On Boxing Day, I risked getting into Newcastle-upon-Tyne - through hordes of sales shoppers and the great amassing ranks of 53,000 football supporters to entreat mother, father, brother and his new girlfriend, to the spectacle of Newcastle United's 1-3 defeat to Manchester City. I say it was a risk, as mother 'doesn't like crowds', but having thoroughly researched a smart route to the match, I thought this small extension of (unwanted) cultural experience would be good for her. From within, the sight alone of the packed out stadium is something special. And with so many bodies about us, and generous roofs overhanging all four stands, I was confident that it wouldn't couldn't shouldn't feel quite as cold as the minus two degrees celsius that it actually was.
It went well - all of it. They were all glad to have gone along - for mother it was 'good, something a bit different'. For Dad, it was a starkly different experience to the trips to the stadium that we took twenty years ago, back in the days of open terracing, a capacity of 36,000, and the approach to the toilets as likely to have the unsuspecting pisser overhear regular spectators ask, 'How deep is it today?' (There was a time, during some extended building works when the toilets were some combination of not draining and, thus, getting deeper). Returned to the parental home, I sighed a big sigh of relief at my unwell Sister Doubter, who'd questioned the sense in the Newcastle trip - imagining the whole escapade to be as much of a freezing hassle to the parents, as a novel gift.
Shane: It went well! Phew, phew and phew again!
Sister: I don't know why you do it. Y' know, they're just as happy chillin' out - maybe give them a year off next year, eh?
Shane: Mm, maybe. I was feeling a bit of pressure beforehand, myself - didn't know whether using the Metro from Heworth would be such a good idea, but it worked like a dream.
Sister: The Metro on match day - full of chavs, and stinkin' of piss... Happy Christmas!
Shane: No, it wasn't bad - enough space on the way there, and not smelly at all. Bit cosy on the way back, though.
Sister: You got lucky. What was Jayne (brother's new girlfriend) like?
Shane: She was good - bit shy, maybe a bit scared of me, but I like her. I imagine she's heard lots about me.
Sister: Aye, 'Ignore Shane, he's obnoxious with everyone - it's just his way'.
Shane: Hi-lar-i-ous.
Sister: I am funnier than you, though. And better-lookin'.
Shane: Though I am adopted.
Sister: No. I'm the adopted one!
Mother: (from the kitchen) Eh! I can hear that!
Sister: (to me) Me Dad's 60 in a fortnight - any thoughts about a present?
Shane: (I must have twitched an eyebrow or some such)
Sister: Oh, god. What have you done?
Shane: Before I tell, you have to understand where I'm coming from.
Sister: This is gonna be really bad, isn't it.
Shane: I don't think it has to be. What I'm fairly sure that my Dad enjoys is just having us all together - me, mother and brother.
Sister: Funny. What have you done?
Shane: I thought we could all go out for the evening.
Sister: Where?
Shane: Not exactly round here, but not really very far away.
Sister: Where?
Shane: Near Pickering.
Sister: Why?
Shane: There's a... I saw an advert for some... There's a music thing that I thought we could go to.
Sister: Like, what?
Shane: (feeling a few notes of self-doubt about the several hundred pounds that I'd lashed out on tickets) Hmm.
Sister: A gig?
Shane: Mm. In a forest. In June.
Sister: A festival?
Shane: No, a gig - part of a short tour. But it's not really about who it is, it's about the all being together, so it doesn't really matter who it is.
Sister: It's just someone who you like and who we'll all think are shit, isn't it.
Shane: No.
Sister: Who then?
Shane: Erasure.
Sister: (expressions of (in order): 'did I hear that right', 'that could be quite good', 'but hold on - Erasure for a belated birthday trip out for Dad - that's utterly ridiculous')
There followed some uncontrolled laughter from sister, during which moments my straight man act considered the cultural scale of what I'd committed us to.
Shane: What do you think, really?
Sister: (stands from her curled up on the sofa location, holds out a clenched fist - which I automatically bounce my fist down on) A little respect, brother, a little respect.
Showing posts with label Overheard. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Overheard. Show all posts
Monday, January 10, 2011
Monday, September 13, 2010
A Post on the Subject of a Weekend of Lurid Cultural Learnings
Privy to flirting
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames
What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned
A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.
The Tube - arm-pits and elbows
Dinner by the Thames
What? No parakeets
Tate Modern and swing-dancing
Exposed and hair pinned
A fine shirt, fit for
Gay flings, breakfast, and intros
- a stellar stranger.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
witness
Emma and I take our seats in the theatre, for illusionist and mentalist Derren Brown's 'Enigma' show. All about us, there is an adrenal air of anticipation. Behind us, a young couple take their seats. With thoughts towards the seeds of likely tricks, the young man speculates to his irony-free companion.
Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.
Woman: I didn't see any.
I smile to myself.
The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.
Man: Back there, in the foyer - I bet there were loads o' subliminal messages an' that.
Woman: I didn't see any.
I smile to myself.
The show turns out to be excellent - as much for Brown's mastery of the stage, as for the mental mechanics of the acts that we witness. We were sworn to secrecy, so I'll say no more than that.
