Minty Bit Stronger

Central St Martins Graduate Fashion Show: Goldfish does his little turn on the catwalk

2013-05-31T15:23:00.001+01:00

Since Alexander McQueen committed suicide in 2010, Britain's beautifully upholstered fashion throne has remained empty. Wave after wave of up-and-coming designers have dreamt of planting their pristine derrières on the red velvet cushion and claim the fashion crown.

Previous pretenders to the thrown include Matthew Williams, Julian McDonald and Stella MaCartney. Each with their own tragic tale of disappointment and failure.

Matthew Williams will never take the crown after an ill fated collaboration with H&M that was instantly forgettable. Well do you remember it? Even he can't recall it.

Julian is buried under lip gloss and botox judging Grimsby's next top model demonstrating that when you can no longer design, it's best to retire to a TV panel and talk shit.

Stella, daughter of the leather faced Beatle, designed the unforgivable England Olympic kit that looked normal on Will.i.am but made everyone else look like a crack head space cadet.

So, with these three out of the running who will be our fashion figure head?

Student designer and part time model Cassandra Verity Green made a quite a media splash this week at Central St Martini's graduate fashion show. The Daily Mail, Evening Standard and RSPCA we're suitably outraged at the inclusion of Goldfish as accessories. Course director Willie Walters was forced to defend the use of the fish stating that "[the fish] were brought to the show in their usual bowls, and placed into [the bags] and fed between catwalk runs'.

Not a bad life!

The shock factor of the annual show at Central St Martins is part of the media calendar now and we can assume sartorial provocateur Verity Green might have known this.

A marauding pack of mainstream zombie journalists were teased with an oozing flesh wound and duly went in to devour the carcass. And in doing so, likely launched the career of a designer who, without her little waterborne assistants, might have had to go slum it as a sales assistant in Carnaby Street.

The throne remains empty for now but we may have just witnessed the handiwork of Britain's next Queen of Couture.

I Hate People: A Long Overdue Minty Rant

2013-05-25T15:29:00.000+01:00

Rule one: Don't write angry.
Rule two: Keep it concise

OK - I promise only to break only one rule of good journalism.

I HATE PEOPLE!!!

Maybe I can bend #2

People should have a label warning other people that they 'may be bad for your health'. If not your health then at least for your throbbing thumb after you ferociously text them some much needed abuse.

'People', of which I understand there are close to 7.1 billion, are annoying self obsessed lumps of aging, sagging skin, filled with bile, blood and life supporting organs. Usually topped with spaghetti-like bushes of varying colour and equipped with a gaping hole at the front from which noises emerge. They are a strange, noisy bunch. Ugly even!

Often making said noises before the organism can engage it's primitive cerebellum, they are prone to causing annoyance and distress. They have evolved additional mediums to annoy including email, text and even social media - a truly inventive and vile specie.

With so many on the planet, and the number steadily rising, I can't imagine things ever getting any better. 'People' are just intolerable, but in truth, you have to grin and bare it. Drop some Valium with your martini and learn to live with them.

Rant ovah!!!!

The Videre: The Pop-Up Pin Hole Project

2013-05-18T16:10:00.000+01:00

Videre: fully assembled

The creator of the Videre, 24 year old Kelly Angood, is sipping elderflower tea somewhere in trendy east London while I’m sipping cold coffee on my cold balcony South of the river; the only place I could get reception for our phone interview.

Kelly is at once warm and funny, putting me at ease, with her Midlands accent via Brighton and London. She explains she has always lived around film cameras and paints me a picture of herself as a child holding a point and shoot from Boots with a caterpillar illustration gracing the front. It wasn’t until the age of 20 that she finally embraced modern digital photography saying both methods have their ‘pros and cons’ and ‘think how many memories were lost before digital?’ Angood believes digital and analogue can and must coexist.

Videre: self assembly

Perhaps inspired by the caterpillar on her childhood camera rather than the camera itself, Angood went on to study illustration at Brighton University where, in her own words, they let her ‘do what she wants’. Evidently, not a bad plan that seem helped her on the path to the Videre. In her Vimeo video she states simply ‘I knew I’d never be able to afford a proper medium format camera, so I made one’. The Videre was born.

But what is the Videre? Well in the simplest terms, it is a medium format pin hole camera that you build yourself from a template. The kit is printed and die-cut onto thick recycled card and supplied with easy to follow instructions and a spare medium format spool. Angood also plans to produce a short instructional video, which will be viewable online alongside a virtual gallery space where pinhole photographs that have been taken with the camera can be submitted.

I want one. Where can I buy it? Well you can’t just yet because the funding isn’t secured! But the good news is that Angood is well on the way. She has significant funding in place via Kickstarter and has suppliers ready to go. The plan is to have the Videre available in November.

Videre: image

But it doesn't end there. Angood plans to go on and work with illustrators such as Suzie Kemp, Hattie Stewart and Tom Edwards to produce a collectable family of cameras that would sit pride of place amongst all the other design classics. For Angood the camera must ‘look beautiful’ and also act to educate people about the disappearing art of film photography.

The long term plan is to see the flat pack camera kits on sale in the likes of the London Design Museum. With Angood running workshops so people can learn how to get the most out of the pin hole camera creating a perfect first lesson on the path to great photography.

My coffee cup drained and my questions answered I feel enthusiastic for her endeavour and wish her the best of luck.

To keep up with news on Kelly Angood visit her blog kellyangood.co.uk and if you wish to support the kickstarter campaign click on the link below, deadline is Saturday 18th May.

www.kickstarter.com/projects/kellyangood/the-pop-up-pinhole-project

Robert McCaffrey

Article orginally produced for http://photographerlondon.com/blog

London's Culinary Gem: Borough Market

2013-05-14T20:28:00.001+01:00

Borough Market: est. 1758

Some would have us believe Borough Market is nearly 1000 years old, surely the oldest market in London? Official records are a little more conservative placing the origin (at the present site just off Borough High Street) closer to 1756.

Either way we are looking at a Market steeped in London history and famous all over the world as a place to shop for unique gourmet foods.

Borough Market: Balsamic Vinegars

My first encounter at Borough Market was nearly six years ago; I took home two rich, mouth-watering Ostrich fillets from ‘The Exotic MeatCompany’, and I never looked back. Since that culinary awakening I have tasted the finest Salted Caramel Fudge, the best syrupy Balsamic Vinegar and unforgettable Blueberry Saussison.

The last few years have seen the traders shunted from one corner of the site to another while essential building takes place. The worst of the upheaval seems behind them now and the market is going from strength to strength attracting the best traders with the best foods from all over the globe.

The best time to visit is ideally a bright sunny Saturday morning. Have a light breakfast and head down with a wallet full of cash to see what catches your eye. Samples of cheeses, tapenades, breads, olive oils, chocolates and fudges will all be offered so dive in.

