This article made me smile. Here are a selection of the things that the Indy had as being British.
Alcopops: Not saying that alcopops aren't a British thing, but I had a lot more alcopop experience in Asia. I have a really strange vivid memory of being at Takashimaya with my best friend, stuck for a bottle opener. We spent ages trying to work out how to get the damned things open, before someone made a muscle and opened it on their arm. A decade later, a friend showed me how the bottom of disposable lighters could double as a bottle opener, and it took me back to that moment, when I really could have used that knowledge.
In England we always used to talk about cider, by which I don't mean Magners, or Aspall (my preference). The talk was of getting wasted "on the swings", which more often than not involved White Lightning. The alternative was MD 20/20. Gross.
Apologising: Very English, indeed. Sorry.
Cagoules: Apparently the proper name for pac-a-mac, now so British that even Burberry do them. I predict a resurgence when Will and Kate marry (the syntax of this statement makes me think of Mary-Kate, Ashley).
Corner Shops: Not just a band with an annoying hit.
Crumpets: I think this was a poor choice. What about iced buns, chelsea buns, hot cross buns, or buns in general?
While on the subject of bread-type foods, what about cucumber sandwiches?
Readers Wives: I had never even heard of this till I moved to the UK. Does this exist elsewhere?
The article itself got me thinking and here two other things I would have had:
- Well-scripted, progressive, topical television sitcoms (now advancing to the US). Examples would be Cold Feet, Queer as Folk, the Book Group and, more recently, the In-Betweeners and Misfits.
- Chavs
I'm sure I could think of more ... what would you add?
Showing posts with label LondonRandom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LondonRandom. Show all posts
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Monday, September 20, 2010
Commentary
Sometimes people who obviously don't know me at all express surprise that I'm a Guardian reader. From today on, I shall direct them to the comments in this article, rather than try to explain.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
No shit,
Over the last year, I've redeveloped an interest in television. There are the programmes I became obsessed with for the escapism they offered,the programmes that I know I'll become obsessed with during the next plateau, and now there's this.
There were only three episodes of Sherlock in season one, which must surely be an English peculiarity. After all, it can go from sunshine to hail in the course of one morning (and what could be more bizarre than English weather, discuss); why shouldn't a season last under five hours? Having said that, it was all over too soon and I am very grateful it's been commissioned for a second season. Even if Benedict Cumberbatch's Sherlock does remind me of Simon Amstell. Who can ever have too much Simon Amstell?
I also quite like this fake blog, which the beeb seems to have set up. It features comments from the ancillary characters, which absolutely panders to the geek in me. Bring on the next season - it's got to be more intelligent than my other guilty pleasures!
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Hate
C: "Is this XXX?"
Me: "Yes"
C: "Of # YYY Road?"
Me: "Yes"
C: "I live on YYY Road and am part of the residents committee and we've decided you're an unwelcome element"
Me: "ok"
C: "you're not welcome on YYY Road"
Me: "Ok"
C: *hangs up*
I call police. Then compliance, who cheerfully run the tapes and ask for a trace.
Me: "Yes"
C: "Of # YYY Road?"
Me: "Yes"
C: "I live on YYY Road and am part of the residents committee and we've decided you're an unwelcome element"
Me: "ok"
C: "you're not welcome on YYY Road"
Me: "Ok"
C: *hangs up*
I call police. Then compliance, who cheerfully run the tapes and ask for a trace.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The Hubs is Away, So I Will
... Work longer hours, apparently. This is the ultimate downside to dieting. Not going out means more time at desk. It's not the work that makes this an unbearable situation, that's ultimately by the by. The true desperation is in the commute home. When I leave my office ordinarily, it's about eight or nine in the evening. The city streets are peaceful and typically sparsely populated. The tube is typically less horrific than it is between 8-10 or 4-7 (this is mostly conjecture, but has been surported by the journeys I've taken at these times).
Last night, I walked out of the office into the rain, only to bump into some of the Assistants and Sales Traders on their way back to the office for their flat shoes or bags, having spent the evening at drinks or the gym. The streets were teaming with arrogants, and one in every three storefronts had a girl sat in its doorway, all akimbo. I tried to get a couple to move, even if only onto a dry surface, but tiredness, irritation and a general lack of grace prevented me trying too hard. I thought I'd pick up some food from Marks, only to discover that healthy food at ten is limited to dinners for two or bottles of red wine (a healthy heart is all a girl needs, I say). As I made my way to the tube, I realised that everyone around me was angry, drunk or eating junk food. Well, apart from the aged and alone or the mentally ill, who I always seem to see at Liverpool Street bus station. No wonder people are angry and judgemental.
On the upside, I just got asked for my number by a hottie in dsquared. What was I talking about? This is a great place!
Last night, I walked out of the office into the rain, only to bump into some of the Assistants and Sales Traders on their way back to the office for their flat shoes or bags, having spent the evening at drinks or the gym. The streets were teaming with arrogants, and one in every three storefronts had a girl sat in its doorway, all akimbo. I tried to get a couple to move, even if only onto a dry surface, but tiredness, irritation and a general lack of grace prevented me trying too hard. I thought I'd pick up some food from Marks, only to discover that healthy food at ten is limited to dinners for two or bottles of red wine (a healthy heart is all a girl needs, I say). As I made my way to the tube, I realised that everyone around me was angry, drunk or eating junk food. Well, apart from the aged and alone or the mentally ill, who I always seem to see at Liverpool Street bus station. No wonder people are angry and judgemental.
On the upside, I just got asked for my number by a hottie in dsquared. What was I talking about? This is a great place!
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Vernacular
Today I was reading this article on neologisms of the noughties, which didn't include "Bling", "Brangelina", "That's Hot" or "James Blunt". Here are some of my favourites, in catergories.
Catergory A - ones that I think have amazing social relevance, though often especially in the context of where they originated:
drink-link (UK campus) a cash dispenser;
cuddle puddle (New York) a heap of exhausted ravers;
barbecue stopper (Australia) an issue of major public importance, which will excite the interest of voters;
pumping party (Miami) illegal gatherings where plastic surgeons give back-street injections of silicone, botox etc;
California licence plate (US) a tattoo on the lower back;
set-jetter (UK) someone who goes on a holiday to a particular place simply because he's read about it or seen it in a film or on television;
nom de womb (US) a name used by an expectant parent to refer to their unborn child;
shock and hee-haw (US) explosive devices under satchels on donkeys;
flusher (US) a volunteer who rounds up non-voters on Election Day
Catergory B - ones I would use:
menoporsche (UK) the phenomenon of middle-aged men attempting to recapture their lost youth by buying an expensive sports car;
dog-whistle politics (Australia) to present your message so that only your supporters hear it properly;
New York rain (Hong Kong) water that drips annoyingly from air-conditioners onto passers-by;
Harry Potter a poker hand containing a Jack and a King (after JK Rowling);
Anna Kournikova when an Ace and King are held (allegedly so called because it looks a good hand but in fact rarely wins anything)
Catergory C - ones I have used:
trout pout (UK) the effects of collagen injections that produce prominent, comically oversized lips resembling those of a dead fish;
meh (US, from "The Simpsons") boring, apathetic or unimpressive;
cougar (Canada) an older woman on the prowl, preferably for a younger man;
Anna Kournikova when an Ace and King are held (allegedly so called because it looks a good hand but in fact rarely wins anything) - though in a different context.