Friday, March 12, 2010
five star
Early 2010 featured far too much death and distraction for me to commit to being anything more than a punter at the second Stoke-on-Trent Pecha Kucha event. Pecha Kucha: Japanese for chit-chat. Here, taking the form of a presentation, over 20 slides/images, each given 20 seconds - total presentation time: 6 minutes and 40 seconds.
The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.
With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.
Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.
From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.
In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.
During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.
Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.
The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.
From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.
And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.
By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.
The Fat Cat Cafe Bar, on the edge (the best bit) of Hanley, was a very good venue - its subterranea being sufficiently lounge-like and ill-lit, to foster a warm, relaxed atmosphere.
With Anna Francis' cool hosting, presentations began with local photographer, Mark Brereton, on responses to the Haitian earthquake. With this, there were related historical references to architecture and global network-based fund-raising efforts. A gentle opener.
Taking on the baton, was Nottingham-based Andy Clark, whose disarming moustache-fronted opening paved the way for a wry discussion around men's health. The timing, content and all-round intelligence of this presentation justified the rapturous response that the speaker received. Personal trials with prostate cancer were the background to what was effectively a health education message that the crowd actually wanted to listen to. Of course, self being self, I had to later daydream about the vast monies that are spent on getting such messages out, but with nothing like the appeal or flair that this self-effacing speaker achieved. Andy's happening to have the family in tow for the evening, was a warm detail that wasn't lost to me. I spotted his wife say, 'Proud of you', following his post-presentation kiss. Lip-reading, eh, whatever next.
From this, Gemma Thomas shifted us towards 'Collaboration'. Ultimately, a workish presentation, that was a little light on the trials of working in collaboration, or in partnership. Here, I have to acknowledge that whilst the desire and optimism attached to the 'Wouldn't things be better if we could all work together' sentiment, is attractive, I've known far too many collaborations and partnerships - in-depth - to know that the detail of such working arrangements, can create a lot of additional work in and of itself. A point that was oblique, here.
In discussing folk memories of the city (Stoke-on-Trent), Darren Washington (another local photographer), drew upon his own archive of images, along with spoken word recordings made around the Potteries. The pacing of this presentation, and its meandering content, was sufficient for many of the crowd to appreciate the humour in lo-fi everyday reflecting.
During a break in proceedings, throughout which local electronic musicians bITjAM provided the background music - agreeably non-disturbing, I talked with a fellow north-east exile about his recent move south, and about the university course that he's now leading.
Perhaps the most surprisingly entertaining talk came next. Anwyl Cooper-Willis, visiting from Bristol, provided a most elegant account of the grand architecture attached to the electricity sub-stations of Stoke-on-Trent. To many, this might herald a 'Y' wha'?!' response, but this was really about paying attention to and seeing the merits of those details of our everyday backdrops that we don't always see. I would fail to do justice to Anwyl and the sub-stations, were I to try to say more.
The one technical glitch of the evening occurred next. One speaker's presentation images were lost to the stomach of a laptop and so he had to stand down. I hope he returns, next time there's a Pecha Kucha event. Hearing reference to this SpeakerWhoWouldHaveBeen being from my part of the city, I was quietly excited - hoping that he was about to add a dimension to this most local of locales, that would have undermined some of my dearest prejudices. He looked like a decent sort.
From that hiccough, to Nantes, and Celine Siani-Djiakoua's reflection on the semiotics of her former home ('Where are you from?') city. In the imagery, advertising hoardings and text about the streets of Nantes, Celine discussed the traces of the city's historically pivotal role in sustaining the slave trade. Altogether, the narrative was fragmented, but such a patchwork quilt of talk was strong enough in its detail to hold interest.
And finally, they'd been spotted about the building earlier, Denim and Leather were to play 'Live!'. Stepping up to the microphone, the duo's manager, Hugo Nowhere, presented a 6-minute 40-second introduction. Recounting his boys' past tours, their achievements, and the underlying philosophy of these most fashionably unfashionable ne'er-do-wells, 'Rock is a three letter word', we all knew which S-word he was talking about. But lo, but behold. Due to their rockish excess, Denim and Leather failed to make it to the stage. Images suggested that their non-specified binges had led to unpleasantness in the toilets. The crowd were disappointed, if taken aback at such antics - on a Thursday. One suspects that they'll rock on, to make a difference at other performance events. Nowhere struck me as a man not to be trusted, though. Debauched.
By 11pm, I was back at the ranch, and settling self down for some really odd dreamsleep. I blame Hugo Nowhere.
Friday, January 15, 2010
R
I was at an aunt's funeral, this past week, in the town of Bishop Auckland (County Durham).
It was the first time I saw a coffin lowered into a grave.
It was also the first time in about a decade that I saw my Dad's older brother, and his step-son (whose mum had died).
It wasn't until the pair of them began to really show their grief (a hand to the dipped head, the body shaking to a silent beat), that I began to show any feeling - quietly, discreetly.
They live in a massive house, with a big labrador. They lost the mother and wife who brought their gorgeously uncouth triumvirate together.
The closeness of fathers and sons, and the implications of that - cuts right to the core of my being. 'Cuts' is the right word.
Listening, I learned stuff about my own Dad, and about the Dad that his older brother continues to be - both to a step-son, and to my Dad - however awkward that younger brother might seem to feel about that. [A garbled sentence, but I know what I mean.]
