Sorry Spice
- 29 Jun 07, 01:10 AM
It was a sad and sorry sight to behold. Five women, fast approaching middle age, dressed like your next door neighbour¡¯s teenage daughter on the pull. Obviously I am referring to the much anticipated, at least by the tabloids, reunion of the Spice Girls. Yes, ¡®girl power¡¯ is back in business and the ¡®girls¡¯, I use the term advisedly, are back on the road, ¡®zig a zig ah¡¯-ing their way across the globe on a 25 date tour reportedly worth millions. Of course if, in addition to the money, you also factor in the conspicuous lack of success of their individual solo careers it¡¯s easy to see why those wannabes par excellence wanna give it one last go.
So here they are once more, about to commit mass murder on music and even worse crimes against fashion. Indeed, looking at today¡¯s photocall the style police must already be getting out their handcuffs.
Let¡¯s start with Mel B, the one time ¡®Scary Spice¡¯ who now has a daughter with movie star Eddie Murphy ¨C it¡¯s ok to talk about it now, it was all sorted out in court. She obviously decided to opt for the ever popular Parisian streetwalker look ¨C tight red satin skirt, black bustier, acres of cleavage ¨C very classy. One thing, she has clearly lost all her baby bulges because not even ¡®magic knickers¡¯ could conjure up that shape. This is in direct contrast to ¡®Baby Spice¡¯ herself, little Emma B, who still has a baby onboard and no doubt with the prospect of a tour looming, will have her personal trainer and dietician with her in the delivery room. ¡®Sporty Spice¡¯ Mel C was always the least attractive one, proving that the world of pop is just like school. Pretty girls always have one plain friend to act as a foil, remind them how lucky they are, and prove to the world that they aren¡¯t ¡®looksist¡¯! Actually I thought she¡¯d improved significantly with age, but then how could she not when she used to wear nylon shell suits and have a pony tail!!
Ginger Geri has swapped her famous Union Jack mini for a floaty, Flake ad maxi dress. Honestly, I kept on expecting her to break into song with ¡°Only, the crumbliest, flakiest chocolate¡.¡±. But naturally I have saved the lousiest to last! Oh, Victoria, Victoria how could you ever have been known as ¡®Posh Spice¡¯ ¨C isn¡¯t irony a wonderful thing ¨C and is that why you are frequently being hailed by Heat and OK and Closer as some kind of fashion icon. Do the editors of these so-called celebrity magazines need to borrow David Blunkett¡¯s guide dog, or are they blinded by the bull about ¡®brand Beckham¡¯. VB may think she has an individual style, which no doubt her best friends D&G (Dolce and Gabbana) and D&E (David and Elton) like to encourage her with, but there can be no excuse for going out in public in black sequinned trousers sprayed on to her stick thin legs and a strapless black top that only just remains within the bounds of decency ¨C talk about baps out! Oh her poor sons! I also defy any woman that thin, she¡¯s got to be at most a size zero, to tell me that those boobs are not surgically enhanced! Forget M&S, Derren Brown couldn¡¯t create an illusion that good, and you could practically see the outline of the silicone. Best of all, and ever the eager self publicist, Posh managed to have several shots of herself draped in the ¡®stars and stripes¡¯, an excellent career move when you¡¯re just about to relocate to the USA and have your sights set on Holywood.
Still, I suppose if it¡¯s what they really, really want then they might as well get on with it¡ it's just that we¡¯re all going to be so sick of seeing them by the time they get to their next acrimonious split. Bring it on I say!
Oh, and before I finish my rant, I would just like to move effortlessly from pop to politics and say to Sarah Brown, wife of new PM Gordon, bin the cream and red suit. I know I implied that the Spice Girls had a touch of the slutty mutton about their reunion wardrobe, but it¡¯s just as bad to be prematurely mumsy and middle aged. Remember, fashion faux pas are just as easy to commit at number 10 as they are at number 1¡just ask Cherie or Cher, both fine examples.
Blast Orders Please
- 28 Jun 07, 08:34 AM
The Â鶹ԼÅÄ Blast project has returned to Belfast and is currently sprawling, like a giant bug colony, across Custom House Square. Last year I worked on the Derry event and now I¡¯m taking a course in music journalism. It¡¯s not an occupation that leads itself easily to a teaching format, but I¡¯ll do what I can.
When I worked at NME, we had to de-programme the college kids with their journalist certificates. The academies had turned them into terrible squares. Our job was cultivate in them a sense of adventure, a bit of posturing, a hint of anarchy and the ability to type ¡°cathedrals of sound¡± without blushing.