Catergory A - ones that I think have amazing social relevance, though often especially in the context of where they originated:
drink-link (UK campus) a cash dispenser;
cuddle puddle (New York) a heap of exhausted ravers;
barbecue stopper (Australia) an issue of major public importance, which will excite the interest of voters;
pumping party (Miami) illegal gatherings where plastic surgeons give back-street injections of silicone, botox etc;
California licence plate (US) a tattoo on the lower back;
set-jetter (UK) someone who goes on a holiday to a particular place simply because he's read about it or seen it in a film or on television;
nom de womb (US) a name used by an expectant parent to refer to their unborn child;
shock and hee-haw (US) explosive devices under satchels on donkeys;
flusher (US) a volunteer who rounds up non-voters on Election Day
Catergory B - ones I would use:
menoporsche (UK) the phenomenon of middle-aged men attempting to recapture their lost youth by buying an expensive sports car;
dog-whistle politics (Australia) to present your message so that only your supporters hear it properly;
New York rain (Hong Kong) water that drips annoyingly from air-conditioners onto passers-by;
Harry Potter a poker hand containing a Jack and a King (after JK Rowling);
Anna Kournikova when an Ace and King are held (allegedly so called because it looks a good hand but in fact rarely wins anything)
Catergory C - ones I have used:
trout pout (UK) the effects of collagen injections that produce prominent, comically oversized lips resembling those of a dead fish;
meh (US, from "The Simpsons") boring, apathetic or unimpressive;
cougar (Canada) an older woman on the prowl, preferably for a younger man;
Anna Kournikova when an Ace and King are held (allegedly so called because it looks a good hand but in fact rarely wins anything) - though in a different context.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Thomas
This is what I got as a gift for my friend's baby's Christening.
I am very proud of it.
The baby's name is Thomas.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
**cringe**
Tonight I went to London Cringe, which is essentially a night where people read from their teenage diaries and MY GOD it is brilliant. The majority of the readers are women, which is unsurprising. Two of the three male readers were of the port out starboard home variety, and the other a gay Geordie. Talk about transcending the class divide in Britain. One read about his boarding school experience and eventual first girlfriend at Uppingham, the other provided insight into the teenage male psyche with readings from a diary that was 80% football statistics, 14% schoolyard football victories, 3% girls and 3% friends. The forty year old Geordie took us back to when skin tight canvas trousers were the in thing and told of how he had proudly left the house in them only to find they were so tight he couldn't get his bus money out of the pocket.
Two girls from Norwich opened the night, and I actually recognised one of the characters in their tale as a friend of a guy I dated, Aaron. God, I wonder what became of him. He was sweet. I realise that's akin to saying he was damned. Still. Nervy. I asked her after and she didn't know what had become of him. I wonder if this is the beginnings of a facebook stalk. Tricky since I no longer remember his last name. Shocking.
Most of the stories read were fron when people were thirteen or so. I fancy that my diaries of the time would have been somewhat different. In my warped recollection, 1993 was not a great year for me. I had just started secondary school and felt like a perpetual failure. I wasn't pretty enough, or cool (enough or at all). It was actually my make or break year. That year I went on the Creative Arts Programme, and was tasked with writing something to include the immortal lines "and it was a chicken". Most people wrote haikus or plays. Syntaxfree and I wrote an immensely sexualised epic poem that I think we actually submitted. It featured cameos from every A lister at the time (I distinctly remember a Keanu Reeves/Speed reference). The year after that I got streamed into the dumber-kids class at school and decided academics weren't my future.
Anyhow, the readers last night were aged between 25 and 40. The direct quotes from their teenage diaries included lines like, "Connecting sex and love, that's where all the problems start", "What's the difference between a dick and a vagina?" (from a 13 year old Catholic school girl) and "he was so sexy, a mix of X, X, X and Alan Johnson". There was the Bromley love story, on which a date involved simulated rape in bushes, and a birthday party where someone was given six beers (a six-pack, then?). I can't possibly do it enough justice here, since so much of the humour lay in the horror and self depreciation of the readers, but it was absolutely brilliant. Even better, it was free! Who says a good time can't be had for the price of a beer in London?!
Two girls from Norwich opened the night, and I actually recognised one of the characters in their tale as a friend of a guy I dated, Aaron. God, I wonder what became of him. He was sweet. I realise that's akin to saying he was damned. Still. Nervy. I asked her after and she didn't know what had become of him. I wonder if this is the beginnings of a facebook stalk. Tricky since I no longer remember his last name. Shocking.
Most of the stories read were fron when people were thirteen or so. I fancy that my diaries of the time would have been somewhat different. In my warped recollection, 1993 was not a great year for me. I had just started secondary school and felt like a perpetual failure. I wasn't pretty enough, or cool (enough or at all). It was actually my make or break year. That year I went on the Creative Arts Programme, and was tasked with writing something to include the immortal lines "and it was a chicken". Most people wrote haikus or plays. Syntaxfree and I wrote an immensely sexualised epic poem that I think we actually submitted. It featured cameos from every A lister at the time (I distinctly remember a Keanu Reeves/Speed reference). The year after that I got streamed into the dumber-kids class at school and decided academics weren't my future.
Anyhow, the readers last night were aged between 25 and 40. The direct quotes from their teenage diaries included lines like, "Connecting sex and love, that's where all the problems start", "What's the difference between a dick and a vagina?" (from a 13 year old Catholic school girl) and "he was so sexy, a mix of X, X, X and Alan Johnson". There was the Bromley love story, on which a date involved simulated rape in bushes, and a birthday party where someone was given six beers (a six-pack, then?). I can't possibly do it enough justice here, since so much of the humour lay in the horror and self depreciation of the readers, but it was absolutely brilliant. Even better, it was free! Who says a good time can't be had for the price of a beer in London?!
Sunday, January 03, 2010
Bistro Le JamTam 20100110
For New Years Eve the Hubs and I went to La Trompette. We're not big NYE people but Trompette is a consistent winner and has the added benefit of being walkable from the pad in my highest heels (though only just, and only if sober - I may have frostbite on my toe from the return journey). I still think that it's one of the best value restaurants in London, and the wine list is amazing (and cheap). I've never said it's the best restaurant, but as of 31 Dec 2009, it has become the restaurant with the best starter (since Anton Edelmann stopped doing the courgette flower stuffed with scallop mousseline). The starter was jerusalem artichoke filled with a seared slab of foie gras, covered with a chicken mousse which came decorated with shaved black truffle. It was so good that it made an otherwise unfriendly celebrity next to me feel like bonding.
Over dinner we agreed on our resolutions, and one of them was to do more Bistro le JamTam (ie. our weekend dates at home). The first was tonight and to inaugurate it we broke open a wine we'd been saving. Yum:
My inferior starter was a mild mushroom salad. I'd managed to score some porcini, morels and trompette from Andreas Georghiou:
It was easy peasy, cooked in olive oil and garlic with a sprinkling of oregano.
For the main, I'd tried out a tweaked recipe I found at my sister in law's. It was for roast veal. She's vegetarian. It worked!
This one was easy but did take some prep. It was marinated for 2 days in white wine, garlic, rosemary and sage. We had this with white asparagus, roasted butternut squash and courgette cooked in lemon juice and butter.
So far so good! Now it's just the exercise, promotions and tidiness to go!
Over dinner we agreed on our resolutions, and one of them was to do more Bistro le JamTam (ie. our weekend dates at home). The first was tonight and to inaugurate it we broke open a wine we'd been saving. Yum:
My inferior starter was a mild mushroom salad. I'd managed to score some porcini, morels and trompette from Andreas Georghiou:
It was easy peasy, cooked in olive oil and garlic with a sprinkling of oregano.
For the main, I'd tried out a tweaked recipe I found at my sister in law's. It was for roast veal. She's vegetarian. It worked!
This one was easy but did take some prep. It was marinated for 2 days in white wine, garlic, rosemary and sage. We had this with white asparagus, roasted butternut squash and courgette cooked in lemon juice and butter.
So far so good! Now it's just the exercise, promotions and tidiness to go!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
It's the Final Countdown (of the Noughties)...