Borough Market: The Globe

When it all gets too much and you feel the need to sit down for a coffee there is the wonderful Monmouth Coffee Company. Opened in 2001, all the coffee beans are freshly and locally roasted so you can savour the finest coffee in confidence.

If you are re-invigorated and ready for round two then I would suggest piecing together a dinner party feast. The Borough market website offers recipes ideal for impressing your friends. Why not try Tori Haschka’s ‘Oliveoil poached scallops with blood orange and garlic’ for the main and ‘StickySaucy Passionfruit Coconut Pudding’ to follow. Mouth watering yet?

Borough Market: Saussison

Borough Market is an ancient gem in London’s culinary crown. More than just a place to buy food it is a place to discover new tastes and renew your love for home cooking.

www.boroughmarket.org.uk

Opening times

Mon - Wed - 10:00 - 15:00

Thursday - 11:00 - 17:00

Friday - 12:00 - 18:00

Saturday - 08:00 - 17:00

Sunday - Closed

For more see the image gallery below...

Flowers at Borough Market : The Gated Garden

Borough Market: Wild highland Venison

Borough Market: Sussex Skate

Borough Market: Church

Borough Market: Green Market Arch

Borough Market: German Deli

Borough Market: Glass roof

Borough Market: Fresh fish

La Donna Del Lago review from 2007

2013-05-09T13:50:00.000+01:00

The final in today's trilogy of reviews from my days as an actor...

Just for the record the 'Country Life-reading deer' is me.

- Andrew Clements
- guardian.co.uk, Saturday 16 June 2007 23.54 BST

It's a huge coup for Garsington Opera to tempt a director of David Alden's international standing to work there, and the result is one of the finest productions the summer season in the Oxfordshire countryside has ever presented. Though hugely popular in the 19th century, Rossini's La Donna del Lago is hardly standard fare nowadays - those with long memories remember a Covent Garden production in the early 1980s - but Alden's enthusiasm for the piece and his skill in bringing it to life make the best possible case for its return to the repertory, and for serious Rossini in general.

Based on Walter Scott's narrative poem The Lady of the Lake, La Donna del Lago takes place in 16th-century Scotland, a love affair set against the background of rebellions against the reign of James V. In Gideon Davey's designs for Garsington, that romanticised view of the Highlands is embodied in a reproduction of an early 19th-century painting of Loch Katrine on the back wall, while Alden offers a much less reverential view of this world, constantly counterpointing the action with subversive humour. Highlights are the cheroot-smoking, Country Life-reading deer who treat the king's efforts to shoot them with disdain, the lager-swilling rabble who support the rebel cause, and the servant who carries an axe with her everywhere, desperate to use it at the first provocation.

But, for all the jokes, this beautifully detailed staging delineates the emotional truths of the drama perfectly, and musical standards under conductor Parry are equally high. The central roles of Elena, the Lady of the Lake herself, and Giacomo, who is the king of Scotland in disguise, are hugely taxing bel canto parts, but Carmen Giannattasio and Colin Lee sing them wonderfully, taking the fusillades of coloratura in their strides. In the trousers role (perhaps that should be kilt role) of Malcolm, Elena's true love, is the highly accomplished Alexandra Sherman, and Michael Colvin is Rodrigo di Dhu, another high-pressure tenor role dispatched with great aplomb. The chorus, given so much to do by Alden, do it all wonderfully.

A Murder of Crows review from 2004

2013-05-09T13:38:00.001+01:00

...Also uncovered this little cracker of a review from nine years ago... I play 'the ineptitude of Charlie Cage effectively'. Wow! ...amazing that Oscar isn't mine already!

A Murder of Crows

Chance Factory
Written by Steve Jansen

'All new black hearted comedy, diamonds, 'offal', suitcases and criminals all cemented together for everyone who has ever laughed when they shouldn't have'.

A cleverly written, technically ambitious, comedy crime drama, which cracks on a pace.

Starring Lindsay Bennett as the very sexy Amy Ravendark, and Cathy Collins as the extremely sarcastic Lillian Aviary. Also Robert McCaffrey, and Stephen Jansen as a pair of daft blokes. Charlie Cage and Frankie Yale rob a bank (with hilarious results of course) because two strong women make them do it. (This is rather pleasing for the feminists in the audience).

McCaffrey portrays the ineptitude of Charlie Cage effectively from the first scene where he is shouting and panicking during the execution of an ultimately bungled safe break. Bennett's character, Ravendark, proves herself to be an evil Emma Peel who conjures up sick and appalling methods for disposing of people who are in her way. Aviary (Collins) is equally nasty and appealing; both revealing a little more of what makes people tick when they think their time might be up. Cage (driller killer) too proves himself to have hidden depths.

And what happened to Frankie? Go and see it if you want to find out but lets just say that Yale is played very amiably in the second scene by 2 lbs of liver and a string of sausages.

Stephen Jansen has produced a well-constructed short piece with a nice balance of characters and well executed changes in mood, (No pun intended). Excellent use of projected black and white images (with a good soundtrack), effectively adds interest and moves the story forward.

Witty use of language, note the name dropping and look out for amusing similes and homophones involving Jimmy Hendrix and margaritas.

This is a good night out, a real laugh if you are not easily offended by offal, sadistic killing and occasional use of the F word.

Nicola Martin

Casting The First Stone Review from 2003

2013-05-09T13:33:00.000+01:00

A review I found from 2003 of Wednesday Productions 'Casting the First Stone'I cannot believe I did that 10 years ago.

Casting the First Stone

Wednesday Productions

By Steve Jansen

The cheesy scene was created with the aid of a manky pair of pants and assorted festooned carefully chosen items of garbage and convincing images of squalor. Looking at the set was enough to give you verrucas and the verruca theme was one of several cunning plot devices, which carried us through to an electrifying finish.

We found ourselves in the flat of four 'out of work actors' well drawn and guilty of being no hopers, all chasing the same role. The first character skidded into action-sporting hideous undergarments, while incongruously ironing pants, which were very cheesy indeed. Piles (or hemorrhoids of fun followed, if you will forgive the disgusting imagery-which only got worse as traffic cones and orifice related analogies were rammed into the mix of puerile humour.

Those of us right down there in the anal phase had a lot to laugh at, and for those who prefer their humour to be set mostly above the waist, there were some funny parts too. (Parts, meaning aspects rather than genitalia in this context).

The characters were well drawn and pathetic in the sense of exuding a teeny bit of pathos in their own way. The boozer, the bimbo, the desperate, the old soak, the homosexual, the monkey .the pants... Everyone's dirty underwear was on display.