I took great delight in watching the Cameron Crowe yarn, ¡®Almost Famous¡¯ a few years ago. While it didn¡¯t exactly fit with my experiences, I could remember many of the same moments. How a greenhorn kid from the sticks could hitch a ride on the rock and rollercoaster, with all the perks. How people could suddenly take your opinions seriously. And how you would strike up unusual friendships with famous figures ¨C relationships that were often founded on mutual self-interest. That said, I¡¯ve emerged from that caper with some very solid friends.
I always tell people that music journalism is badly paid and terribly fickle. But it¡¯s also tremendous fun, and if you¡¯re that way inclined, you really should give it a try. It really could be your type.
Can You Guess What It Is Yet?
- 26 Jun 07, 02:20 PM
After watching lots of Glastonbury on TV, my youngest daughter Betsy is feeling creative. Her favourites are the naughty girls on the stage, like Lily Allen. And she has another singer in mind when she starts to draw a picture. This picture has a strangely shaped head and what appears to be a little door and a window on her face. There is a roar of laughter as we realise that she¡¯s drawn a home in the shape of a bottle. Why it¡¯s¡ Amy Winehouse!
Flowered Up
- 25 Jun 07, 01:56 PM
You don¡¯t realise how much Belfast needs colour until the carnival hits town. Suddenly, Royal Avenue on a drab Saturday afternoon becomes lit with magenta and lime, crimson and turquoise. There are giant butterflies, pursued by catchers with massive nets. We see princesses on stilts, a towering bloke with his guitar and Bootsy Collins glasses and all manner of bugs and fauna. The theme is ¡®Flower Power¡¯ and there¡¯s little place for shrinking violets.
And of course the music is ace. Thanks to the and their pals in Scotland, Brazil and beyond, the samba beat is rousing the main drag, challenging us not to smile, not to shake our limbs to the tremendous rhythm. While we¡¯re digging all this, a float moves past, disguised as a VW camper van. On the top is Â鶹ԼÅÄ supremo Joe Lindsay. He wears a blue wig and he¡¯s at the decks, spinning ¡®It¡¯s Not Unusual¡¯.
The carnival spirit brings a kind of delirium that¡¯s all good. It fits with the midsummer feeling and it reminds us that we¡¯re connected to other cities and looser cultures. Little kids are bashing their instruments and parading with immense joy. Nobody is out of step ¨C or not in any way that matters.
Strummer In The City
- 22 Jun 07, 10:04 AM
Tonight on the Late Show, Radio Ulster, 10pm, a tribute to Joe Strummer. It¡¯s not like we need much of an excuse to load up on old Clash tunes, but a magnificent film: ¡®¡¯ opens at the Queen¡¯s Film Theatre this evening. It¡¯s in town for a week, and it really is a thrill, an education and a reminder of how far a bit of humanity can take you in rock and roll.
We¡¯ve also got a world exclusive, a Joe track called ¡®Divorcing Jack¡¯ which has never been played before. It was written to the film of the same name and writer Colin Bateman has been keeping it to himself for many years. We¡¯ll also be hearing testimonies from the likes of David Holmes and Brian Young of Rudi fame, while I¡¯ll be dusting down an old interview with Joe and myself from 1999. Don¡¯t touch that dial!
A Lame Eggscuse
- 22 Jun 07, 09:21 AM
I was barely out of nappies when that late, great, grumpy, genius Tony Hancock exhorted the nation to ¡®Go to work on an egg¡¯. Despite being but a tiny tot I still have an extremely clear recollection of that cleverly conceived slogan by novelist Fay Weldon, herself but a cub copywriter for a London ad agency. Indeed I can hear it now, with its catchy little tune, playing in my head¡.¡±Go to work on an egg¡±¡.
So here we are forty odd years on and, nostalgia being the wonderful thing that it is, The Egg Information Service had wanted to screen the fondly remembered ad celebrating the finest hour of the oeuf, to mark its 50th birthday. That was until the Broadcast Advertising Clearance Centre, which regulates advertising standards and practice, blocked it on the grounds that it did not comply with Ofcom rules about promoting a varied diet. I say what a pile of chicken pooh.
I will admit that as nutritional awareness has developed over the last half century the humble egg has fallen in and out of favour, depending on which research study you read. However, what cannot be disputed is that an egg is completely natural. It has no preservatives, or added salt and sugar. It comes out of the rear end of a chicken and goes straight into the pot with very little interference in between. Indeed these days, because we are so aware of the shocking treatment of battery hens, we¡¯re even eating organic free range eggs. And while we¡¯re on the subject of chickens¡.you can turn on your tv at any hour of the day and night and see ads for every kind of processed, preservative laden, potentially life threateningly unhealthy (see Morgan Spurlock¡¯s ¡®Supersize Me¡¯) fast food. Whilst it doesn¡¯t actually say in the voice over ¡°eat me every day¡± the implication is clear. Or what about breakfast cereal, which is often loaded with salt. Logic would dictate that if we eat breakfast daily then manufacturers spending millions on advertising would like us to start every morning with their particular bowl of goodness. So why not say ¡°Go to work on an egg¡±. What¡¯s the difference?
