A Laugh a Minute

There are some occasions when life takes over and in a vain attempt to juggle 16 different things you simply crash and burn in spectacular fashion. Last Saturday night we held our end of season hockey club awards night, since when I have been entirely unable to concentrate. It may have been a two-day hangover, following the heavy drinking, dancing the night away in town and lack of sleep. Whatever the cause, I have struggled to maintain coherent thought or conversation since then, and now my brain has turned to mush.

This was most evident on returning home from work. I have various things on my mind that require organising in one way, shape or form, but I thought it might be nice to edit some of Saturday's photos over dinner. When I went to serve up, I found that I had in fact failed to cook my fishcake, largely due to turning on the wrong bit of oven. In a desperate attempt to salvage some miniscule fragment of edibleness, I blasted it in the microwave, during which time I burnt my asparagus. A total culinary disaster was only averted due to the presence of some potatoes.

Whilst eating my dry asparagus and chewy fishcake, I received a message from a friend on facebook notifying me that a terrifying picture of me raised aloft has been uploaded as 'photo of the week' on the website of the very nightclub that I frequented with the hockey players on Saturday night. I have little recollection of this peculiar moment, but apparently it now qualifies me to free VIP entry and champagne in a 'roped off area' for me and eight friends if I ring the fine establishment to claim. I have no particular desire to return to said establishment, but might be tempted for the freebies, and to discover exactly what sort of 'roped off area' will be given over to us - it sounds like a crime scene.

This series of events, combined with my fragile mental state, cause me to begin a laugh that started with a chuckle and grew rapidly into full-scale hysteria. In a matter of moments I was crying with laughter and shaking uncontrollably. Maybe it's best I don't go drinking for a while.

Capital Punishment

I was born in London but don't remember it from my childhood as we moved away before I was two. I've never had any great desire to return to live there. I don't feel any great affinity with the place, and the hustle and bustle of so many people tends to make me feel like a fish out of water. I'm just not built for that environment. But I do like returning as a visitor in small doses, for a number of reasons. Mostly because I have lots of friends who live there, but also to see the differences in way of life, people, and behaviour. Being an outsider makes it easier to observe, to comment, and yes, to judge. A recent trip gave me the chance to do all of these things.

Trains: gliding towards London courtesy of network rail we pass open fields, lush green pasture and meandering rivers. These are the places where people wave at trains. I have no idea why. I've attempted a waved return on several occasions, and am yet to forge a strong friendship with anyone as a result. I doubt they could see my salutation. In the city, where the trains slow and weave between high rise blocks of flats, stuffed full of residents, nobody waves. Surely here more than anywhere one should jump at the chance to befriend commuters and visitors alike. London has a sense of impersonal anonymity that I like and dislike in equal measure. It's totally possible to disappear into a crowd here. I like the variety, the ethnicity, the independence of the place. On the other hand, it feels like a billion tiny atoms all whizzing about invading each other's personal space and occasionally colliding.

The underground: this is a very recognisable symbol of our nations capital, a masterpiece of engineering and enterprise, tired and jaded but still chugging away under the streets like a great metallic snake pit. There's something very Hitchcockian about the fast approaching crescendo of a tube and subsequent squeal of it's brakes; the inadvertent gusts of wind that spring up and die out of nothing in the great tunnels and stairwells; the solitude of empty carriages on late nights out and the dangerous proximity of total strangers in crowded commutes. Why do the handrails on the escalators move ever so slightly faster than the stairs, so that, if you chose to lean against the handrail, the angle of your lean becomes ever more precarious until you lose your balance, falling upwards into the backside of the person ahead of you. Unless of course they are in the same predicament, in which case you all topple forward like a giant set of dominoes.