It is late.
It was the first time I saw a coffin lowered into a grave.
It was also the first time in about a decade that I saw my Dad's older brother, and his step-son (whose mum had died).
It wasn't until the pair of them began to really show their grief (a hand to the dipped head, the body shaking to a silent beat), that I began to show any feeling - quietly, discreetly.
They live in a massive house, with a big labrador. They lost the mother and wife who brought their gorgeously uncouth triumvirate together.
The closeness of fathers and sons, and the implications of that - cuts right to the core of my being. 'Cuts' is the right word.
Listening, I learned stuff about my own Dad, and about the Dad that his older brother continues to be - both to a step-son, and to my Dad - however awkward that younger brother might seem to feel about that. [A garbled sentence, but I know what I mean.]
It is late.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Z
In light snow, I drop-off The Boy at his school. He is excited at today's visit to a local theatre, 'We might be there all day' he mentions. I feign jealousy, remind him that I'll be away for a couple of days, and say that I look forward to seeing him on Wednesday. Super-efficient, this morning, I dodge all manner of trendy mums and wholesome dads, as I make a quick get-away for a dart across the city.
A different school:
The reception area, a 9:20am whirlwind of children and their parents (or folk assumed to be their parents):
There is some confusion as to the identities of one or two late-comers. In the office, someone questions whether at least one of the children may have just returned from a lengthy spell overseas. Recognising the challenge and the absence of the regular home-school liaison (translator, to you and I), the headteacher steps up to the hatch, to help out a couple of stretched secretaries:
Headteacher: (pronouncing clearly) Has he been away?
Parent: (frowns, not understanding)
Headteacher: Have you been on holiday? Pakistan?
Parent: (pause for processing) Lost jumper.
I move off to speak with twenty or so of their colleagues, with whom I have business on Friday.
Later, as I depart, one of the secretaries is taking a list of names from a girl, who has just led her three younger siblings into school. Again, there seems to be some confusion as to who and where these children should be.
Secretary: How do you spell that?
'Four-day week' I chime to this secretary.
She smiles, 'See you Friday'.
Driving away, I think ahead to discussions that I'll be having later this term, about tracking pupils' progress - an action not without hurdles, especially where the tracking of names is not to be taken for granted.The light snow now seems to be mixed with rain.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Class
I receive some text messages from a London-bound chum:-
1. (On the platform)
Am sharing a carriage with MP Rob Flell0. It's Monday, it's Westminster.
2. (Journey begins)
Another politician joins our carriage - it's MP J0an Walley. Am listening in on their conversation. This is just like The Wire.
3. (Well on the way)
And now former mayor Mark Mered1th gets on - though he's in a different carriage. This train is the opposite of a political vacuum.
4. (Journey's end)
I shared carriage with Noddy Holder. Just helped him get unstuck from automatic door. Best journey ever! First class is class!
Entertaining nuggets that break up the morning, though the main theme seemed to get lost somewhere at the end there.
1. (On the platform)
Am sharing a carriage with MP Rob Flell0. It's Monday, it's Westminster.
2. (Journey begins)
Another politician joins our carriage - it's MP J0an Walley. Am listening in on their conversation. This is just like The Wire.
3. (Well on the way)
And now former mayor Mark Mered1th gets on - though he's in a different carriage. This train is the opposite of a political vacuum.
4. (Journey's end)
I shared carriage with Noddy Holder. Just helped him get unstuck from automatic door. Best journey ever! First class is class!
Entertaining nuggets that break up the morning, though the main theme seemed to get lost somewhere at the end there.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Ass
Not so much a rocket from the crypt, as an echo from the everyday.
For S:
This past weekend, The Boy and his Dad had a chat about swearing.
Alex: Shane.
Shane: Mm?
Alex: Right, if I said 'I'm gonna kick your ass' -
Shane: Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Alex: - so that would be swearing?
Shane: Yes to that. Swearing not good.
Alex: Okay-. What about - if I was talking to myself - what about 'Now I'm really pissed off'?
Shane: Definitely more swearing, there. No doubt about it.
Alex: (mock contemplative, suppressing a smirk) Mm, so Daddy was right, then.
And so, there came clear and direct Cultural Learnings from The Boy's viewing of HellBoy II (one of Mummy's more curious spending decisions, of late - we'll put that down to stress).
A little later:
Alex: I got told off by Gail (aunt), this weekend.
Shane: Why?
Alex: Well, you know in grandma's garden, the wall at the bottom - before the bushes and trees and things?
Shane: Yeah.
Alex: Well I was walking along the wall, and I sort of fell backwards into one of the bushes and scratched myself - see... (shows scratches on leg and back)
Shane: Sounds a bit harsh. She would've asked if you were okay, though?
Alex: I didn't get told off for falling off the wall... I got told off cos I said shit as I fell.
Shane: Ah. Another swear word. You would have to get told off for that.
Alex: But you say it.
Shane: Er... no I don't.
Alex: Yeah y' do. I told Daddy that y' do.
Shane: Oh, f-... what did y' want to go and do that for?
Alex: So I wouldn't get told off.