With piles of laughs in every crevice, the piece was carried along in places where the story line was a bit thin, by the futile and increasingly bitchy power struggle which was unfolding between four sad losers.

Derivative of 'Men Behaving Badly' or 'The Young Ones', the idea has the makings of a sitcom favourite. Ideal Friday night viewing after a couple of pints of lager and a nice kebab.

Nicola Martin

Lena Proudlock's 'Carnival in Rio, 1978'

2013-04-25T14:11:00.000+01:00

When asked to name great photographers few of us can list more than David Bailey, Annie Leibovitz and David La Chapelle.

But, tucked away in a rainy corner of Marylebone, a pop up exhibition of Lena Proudlock's 'Carnival in Rio, 1978' is changing that.

This simple exhibition offers great, honest photography in a refreshingly unfussy setting. A selection of bold, giant prints, created in collaboration with Douglas Villiers, hang in the mock industrial Imitate Modern gallery on Devonshire Street.

Each carefully curated image offers a glimpse into an age before sexual self-consciousness from a culture celebrating sexuality and the body beautiful.

Daring, provocative and spontaneous each image hints at stories which the energetic and welcoming Lena was happy to tell.

'Rio Bikinis' for example, is a glorious beach shot featuring six beautiful women in an array of masks, lingerie and bikinis.

Lena approached and asked the group to pose and, in doing so, creating arguably the greatest picture of the exhibition and one proudly displayed in Lena's own home.

To the back of the gallery, 'The Big Leap', is a dreamy blue watercolour, starkly interrupted by an ecstatic leaping boy.

When asked, Lena pensively recalled that maybe she asked him to run and leap into the frame, she couldn't be sure. The memory may fade but the image is eternal.

'The Big Leap' also features on the peruvian cotton t-shirts designed as part of Lena's son, Oliver Proudlock's, Serge DeNimes clothing range.

The Made in Chelsea stars clothing line, was the other element of the exhibition, the wearable element. Downstairs, in a velvet boudoir, guests were invited to buy their own prêt-à-porter t-shirt homages to Lena's photography, whilst sipping on the quirky elderflower soda stream cocktails.

It may have been April showers outside, but it was Carnival '78 at Imitate Modern.

Twitter: @sdnimes

http://sergedenimes.com/

http://imitatemodern.com/

My One Night Stand with Bryony Kimmings - a Review of 'Sex Idiot'.

2013-04-17T13:47:00.001+01:00

Before going to see Bryony Kimmings' Sex Idiot I expected some sexual revelations, some naughty songs and a good dose of good humour. I write this sounding like a previously pious man from the the middle classes visiting from the middle ages. No. Truth be told, I am no time travelling monk but I have been moved. Emotionally moved.

YES, there is the laugh out loud fanny song that is genuinely catchy and YES there is enough gratuitous side boob to have the picture editor at the Daily Mail ferociously foaming at the mouth. But, more than that, there is an exposed modern wasteland of real, raw emotion and true sexual insight. Not just an exposé of Kimmings' adventures into sexuality, but our own too.

Opening with the sexual exam we then take an almost Dickensian Christmas Carol style tour of Kimmings' colourful sexual history.

There was the nesting scenario with the one she nearly married, picking out Ikea furniture and replacing career ambitions with comedy DVDs, told beautifully in an uncompromisingly direct poem spoken with dry wit and rehearsed cool.

There is dance. Funny, clever, subversive and true. A sexual encounter performed energetically, highlights perfectly the painful one night stand desire to appear experienced whilst looking like a twat. And all in mime. Perfection!

A minimalist physical theatre piece showed Kimmings adorning her body with lipstick kisses to the 'One is the Loneliest Number'. This felt to this writer like the soul of the piece. Anchoring Kimmings' behaviours, transgressions and betrayals as nothing more than stumbles along the road from loneliness to love. Personally very moving.

To detail further is to list Kimmings' sex life in a way she so cleverly avoids. YES, this is a story of how she got a sexually transmitted disease. But it's the story of everyone becoming a living sexual being with history and a journey.

With her signature flair for comedy and her warmth, wit and ability to tell a great tale, Sex Idiot is a wonderful and thoroughly modern classic.

www.bryonykimmings.com

Follow Bryony on twitter

Boston Bombing: How the Media Speculation is Dangerous.

2013-04-16T12:29:00.000+01:00

With the Boston bombing still ringing in the runner's ears is it not too soon to make unfounded accusations about who might be responsible? The New York Post and Britain's Daily Mail were overly keen to suggest it was a 'dark skinned' man with a 'foreign accent' when, truth be told, American atrocities of late have usually been committed by home grown, white extremists. A 'Saudi Arabian' man was said to be seen 'running suspiciously from the explosion' - how does one behave when a bomb goes off? As the hours passed the story slipped away to a foot note and then vanished entirely as it became clear the man was in fact, not involved. But is the damage by association so easy to shake off?

With the numbers of reported dead varying between three and twelve it becomes clear the media is often too busy engaging in one-upmanship to have any regard for facts. This irresponsible reporting is, in my opinion, partly responsible for shaping the mind that conceives of such mass murder.

A disregard and alienation of victims in press creates an empathy barrier where the facts are unsound, irrelevant even, and the faux sympathy trumps real feeling. Disconnecting people from the real horror and turning tragedy into entertainment. Turning people into heartless monsters.

From the virtual celebrity status enjoyed by the Sandy Hook murderer to the graphic televised spectacle of the Boston Bombing it is clear the media appetite for this kind of destruction is immense. Perhaps understandable, as news is the business of newspapers, but I question if the hunger for speculation should be reserved for private discourse rather than the public medium.

This could very well prove to be an attack Middle Eastern, or Muslim in origin and perhaps with retrospect it could be argued that the press weren't speculating but rather demonstrating great reportage. But, none the less I feel the days after an incident like this should be reserved for the victims and regarded by all in a dignified, non-sensational manner.

Why is Gay Marriage important for democracy?

2013-02-06T10:08:00.002+00:00

The UK parliament has voted hugely in favour of making Gay Marriage a legal reality (we are going green on the map above! Whoop whoop!) Why is this a significant step and what difference does it make?

Well, around the world we 'enlightened westerners' criticise other societies that suppress the rights of religious groups, women, 'lesser' castes and the elderly. These other societies are seen as less evolved and in many instances warrant trade embargoes and military interventions for the actions of their leaders. We act as the wise, learned and fair older brother imparting the zen wisdom of peace and democracy, then strong arming weaker countries into following our lead. This wouldn't seem so bad but for the fact that we harboured a closet brimming with skeletons of our own. How could we espouse international equality and the rights of humankind when a whole sect of British people, by virtue of their sexuality, were being legally regarded as 'lesser citizens'? Of course the Gay's of the UK didn't fear for their lives as Ugandan Gays might, they didn't face endemic political homophobia as the American Gays do, but nevertheless, on paper, we were 'less'. Not equal.