I could go on and on, but really the point I¡¯m making is this. None of these things are bad in moderation, and even if they are surely we, as free thinking individuals, should have the right to choose whether we eat them or not. Let us watch the ads and decide for ourselves whether we want a lunch that¡¯s ¡®chicken, lickin good¡¯ or an egg and onion sandwich. We don¡¯t need some bureaucratic ¡®big brother¡¯ to tell us, and having a boiled egg with toasted soldiers for breakfast is hardly an issue of taste and decency.
So, in an attempt to champion the cause, I am now off to start my day with a healthy poached egg on toasted wheaten.
PS: How do you make a poached egg naughty? Put it on a toasted muffin, top it with crispy fried bacon, finish it off with lashings of creamy Hollandaise sauce and you¡¯ve shamefully transformed it into my very favorite breakfast ¨C and the only one to make an Ulster Fry look like the weightwatcher¡¯s special ¨C Eggs Benedict. I fear the yolk could be on me with that one!
Far From The Manning Crowd
- 20 Jun 07, 07:47 PM
Only last week I was musing on this blog about Bernard Manning and his offensive routines about ¡°thick Paddies¡±. I¡¯ve only glanced at his obits in the tabloids, but in many cases he¡¯s been excused as a man of his time, a loveable rogue, a blunt northerner and the last example of a true comedic era.
I still empathise with the cartoon - used on the sleeve of a That Petrol Emotion single - that shows Manning telling one of his mean gags. Behind him are the names of the Irish literary greats : Oscar Wilde, Brendan Behan, Sean O¡¯Casey, James Joyce, Bernard Shaw. This list actually inspired a piece of music by Dexy¡¯s Midnight Runners ¨C ¡®Dance Stance¡¯ which basically repeated the roll call with increasing noise and pride.
In several cases, people have claimed that Bernard Manning was far superior to the alternative comedians who came afterwards, with their politics, their anti-professionalism and their obsession with ¡°Thatch¡±. And so I was keen to read the response of Alexei Sayle in today¡¯s Independent. Thankfully Alexei hasn¡¯t gone the way of Loaded magazine, nor has he written a rotten rock opera based on the music of Queen. No, the fella is unforgiving: ¡°Bernard Manning was just a half-way decent comic with a horrible act¡±.
Titanic Street Features
- 19 Jun 07, 11:49 AM
Anyone see Titanic Town on TV last night? I had a couple of reservations. Firstly, Glenn Patterson is criminally well preserved for a man of his age. Secondly, the plans for Belfast¡¯s new quarter seem rather clinical.
Yes I know, architectural plans make everything look pristine and gleaming, but the vision of so many yachts tethered by the island where my grandfather laboured in oil and dirt seems mildly blasphemous. Maybe the real deal will have soul and humour and scruffy dimensions. If not, then it will become a kind of gated community, detached from the city life.
What killed the dream for me was architect who talked of setting in a chic caf¨¦ in the finished project, sipping on his frappuccino. I¡¯m sorry, but that sounds like a bourgeois nightmare to me. Where¡¯s the friction, the intensity, the clang of ideas? There¡¯s always the danger that our new city will become overly smug about its sudden prosperity. And as Glenn pointed out, that¡¯s the very moment that an unwelcome iceberg arrives to make another appointment with destiny and the Titanic myth.
Nothing Compares To Who
- 17 Jun 07, 05:11 PM
Dr Who is hurtling to the end of the third series, lashed on by the arrival of John Barrowman, John Simm and Derek Jacobi. Everyone one of them has eyebrows askew and is grandstanding with gusto. Barrowman is heroically camp in the face of a collapsing universe, but David Tennant is never knowingly upstaged, and so they¡¯re hurling lines at each other like broadswords, keeping it busy and witty and fun.
The Bailie kids are transfixed, the adults are enjoying the cosmic vigour and the double meanings. Meantime, there¡¯s a giant rocket aiming for Utopia, and a mob of badly tattooed underlings are roaming the old planet. They look like members of the Anti Nowhere League, and in a sense, they are.
