolly banter and people-watching. The first couple of hours was slow-going, with narrow country lanes causing several bottlenecks, and less able cyclists struggling with some tiny hills, holding us all back. Eventually the roads opened up, and the riding became more pleasurable, especially with the beautiful Surrey and Sussex scenery rolling past. We made a few 'comfort' stops at various official refreshment points, and eventually cruised across the finish line at about 1pm, feeling smugly triumphant as a crowd of well-wishers cheered us in. Mat had cause to feel extra pleased with himself, as he managed to cycle up all of the notoriously steep and lengthy Ditchling Beacon, where most people choose to get off and push. I got about half-way and was seized by an unfortunate cramp in the groin, so I reluctantly joined the walkers, jumping back on for the last 100 yards or so to the top, where Mat was sat on a bank, having a well-earned rest and enjoying the lovely views.

The atmosphere all day was generally friendly and excitable, with only a few 'serious' cyclists seeming to resent the rest of us 'amateurs', grumpily speeding past and ignoring the Marshals' instructions to"keep to the left". I felt proud of my body for holding out, and especially for not hurting too badly today. In fact my legs and bum are fine - bizarrely, it's my shoulders and upper back which are suffering most. But despite the mild discomfort, I can really understand how people get addicted to this sort of thing, and am already thinking about what my next bike adventure will be. Perhaps a cycling holiday rather than another sponsored event, at least for a little while. My friends and family have been very generous in their donations, and it would be rather cheeky to ask them to cough up again too soon! In fact, I exceeded my £100 target by £115, raising £255 in total. So, a big "thank you" to everyone who sponsored me. Anyone else who would like to contribute, can still do so at: http://www.bhf.org.uk/sponsor/rowstar

More photos of the event can be seen at my Flickr page: www.flickr.com/photos/rowstar

Brazil blog coming soon...

A Night of Debauchery

On Saturday I went to my first ever Lost Vagueness event up in London. A twisted, burlesque club/cabaret night, LV started as an alternative sideshow at Glastonbury festival a few years back and has evolved into one of the most esteemed outfits on the alternative entertainment scene, laying on various events and festivals throughout the year, at which literally anything goes. My LV virginity was taken at the latest of these, The Valentine's Day Massacre, held at The Coronet in Elephant & Castle. Being a fancy dress afficionado, I was especially excited at the prospect of partying with like-minded costume-loving show-offs, and I wasn't disappointed. An exotic array of apparel presented itself as we entered, with everything from cyber-goth to theatrical/vintage style outfits being worn with confidence by the eclectic crowd. There was also plenty of exposed flesh, and no shortage of ripped stockings and smudged make-up, and this was before things had even really got going! My costume comprised a slinky Victoriana-inspired ensemble, along with black wings to complete my 'kinky cupid' look.

We spent the early part of the evening getting our bearings, swigging cava and soaking up all the visual stimulation on offer. There was much excitable frolicking to observe, some of the best people-watching you could hope for. One of my favourite moments was witnessing a kinky-nun attempting to use one of the giant pink balloons on the dancefloor as a pilates ball, and ending up crashing to the floor in spectacular style as it unsurprisingly burst beneath her. The venue, a converted theatre, was spread over two floors - downstairs a dancefloor and the main stage where the bands played, then upstairs a more intimate bar area, with a small cabaret stage for the various kooky acts. These included a man dressed as a cyborg, sawing off his cyber-penis - all very surreal. After queuing for what seemed like an eternity, whilst being psyched out by two freaky ladies on the door, we were finally let into the 'Hate Booth', in which an enraged man behind bars wearing bad pants hurled abuse at us and the other two girls in our mini-audience. Unfortunately by this point I was too far-gone to come up with any witty retortes, and just sat there, stunned, as I was cursed, castigated and insulted for several minutes.

Seven hours of frivolity, feistiness and flailing later, and suddenly it was 6am and time to go home. I couldn't believe the night had gone by so quickly, and slightly regret getting so wasted that the last few hours are a bit of a blur. Now sporting an impressive array of UDIs (unidentified drinking injuries), I can only imagine whatever I got up to must have involved either falling down stairs, a wrestling match, or some impressive acrobatics. If there are any witnesses out there who can remember beating up a wasted kinky cupid, perhaps you could own up and spare me the misery of my failing memory... Not content with shedding whatever thin veneer of dignity I had in front of the fairly new friends I went with, it seems somehow fitting that, like a true fallen angel, I also lost my wings. Still feeling distinctly jaded today, I am getting vexingly hazy recollections popping into my addled mind at regular intervals, making me smile and cringe in equal measure. I guess that's what Lost Vagueness is all about... Can't wait for the next one!

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!

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.