I heard someone say that the gay desire for equal rights was 'moving too fast' and that civil ceremonies should be 'good enough for now'. This thinking is why America is still deeply mired in cultural racism and why women all over the world earn less than men. The push for absolute equality must keep moving or it will stall, lose momentum and fail.

To many, this was never about gays getting married in churches or civil ceremonies being 'good enough for now'. This was a battle to prove that Britain was a forward thinking democracy that can back up it's international voice with principle.

Now, the time has come to export sexual equality to the world until, in the words of Obama:-

'Our Gay brothers and sisters are treated like anyone else under the law'.

I Hate Going Back at Work after Christmas...

2013-01-03T14:00:00.000+00:00

This is how it makes me feel...

Guns Around the Globe

2012-12-28T14:44:00.002+00:00

Following on from the post a few weeks ago about America's love affair with guns I discovered, and decided to share the following amazing Infographic. As you know by now I do love a good Infographic and this one not only looks great but contains some surprising pieces of information.

Enjoy:-

Shambolic Gay Marriage?: The Bible Makes a Mockery of Marriage

2012-12-27T10:11:00.000+00:00

With the Archbishop of Westminster Vincent Nichols mouthing off about the 'Shambolic' plans to make Gay Marriage legal... And former member of the Hitler Youth, Pope Benedict XVI reiterated his opposition to gay marriage, saying it was destroying the very "essence of the human creature". I decided I should get involved.

All I want to say is in this handy little Graphic.

Enjoy:-

Five GIFSs that Rock! Including Ikea Monkey and Tyra Banks face!

2012-12-19T13:57:00.001+00:00

Sandy Hook Shooting : 'Stop Handguns Before they Stop You' Campaign from 1981

2012-12-18T12:14:00.000+00:00

The US has the highest gun ownership rate in the world - an average of 88 guns per 100 people.

Back in 1981, (the year the advert below ran) this was a massive problem, nothing has changed - since then there have been over 60 mass shootings in the States making it a 'regular thing'.

Obama needs to seize the day and turn this terrible tide.

The Secret Diary of Lady Eleanor aged 11 and a Half

2012-11-26T15:10:00.001+00:00

Saturday 27th October.

The humans, a man and a woman, arrived at a nice remote house in the French countryside after a full day of chauffeuring me from London. I instantly caught the smell of Guillaume's mum, 'maybe this was where she was when she wasn't visiting' I thought. I'm such a clever cat because moments later I saw her and Guillaume walking to the car. Then, minutes later the carry box was open and I was free to explore...

...a few hours after that, exhausted from checking every inch of every room, I sat on Guillaume's lap and had a little nap. I think this new home is going to be fun.

Sunday 28th October.

Guillaume got out that stupid lead today and we walked around the garden. I was embarrassed to have to guide a full human adult around the place but this way at least he'll know the area and wont wander off. Afterwards, I led him inside and decided to sit staring at an empty spot on a wall. Humans hate when cats do this. I must have dozed off for a while because I awoke some hours later to a commotion from the kitchen. Annoyed at being disturbed I promptly went to investigate and found myself eye to eye with some strange red haired creature. Like me, it stood on four legs, but the whole creature was so tall and long. Far too big to be a cat. I was too tired to contemplate it, so as it approached me with it's big, black, wet nose I did what any lady would do: I punched him. He jumped back and looked to the humans for assurance but they just laughed at him. It occurred to me this creature might be 'a dog'. A mythical creature I had heard rumours of but never imagined could actually exist. Smelling his food I turned away from dog and ate it. I feel it's best if he understands from the start that I'm boss. His food was amazing and I ate the whole bowl. Feeling full I went back to staring at the wall.

Saturday 3rd of November.

Daddy left today and gave me so many kisses goodbye. I miss him and other daddy very much but this afternoon I have Dog as my companion. Dog follows me everywhere. It's like he's a US secret serviceman shadowing me ready to leap out and take a bullet in the chest to save me. I find him quite sweet now and even let him eat some of his food occasionally.

Outside, I've discovered lizards and have taken to pulling their tails off. Gotta have a hobby. I have eleven so far and thought about making a necklace for dog

Sunday 4th of November

I was in the garden rubbing my face against things when out the corner of my eye I saw a quick flash of grey. Never one to move too quickly I padded off to the spot and to my surprise I saw a tiny mouse sat staring at me. Some instinct kicked in and I pounced but the mouse made a run for it. Quick as lightening he scurried into a thick bush and out of my claws' grasp. I'd seen his kind once before in my youth; I recalled they tasted good and humans love them as gifts. I will keep an eye out for more of them.

Monday 5th of November

This morning, I awoke in my warm little box with a sudden urge to climb a tree. I was itching to be allowed out and shouted until my human appeared. Eventually, the door opened and I got my chance. I decided to start with the one by the pool, I figured if I fell, the blue pool cover would make for a comfy landing. (I found it not unlike sunbathing on a giant waterbed yesterday). One paw at a time I heaved my tiny frame up the bark. It wasn't without drama, but I found a high branch to perch on a watch over my new kingdom. As ever, dog patrolled nearby sniffing fervently still trying to work me out. From up there he looked quite small. Then I saw it, only for a fleeting moment but I am in no doubt about it. There was a set of eyes peering at me from the forest, eyes like mine. Then as soon as I saw them they were gone. I wasn't scared then. I'm not scared now. They seemed kind, wise and lonely all at once. I hope I see them again tomorrow.

Tuesday 6th of November.

No eyes all day and not much of anything. The surprisingly sunny days may be over and the unsurprising rainy days upon us. I watched my human mum cook and demanded she feed me for much of the waking part of the day. I stared at the wall a bit and thought about my London humans. I hope they are managing without me, the two of them are going to bored very without me to serve and look after.

Thursday 8th of November.

The rain let up so I decided to go on a mouse-hunt. I thought I'd have the best chance of catching the mouse if I just sat unmoving for a few hours. Not a challenge to cat like me. Barely 10 minutes had passed when I saw him edging through the grass before me.