Shane: That's... no. No. You have to learn to not use words... like the swear words. And learn to stop imagining that you've heard me say any of them.
Alex: (pause) Y' do, though.
Shane: Sometimes - and this may catch you by surprise, here... sometimes - rare occasions, very rare indeed - I'm not perfect.
Alex: (slowly gets the point) You are so ridiculous.
'Perhaps', I thought, relieved at his having not just replied, 'Bollocks!'.
For S:
This past weekend, The Boy and his Dad had a chat about swearing.
Alex: Shane.
Shane: Mm?
Alex: Right, if I said 'I'm gonna kick your ass' -
Shane: Whoaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!
Alex: - so that would be swearing?
Shane: Yes to that. Swearing not good.
Alex: Okay-. What about - if I was talking to myself - what about 'Now I'm really pissed off'?
Shane: Definitely more swearing, there. No doubt about it.
Alex: (mock contemplative, suppressing a smirk) Mm, so Daddy was right, then.
And so, there came clear and direct Cultural Learnings from The Boy's viewing of HellBoy II (one of Mummy's more curious spending decisions, of late - we'll put that down to stress).
A little later:
Alex: I got told off by Gail (aunt), this weekend.
Shane: Why?
Alex: Well, you know in grandma's garden, the wall at the bottom - before the bushes and trees and things?
Shane: Yeah.
Alex: Well I was walking along the wall, and I sort of fell backwards into one of the bushes and scratched myself - see... (shows scratches on leg and back)
Shane: Sounds a bit harsh. She would've asked if you were okay, though?
Alex: I didn't get told off for falling off the wall... I got told off cos I said shit as I fell.
Shane: Ah. Another swear word. You would have to get told off for that.
Alex: But you say it.
Shane: Er... no I don't.
Alex: Yeah y' do. I told Daddy that y' do.
Shane: Oh, f-... what did y' want to go and do that for?
Alex: So I wouldn't get told off.
Shane: That's... no. No. You have to learn to not use words... like the swear words. And learn to stop imagining that you've heard me say any of them.
Alex: (pause) Y' do, though.
Shane: Sometimes - and this may catch you by surprise, here... sometimes - rare occasions, very rare indeed - I'm not perfect.
Alex: (slowly gets the point) You are so ridiculous.
'Perhaps', I thought, relieved at his having not just replied, 'Bollocks!'.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
#24: Tolerance (Overheard #8)
You'd leave the city?
In light of a far-right win:
Line drawn - house for sale
.
In light of a far-right win:
Line drawn - house for sale
.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Sentosa
Early indications are that online searches for any of the named performers will land searchers here. Thus:
Note to first-time visitors: Welcome! You may find some of the performer and photographer links (below) to be useful.
Note re photographs: None are my own, and none were taken at the Scarlet Fever Burlesque show at The Leopard, Burslem, on Saturday 4th October 2008 (the event to which the post relates). However, the images show some of the performers who we bore witness to (and of whom images were most easily located). I have copied, pasted and credited (as far as was possible) from publically available online sources. If any of the images are your's and you'd rather they be removed or differently credited, then let it be known (in comments, below).
So, to The Leopard, Burslem, for an evening of burlesque.
It was interesting to overhear someone comment that they'd briefly crossed paths with Sentosa Sparkle at a series of burlesque workshops a couple of years ago. In this comment, there was the shape of a green-eyed monster, for Sentosa did sparkle. She really did, oh how she did. In fact... actually no, no, I will keep this mild - not wild, neat, sweet and rather discreet. But my, oh my. Sentosa's first routine adhered to a fairly straight forward cheerleader format - you know, the loss of a red dress, a couple of carefully located pom-poms, and a gilt-edged look that provoked guilt-edged daydreaming.
Photo: Candee Photography
Given the composite performance that Ms Sparkle did present, it seems incongruous that she could be a relatively novice performer. Yet, online searches suggest that that is how it is. If you're within a hop, step and jump of Manchester, then this may be of interest. From where do these performer people emerge?...
A matter of little concern, I'm sure, to Miss Ditzy Diamond - one of several of the performers who had a familiar air to them - the sort of people who you think you might have seen in a music video, or at Boots the Chemist, or somewhere in between. Ms DD delivered a performance which was light, airy, and enormously popular - there were shades of Marilyn Monroe in there, too. And unless I was much mistaken - it has been known, this voluptuous performance seemed to provoke something of a glint to the eye of at least one Decadent Gent.
On the matter of the Decadent Gent - the sometime introducer, filler and rabble-rouser, I'll be frank: I didn't know what, or how to make what, of his performance. He twirled his cane with relish, he seemed to know what he was doing, he did a job - all good. But, his ice-cream seller get-up occasionally felt out of kilter. Counter-intuitively perhaps, I imagined his to be one of the trickier roles of the evening - 'Keep them happy 'til the next turn is ready' - a matter not helped by the crowd and the venue being all new to this game.
Reading interviews with Scarlet Fever, and from glancing over her website, it's clear that the longer-term future for this performer/producer is in the hosting and production of events - and why not. 'She's got an amazing figure', commented Emma - who I remembered had avidly followed the birth of this performer. On this occasion, in the wilds of northern Staffordshire, Scarlet gave a performance that seemed a little fleeting, albeit well-rehearsed. As a hostess and bringer of people together, top marks. The matters of Scarlet's family being in the audience, her husband helping out, and the occasionally blurred distinction between audience and performers, all made for a relaxed 'Not to be taken too seriously' evening - which was quite charming, really.