Like many veterans, I was aghast at the return of Dr Who, while the Christopher Eccleston casting in the first series didn¡¯t move me. But the show is now a necessary spectacle every Saturday, and the previous programme, with the nasty statues, was wonderful value. The Doctor is emphatically in the house.
Well, Blow Me Down
- 14 Jun 07, 02:19 PM
There¡¯s a legendary scene in To Have And Have Not when Lauren Bacall is showing Humphrey Bogart how to whistle properly. ¡°You just put your lips together and blow,¡± she purrs, as Bogie holds it all together and plays it absurdly cool.
I¡¯ve never met too many women who could make the art of whistling seem sexy. Not too many men, either. Maybe Otis Redding during the final moments of ¡®Dock Of The Bay¡¯, when he can¡¯t remember the lyrics but busks it, beautifully. Or John Lennon on ¡®Jealous Guy¡¯. Oh, and I guess we could commend The Bangles for that perky line in the chorus of ¡®Walk Like An Egyptian¡¯. Or more recently, Peter, Bjorn And John for the excellent ¡®Young Folks¡¯. People, I can feel a radio special coming on¡
But no marks whatsoever to the average Ulster male. During my occasional visits to the local gym, I have to endure scores of hairy, naked blokes in the changing room, whistling along to the commercial radio station that constantly blares. This station seems to run on a cycle of Robbie Williams, Bryan McFadden, The Sugababes and Oasis. And to hear a whistling version of ¡®Don¡¯t Look Back In Anger¡¯ is almost too much to endure.
Ulster boy whistlers take awful liberties with the melody of a given song. They also remove the natural cadences and make it sound stupid and ¡°jaunty¡±. You would think they had all been reared on terrible flute bands¡
While I¡¯m not saying that you should re-route the flute, can¡¯t we somehow muffle the whistle?
A Hard Rain Falls
- 14 Jun 07, 12:30 AM
Monday 2pm: Am sitting in the garden, eating lunch under a Mediterranean style sun and getting distinctly pink around the edges. Am considering that if this keeps up I may well have a decent tan by the weekend, particularly welcome as I have been invited to several barbecues.
Tuesday 2pm: Am looking out at the same garden being washed away in a deluge of driving rain, a flood of biblical proportions. Expect at any moment to see Noah on an ark sailing down the street.
Wednesday 2pm: Am on the phone to the insurance company to find out if I can claim for the guttering torn from the front of the house, the leaking glass roof, the huge damp patch on the kitchen wall that has taken all the paint off and last, but by no means least, the three week old cream carpet that is now a sort of smudgy dalmation pattern thanks to the soot spots washed down the chimney.
Wednesday 8pm: Am at friend¡¯s house for barbecue. Inside, eating grilled burgers while looking out at pouring rain. At least the dogs are hot. No tan.
Thursday 1am: Am drinking wine in continuing effort to drown sorrows and create own artificial sunshine in a glass. Apply fake tan. Write blog while waiting for lotion to dry. Still raining.
The Freewheelin¡¯ Tim Wheeler
- 13 Jun 07, 11:29 AM
During the final minutes of the Ash gig on Saturday, Tim Wheeler closed a chapter of the Ash book. He told his audience at the Isle Of Wight festival that their new album, ¡®Twilight Of the Innocents¡¯ would be their last.
Blimey, we thought. If that¡¯s the end of Ash, then we¡¯re gonna have a significant hole in the tapestry of Ulster rock. Here was a band that had racked up 17 hits in the top 40, which brought humour, big tunes and unfiltered teenage awe to the party. I was thinking of songs like ¡®Girl From Mars¡¯ and ¡®Angel Interceptor¡¯ and ¡®Shining Light¡¯ - all roaring out of the radio in that classic, shaky-voiced manner.
In my head, I was already writing the obit. About their critical first surge from Downpatrick High, and the international rock action before the school exams were even over. Their first ¡®proper¡¯ album goes to number one, and so does ¡®Free All Angels¡¯, their mighty comeback release. Charlotte Hatherley played on some peppy releases while the band supported U2 at the memorable ¡®Yes¡¯ gig in the Waterfront Hall.
Ash have cool history in their DNA and the new songs are also full of intent. So we were all rather relieved when a Tim statement, issued last night, said that the band was not done yet. Instead, they¡¯re moving their operation to digital only, using broadband to deliver great songs, rather than pressing, printing and shipping. Essentially, it¡¯s another life less ordinary.