The instinct kicked in again as powerful as before and I leapt to block his escape and then charged at him. Though he quickly scurried away, I had him on my second attack. I let go and let him run bit further before tossing him in the air. A third attack and my mouth was full of the delicious mouse taste. A fourth dash for freedom and a fourth cat attack and then he went limp in my jaws. The little heartbeat I'd barely registered a moment ago, now resounded silently in my ears. I was shocked, thrilled and surprised at my own ability. All these years as a house cat and I still had it. I was walking proudly back to offer my gift to my new human when I saw the eyes again. A sleek and beautiful black cat stepped forward from the shadows and watched me unblinking. She was a girl like me only she wasn't a domestic cat, this I was sure of. I could smell only the nature and the outdoors on her. It was as if she had never been touched by a human. I stepped tentatively forward just as the house door opened and out bounded the brainless dog. My little black friend vanished from sight and dog sniffed the patch where she had been standing. He looked at me and tilted his head curiously. I tilted my head too in response. Our conversation over he ran after an imaginary car and barked at nothing. I delivered my gift to my human who shrieked with joy and placed the mouse in a special box in the kitchen. Must be where she hides her treasures. It had been a busy day by feline standards so I curled up in my box and fell asleep.

Friday 9th of November.

One of my daddies voices keeps coming out of a strange picture box in the living room. My new human talks to it and it talks back in his voice. It's very confusing... Has guillaume been turned into a 'mac book' as I have heard it called? He supposed to be in London trimming humans head-fur. Aside from this my day has been restful. I have been stroked and fed and stroked some more. I'm all purred out.

Saturday 11th of November.

I was looking in the garage for some newspaper to sit on when I sensed I wasn't alone. Turning around I saw black cat stepping delicately into the space. She seemed very uncertain so I leapt down from the shelf and made my way confidently to her. She held her ground and we had a little sniff of each other. There was the faint scent of another cat on her and I could tell this was a lost companion. I understood the sadness in her eyes. I decided at once she should live with the human, dog and me but as I thought it she glanced uneasily around the garage and signaled for me to follow her back into the open. She's a feral cat and detests human dwellings, I couldn't expect her to live with us here. We walked a little, side by side, around the edge of the garden and I showed her my lizard tails. She politely feigned interest before offering to settle down and groom me. When the two of us were washed from head to paw we ate some grass and vomited up fur-balls. All in all it had been a glorious few hours. Black cat had to go but I was sure she would return. As she slipped through the fence and off to the forest I heard my human call me and I went inside. That evening I dreamt of forest adventures with black cat and only stirred when my human lifted me off her lap and placed me in my cosy box for the night.

Monday 12th of November.

Two days with no black cat and a lot of grim rain. Dog still follows me around but seems more at ease with me being here. I worry about Black cat out in the cold but she seemed healthy enough... She must have a shelter out there somewhere. I dozed in my cosy warm box and tried to imagine it. Could it be better than this? I doubt it. Maybe!

Tuesday 13th of November.

A dry day at last and black cat appeared at the edge of the forest. She hadn't seen me on my new perch up the tree. Her black fur was dry and sleek, cleaner than I thought possible for a forest cat. Though she was thin she looked quite healthy and well. I leapt down to her level and met her at the wire gate, her sad eyes lit up and she pressed her cheek to mine. We walked again around the garden and climbed the big tree at the front. It looked too challenging at first but black cat made it look easy and I followed her elegant steps. I arrived on the branch a little shaken and looked at her anew. In the fading sunlight she looked resplendent, proud and happy. We sat side by side and watched the distant criss-crossing of cars. I feel safe with black cat and I wish so much she could live here with us.

Later, I found myself fearing for Black cat out in the forest. Rain lashed the windows and the wind howled at the shutters. It was warm in the house but deathly cold outside. I hope she is ok.

Wednesday 14th November.

Black cat arrived today looking unwell, tired and hungry; so very different from yesterday. We shared some food that had been left out for dog but I could see she really needed warmth. She ventured with me into the garage and we curled up together until I felt the warmth return to her little body. I groomed her a little but she never completely relaxed. All the household noises I was so accustomed to made her edgy and uneasy. Warm now, and stronger from the food we ventured to the gate to say goodbye. She pressed her cheek to mine and turned to leave. Suddenly, I was afraid I would never see her again. That without another warm body she would freeze out there. I followed her through the gate venturing for the first time towards the forest.

Black cat turned and saw me. She looked at me her little face filled with anger, she hissed and charged me, boxing my face with her paws. I scurried back to the gate unhurt but startled. She bounded fast into the forest and shot me one last look before vanishing into the trees. I understood. She didn't hurt me, she just wanted me safe. She saw me as a domestic cat incapable of living in the wild. Maybe she was right. But, she was a wild cat who couldn't live in-doors who might die alone in the wild. Something has to change.

Thursday 15th of November.

Dog knows something is up. I think he might be smarter than he looks. He's seen me looking out the window for black cat and he has started watching out for her too. When we're outside together he sits near the gate or patrols the side wall as if trying to keep me here. He's right to stop me, although I'm itching to go find black cat and see that she's safe I would likely die out there alone.

This morning, I heard daddies voice through the 'mac book' and my heart ached. I have come so far these last few weeks and as much as I miss my London life and love my new home I am thinking about my next life. Lady Eleanor of the forest. It has a ring to it.

In the afternoon I practiced my hunting and killed four mice and a lizard. I also climbed each tree in the garden again and again until I could do it with ease, grace and speed.

Dog sat by me tonight while I stared at the wall, I almost heard him say 'please don't leave'.

No news of black cat.

Friday 16th of November.

I saw black cat through the window and begged to be let out. Thankfully my new human must understand some cat language because she opened the door.

Black cat was thinner and colder than the last time she came and when we curled together in the garage I could hear her laboured breath. As before we stayed there, wrapped in each's soft fur until she was warm again. Then, as her breathing returned to normal, I gently groomed her. She was still uncomfortable in the garage surrounded by all the strange human objects, but she was too weak to resist. Eventually, she fell asleep. My food was inside the house and I was certain I couldn't persuade black cat to come in, so instead I patrolled a mouse hole by the wood shed. The timing was perfect because I'd barely arrived when I saw a fat mouse gnawing on some fruit peel. I was quick and merciless and made no sport of the meal. With the fat mouse hanging from my jaws I ran next door to the garage where black cat was now sat awake, alert and afraid. Calmed by my presence and relieved by the sight of food she looked more like her old self. She ate slowly, looking up at me from time to time. She was impressed and surprised by me.

Time was approaching when my human would open the kitchen door and call me in. I had made my decision. I looked at black cat and let my eyes tell her what we were going to do. I hardened my resolve as her eyes scolded me. Then I saw her relent. She pressed her cheek to mine and bowed her head. I looked around the garage at the man made life I was leaving behind. I summoned the faces of my humans to mind and hoped that they would understand why I had to leave. Black cat and I walked together through the wire gate across the path and into the forest.

I turned one last time and whispered my final goodbye.

Posted with Blogsy

How the World Would Have Voted

2012-11-08T13:57:00.001+00:00

With the US election done and dusted I was curious to look at who wanted the Republicans to win - I discovered that internationally speaking, it was almost nobody (except Pakistan!)