And for charm, then we might also refer to The Advocates of Deception - a pair who struck me as 'Two nice lads from the West Midlands' - magic! Despite playing to a very intimate room, their first on-stage appearance should have been on-mic'. That said, they learned, and second time round, they hit the mark comedically, magically and with can-of-soup-dependent sleight of hand. Also, for their black shirt, black waistcoat and red tie apparel, they scored sartorially, too - very AC Milan, very Shane Wexford.
Intriguing, vampish, gorgeous - Suzie Sequin, I liked a lot - really a lot. And for her 'balloon' performance (with chains... 'Mind your nipples!', I thought), she presented the most glittery and visually engaging* performance of the evening (and no, that's* not a euphemism).
Photo: Air Adam
I spent some time trying to guess at how experienced a performer Ms Sequin was, and what the particular detail or quality was that determined whether audiences would gauge a 'professional' or a 'convincing novice'. Erring towards the former, this performer seemed consumately at ease, and very well-rehearsed - a really important detail. On a slight side note, it is interesting how the mind does tend to wander at the hypnotic impact of the breast jiggle.
Just as the crowd were being lulled into the rhythm of a series of burlesque tease performances, there came The Chantilly Belles - theatrical, artful, funny. This duo began with a Fox and Hounds sketch - voiceless throughout, that saw jodphurs put to very good use. Miaow. Regretably, I missed their second sketch, but judging from the whooping and hollering that could be heard throughout the venue, I guessed that they'd gone down a storm second time round too. The one in the jodphurs almost crashed into me as they exited this second time. Soon after, I imagined that there could have been worse scenarios than such a being-crashed-into. And so, as happens, things moved on.
'Anna Fur Laxis - she was really good - my favourite', said Emma. Meanwhile, to my right, Benji simply slavered. Both were fair and reasonable responses.
Photo: Richard Clifton
I got the impression that every detail of Ms Fur Laxis' performance had been drilled - rehearsed, reviewed, tweaked. Every expression, every twist, and every turn was from a broad repertoire of tried and tested moves. As this performer exited the stage for the final time, the lovely gay boys to my left entered into a conversation that began with one commenting, 'You've got to admit, that was sexy...'. I can think of no better or incredible endorsement.
From Candee Handful, the audience were struck - dumb-struck, let us say - by her carousel horse act - itself only a very distant cousin of The Chantilly Belles' equine-related piece. Now, dear reader, I will tell you that I laughed. I laughed quite a lot. You see, for someone to so energetically ride their way through such a performance art piece - with great sounds and horsey visuals - before such a naive audience, well, it felt so brave, so wrong, yet so right, so funny. Expressions were variously glazed, amazed, incomprehending, shocked even. In retrospect, perhaps this had something to do with Ms Handful wearing a horse's head (not a real one) throughout. Whatever it was, upon being unclad of the head - revealed to the crowd - an air of relief spread through the room. The lady before us had earned her reception.
Throughout the evening, through DJ Telster, the tunes and accompanying music had bumped and grinded, spun and twirled along. And for not being of the young hipster mould of DJ, Telster was all the better for it.
An interesting final credit in the programme, but from my vantage point a very important one, was for Tempest Devyne. As the other performers variously tottered and trotted, sidled and sauntered, there seemed to be a maid - just off-stage - lending a hand in the management and preparation of performers. Said maid was the subject of the one - and only - line of quick and filthy wit from the Decadent Gent - something about him being used to her working at that level, as she crouched (at front of stage) to avoid crowding him out. Here, I cannot review Tempest as an on-stage performer, however, if her role was in-part that of provider of practical, moral and psychological support, then good one her. I imagine that to the less experienced burlesque performer, the act of getting up on stage and, as one of our party put it, 'Whopping out your whaps', must call for a particular kind of mental frame. From the middle distance, I took Ms Devyne to be the embodiment of the group ethic that spanned the show.
Favourite moments of the evening: Chatting with the two gay chaps to my left (our paths had crossed previously, though we'd never spoken); the lustrous curls, curves, shimmers and shakes of Sentosa Sparkle; the vampiric hint of Suzie Sequin; and the monocle-clad Benji the Fellow Fencer, to my right.
Forgiveable room for improvement: The table service system (it didn't flow, and seemed under-prepared for) - an easy-to-remedy detail, I'm sure.
'Really?' moment(s) of the evening:- Being approached (thrice, by different people - all sound of mind and warm of heart), to have it suggested that a role such as that occupied by the Decadent Gent - introducer, link-man, rabble-rouser - might be something that I would be good at. Every such suggestion was politely dismissed, but they did get me thinking: What would my burlesque name be?
So there you have it, burlesque au Stoke-on-Trent: an exercise to be repeated. December 13th, in fact.
Note to first-time visitors: Welcome! You may find some of the performer and photographer links (below) to be useful.