How unbelievable is it that it's already coming up to the year that ends the first decade of the Millenium? It feels like only yesterday that I was dancing to 1999 at the end of 1999, not so long before my brother threw up on me while my mother and sister laughed. My family are cruel and unusual. Thinking back about life through the double oh's, a few things stood out:
- what seemed like a disproportionate number of celebrity deaths. That's got to be more dangerous than fishing!
- so much for Merry Christmas, War is Over. I can't remember a year in the last nine where there wasn't a war
- food got scientific, and then it got dull
- more people made like Eve than Adam and took a bite of the Apple
- terrorism became a way of life
- war was accepted as a necessary evil to achieve peace
- political leadership didn't depend on smarts, social skills or experience
- the economy
- bling ...
- ... and the backlash
There's so much more.
On another note, I have a busy, busy January ahead, how exciting!
- what seemed like a disproportionate number of celebrity deaths. That's got to be more dangerous than fishing!
- so much for Merry Christmas, War is Over. I can't remember a year in the last nine where there wasn't a war
- food got scientific, and then it got dull
- more people made like Eve than Adam and took a bite of the Apple
- terrorism became a way of life
- war was accepted as a necessary evil to achieve peace
- political leadership didn't depend on smarts, social skills or experience
- the economy
- bling ...
- ... and the backlash
There's so much more.
On another note, I have a busy, busy January ahead, how exciting!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Hunan
It's been awhile since I've had a restaurant worth writing about, but today the Hubs and I went to Hunan for lunch, the date he'd planned after three years of hinting (but he got it right!). Hunan specialises in small portion Chinese food, on a no-menu basis. The first thing I want to mention is that it was incredibly good value. This is hard to come by in London, but we had fourteen courses and two good half bottles of wine for a grand total of £100. The wine is the easiest to describe, there was an Albarino and a Pinot Noir. Both were excellent and both came to a grand total of £30. I always struggle to find a good wine for Chinese food - whites gets drowned out by spices and the reds drown out the non-spicy flavours. It was great to be able to get two good choices, plus Oolong tea, of course.
Forget the wine though. The food was the winner. Here's what we had (and did I say it came to £100 for both of us? With £30 in wine?):
- Minced chicken wrapped in lettuce
- Steamed bamboo cup soup with beef and pork dumplings (and fried shallots, oh my, yum)
- Salt & pepper green beans
- Spare ribs
- Spicy chilli beef
- Frogs legs with minced pork
- Sesame pork with plum sauce
- Steamed king prawns (this got the Hubs into such a tizzy that he offered to make all the cushions for the house. When I questioned this, he revealed that not only was he his school knitting champion for having knit a thirty foor snake, he was also the school cushion making champion, having knit fifty cushions. Six years and it's constant surprises. And hilarity)
- Spicy squid (with the yummy burned on the BBQ taste)
- Spinach rolls
- Beef & beans in sesame sauce
- Sea bass
- Crispy duck
- Apple & banana toffee fritters with chocolate ice cream
YUM. The only bad thing was that sometimes the food tasted a little salty, and that we were absolutely stuffed. It was such a struggle at the end. Still, it was brilliant and it made us realise that dating in London didn't have to be Michelin and expense. In January it's Damien Hirst at the Wallace.
Forget the wine though. The food was the winner. Here's what we had (and did I say it came to £100 for both of us? With £30 in wine?):
- Minced chicken wrapped in lettuce
- Steamed bamboo cup soup with beef and pork dumplings (and fried shallots, oh my, yum)
- Salt & pepper green beans
- Spare ribs
- Spicy chilli beef
- Frogs legs with minced pork
- Sesame pork with plum sauce
- Steamed king prawns (this got the Hubs into such a tizzy that he offered to make all the cushions for the house. When I questioned this, he revealed that not only was he his school knitting champion for having knit a thirty foor snake, he was also the school cushion making champion, having knit fifty cushions. Six years and it's constant surprises. And hilarity)
- Spicy squid (with the yummy burned on the BBQ taste)
- Spinach rolls
- Beef & beans in sesame sauce
- Sea bass
- Crispy duck
- Apple & banana toffee fritters with chocolate ice cream
YUM. The only bad thing was that sometimes the food tasted a little salty, and that we were absolutely stuffed. It was such a struggle at the end. Still, it was brilliant and it made us realise that dating in London didn't have to be Michelin and expense. In January it's Damien Hirst at the Wallace.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Fruity
At cookery class on the weekend the question of what differentiates a fruit and a vegetable came up. I was dead certain of my answer but the mockery made me feel like an idiot and like I was possibly wrong (never!), so here is the official line, several times over:
http://answers.google.com/answers/threadview/id/563886.html
http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/5634
Yessiree Ladies and Gents, the truth is out there, and it is simple. Has seeds? Is fruit. Any other element is a vegetable.
http://answers.google.com/answers/threadview/id/563886.html
http://www.answerbag.com/q_view/5634
Yessiree Ladies and Gents, the truth is out there, and it is simple. Has seeds? Is fruit. Any other element is a vegetable.
My Stepford Life
This weekend has been hyperactive! On Friday I skipped out early to go for a drink with a couple of colleagues, before going to see Legally Blonde, the musical. Ever since then, my head has been filling my life with a backing bridge that goes "oh my god, oh my god, you guys". I wish I could comment more about the show, since I remember having fun, though thinking that the vocals could have been better. Sadly, the bottle of wine I had to myself before the show, and the three glasses I had during the show, left me a little addled. After the play, Riri, Kami and I all went for a drink with the other girls before meeting the Hubs and my sister at Belushi's. A clear indicator that my night was going to decline at the rate of knots. I wish I could describe the decline but all I remember is that the night ended in tears.
The Saturday was more positive... when it got started, that is. That would be about three in the afternoon, when I managed to get off the sofa (following breakfast on the sofa, made with love by the Hubs, who was an overactive DIY dynamo). Good thing though, since we were due at a cookery class at The Kitchen, Parson's Green. The menu that had been selected was a pumpkin and spinach tortellini, fisherman's pie, then mince pies. I had been hoping to learn to make pasta and shortcrust pastry from scratch, but the class was more of an assembly based class than a cookery class. Even so, I'd never tried to make tortellini or mince before, so it was a good experience. The mince pies were really nice - home made ones always are much better, though we were all horrified to discover the suet content. Having eaten and drunk our fill, we came home and attempted to watch the x-Factor finals, only to wake up at about midnight having missed the ending. UGH.
Sunday was much more effectual - for the first time in my life I tried my hand at DIY. The Hubs and I decided to try to paint our yet-to-be-used bedroom (or, specifically for today, the built-in furniture) ourselves. The whole venture is against my better judgement, but seems to have started well. Perhaps it won't all end in tears after all. Who would have thought it would be so complex though. There was sandpapering, Caulk filling, primer painting. Still another layer of primer to go before two more of oil based paint, then an actual colour. Jeez. Still, rather than watch the paint dry I baked some Christmas cookies, which I think I may give as gifts to the girls. Then it was time for the weekly Bistro le JamTam. Tonight it was samphire, crab, scallop and pasta sheets in a butter and sage sauce. We had this with a massive portion of Half Blood Prince, tuna-balls in a tomato sauce, and Duval Leroy. A delightful digestif of Freddie Stroma to follow. YUM. All in all a good weekend.
***
Update. While watching Harry Potter, I realised that Bonnie Wright sure gets around some, and how jealous am I!
***
Update II. How much hotter is Freddie Stroma now that I know he graduated with a 2:1 in Neuoscience from UCL.