Maybe surprising maybe not surprising...

Enjoy.

New Christmas Party Liquid Diet Plan: It Really works!

2012-11-06T20:58:00.001+00:00

With Christmas parties approaching every civilised member of society is now weighed down with worry: What to wear? Well, this is a question I'm going to 'skirt' around (see what I did there) and direct your attention to the the fact you could wear anything if you we're super skinny! But you're not you're a fatty-bum-bum! So don't worry about the outfit, just worry about your weight instead!

Now that your self esteem is at an all time low I, like thousands of glossy magazines before me, will flog you a novelty diet to help you look like the unrealistic ideal self image you have fixed in your minds eye.

So here it is:-

Robert's Mega Good Guide to Drinking Yourself Skinny!

Sweet Red Russian
Let's start with something simple. I read somewhere that cranberries are good for something and Mary Poppins said a spoonful of sugar was good (with medicine) so mix the white stuff into the cranberry juice and then add crap loads of vodka. Easy.
Taste rating: Tooth decay never tasted so good.
Expected weight loss: 16lbs an hour
Bonus: Might ease vaginal thrush

Bean Going Crazy
Coffee brings the walking dead back to life so this drink is a certain winner. Make an espresso and let it cool on the side while you get to it. Martini glasses are for wimps so grab a pint glass and pour generously vodka, gin, martini and kahlua. Ideally served cold but who has time for ice! Bung in the espresso and neck it.
Taste rating: If 'death' came in a flavour
Expected weight loss: A kidney a week
Bonus: You can recycle your wee into fuel.

A Bankers Bevvy

Rich, famous people are usually thin (except Kim Kardashion who looks like she's smuggling bean bags in her butt cheeks) and they drink champagne so this one is a no-brainer. Get some £2945 champagne from your local Fortnum and Masons and then pour into a platinum bucket. Add Chambord and diamonds and drink the whole lot through a crystal straw. Best served with sunshine and a private yacht.
Taste rating: Utterly tasteless but too rich to care
Expected weight loss: Huge, mainly from Wallet.
Bonus: You might choke to death on the diamonds.

The Blood Shake
When you're sick Berocca and chicken soup help, right? Yeah, you know where this is going. Get a chicken Cup-a-soup and a Berocca and drop them into a pint glass. Add red wine and stir until the mixture looks like bubbling blood clots. Add some white spirit and mint leaves for taste.
Taste rating: Ask a cannibal
Expected weight loss: All of it
Bonus: After this, a zombie apocalypse wouldn't be a big deal

The True Size of Africa, Illustrated.

2012-11-04T23:09:00.001+00:00

So why is Africa always needing our help? Why is this continent so entrenched in poverty? Maybe it's got something to do with it's size... It's actually incomprehensibly gigantic! And what's more... The policies of western countries to seize swathes of Africa during the rush for empires led to a level an unprecedented level of chaos. We literally stormed in, robbed, raped and murdered in a desperate attempt to grow fat and rich off the continent. So, when you next complain about an African children's charity asking for donations on the x-factor ad break, remember you are living in a world built on the resources and wealth we stole from them.

I found this awesome graphic online today that shows the true scale of Africa. A big country, and a big country we owe a huge debt of gratitude to.

Enjoy!

Posted with Blogsy

Really Shit Offer: Buy Botox From The Hospital Group and get...

2012-10-15T14:57:00.003+01:00

I went to Western Eye Hospital and all I got was a blog post and Blepharitis

2012-10-05T00:08:00.001+01:00

So, here I am. Sat in the gruesome hospital waiting area. I note the walls are painted a weird shade of glaucoma and the chip wood furniture is the colour of bile. Between the shiny black circles of prehistoric chewing gum I can see what might have once been a mauve carpet. I'm not sure. The ceiling panels have those peculiar 'coffee stains' which make no sense as coffee stains cannot end up on a ceiling. What ever else they are I dread to think. A 12 month old copy of Tatler is on the MDF table besides me and judging from it's frayed pages I estimate it is the most infectious thing here. I sanitise my hands. Again.

Why am I here? Well it's not just any old hospital... It's an eye hospital. I, dear reader, am writing this post with two throbbing eyes and one thumping headache. I hope that shows that I am a committed and selfless blogger. After a traumatic examination from my optician I was referred here. She said 'go ASAP', I waited til after work. She said 'pressing on your optic nerve', I heard 'brain tumour'. She said '...disease' I stopped listening. Seriously, is my life not busy enough... I don't have time to die... I still have to choose what fabric I want for the curtains and build that bookcase from fruit crates. Priorities, people!

Looking around I am disappointed there's no one with a pirate style eye patch. This is the least you expect to see in freakin eye hospital. Gabrielle lied, Dreams can't come true!

It's at the commencement of writing this paragraph I notice, in ironically small writing on the wall, a sign that explains the typical waiting time. Two to three fucking hours. Two to three motherfucking hours. I'll be sightless by then and the tumour will have ballooned out my nose and ears like sausage meat. I feel I am staring death in the face and his face is blurry because I had to take my glasses off to clean them. Death's face isn't as scary as the horror of that waiting time scrawled on the wall. I look past death, who I realise is just a bald man with sunburn, and see if the receptionist is amenable to bribery. She's reading the NEW Vanity Fair. The NEW one with Katie Holmes looking all giraffe-like on the cover. Bitch! The receptionist, not Katie! Still, if the bitch-vanity-fair-reading-receptionist is the kind of woman to keeps the good magazines for herself she's likely to be receptive to bribery. I have a voucher for £2.35 worth of hot drinks from the M&S cafe and a Mail newspapers ball point pen. I'm about to approach when I hear 'woberht macaffaway'. A lady is standing in the doorway to what I assumed was a broom closet calling something similar to my name. I take a risk and go to her. She addresses me direct 'you woberht?', 'yes' I reply thinking, 'maybe'. Into the broom closet we stride. Ugh, more glaucoma walls this time with corpse-blue coloured curtains hanging between booths. I am not being examined... I am being interviewed:

'wahyooalerjikthoo?'
'I'm sorry what, now?'
'Wah yoo alerjik to?
'Oh!!! What am I allergic too!! Well just pollen and duck eggs'
'Latex?'
'No, duck eggs'
'Latex'
'No, ummm duck... Quack quack! Eggs' points to arse for no logical reason
'Ahhhh duk-exx'.

...and so it went on until I was marched back to the waiting area Tenko style (well done if you get that particular reference).

Once I'm back in my seat all the other patients spontaneously decide to play musical chairs and I find myself with elderly neighbours. The couple to my left mumble about the appalling wait and the lady to my right strikes up a conversation. She's Sheila and last time she was here, four years ago, she waited '92 hours over 3 days to be seen'. I do the maths in my head and conclude Sheila has the power to bend and manipulate time. Sheila explains she's here because she's seeing double and she goes on to highly recommends her optician in Camden, he's called Robert too. I'm told to ask for him and tell him Sheila sent me.