Oyster Cards: what a wonderful invention this is. A system of pre-paid ticketing that allows you to travel unhindered through the transport network, only pausing periodically to ensure you have enough credit to continue your onward journey. The problem with oyster is that if, like me, you are usually it infrequently, there's inevitably a moment at the first barrier where you suddenly realise that you have no idea how much money is on your card and you nervously tap it against the reader, hoping that you are not refused entry when half of London seems to be queued up behind you. People assume that other people are always in credit and move forwards with unnerving speed, so much so that a barrier refusal results in a huge pile up. It's like watching the riderless horse in the grand national pulling up short of the fence and running across the oncoming traffic in a sideways bit for freedom: horses, riders, handbags, attitudes and expletives are all sent flying. And the barriers do not accommodate baggage or large people. You have a mere fraction of a second to pass through, with all of your personal belongings and dignity, before the barrier closes. Any errant suitcases or umbrellas left straggling get shut into the barrier, and a grumpy attendant, who's only job can be removing stranded people from the barriers, comes shuffling over and tuts as though you had any possible alternative route. 

Business attire: having agreed to meet friends in a central location, we all converged on a small area of pubs near Green Park. It was 5:30pm, and we should have known better. The working masses were spilling out of nearby offices and streaming like flies towards the nearest watering hole. All of the pubs had well dressed clientele overflowing onto the streets outside - some with fag in hand, all with drinks, and all wearing impossibly ironed shirts and sharp cut dark suits and polished black shoes. In my mind they were talking figures, profit margins and who to sack. My jeans and brown shoes combo stood out a mile - who'd have thought I could look out of place in this most accepting of cities. But the continual stream of high heels and shiny cars and discussions of property prices put me firmly in my place. I imagine most of these people would look equally lost if I took them on a tour of Salisbury Plain: like a great herd of suited wildebeest about to cross a crocodile infested river. 

Despite my apparent unease, I actually enjoy these trips. It's great to catch up with friends, to remove myself from the antiquated charm of Salisbury, and to observe life in all of its glorious variety.  I love the pace, the scale, and the feeling that I'm constantly starring in a music video-either a 'London virgin' video that sees me gazing in wonder out of a train window as reflections of tall buildings whizz by on the glass, or a 'coming of age' teen romp in which something from the American Pie soundtrack blares out while I play Frisbee in one of the London parks with tanned mates. Ironically enough, on the way there, Third Eye Blind's 'Don't wanna go to London' came on, and on the way back it was Ed Sheeran's 'The City'.

Visiting the capital also reminds me how lucky I am. I hate the commuting and the claustrophobic dirtiness of the city. I feel captive in London, unable to stretch and breathe. But mostly I feel confused: bewildered by how everything and everyone operates in such a chaotic environment; overwhelmed by options, choices and decisions; bemused by my feelings for my birth place. I love and hate this place equally - a bipolar dichotomy of steel, glass, parks and people. London is all things: a centre, a catch up, a playhouse, an antithesis to my comfort zone, nostalgic, whirring, errant, and it continues to draw me in and spit me out exhausted at the other end. 

Valentine's Day Performance

With plenty of leave left to use before April, I decided to take an extended Valentine's Weekend off work to accommodate the many varied and assorted offers that I felt certain to receive. As the weekend drew nearer, and the expected flood of invites and romantic sorties unexpectedly failing to materialise, I was delighted to be given the opportunity to see a gig with a friend in Bristol. Many years ago, a friend had introduced me to the eclectic and mysterious musical talents of Patrick Wolf. I had in turn introduced these to another friend, and that friend had now managed to procure tickets to see the aforementioned Mr Wolf in Bristol on Sunday evening. Better than that, she even invited me along to join her. (She would also, I'm sure, like me to point out at this point that this was in no way connected to Valentine's Day in any way, except by some unfortunate quirk of timing).