The Saturday was more positive... when it got started, that is. That would be about three in the afternoon, when I managed to get off the sofa (following breakfast on the sofa, made with love by the Hubs, who was an overactive DIY dynamo). Good thing though, since we were due at a cookery class at The Kitchen, Parson's Green. The menu that had been selected was a pumpkin and spinach tortellini, fisherman's pie, then mince pies. I had been hoping to learn to make pasta and shortcrust pastry from scratch, but the class was more of an assembly based class than a cookery class. Even so, I'd never tried to make tortellini or mince before, so it was a good experience. The mince pies were really nice - home made ones always are much better, though we were all horrified to discover the suet content. Having eaten and drunk our fill, we came home and attempted to watch the x-Factor finals, only to wake up at about midnight having missed the ending. UGH.
Sunday was much more effectual - for the first time in my life I tried my hand at DIY. The Hubs and I decided to try to paint our yet-to-be-used bedroom (or, specifically for today, the built-in furniture) ourselves. The whole venture is against my better judgement, but seems to have started well. Perhaps it won't all end in tears after all. Who would have thought it would be so complex though. There was sandpapering, Caulk filling, primer painting. Still another layer of primer to go before two more of oil based paint, then an actual colour. Jeez. Still, rather than watch the paint dry I baked some Christmas cookies, which I think I may give as gifts to the girls. Then it was time for the weekly Bistro le JamTam. Tonight it was samphire, crab, scallop and pasta sheets in a butter and sage sauce. We had this with a massive portion of Half Blood Prince, tuna-balls in a tomato sauce, and Duval Leroy. A delightful digestif of Freddie Stroma to follow. YUM. All in all a good weekend.
***
Update. While watching Harry Potter, I realised that Bonnie Wright sure gets around some, and how jealous am I!
***
Update II. How much hotter is Freddie Stroma now that I know he graduated with a 2:1 in Neuoscience from UCL.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sliding Doors
There's obviously been a lot of writing about the financial crisis as it's unfolded, and I've managed to resist the urge to post anything too close to it to date. Well, no longer.
It's been a fairly busy year for me, what with the house buying and associated poverty, the new job and the crazy hair loss. It made me think about how different this year could have been.
Could I could have taken redundancy? Then I'd have had a payout, some time off, re-entered a pretty good job market (for what I did) and possibly still have my hair. I'd probably be a little more poverty stricken, but I'd still have a house. I'd have spent some time in it. Instead, I opted for long hours and some seriously bad days, and now, with three months till my bonus (which was not meant to be joy inducing this year), I have this .
There are so many things wrong with that new tax. The threshold is ridiculous. I think it's highly unlikely that only 20,000 people in the UK who work in "banks and building societies, including groups that operate in the UK under a European Union branch system" have a bonus of more than £25,000. It seems feasible that 5,000 earn more than a million but there are a lot of VPs and above in banking, if you include the middle and back offices, who would probably meet the threshold in a semi-decent year. So what if it's the bank that pays? It's the people on the ground who worked. With five months prior to the end of the tax year this is looking at a cost that no bank would have provided for, which means one of a few things:
- a reduction of the bonus pool in 2009;
- a reduction in the pnl for 2010 via an exceptional item, which I suspect may not be permissible under IFRS but can't remember;
- a reduction in dividends, unlikely for the non-UK banks;
- a reduction in retained earnings.
If the government wanted to penalise excess, they should have taxed the genuinely high bonuses. Ultimately a person with a £25,000 bonus was only going to take home about £15,000. If you are the breadwinner in your family with a stay at home spouse (given the cost of childcare they would have to earn about £8,000 gross annually to breakeven, assuming there is only childcare to consider and not "sunk" costs like clothing, feeding, caring and entertaining. The average salary nationwide for full time workers was £31,323 in 2008 with part timers on £26,020. The top ten percent earn £44,881 and the top five percent £58,917. Given that the bonus data would be built into those numbers, I think it could be tougher than it initially looks).
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the need for a progressive tax system, and I realise how lucky I am to be able to live the life I do and have a job I enjoy. I just never understand how there is never any consideration of regional variances and household income in the tax system. I guess it's a good thing all the jobs are moving out of the UK, since it seems increasingly like working here is less rewarding and even less supported. When I wake up at 0530 to kick off my day, I do think to myself that every day I work, I pay enough tax to cover three people on unemployment. I don't find that much of an incentive. Particularly since working much less might entitle me to a range of benefits and assitance (childcare, housing, tax breaks anyone?) if I was a National. The injustice is galling, especially when I think about how few of the people I work with are Nationals and therefore entitled to the benefits their taxes help pay for.
BAH. I think I'm officially old and right wing, I know I sound it.
***
Update: These are probably one of the best reflections of sentiment I've seen.
It's been a fairly busy year for me, what with the house buying and associated poverty, the new job and the crazy hair loss. It made me think about how different this year could have been.
Could I could have taken redundancy? Then I'd have had a payout, some time off, re-entered a pretty good job market (for what I did) and possibly still have my hair. I'd probably be a little more poverty stricken, but I'd still have a house. I'd have spent some time in it. Instead, I opted for long hours and some seriously bad days, and now, with three months till my bonus (which was not meant to be joy inducing this year), I have this .
There are so many things wrong with that new tax. The threshold is ridiculous. I think it's highly unlikely that only 20,000 people in the UK who work in "banks and building societies, including groups that operate in the UK under a European Union branch system" have a bonus of more than £25,000. It seems feasible that 5,000 earn more than a million but there are a lot of VPs and above in banking, if you include the middle and back offices, who would probably meet the threshold in a semi-decent year. So what if it's the bank that pays? It's the people on the ground who worked. With five months prior to the end of the tax year this is looking at a cost that no bank would have provided for, which means one of a few things:
- a reduction of the bonus pool in 2009;
- a reduction in the pnl for 2010 via an exceptional item, which I suspect may not be permissible under IFRS but can't remember;
- a reduction in dividends, unlikely for the non-UK banks;
- a reduction in retained earnings.
If the government wanted to penalise excess, they should have taxed the genuinely high bonuses. Ultimately a person with a £25,000 bonus was only going to take home about £15,000. If you are the breadwinner in your family with a stay at home spouse (given the cost of childcare they would have to earn about £8,000 gross annually to breakeven, assuming there is only childcare to consider and not "sunk" costs like clothing, feeding, caring and entertaining. The average salary nationwide for full time workers was £31,323 in 2008 with part timers on £26,020. The top ten percent earn £44,881 and the top five percent £58,917. Given that the bonus data would be built into those numbers, I think it could be tougher than it initially looks).
Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the need for a progressive tax system, and I realise how lucky I am to be able to live the life I do and have a job I enjoy. I just never understand how there is never any consideration of regional variances and household income in the tax system. I guess it's a good thing all the jobs are moving out of the UK, since it seems increasingly like working here is less rewarding and even less supported. When I wake up at 0530 to kick off my day, I do think to myself that every day I work, I pay enough tax to cover three people on unemployment. I don't find that much of an incentive. Particularly since working much less might entitle me to a range of benefits and assitance (childcare, housing, tax breaks anyone?) if I was a National. The injustice is galling, especially when I think about how few of the people I work with are Nationals and therefore entitled to the benefits their taxes help pay for.
BAH. I think I'm officially old and right wing, I know I sound it.
***
Update: These are probably one of the best reflections of sentiment I've seen.
Monday, November 16, 2009
B'Day
So my extensive Saturday plans were drastically reduced by the sudden onset of girl flu (symptoms of which included needing desserts, shopping and attention, all at once). I had to abandon Way In To The Way Out, fireworks at Kami's and a Housewarming at Celia's. All I managed to garner the energy for was the Beyonce I Am... Yours show at the O2, and OMG am I glad I did. It was quite possibly the best concert I have ever been to.
She opened with Crazy in Love, which has one of my favourite hot moves in a video of all time (that would be the finger lick). That set the bar pretty high, but Blanka Vlašić has nothing on Beyonce/Sasha. It's hard for me to define what I liked best about the show, since there were so many elements that were faultless, so instead, I'm going to list all the things that stuck out...