Eventually, Sheila tires of me and picks up the infected Tatler. She either reads exceptionally fast or is just scanning each page for pictures. I see her halt and draw the page to within an inch if her nose to see better the bare torso of a man in a fitness article. Sheila may be close to 200 years old but she and I can still spot a hotty with our dysfunctional eyes. My attention wanders the room before Sheila asks me out of the blue, 'do you like rock music?' An hour later and a conversation that has covered Australia, Dubai, America, two divorces, west end theatre, Manchester coal pits, interior design, call girls, Scottish farming and the V&A is halted by the arrival of my Guillaume.

I am saved.

Maybe another hour of waiting passes before some excitement. 10 patients names are called at once and we are herded into a lift. My theory: the NHS now treats patients collectively, hosing you in medicine and hoping for the best. Those who fail to respond to treatment are rolled into mass graves and set alight. I'm waiting for the hose, it never comes. Instead we arrive at yet another waiting area. This one has walls white: like Hollywood teeth, with a Lino floor: pink like infected gums.

An agitated patient begins to cry because she can't bear the wait any longer. The scene turns from comic to tragic - she begs to be seen because her daughter and grandchild need to get home and the little boy has a big school trip tomorrow. Maybe rightly so, but not nicely so, she is told to wait. There are three patients before her and I'm thinking I'm number two. Turns out I'm right and the big moment has come... My name is announced 'Mr. MaarCaarFraaaay' ...no time to correct... Am I gonna die? Will the fruit box shelves be my swan song? Test after test is ran by a man so northern he is off the chart (and yet he still southernised my surname!) Peaking out from under his flat cap he has a eager pleasant way about him and states that I have waited three hours and now I get his undivided attention. I feel his bedside manner will deliver my horrible news with a delicate charm. I am ready to hear the worst.

So I ask, 'what is doc?'

He replies, 'You have blepharitis!'

I stare vacantly.

'Basically... you have eye-dandruff'.

Posted with Blogsy

My Big Gay Scandal: The Confession.

2012-09-18T00:34:00.001+01:00

I'm going to treat you to a story from my dusty bookshelf of memories. This particular yarn will be familiar to a few readers and some might have even lived it with me. For this latter reason I will change the names of those involved to hide their identities.

So, why am I sharing this? Wrong question. Why am I sharing this now? The issue of fidelity and questions of blame, repercussion and consequence have hung in the air in recent weeks. I am left, watching from the sidelines, with my dusty storybook eager to be opened. Its lessons, eager to be shared. Are you sitting comfortably? Shall we begin?

It's was a grim autumn in 2005 and I had been working for Skittles Theatre company for eight months since leaving Blackpool. It was a summer like no other travelling up and down the country performing day in, day out and not having a care in the world. My second tour of Alice in Wonderland was finished and my Tour Manager Natasha and I were heading back to the Scottish head office ready to dive straight into pantomime rehearsals. We arrived late pulling into the accommodation car park eager for our beds but the troublesome van had other ideas. The back doors jammed, trapping our cases. I had to sneak through a side opening the size of toilet window to essentially kick open the doors from the inside. All the while the new cast of my pantomime watched from the porch all dressed in their pyjamas. When our cases were finally free I got to meet my new cast properly looking slightly worse for wear. They included two veterans like me: tour manager Alison, cast member Ceri, and two company first timers, David and Elle. It was David and Elle who immediately drew me in and caught my eye as 'my kind of people'. They knew each other from before joining, even auditioned together, and couldn't believe their luck at getting cast alongside each other in Cinderella. Despite already having a bond they welcomed me and we became a terrible trio in no time. That first night we hit the bottle while Alison and Ceri retreated to bed. We didn't 'hit the bottle' in a big-boozy-idiot way, but just enough that established the divide in the cast. Us three kids and those two adults.

From that first night I was attracted to David who, with his blue eyes, slim build and blond (highlighted) hair was exactly my type. I went to bed that night thrilled at the thought of what lay ahead with this tour and thrilled to have hit it off so well with my two new team-mates.

The next morning began stupidly early and I awoke to David pottering around and then finally straightening his hair into a giant manga-esque quiff. I was enjoying the sacred routine so much I left myself hardly anytime to get ready. Wash, jogging bottoms, split sole shoes, t-shirt and company jacket... It was rehearsals, not tea at the Ritz. I was done! Alison, Ceri, Elle, David and me all piled into the van and a week of intense rehearsals began.

Seventy litres of blood, sweat and tears later we had completed our dress rehearsal and set off for Wakefield. Hitting the road after rehearsals always felt like being let out of prison. Rehearsals were great fun, don't get me wrong, but we craved autonomy and an audience. That first week in Wakefield would offer all this and more.

Elle, David and I were a little drunk and I was on massage duty. In various states of modest undress it was supposed to be quite innocent but the sexual subtext is clear in retrospect. After rubbing Elle's back she got up to get something and out the room we heard a thud as she banged her head on a low ceiling. Drama followed before she went to bed leaving David and I alone. With the party atmosphere fading we decided to go to our room and call it a night. With the door closed a return massage quickly turned into something else and a next thing I know our secret affair had begun. David was in 'the closet' and refused even to let Elle know about are newly blossoming relationship. It was our little secret. Over the coming weeks we stole an hour here, a weekend there and every night when we shut the door it was our time with each other. I did fall in love with him, no question of it, and I suspect he loved me too but hiding our relationship and him being 'newly gay' caused a few issues. But, I marched ahead blindly because I was like an idiot puppy thrilled by his attention and thrilled by the secrecy. I wanted him to tell Elle because I was sure she'd be okay with him being gay. It didn't make sense why he thought otherwise. But, I had to respect his wishes.

Then like all secrets, cracks appear and people start to glimpse a hidden truth. Elle had been watching us, our body language, smiles, glances, and figured something was going on, had even confronted David but he had denied it. She began to think herself mad with these denials coupled with mounting evidence and took a bold and staggering decision. One night as we slept in the one bed she literally kicked the door in. What she saw was two men asleep in one bed but her reaction was as if she found a bloodied corpse. She was crying, sick, hysterical and to my surprise, David was beside himself. Unprepared for such drama I left them to sort it out between them, after all we hadn't hurt anyone. Barely shifting in the single bed I went back to sleep only to be woken maybe an hour later by David. 'You need to come downstairs' he said, 'I need to explain'.