Note re photographs: None are my own, and none were taken at the Scarlet Fever Burlesque show at The Leopard, Burslem, on Saturday 4th October 2008 (the event to which the post relates). However, the images show some of the performers who we bore witness to (and of whom images were most easily located). I have copied, pasted and credited (as far as was possible) from publically available online sources. If any of the images are your's and you'd rather they be removed or differently credited, then let it be known (in comments, below).
So, to The Leopard, Burslem, for an evening of burlesque.
It was interesting to overhear someone comment that they'd briefly crossed paths with Sentosa Sparkle at a series of burlesque workshops a couple of years ago. In this comment, there was the shape of a green-eyed monster, for Sentosa did sparkle. She really did, oh how she did. In fact... actually no, no, I will keep this mild - not wild, neat, sweet and rather discreet. But my, oh my. Sentosa's first routine adhered to a fairly straight forward cheerleader format - you know, the loss of a red dress, a couple of carefully located pom-poms, and a gilt-edged look that provoked guilt-edged daydreaming.
Photo: Candee PhotographyGiven the composite performance that Ms Sparkle did present, it seems incongruous that she could be a relatively novice performer. Yet, online searches suggest that that is how it is. If you're within a hop, step and jump of Manchester, then this may be of interest. From where do these performer people emerge?...
A matter of little concern, I'm sure, to Miss Ditzy Diamond - one of several of the performers who had a familiar air to them - the sort of people who you think you might have seen in a music video, or at Boots the Chemist, or somewhere in between. Ms DD delivered a performance which was light, airy, and enormously popular - there were shades of Marilyn Monroe in there, too. And unless I was much mistaken - it has been known, this voluptuous performance seemed to provoke something of a glint to the eye of at least one Decadent Gent.
On the matter of the Decadent Gent - the sometime introducer, filler and rabble-rouser, I'll be frank: I didn't know what, or how to make what, of his performance. He twirled his cane with relish, he seemed to know what he was doing, he did a job - all good. But, his ice-cream seller get-up occasionally felt out of kilter. Counter-intuitively perhaps, I imagined his to be one of the trickier roles of the evening - 'Keep them happy 'til the next turn is ready' - a matter not helped by the crowd and the venue being all new to this game.
Reading interviews with Scarlet Fever, and from glancing over her website, it's clear that the longer-term future for this performer/producer is in the hosting and production of events - and why not. 'She's got an amazing figure', commented Emma - who I remembered had avidly followed the birth of this performer. On this occasion, in the wilds of northern Staffordshire, Scarlet gave a performance that seemed a little fleeting, albeit well-rehearsed. As a hostess and bringer of people together, top marks. The matters of Scarlet's family being in the audience, her husband helping out, and the occasionally blurred distinction between audience and performers, all made for a relaxed 'Not to be taken too seriously' evening - which was quite charming, really.
And for charm, then we might also refer to The Advocates of Deception - a pair who struck me as 'Two nice lads from the West Midlands' - magic! Despite playing to a very intimate room, their first on-stage appearance should have been on-mic'. That said, they learned, and second time round, they hit the mark comedically, magically and with can-of-soup-dependent sleight of hand. Also, for their black shirt, black waistcoat and red tie apparel, they scored sartorially, too - very AC Milan, very Shane Wexford.
Intriguing, vampish, gorgeous - Suzie Sequin, I liked a lot - really a lot. And for her 'balloon' performance (with chains... 'Mind your nipples!', I thought), she presented the most glittery and visually engaging* performance of the evening (and no, that's* not a euphemism).
Photo: Air AdamI spent some time trying to guess at how experienced a performer Ms Sequin was, and what the particular detail or quality was that determined whether audiences would gauge a 'professional' or a 'convincing novice'. Erring towards the former, this performer seemed consumately at ease, and very well-rehearsed - a really important detail. On a slight side note, it is interesting how the mind does tend to wander at the hypnotic impact of the breast jiggle.
Just as the crowd were being lulled into the rhythm of a series of burlesque tease performances, there came The Chantilly Belles - theatrical, artful, funny. This duo began with a Fox and Hounds sketch - voiceless throughout, that saw jodphurs put to very good use. Miaow. Regretably, I missed their second sketch, but judging from the whooping and hollering that could be heard throughout the venue, I guessed that they'd gone down a storm second time round too. The one in the jodphurs almost crashed into me as they exited this second time. Soon after, I imagined that there could have been worse scenarios than such a being-crashed-into. And so, as happens, things moved on.
'Anna Fur Laxis - she was really good - my favourite', said Emma. Meanwhile, to my right, Benji simply slavered. Both were fair and reasonable responses.
Photo: Richard CliftonI got the impression that every detail of Ms Fur Laxis' performance had been drilled - rehearsed, reviewed, tweaked. Every expression, every twist, and every turn was from a broad repertoire of tried and tested moves. As this performer exited the stage for the final time, the lovely gay boys to my left entered into a conversation that began with one commenting, 'You've got to admit, that was sexy...'. I can think of no better or incredible endorsement.