Having enthusiastically accepted the offer to go, I searched online for the details of the gig. It was being performed at the National Trust's Tyntesfield House, on the outskirts of the city. This imposing gothic mansion seemed like an intriguing venue for a gig, so I delved further. There were several supporting artists, none of whom I had ever heard of. With a quick visit to YouTube I was able to ascertain why: they were all performance artists rather than musicians. Now I'm generally not inclined towards performance art, being at the relatively ignorant end of artistic spectrum. I just don't get it. I don't understand what it is trying to say, I don't have life affirmations from watching it, and I have no comprehension of what is good, bad, or plain ugly (though in my cynical state I would tend to categorise most of what I've seen in either of the last two definitions).

However, being of an open mind, and possibly inclined towards the fact that this experience might form the basis for this blog piece, I was keen to sling off the trappings of comfort and hurl myself headlong towards an artistic education of sorts. And if all else failed, I would at least be keen to see Patrick Wolf, in what was described as an 'intimate setting'. It appears that my friend had also failed to notice the interpretive leaning of this event when booking the tickets, and we nervously made our way to the house to find out more.

Arriving slightly late at the venue (intentionally - we were making a statement) we first had to navigate several miles of winding, barely lit footpath in the dark, wondering if at any moment the lights would go on and we would find ourselves thrust centre stage on a performance entitled 'And he saw what he had done...'. Approaching the house we finally heard the appreciative murmurings of pensive art-lovers already gathered. Outside the house we encountered our first performance. For me to describe it to you would perhaps be unfair as my Neanderthal explanation would no doubt miss the point of a multi-layered, in-depth analysis of gender, sexuality and modern culture that is blighted by industry and commerce. It was five women in black dresses sawing the legs of chairs bit by bit. For anyone who wishes to judge for themselves, please have a look.

The second performance involved four people stood motionless around a stairwell. We didn't notice this 'act' straight away, as there were lots of other people milling around the stairwell. I don't actually know for certain if it was an act, or maybe four protestors against modern art, or some visitors who had just got bored or were trying to avoid having to see the other performances. There was a brief moment of interest when we went into a room to find it devoid of performance art, but instead a friendly guide told us about the history of the room and the library it contained. I'm pretty sure this wasn't part of the event, but it was interesting nonetheless, or perhaps despite.

The staff then informed us that we would shortly be lead to the chapel for the main performance. This was a beautiful gothic building set apart from the house and beautifully lit up against the stars. During the minutes between entering the chapel, finding a seat and the performance beginning, we were treated to a spot of people watching (and listening). It was a diverse audience, including aging couples, transvestites, thick set gothic boots and black eye-liner, bright dyed hair with strategically shaven patches and emo teens. From the conversations overheard, we also shared the chapel with American luvvies for whom the whole experience was overwhelmingly beautiful, and young British hippies who found all the performances inspirational and left them continually on the verge of bursting into tears. I was reminded of an excellent song that Bill Bailey performed called Oblivion, which is ironic as Patrick Wolf actually has a song of the same name.

The lights dimmed and the headline act made his way up the aisle to the chancel, where his instruments awaited. For anyone unfamiliar with Patrick Wolf, he is clearly a scholar of music and musical history, playing a wide range of instruments, and with influences as varied as electronica, folk and baroque. His songs are largely based around piano or organ and strings, especially viola and harp, and many draw on traditional themes like his Cornish ancestry. He launched into a set that rarely paused for breath or applause, veering relentlessly from melodic piano and voice to electronic beats and a wall of metallic sound that made it feel like we were being attacked by a thousand small children all armed with kitchen utensils. Familiar lyrics were mashed together in unrecognisable formats, and there was a constant hiss of high-pitched background whining that came from the 'organic' organ - an instrument apparently fashioned from drift wood. It grated the ears and was sufficiently off-putting that at one point Patrick himself turned it off. A beautiful piece on the harp turned into a quagmire of sound during which he massacred a viola. He has a haunting voice that works at high or low ranges, adding to the darkness of the songs, but the low range can sound like someone attempting to frighten a small child with a story about monsters. At the end of the show he simply left all the instruments playing and ran offstage, so that nobody knew if it had ended and we all sound there for several minutes looking awkwardly at one another and wondering whether to applaud or simply leave. To that end he captured the atmosphere of the event perfectly.