- her voice. By a long way the best voice I've heard live, by which I mean in a performance. Absolutely stunning. Forget the singing while making high impact, high energy, lights flashing, camera in face, legs bare, heels four inches off the ground, fans screaming performance. That was a voice that would have been incredible in a shower and all those other things just made it exceptional. It was the first time ever I realised just why people talk about Divas
- the Suga Mamas were brilliant. Each one of them were exceptionally skilled and awe inspiring. The Mamas absolutely fit my image of sassy southern women who I can imagine would open a huge can of whoop ass on anyone who hacked them off
- her choice of live samples/covers, which included Jagged Little Pill, Angel, Ave Maria, At Last, Forever Young (as part of a tribute to Michael Jackson). Most amusing was how about 40% of the crowd, being semi-dressed 14 year olds, had no idea what those songs were
- massive approachability. Now maybe it was because I'd seen The Bodyguard the night before, but I was amazed at how much audience interaction there was. Not just the usual "Lon-dehn!!!!" stuff, but also genuine up close and personal touching. She thanked the audience beyond the usual "hi there, thank you for buying my records, buy more" stuff. She sang Happy Birthday to the audience. She came across as the best friend I always wanted to have
- hotness. Smokin' hotness
- Incredible professionalism. In. Cred. I. Able. She knew where every camera was, every second.
I think I am 17 Again.
She opened with Crazy in Love, which has one of my favourite hot moves in a video of all time (that would be the finger lick). That set the bar pretty high, but Blanka Vlašić has nothing on Beyonce/Sasha. It's hard for me to define what I liked best about the show, since there were so many elements that were faultless, so instead, I'm going to list all the things that stuck out...
- her voice. By a long way the best voice I've heard live, by which I mean in a performance. Absolutely stunning. Forget the singing while making high impact, high energy, lights flashing, camera in face, legs bare, heels four inches off the ground, fans screaming performance. That was a voice that would have been incredible in a shower and all those other things just made it exceptional. It was the first time ever I realised just why people talk about Divas
- the Suga Mamas were brilliant. Each one of them were exceptionally skilled and awe inspiring. The Mamas absolutely fit my image of sassy southern women who I can imagine would open a huge can of whoop ass on anyone who hacked them off
- her choice of live samples/covers, which included Jagged Little Pill, Angel, Ave Maria, At Last, Forever Young (as part of a tribute to Michael Jackson). Most amusing was how about 40% of the crowd, being semi-dressed 14 year olds, had no idea what those songs were
- massive approachability. Now maybe it was because I'd seen The Bodyguard the night before, but I was amazed at how much audience interaction there was. Not just the usual "Lon-dehn!!!!" stuff, but also genuine up close and personal touching. She thanked the audience beyond the usual "hi there, thank you for buying my records, buy more" stuff. She sang Happy Birthday to the audience. She came across as the best friend I always wanted to have
- hotness. Smokin' hotness
- Incredible professionalism. In. Cred. I. Able. She knew where every camera was, every second.
I think I am 17 Again.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Taking Tea
This has been a busy weekend and a half! On Saturday I got to witness the might of the Irish before hosting a baby shower (on two days notice) on Sunday.
Ms Peabody had arranged for a champagne tea for six in honour of her birthday. She had picked the Soho Hotel, which seems to be making quite a name for its Tea. It appears to be favoured by the fashion crowd, who seem to opt for it if they have high metabolisms, or for the "healthy" tea at the Metropolitan
if they don't. Pret-a-portea seems to be more popular with girls outside the fashion industry, but always amuses me. Personally, I'd like to try out the restaurant teas instead of the hotel ones. The teas at Mo Tea, Roka and Sketch sound particularly interesting. Much as I enjoy Tea, or any other excuse I can drum up for a cocktail at 2pm, there is only so far one can go with scones and pavlovas. Even sandwiches can be tricky to make exceptional without becoming hideously bad value.
The Soho Hotel was a strange experience on this occasion though. The entrance on Richmond Mews is referred to by the staff as "the back entrance" and involves cutting through the main restaurant. This is a practice I disagree with because I am a shameless people watcher. I realise this may sound contradictory since restaurant throughfares are condusive to people watching. The problem I have, as someone who deliberately sits with back to the masses when I can, is that it is incredibly distracting. Picture this: a group are sat at a table discussing the inevitable trials and tribulations of someone's love life. A stunning girl walks by, or perhaps a man in need of a stylist (this is London, the odds of those two happening are high. One of the common male pitfalls being continental fashion/American frame). A people watcher would probably pipe up with "whoa." at the very least, detracting from the conversation at the table. This is rude. I know this because I do it all the time and constantly feel bad for it. In any case, using a space characterised by conversation and the transportation of piping hot liquids for channeling groups of people seems decidedly ill advised.
Beyond the design flaw in the layout, there seems to have been a somewhat large gap in the training of the service staff. There were multiple instances where we waiting for around ten minutes for a drink, eye contact or a response. The staff were polite, but naïve. Saying "the bartender is very busy" is an honest but inexperienced response to "it's been quite awhile since my order of (a straightforward drink), when can I expect it?". The smaller slip ups were tolerable, like not setting up properly (missing wine glasses, tea strainers, milk), but not having available menus or a full service for the numbers seems foolish and lacklustre. Still, I discovered a new tea to cherish, the jasmine blossom tea. Apart from tasting great, it looked spectacular, with a spooky flower dominating the pot. I found this nigh on impossible to photograph, but this otherwise unexciting shot captured the blossom, almost:
They also obliged my request for an earl grey/lapsang souchong http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lapsang_souchong
blend, which I am grateful for. Anyhow, Tea is for Ladies, and it was the ladies who made the occasion.
Forget about the rugby, boy bands and hot accent. Ireland is all about its women. Apart from being an unusually attractive group, the girls were all intelligent and funny. Everyone was open minded and the conversation went down routes I hadn't fathomed. We talked about everything from Club Pedestal to whether it is just as bad to wear fur from an endangered animal or any animal (regardless of how bountiful the livestock may be) to Russell Brand (pro - humour, con - risk of disease) to Scientology. All that while drinking cocktails and eating cake. There cannot be many occasions better.
On Rememberance Sunday Casa Jamtam played host to Ms George's baby shower. The theme was American/English, and we celebrated with a tea that included a Victoria Sponge, Cupcakes, Pumpkin scones and lemon drizzle cake. Naomi at Vintage Secret did pretty much all the hard work, baking from scratch at six am to provide us not just with the vintage crockery and linens, but also teas imported from Paris and all this:
For favours, my friend's wife had baked green tea macaroons, which I bundled the macaroons into little baby socks and distributed with tea pigs for a take away afternoon tea:
All in all it was a hectic weekend. Amazingly I managed to lose two pounds over the weekend, despite spending the nights drinking copious amounts of champagne with the Hubs while eating cheese. Yum!
Ms Peabody had arranged for a champagne tea for six in honour of her birthday. She had picked the Soho Hotel, which seems to be making quite a name for its Tea. It appears to be favoured by the fashion crowd, who seem to opt for it if they have high metabolisms, or for the "healthy" tea at the Metropolitan
if they don't. Pret-a-portea seems to be more popular with girls outside the fashion industry, but always amuses me. Personally, I'd like to try out the restaurant teas instead of the hotel ones. The teas at Mo Tea, Roka and Sketch sound particularly interesting. Much as I enjoy Tea, or any other excuse I can drum up for a cocktail at 2pm, there is only so far one can go with scones and pavlovas. Even sandwiches can be tricky to make exceptional without becoming hideously bad value.