From Candee Handful, the audience were struck - dumb-struck, let us say - by her carousel horse act - itself only a very distant cousin of The Chantilly Belles' equine-related piece. Now, dear reader, I will tell you that I laughed. I laughed quite a lot. You see, for someone to so energetically ride their way through such a performance art piece - with great sounds and horsey visuals - before such a naive audience, well, it felt so brave, so wrong, yet so right, so funny. Expressions were variously glazed, amazed, incomprehending, shocked even. In retrospect, perhaps this had something to do with Ms Handful wearing a horse's head (not a real one) throughout. Whatever it was, upon being unclad of the head - revealed to the crowd - an air of relief spread through the room. The lady before us had earned her reception.
Throughout the evening, through DJ Telster, the tunes and accompanying music had bumped and grinded, spun and twirled along. And for not being of the young hipster mould of DJ, Telster was all the better for it.
An interesting final credit in the programme, but from my vantage point a very important one, was for Tempest Devyne. As the other performers variously tottered and trotted, sidled and sauntered, there seemed to be a maid - just off-stage - lending a hand in the management and preparation of performers. Said maid was the subject of the one - and only - line of quick and filthy wit from the Decadent Gent - something about him being used to her working at that level, as she crouched (at front of stage) to avoid crowding him out. Here, I cannot review Tempest as an on-stage performer, however, if her role was in-part that of provider of practical, moral and psychological support, then good one her. I imagine that to the less experienced burlesque performer, the act of getting up on stage and, as one of our party put it, 'Whopping out your whaps', must call for a particular kind of mental frame. From the middle distance, I took Ms Devyne to be the embodiment of the group ethic that spanned the show.
Favourite moments of the evening: Chatting with the two gay chaps to my left (our paths had crossed previously, though we'd never spoken); the lustrous curls, curves, shimmers and shakes of Sentosa Sparkle; the vampiric hint of Suzie Sequin; and the monocle-clad Benji the Fellow Fencer, to my right.
Forgiveable room for improvement: The table service system (it didn't flow, and seemed under-prepared for) - an easy-to-remedy detail, I'm sure.
'Really?' moment(s) of the evening:- Being approached (thrice, by different people - all sound of mind and warm of heart), to have it suggested that a role such as that occupied by the Decadent Gent - introducer, link-man, rabble-rouser - might be something that I would be good at. Every such suggestion was politely dismissed, but they did get me thinking: What would my burlesque name be?
So there you have it, burlesque au Stoke-on-Trent: an exercise to be repeated. December 13th, in fact.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Quashed (Overheard #6)
Writing up notes from meetings and project work, I sat in a local coffee-shop-cum-garden-furniture-store (it works - just about).
Male Brummie: (unclear) (reading) (transcribed with accent) '-they absorb sow-lar loight enerjay during the daiy, and will e-mit a sowthing grayn glaw at noight' - sounds good, that does.
Female Brummie: (with accent) Floies!
Smiling, I focused on my notes.
Male Brummie: (unclear) (reading) (transcribed with accent) '-they absorb sow-lar loight enerjay during the daiy, and will e-mit a sowthing grayn glaw at noight' - sounds good, that does.
Female Brummie: (with accent) Floies!
Smiling, I focused on my notes.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Lovers (Overheard #4)
On a train, a conversation is overheard:
GeordieYouth#1: D’ y’ ever listen t’ Radio 1?
GeordieYouth#2: Aye, now an’ again, like. Why?
GeordieYouth#1: Right, they’ve got this nurse comes on, gives people advice – stuff t’ do wi’ re-la-tion-ships. Why she was gannin’ on last night about summat that just sounded right weird – reckonin’ that if peoples’ – lasses – are ganna be, y’ knaa - (more discreetly) gannin’ doon an’ that, they should be wearin’ a (confused) gum shield!
GeordieYouth#2: (thinks) Sounds a bit mad, that like.
GeordieYouth#1: Aye, I knaa.
(a quiet contemplative moment passes)
GeordieYouth#2: Are y’ sure it was a gum shield?
GeordieYouth#1: Aye, I think so.
GeordieYouth#2: I’ve heard of a den-tal dam –
GeordieYouth#1: Aye! That’s it!
GeordieYouth#2: (sighs) That’s nowt like a gum shield, y’ daft twat.
GeordieYouth#1: So what is it then?
GeordieYouth#2: Ask your lass, man! Y’ makin’ ’s feel queer, here.
GeordieYouth#1: Ah, aye.
Further down the carriage, a woman passenger fails to suppress a snigger.
GeordieYouth#1: D’ y’ ever listen t’ Radio 1?
GeordieYouth#2: Aye, now an’ again, like. Why?
GeordieYouth#1: Right, they’ve got this nurse comes on, gives people advice – stuff t’ do wi’ re-la-tion-ships. Why she was gannin’ on last night about summat that just sounded right weird – reckonin’ that if peoples’ – lasses – are ganna be, y’ knaa - (more discreetly) gannin’ doon an’ that, they should be wearin’ a (confused) gum shield!
GeordieYouth#2: (thinks) Sounds a bit mad, that like.
GeordieYouth#1: Aye, I knaa.
(a quiet contemplative moment passes)
GeordieYouth#2: Are y’ sure it was a gum shield?
GeordieYouth#1: Aye, I think so.
GeordieYouth#2: I’ve heard of a den-tal dam –
GeordieYouth#1: Aye! That’s it!
GeordieYouth#2: (sighs) That’s nowt like a gum shield, y’ daft twat.