It was interesting to see him perform, but it felt a little bit like he was just carrying out an experiment that we were all part of. I had to listen to some of his better stuff on the way home to remind myself why I like him, but that did restore my faith and, if you want to check out his varied musical abilities I would recommend listening to songs like 'To The Lighthouse', 'This Weather', 'Blackdown' and 'The Sun Is Often Out'.

The evening was entirely unique and I am genuinely glad to have gone, despite my less than glowing descriptions of it. To see these acts in that setting was the highlight, and I would love to revisit the place during the day. I suspect it would be a disappointment compared to seeing it lit up at night, highlighting it's menacing qualities and the gothic architecture. I still don't understand performance art - I'm no clearer on what, if anything, it is trying to tell me, although I won't be inviting the ladies with their saws to dinner. That really would be a bad way to spend Valentine's Day!

Eurotrip Day 4

Day 4: The Hangover Tour

Day 4 started earlier than it needed to. In part due to Day 3 encroaching several hours into the early morning, but also because of an early breakfast call from mum, which was ignored in favour of slumber. However, there was a pre-arranged lunch to attend and I needed to retrieve my camera bag that Fran and Graham had kindly taken on when I headed for the club. I agreed to pick it up from their room without realising the problem this would cause. The automatic room key Schindler's lift scenario is highly clever when going to your own floor, but makes getting to another floor virtually impossible. Only the communal floors are findable using the traditional, tried and tested method of pressing a button. Although I tried pressing floor 6, the lift refused to take me there. It did, however, go to another floor, where a couple of other people had summoned it. I then had to travel to where they needed to go before deciding whether to try again or hope that in the fullness of time someone from floor 6 would summon the lift. I opted for the stairs, and made my way up four flights to find that key card access was needed to get into the floor as well! So now I was stranded in the stairwell, only able to escape via my own floor or the lobby. None of this was satisfactory to my throbbing head, so I gave up.

Lunch was an equally testing affair for my head, but nibbling at some salad and necking vast quantities of water improved the situation considerably, and I was soon ready for the afternoon walking tour of Sofia. The tours take you around some of the main attractions of the city centre, with the guide explaining their cultural, historical and religious significance. First we saw a the church of St Nedelya, where the worst Bulgarian terrorist atrocity was carried in 1925. The king was due to be present but escaped unharmed because he was late.

St Nedelya Church

We then saw a statue that had been erected in honour of St Sophia, who was, apparently, nothing to do with the city of Sofia. In fact the statue had offended local clergy as the good lady was adorned with pagan symbols. Worse still, it seemed to have been modelled on this year's Eurovision winner, Conchita.

Saint Sofia or Conchita Wurst?

A lot of the buildings had the square boldness of Communism stamped across them, including the National Theatre, the government buildings and even some of the old churches were dwarfed by the new buildings that had risen around them.

 

 

  

The tour also showed us a slice of Bulgarian life: the people enjoying a Sunday afternoon in the sun, eating ice creams in the parks, relaxing or playing music and games. And in some cases taking a much needed siesta.

 

 

 

Finally we saw the market, with it's bright stalls selling vibrantly coloured scarves and Russian dolls sat incongruously among tables of antique cameras and assorted large knives.

The Bulgarians seem to like their statues and fountains, and sometimes both. There was a water fountain that would have been more at home at a water park, a naked lady dancing in a fountain in front of the theatre, and these grumbling men, all of whom appeared to be in various stages of distress.

 

Most importantly, there was this shrub in the road.

 

The walking, the heat, the hangover and the lack of sleep conspired against me by this point, so I grabbed a club sandwich and an ice cream and hit the hotel pool and sauna (the ice cream and club sandwich were gone by this point). A thoroughly relaxing way to end the weekend.