You may have figured out what comes next but I wearily trudged down the stairs in the dead of the night oblivious to what I was about to hear. At opposite ends of a large living room Elle and I faced each other on sofas while David sat on a chair between us. Silence. Then, prompted by Elle to 'confess', David proceed to tell me a story.

It would seem that before Elle and David joined Skittles Theatre company they hadn't just known each other, hadn't just been friends, but had actually been boyfriend and girlfriend. Upon getting the job they had decided to hide the ongoing relationship to avoid awkwardness. While I was sleeping with David, he was sleeping with Elle.

I was speechless, finally the penny dropped. Why I had to be his secret! Why he wouldn't tell Elle! Why she was so curious! Why she reacted so badly! My heart shattered but I couldn't grieve, I couldn't allow myself to feel aggrieved. I was an unwilling perpetrator in the deception that left Elle in ruins before me. She was the victim, not me! David was the deceiver and the cheat and I somehow had awoken that night 'the other woman' but never the victim.

The days that followed revealed David had played an exceptionally skilled game fooling us both for weeks, but that eventually Elle caught glimpses of the truth when he started pulling away from her. Being young, angry, competitive and heart broken I saw this 'pulling away' admission as my cue to take the spoils for myself but Elle would not permit us any unsupervised contact. Sleeping with the door open while she roamed the corridors checking in on us. It sounds insane but that was what happened. Elle was out of her mind and David and I had driven her there. Why did I even want him? Maybe I felt som misguided need to 'win' his affections over Elle, maybe I wanted to salvage something from the disaster or maybe I couldn't stop loving him.

Then like a giant tear through the narrative that was my life, these events were eclipsed by the sudden death of my Father. My sister called my mobile as we refuelled at a petrol station and delivered the devastating news. There, under the bright lights of the forecourt and the twin beams of the van, I dropped to the Tarmac. My head was spinning like I had been dragged from one surreal reality into another more so. My legs were no longer mine to control. I think I cried, I think I cried hysterically. The next few hours are missing but my memory unfogs later that night when Elle and David deliver me a copy of the Guardian, a bottle of Red wine and 20 Marlboro lights to my room. This simple gift so well timed and so me, was all the sweeter because it was from the two of them. Our little union seemed somehow restored. That night as I tried to sleep so far from home, my family and the source of my grief, David held me in his arms. Elle had called a truce on the patrols and turned a blind eye to the broken hearted.

I returned home for the funeral and was replaced by another actor for a few days. Never long out of contact with David I planned to return earlier than I had to so I could have a weekend alone with him! It seems wrong to ditch my family at such a time but I needed to be with the man I loved while I could. Another two days and we would be back to hiding our affections and being consumed by Elle's ongoing, justified paranoia. So, selfishly, I left my grieving family and made my way to a new accommodation where David was waiting. That weekend, that house and every moment with David is carved deeply into my memory. The feelings of betraying Elle, betraying my family and losing my father melted away as I escaped into the fantasy. It was two days of just us free to be together and free to be normal. I fell more in love than I thought possible and had no doubt in my mind this could work out for us.

Alison, Ceri and Elle returned late Sunday night and my little holiday from reality ended. By now all I had to look forward to was the party at the end of the season, I was now an orphan in love with a man I couldn't touch. The masquerade went on.

Elle and I had been victims of David's twisted betrayal but now I was betraying her too in my mind and in my heart. I hated that she still cried and I hated that I didn't. More than all that I hated myself for becoming all that I despised. I had no self respect to be carrying on or even wanting to carry on with such a scumbag. I was wrapped up in myself and my relationships at the expense of my own family and was stupid to believe it could all somehow end happily ever after like the shows we performed.

It ended with me broken hearted, humiliated and alone after David unsurprisingly finished with me on the last day of our tour. The contract ended and so did our illicit affair. The end of season party was a bittersweet celebration and a final fling before I was discarded and left alone in an empty remote scottish cottage. I cried for all the shame I had inflicted upon myself and I cried because my rescuer, saviour, lover and torturer had gone. It was months before I was no longer in love with David and actually saw him for the wretch he actually was. In the end I felt sorry for him. Later I would remember a drive on that last day together. It was just David and I heading to the end of season show with our suits in his car. We had stayed a single night at his parents (separately of course) and this hour as we drove down the motorway was all the 'gay' he would permit himself. The closet is a dark and lonely place and if you stay there too long and only step out occasionally to cause pain and havoc then your soul will wither and grow dark. Sadly, David's soul was black and all the colours of the rainbow would never make it right.

The single important thing this dusty book taught me in all the times I have revisited it: is that we all get hurt equally, even those inflicting the pain and we all pay the heaviest price in our conscience, especially those inflicting the pain.

Posted with Blogsy

Cardenio Review (The Rose Theatre / Aporia Theatre Collective)

2012-09-17T00:41:00.001+01:00

It's not all tube strangers and hula hoop letters here at Minty Bit Stronger. I also like to occasionally offer up some culture to feed my readers vociferous intellectual appetites. The culture I speak of is theatrical in this instance. A play called Cardenio, arguably a lost Shakespeare masterpiece, being performed at the spooky Rose Theatre.

Cardenio could be described as a play about two women who share little similarity besides their mistreatment and objectification by men; conceivably a one act tragedy about feminine rebellion in an age of accepted misogyny. This is what I took for my truth. A play so rich and beautifully complex as Cardenio has any number of themes to satiate a theatre goers thirst. The themes of power, ownership, fidelity and duty sit alongside themes of love, family, sacrifice and honour.

The title character Cardenio (Matt Gibbs) and Luscinda (Paloma Oakenfold) are in love, but she is passionately desired by King Fernando (Ryan Burkwood). The King has the power to take her and is given license to do so by Luscinda's own power hungry conniving mother, Helvetia (Chris Range). But the King resists because he would prefer Luscinda to come to him of her own volition. The play spins forth from here with melodrama and grace in equal measure. The two women battling for control of their own destinies.

Cardenio is beautifully performed and staged in a venue dripping with history and archeological ruin. The actors are ghosts forced to replay their Jacobean tragedy down the shadow of history. The representative style of performance sits well with the text and the influence of feudal Japan lends a fresh perspective and elegance. The climatic, final few minutes illicit disgust, horror and surprise but the journey to them shows human nature beautifully in a way only a great ensemble working with a great director can.

Cardenio runs until the 29th September 2012
Tickets are available at www.rosetheatre.org.uk
www.aporiatheatre.com/index.html

Posted with Blogsy

Blackpool looking Beautiful

2012-09-14T14:17:00.001+01:00

While visiting my home town of Blackpool I took these pictures…

On and off for the last week I have tweaked them on the iPhone photography apps ‘Instagram’, 'big lens', 'iPhoto' ‘Tiny planets’ and ‘Lens Flare’ to produce the following gallery.

I hope you like!