GeordieYouth#1: So what is it then?
GeordieYouth#2: Ask your lass, man! Y’ makin’ ’s feel queer, here.
GeordieYouth#1: Ah, aye.
Further down the carriage, a woman passenger fails to suppress a snigger.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Respite (Overheard #3)
Emma and I have been working hard. Today, taking a lunch-time break, we dropped in to our local Pie Minister - they've just opened a shop-cafe near us that seems to be doing very well.
As I began to eat my Thai Chook Pie and Emma surveyed her Heidi Pie, I did nearly splurt pie fragments upon overhearing some middle-aged fellow diners:
Female: (concerned) Oh dear.
Male: What's the matter?
Female: I've just seen a woman wi' one leg. It's put me off m' pie*.
Male: (commiserating) Aaah.
* indicates moment of near-splurting.
A moment of pie-eater empathy, right there.
And beautifully rendered too.
As I began to eat my Thai Chook Pie and Emma surveyed her Heidi Pie, I did nearly splurt pie fragments upon overhearing some middle-aged fellow diners:
Female: (concerned) Oh dear.
Male: What's the matter?
Female: I've just seen a woman wi' one leg. It's put me off m' pie*.
Male: (commiserating) Aaah.
* indicates moment of near-splurting.
A moment of pie-eater empathy, right there.
And beautifully rendered too.
Monday, May 05, 2008
Rhythm (Overheard #2)
It's been a good holiday weekend for muddy bike rides - Friday evening after tea, yesterday before the trip to the football, and this afternoon following the cinema trip.
The rules of Bike Club are simple:-
Pedal hard
Aim for the deepest of puddles*
The muddiest is the winner*
No running into each other - too dangerous
Make occasional glances sideways for interesting wildlife or birdlife
Get back home out of breath and ready for food and drink
Take the bikes out back, put them in the shed
Get undressed just inside the doorway
Create mountain of washing
Shower-time - first come first showered
Don't forget to wash inside of your ears
* indicates default setting for seven year olds
Late this afternoon, calling to Alex to finish up with his shower and get dried, from the bottom of the stairs I was privy to a fine overheard lyrical adaptation:
Shane: (calls) Hurry up, Alex - we're putting the film on in three minutes.
Alex: (shouts) I am hurrying! (15 seconds pass) (distantly, songfully) Heads, shoulders, knees and buttocks, knees and buttocksssss -
Shane: (to Emma) He sounds happy.
Emma: If you both return with mud on your teeth and no injuries, then I generally assume that it's been a good one.
Shane: Mm, well-observed.
The rules of Bike Club are simple:-
Pedal hard
Aim for the deepest of puddles*
The muddiest is the winner*
No running into each other - too dangerous
Make occasional glances sideways for interesting wildlife or birdlife
Get back home out of breath and ready for food and drink
Take the bikes out back, put them in the shed
Get undressed just inside the doorway
Create mountain of washing
Shower-time - first come first showered
Don't forget to wash inside of your ears
* indicates default setting for seven year olds
Late this afternoon, calling to Alex to finish up with his shower and get dried, from the bottom of the stairs I was privy to a fine overheard lyrical adaptation:
Shane: (calls) Hurry up, Alex - we're putting the film on in three minutes.
Alex: (shouts) I am hurrying! (15 seconds pass) (distantly, songfully) Heads, shoulders, knees and buttocks, knees and buttocksssss -
Shane: (to Emma) He sounds happy.
Emma: If you both return with mud on your teeth and no injuries, then I generally assume that it's been a good one.
Shane: Mm, well-observed.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Interruption (Overheard #1)
Emma: So what are you working on today?
Shane: Reading policy documents and getting my head into data.
Emma: So you’re at home all day?
Shane: No. I’m gonna do some of that at the museum’s café - I need to have a look at that place. We might be taking some of the young rowdies up there.
Emma: Mm. Good luck with that.
A quick jaunt around the museum presents me with more ceramic work than even the most ardent enthusiast could process in one visit, a load of industrial landscape photography, a load of other ‘bric-a-brac’ and finally, the café.
Shane: Reading policy documents and getting my head into data.
Emma: So you’re at home all day?
Shane: No. I’m gonna do some of that at the museum’s café - I need to have a look at that place. We might be taking some of the young rowdies up there.
Emma: Mm. Good luck with that.
A quick jaunt around the museum presents me with more ceramic work than even the most ardent enthusiast could process in one visit, a load of industrial landscape photography, a load of other ‘bric-a-brac’ and finally, the café.
Earl grey (£1.05) and a small plate of biscuits (28p) before me, I settle onto a comfortable sofa, in the quietest corner – out of sight, out of mind, papers out, snug behind. I get down to reading. Fifteen minutes pass before the jolting hollering:
Waitress (gritty, mid-50s): (calls out) Where’s me rubber?
Maintenance worker (male, 40s, confused): Y’ wha’?
Shane (male, 30s, an innocent): (thinks) Oh deary deary me, no – I am here, you are not alone!
Waitress: Me rubber! For me fridge!
Maintenance worker: Oh, right. I’ll get y’ it.
Shane: (thinks) For her fridge, of course. What a filthy mind I have.
An inconsequential hollering, I return to my reading.
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