The Soho Hotel was a strange experience on this occasion though. The entrance on Richmond Mews is referred to by the staff as "the back entrance" and involves cutting through the main restaurant. This is a practice I disagree with because I am a shameless people watcher. I realise this may sound contradictory since restaurant throughfares are condusive to people watching. The problem I have, as someone who deliberately sits with back to the masses when I can, is that it is incredibly distracting. Picture this: a group are sat at a table discussing the inevitable trials and tribulations of someone's love life. A stunning girl walks by, or perhaps a man in need of a stylist (this is London, the odds of those two happening are high. One of the common male pitfalls being continental fashion/American frame). A people watcher would probably pipe up with "whoa." at the very least, detracting from the conversation at the table. This is rude. I know this because I do it all the time and constantly feel bad for it. In any case, using a space characterised by conversation and the transportation of piping hot liquids for channeling groups of people seems decidedly ill advised.
Beyond the design flaw in the layout, there seems to have been a somewhat large gap in the training of the service staff. There were multiple instances where we waiting for around ten minutes for a drink, eye contact or a response. The staff were polite, but naïve. Saying "the bartender is very busy" is an honest but inexperienced response to "it's been quite awhile since my order of (a straightforward drink), when can I expect it?". The smaller slip ups were tolerable, like not setting up properly (missing wine glasses, tea strainers, milk), but not having available menus or a full service for the numbers seems foolish and lacklustre. Still, I discovered a new tea to cherish, the jasmine blossom tea. Apart from tasting great, it looked spectacular, with a spooky flower dominating the pot. I found this nigh on impossible to photograph, but this otherwise unexciting shot captured the blossom, almost:
They also obliged my request for an earl grey/lapsang souchong http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lapsang_souchong
blend, which I am grateful for. Anyhow, Tea is for Ladies, and it was the ladies who made the occasion.
Forget about the rugby, boy bands and hot accent. Ireland is all about its women. Apart from being an unusually attractive group, the girls were all intelligent and funny. Everyone was open minded and the conversation went down routes I hadn't fathomed. We talked about everything from Club Pedestal to whether it is just as bad to wear fur from an endangered animal or any animal (regardless of how bountiful the livestock may be) to Russell Brand (pro - humour, con - risk of disease) to Scientology. All that while drinking cocktails and eating cake. There cannot be many occasions better.
On Rememberance Sunday Casa Jamtam played host to Ms George's baby shower. The theme was American/English, and we celebrated with a tea that included a Victoria Sponge, Cupcakes, Pumpkin scones and lemon drizzle cake. Naomi at Vintage Secret did pretty much all the hard work, baking from scratch at six am to provide us not just with the vintage crockery and linens, but also teas imported from Paris and all this:
For favours, my friend's wife had baked green tea macaroons, which I bundled the macaroons into little baby socks and distributed with tea pigs for a take away afternoon tea:
All in all it was a hectic weekend. Amazingly I managed to lose two pounds over the weekend, despite spending the nights drinking copious amounts of champagne with the Hubs while eating cheese. Yum!
Saturday, November 07, 2009
I'm riding the central line at six pm on a friday. A guy in front of me with a faux anarchist haircut looks nervous. He checks his watch, his phone, his map, his nails, his watch, his phone, his map... He bounces on the balls of his feet. He is carrying a slightly oversized and narrow violin case (an anarchist violinist? Is he warping Vanessa Mae?). There is a sticker on the case. It says "bam".
Suddenly I'm nervous.
Is tonight when the Christmas lights are being turned on by the stars of a Christmas Carol? The celebration of the most obvious street crossing system of all time? Have I wandered into a prime terrorist opportunity?
Suddenly I'm nervous.
Is tonight when the Christmas lights are being turned on by the stars of a Christmas Carol? The celebration of the most obvious street crossing system of all time? Have I wandered into a prime terrorist opportunity?
Thursday, November 05, 2009
So Tonight I Can Write...
Not for romance, sadly (though I still think Neruda deserves a shrine), but for reality.
Kami and I went for a drink with the couple who will soon be the Bakers, and on our way home we contemplated normalcy. Something that has always been painful for me is the act of just letting go. The Asian concepts of things like face, tradition and propriety mean that I am often offended even when that may not seem to be the case. To a large extent, I ignore my discomfort and my distaste, explaining differences away to reasons of cultural differences, or (should that fail) my own snobbery. In reality, however, I think these are excuses, and really, it's about linguistics.
Case in point. Random girl says to the Hubs how admirable it is that he tolerates my social schedule. To some this would be interpreted as "concerned female friend expresses concern for her married male acquaintance". To me, the cynic/realist, this reads as "are you envious or just trying to ruin my marriage?". One of these is not the normal perspective... Which though? I think both scenarios are equally likely. Well, ok, I lie. My opinion is skewed.
When I tried to illustrate my point to Kami, I used the example of the perfectly happy couple, much like the Hubs and I, who win the lottery. The Hubs is one of the luckiest people I know, forever winning prizes and landing feet first. Still... we hardly ever buy lottery tickets . If we did win the lottery, would we cash it? Why not? Well, quite simply... if it ain't broke... why tinker with it?
As I explained to Kami, I know too many families ripped apart by good fortune. If you are happy, why would you throw a windfall in the mix? Your life is balanced and well - where would greed take you? Yet, at the same time... would you be happier with more options and more opportunity? I've always said that I work as I do so as to provide opportunity and choice to my children. Should I cash that ticket on that basis? If I did, how would I manage the risk that they turn out like so many of the rich kids , where they choose not to work a day in their lives instead either gambling their easily gotten gains on one scheme after another, or simply trading the family name. How would I respect them?
Sometimes I have to questions whether it's my point of view that's perverted or whether it's just that no one has the same outlook that I do. Is that the same thing?
Kami and I went for a drink with the couple who will soon be the Bakers, and on our way home we contemplated normalcy. Something that has always been painful for me is the act of just letting go. The Asian concepts of things like face, tradition and propriety mean that I am often offended even when that may not seem to be the case. To a large extent, I ignore my discomfort and my distaste, explaining differences away to reasons of cultural differences, or (should that fail) my own snobbery. In reality, however, I think these are excuses, and really, it's about linguistics.
Case in point. Random girl says to the Hubs how admirable it is that he tolerates my social schedule. To some this would be interpreted as "concerned female friend expresses concern for her married male acquaintance". To me, the cynic/realist, this reads as "are you envious or just trying to ruin my marriage?". One of these is not the normal perspective... Which though? I think both scenarios are equally likely. Well, ok, I lie. My opinion is skewed.
When I tried to illustrate my point to Kami, I used the example of the perfectly happy couple, much like the Hubs and I, who win the lottery. The Hubs is one of the luckiest people I know, forever winning prizes and landing feet first. Still... we hardly ever buy lottery tickets . If we did win the lottery, would we cash it? Why not? Well, quite simply... if it ain't broke... why tinker with it?
As I explained to Kami, I know too many families ripped apart by good fortune. If you are happy, why would you throw a windfall in the mix? Your life is balanced and well - where would greed take you? Yet, at the same time... would you be happier with more options and more opportunity? I've always said that I work as I do so as to provide opportunity and choice to my children. Should I cash that ticket on that basis? If I did, how would I manage the risk that they turn out like so many of the rich kids , where they choose not to work a day in their lives instead either gambling their easily gotten gains on one scheme after another, or simply trading the family name. How would I respect them?
Sometimes I have to questions whether it's my point of view that's perverted or whether it's just that no one has the same outlook that I do. Is that the same thing?
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Bad Plus Ronnie Scott's Equals Great
For almost the entire six years that I've lived in London I've been trying to engineer a night at Ronnie Scott's. It's one of those places that, to my mind, is shrouded in legend and history. I care enough about music to feel like it warranted a pilgrimage, but never really knew any other believers who would go with me. The gigs can also lean toward the expensive, and, though I think of myself as a bit of an anorak, I don't know enough about jazz to discern the good from the bad. I also don't follow it enough to know who is worth seeing and who isn't. That was so until I read about the Bad Plus, a threepiece from the midwest, who have a reputation for interpreting indie or rock hits. Rich Maestro, whose musical views are aligned with mine (though if I'm an anorak, he's a four man tent when it comes to music), had seen them twice before and had nothing but extravagant praise for them. I tried my best to convince the gang but only had the Evans', Jeremy and the Hubs agree. This all got reshuffled in the end, with people feeling ill and the like, so my girl Kami came along.
I feel slightly like I'd missed the boat a little with Ronnie Scott's. Since I hadn't shelled out for the expensive tickets, we didn't have any assurance of a good seat, so I got there for doors and was first in line. The lady at the door had one of those 40 a day voices, which got me all excited. Inside though, most of the expectations were proved to be inaccurate. Gone was the smoke hazed, blue lit den of sin fron the older pictures of Ronnie Scott's which I randomly admired in a friends' living room in Tokyo. They gave an impression of an idyllic site to OD. Since the smoking ban, it's a very plush, very lush caberet. The front of queue status meant that I was able to get a comfy, circular table with a reasonably unobscured view. Which was a blessing, since I've never seen music performed with so much love (on the part of the bassist, Reid Anderson, who was working the base like it was Scarlett Johansson) and joy (from Dave King, the drummer, who yelled with pleasure when swaying, bouncing, laughing and smiling was not enough). I couldn't see the pianist, Ethan Iverson, but am willing to bet he was similarly enraptured. There was a lot that was unlikely about the Bad Plus. To begin with, if I had to hazard names to faces, purely based on the images in my mind, the drummer would have been called Reid, the bassist Ethan, and the pianist David. I judge on appearances, clearly. Then there was the dialogue. Given that this was minimal, limited largely to the introduction of the songs, it was impressive that there were references to Metatron. While I was watching them, I thought "the Mephsito-like pianist is referencing Metatron... I could imagine the bassist spouting Socrates in the sack... this is deep" (check that alliteration! Maybe I was too many drinks in).
The music was incredible to watch. I know, I know, that's not the one of the five senses you expected, but it was absolutely a visual feast as much as it was aural. The precision of the drummer, the cordinated, scuttling, spider-fingers of the bassist... it was the most skillful thing I'd seen in ages. I was absolutely awestruck. To listen to, I thought at some points it was like yoga, when they say to imagine a thread holding you from pelvis through to head, to keep you upright. When they played, it felt like a cord of platinum light between pianist, base and drums, beginning with me. So intensely beautiful. I thought this when listening to a track called People Like You, written by Reid Anderson, which so moved Mrs Evans and I that we could barely articulate. She's a journalist and I talk am capable of soliloquy, so this really is saying something (or not). It was elegant, lovely, emotive in a soothing way. It reminded me of a lullaby. It was followed by another song he'd written, Physical, which was almost ridiculously complex. It went from background to stark, to accusing, to a climax and it all just flowed. The skill in timing and sense that they were performing as one was unbelieveable. It showed me what music was like when people performed it who loved it.
I knew I was in trouble when I looked at the Ronnie Scott's logo, thought it was a koi carp but then realised it was a man playing the sax, which would make sense. It was getting harder to focus on the music, and my mind kept wandering. I got to thinking about what it must be like to have to focus on the music to perform it and decided that the Pianist must have it hardest, working with a different instrument each gig. Then I thought, him and every hot desker and prostitute. You gotta work with what God gave you. It's just that sometimes you're not Bridget Jones, who people love the way she is. Instead you're just the way you are, in his case a really talented pianist. It must be incredibly rare to have the ability to switch instruments and the like.
The band played several of their own compositions, and I wondered about their music making process: did they each write their own arrangements, and the others write theirs in around it? Dave's piece had the most complex drumming (and was called Thrift Store Jewellery, about how finding a treasure in a second-hand store can brighten up your day, which I absolutely loved as the premise for a song), Ethan's was trickiest on the piano. Perhaps it's the nature of the musician to hear in their instrument? Though then, what can be said of Songs in the Key of Life? Other than that Piano and Harmonica do not a band make, but can be enough for an amazing album. The thing that struck me, towards the end, is how much Bad Plus achieved with just three musicians. Not once did you miss the vocalists, back up singers, electric guitars or synths, it was just unadulrated talent. It was genuinely emotive music, and I sometimes feel that I don't get that any more.
I feel slightly like I'd missed the boat a little with Ronnie Scott's. Since I hadn't shelled out for the expensive tickets, we didn't have any assurance of a good seat, so I got there for doors and was first in line. The lady at the door had one of those 40 a day voices, which got me all excited. Inside though, most of the expectations were proved to be inaccurate. Gone was the smoke hazed, blue lit den of sin fron the older pictures of Ronnie Scott's which I randomly admired in a friends' living room in Tokyo. They gave an impression of an idyllic site to OD. Since the smoking ban, it's a very plush, very lush caberet. The front of queue status meant that I was able to get a comfy, circular table with a reasonably unobscured view. Which was a blessing, since I've never seen music performed with so much love (on the part of the bassist, Reid Anderson, who was working the base like it was Scarlett Johansson) and joy (from Dave King, the drummer, who yelled with pleasure when swaying, bouncing, laughing and smiling was not enough). I couldn't see the pianist, Ethan Iverson, but am willing to bet he was similarly enraptured. There was a lot that was unlikely about the Bad Plus. To begin with, if I had to hazard names to faces, purely based on the images in my mind, the drummer would have been called Reid, the bassist Ethan, and the pianist David. I judge on appearances, clearly. Then there was the dialogue. Given that this was minimal, limited largely to the introduction of the songs, it was impressive that there were references to Metatron. While I was watching them, I thought "the Mephsito-like pianist is referencing Metatron... I could imagine the bassist spouting Socrates in the sack... this is deep" (check that alliteration! Maybe I was too many drinks in).
The music was incredible to watch. I know, I know, that's not the one of the five senses you expected, but it was absolutely a visual feast as much as it was aural. The precision of the drummer, the cordinated, scuttling, spider-fingers of the bassist... it was the most skillful thing I'd seen in ages. I was absolutely awestruck. To listen to, I thought at some points it was like yoga, when they say to imagine a thread holding you from pelvis through to head, to keep you upright. When they played, it felt like a cord of platinum light between pianist, base and drums, beginning with me. So intensely beautiful. I thought this when listening to a track called People Like You, written by Reid Anderson, which so moved Mrs Evans and I that we could barely articulate. She's a journalist and I talk am capable of soliloquy, so this really is saying something (or not). It was elegant, lovely, emotive in a soothing way. It reminded me of a lullaby. It was followed by another song he'd written, Physical, which was almost ridiculously complex. It went from background to stark, to accusing, to a climax and it all just flowed. The skill in timing and sense that they were performing as one was unbelieveable. It showed me what music was like when people performed it who loved it.
I knew I was in trouble when I looked at the Ronnie Scott's logo, thought it was a koi carp but then realised it was a man playing the sax, which would make sense. It was getting harder to focus on the music, and my mind kept wandering. I got to thinking about what it must be like to have to focus on the music to perform it and decided that the Pianist must have it hardest, working with a different instrument each gig. Then I thought, him and every hot desker and prostitute. You gotta work with what God gave you. It's just that sometimes you're not Bridget Jones, who people love the way she is. Instead you're just the way you are, in his case a really talented pianist. It must be incredibly rare to have the ability to switch instruments and the like.
The band played several of their own compositions, and I wondered about their music making process: did they each write their own arrangements, and the others write theirs in around it? Dave's piece had the most complex drumming (and was called Thrift Store Jewellery, about how finding a treasure in a second-hand store can brighten up your day, which I absolutely loved as the premise for a song), Ethan's was trickiest on the piano. Perhaps it's the nature of the musician to hear in their instrument? Though then, what can be said of Songs in the Key of Life? Other than that Piano and Harmonica do not a band make, but can be enough for an amazing album. The thing that struck me, towards the end, is how much Bad Plus achieved with just three musicians. Not once did you miss the vocalists, back up singers, electric guitars or synths, it was just unadulrated talent. It was genuinely emotive music, and I sometimes feel that I don't get that any more.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Turner On
Last night was date night, when the Hubs and I dashed out of work as early as we could to get to the Tate to check out the Turner 2009 shortlist. Sadly this meant we got there with 40 minutes to closing, but that was enough time to look at the nominees.
Photos below mostly from the Telegraph
Our favourites were:
Lucy Skaer's Whale Skull: this was always going to be a bit of a strange one. Using remains seems to be in this year, with Roger Hiorns using brain matter and dematerialised passenger jets.
He's the hotly tipped favourite but only ranks third in my uneducated mind. I'm bored with shock art (and amused by the reviews of Damien Hirst who appears to still be churning out the same skulls, though at least he's now actually doing it himself). The whale skull was majestic. She'd put the skull behind some MDF walls with face-wide gaps in it. We walked along them and the perspective was so different through each one. If you start on the right, which I think is the way to do it (though this is slightly counter-intuitive), you have what must be the whale's jaw, and progress all the way to the beginnings of vertebrae. I've never seen a whale and the enormity of the skull was astounding. It made me understand why people talk about sea monsters - and aren't sperm whales the dinky ones? I suppose if you viewed it left to right it would give a sense of enormity shrinking to nothing, which probably works better with a skull, though I liked the way it became something bigger than itself. As I walked down it I felt conflicted, which is my benchmark for whether a piece of art works or not. It was quite an experience.
The rest of her showcase was alright, though only Alphabet 2008 was of particular interest to me. I liked the idea of using coal dust as a medium, it fits with my anti-waste ethos.
I didn't see why it was called Alphabet, though I suspect that may be down to my failing vision. I don't think it'll be because she made 26 of them. I know it's a take on Bird in Space, which I like better (it looks great shiny and lit), but what has that got to do to A B C? I don't understand this, which makes it difficult for me to appreciate.
Richard Wright's mural was astounding, and it's this that I hope wins. There was a piece in the Guardian about the nominees where the shapes seen in the mural are given a mention. The Hubs and I spent the longest time (in the 40 minutes) with this because there was just so much! I could have looked at it for hours. We spotted a pheonix, vagina, pagodas, fans, constellations, flames... this was such a fascinating piece because everyone saw it differently and interpreted it in a multitude of ways. It's a piece that will never get boring, and surely immortality is an indicator of excellent art? I don't think it will win though, because of Richard Wright's consumer approach to art (everything is used up then destroyed). There's so little of his work out there that winning something like the turner would hike up prices phenomenally, which I suspect will be viewed at commercialising the Turner (hello, Grayson Perry).
Something definitely worth a mention was not a nominee piece, but Eva Rothchild's Cold Corners . This blew our minds. Scale is one thing but the way it used the room was incredible. That picture doesn't do it justice. Perhaps because we've been looking at decorating the new house, but we're both very conscious of use of space, and this utilised every nook and cranny. She's got a piece at the Frieze, which I'm hoping to go to this weekend between Divali and moving - fingers crossed!
Also worth a mention is the Turner & the Masters exhibition. This was absolutely amazing and the Hubs and I will be going back to it. Essentially it could be taken as highlighting how insecure Turner was, since it takes pieces that he took inspiration from and tried to outdo, and puts them next to each other. For example, when asked to do a companion piece to one of my favourites, A Rising Gale (Willem Van de Velde the Younger), he did Bridgewater Sea-piece, which was basically a mirror image-style piece. The exhibition is really interesting, not just because quite often it is a case of "anything he can do, I can do better, I can do anything (at least as good as) him", but also because quite often he absolutely crashed and burned. There was Rembrandt, Titian, Claude, Poussin ... and I'd say he had a 60% success rate. Gutsy though. I don't know much about Turner other than that he was an unlikely artist. Wrong side of the tracks, etc. This show was so good I plan to go back and learn more. Am gutted I can't make the Curator's talk.
Photos below mostly from the Telegraph
Our favourites were:
Lucy Skaer's Whale Skull: this was always going to be a bit of a strange one. Using remains seems to be in this year, with Roger Hiorns using brain matter and dematerialised passenger jets.
He's the hotly tipped favourite but only ranks third in my uneducated mind. I'm bored with shock art (and amused by the reviews of Damien Hirst who appears to still be churning out the same skulls, though at least he's now actually doing it himself). The whale skull was majestic. She'd put the skull behind some MDF walls with face-wide gaps in it. We walked along them and the perspective was so different through each one. If you start on the right, which I think is the way to do it (though this is slightly counter-intuitive), you have what must be the whale's jaw, and progress all the way to the beginnings of vertebrae. I've never seen a whale and the enormity of the skull was astounding. It made me understand why people talk about sea monsters - and aren't sperm whales the dinky ones? I suppose if you viewed it left to right it would give a sense of enormity shrinking to nothing, which probably works better with a skull, though I liked the way it became something bigger than itself. As I walked down it I felt conflicted, which is my benchmark for whether a piece of art works or not. It was quite an experience.
The rest of her showcase was alright, though only Alphabet 2008 was of particular interest to me. I liked the idea of using coal dust as a medium, it fits with my anti-waste ethos.
I didn't see why it was called Alphabet, though I suspect that may be down to my failing vision. I don't think it'll be because she made 26 of them. I know it's a take on Bird in Space, which I like better (it looks great shiny and lit), but what has that got to do to A B C? I don't understand this, which makes it difficult for me to appreciate.
Richard Wright's mural was astounding, and it's this that I hope wins. There was a piece in the Guardian about the nominees where the shapes seen in the mural are given a mention. The Hubs and I spent the longest time (in the 40 minutes) with this because there was just so much! I could have looked at it for hours. We spotted a pheonix, vagina, pagodas, fans, constellations, flames... this was such a fascinating piece because everyone saw it differently and interpreted it in a multitude of ways. It's a piece that will never get boring, and surely immortality is an indicator of excellent art? I don't think it will win though, because of Richard Wright's consumer approach to art (everything is used up then destroyed). There's so little of his work out there that winning something like the turner would hike up prices phenomenally, which I suspect will be viewed at commercialising the Turner (hello, Grayson Perry).
Something definitely worth a mention was not a nominee piece, but Eva Rothchild's Cold Corners . This blew our minds. Scale is one thing but the way it used the room was incredible. That picture doesn't do it justice. Perhaps because we've been looking at decorating the new house, but we're both very conscious of use of space, and this utilised every nook and cranny. She's got a piece at the Frieze, which I'm hoping to go to this weekend between Divali and moving - fingers crossed!
Also worth a mention is the Turner & the Masters exhibition. This was absolutely amazing and the Hubs and I will be going back to it. Essentially it could be taken as highlighting how insecure Turner was, since it takes pieces that he took inspiration from and tried to outdo, and puts them next to each other. For example, when asked to do a companion piece to one of my favourites, A Rising Gale (Willem Van de Velde the Younger), he did Bridgewater Sea-piece, which was basically a mirror image-style piece. The exhibition is really interesting, not just because quite often it is a case of "anything he can do, I can do better, I can do anything (at least as good as) him", but also because quite often he absolutely crashed and burned. There was Rembrandt, Titian, Claude, Poussin ... and I'd say he had a 60% success rate. Gutsy though. I don't know much about Turner other than that he was an unlikely artist. Wrong side of the tracks, etc. This show was so good I plan to go back and learn more. Am gutted I can't make the Curator's talk.
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