Not Such Divine In¡¯spir¡¯ation
- 8 Jun 07, 06:35 PM
Last night was so lovely that Ella and I headed off for a long walk along the lough shore at Whiteabbey. It was a perfect early summer evening, bright and balmy. We met my friend Carol and her dog, and as our two contented canines ran in and out of the water, we strolled along gossiping and enjoying that fine view of the Harland & Wolff cranes, looking particularly splendid against a rare, bright blue backdrop. Follow that with a nice, frothy cappuccino, a bit more chat and I am in fine form as I drive homeward in full admiration of the rosy sun setting on the city of my birth. But just as I am in danger of becoming excessively enraptured with the emerging skyline out pops a spike to burst my Belfast bubble.
Yes, I have caught sight of the sun glinting off that stainless steel darning needle sticking out of the top of St Anne¡¯s Cathedral. I know it¡¯s supposed to be ¡®the spire of hope¡¯ and I know that the sentiments and concept behind its construction are highly admirable, but architecturally it just doesn¡¯t work for me. Admittedly it does reflect the colours and moods of the changing sky, then so does a window, and ultimately this still looks like an aluminium flag pole, or the aerial of a radio transmitter from a 1950¡¯s black & white sci fi movie. But the question I really want to ask is would something this architecturally inappropriate ever be added to the Duomo in Florence? Would stainless steel sit upon the rooftops of Notre Dame? I don¡¯t think so!
Don¡¯t get me wrong, it¡¯s not like I¡¯m some sort of arch conservative. I¡¯m not pulling a Prince Charles here and suggesting that there hasn¡¯t been a decent building designed since 1840. Actually I happen to be a fan of interesting, modern structures when they add to their environment. I love the 'gherkin¡¯ in London, the Velasca Tower in Milan, the glass pyramid at the Louvre, but this spire has no character. Yes, modern features can significantly enhance a more traditional building, but not in this case. Obviously this is just my opinion and maybe I have no imagination. I¡¯m sure there will be many of you who love it and no doubt even I will get used to it in time. For now though let me stick with that picture in my head¡.a bunker, possibly somewhere under Donegal Street, with a lone radio operator, headphones on, looking at a screen, asking over and over again ¡°is there anybody out there?¡±¡¡
Jiggers With Attitude
- 8 Jun 07, 06:35 PM
The Big Brother debate over the ¡¯n¡¯ word shows how critical the context of a word is. Used by the likes of Chuck D from Public Enemy, the word is a spear sharpened at both ends, jibing and provoking and forcing the listener to see a long history of subjugation and common pain. But when the speaker is a blonde and mildly posh 19 year from Bristol - former slavery centre of the Empire - people aren¡¯t happy.
The closest thing we¡¯ve got to it here is the term Paddy. Again there¡¯s a history there ¨C a long tradition of repellent Bernard Manning jokes, calling us thick and uncultured and deserving of colonial abuse. I remember the first time an English guy called me Paddy. I was working as a post boy in a computer firm in Whitechapel when he saluted me in the lift with this name. And while he wasn¡¯t actively malicious, I was furious. All of my individuality had been stripped away. I had become generic in his eyes. By the end of a very short journey, he had been encouraged to say sorry.
A few years later and a cool T-shirt arrived in London. It was all green apart from three huge letters: P.W.A. Music biz people, in particular the Irish crowd (sometimes referred to as The Murphia) knew that it stood for Paddies With Attitude. It became such a popular item that U2 bassist Adam Clayton wore his onstage, with pride. And he¡¯s basically an Anglo. But hey, there was some dispensation involved.
If in doubt, bury the racial insults. Sly Stone who led an amazing, multi-cultural act The Family Stone expressed it thus: ¡°Don¡¯t call me nigger, whitey/ don¡¯t call me whitey, nigger.¡± Amen.
Dublin Calling
- 7 Jun 07, 03:46 PM
Shane MacGowan is in the Sugar Club in Dublin, shuffling like Boris Karloff. His face is waxy and his features are strangely frozen. On the other side of the room, Moya Brennan is talking to Julie Feeney, two astonishing voices in perfect accord. Declan O¡¯ Rourke is on the stage, doing his best to inspire the crowd with ¡®Galileo¡¯. Some people are plainly thrilled but hey, this is a media launch and there¡¯s a lot of plugging and flesh-pressing required.
This is a celebration of Hot Press and its 30 year history as Ireland¡¯s premier rock magazine. Images from the old cover stories are flashing on the screen above the stage ¨C from Rory Gallagher and Phil Lynott to Bono, Van, Geldof and Sinead. It¡¯s a story we¡¯ve all got a stake in, and so the mood is exceedingly up-beat.
As the bottles clink, there¡¯s also talk of the annual Who¡¯s Who publication ¨C another Hot Press project that identifies the major music industry names on the island. This is a competitive crew, and so there is talk of column inches, billings and photo inserts. And as the night grows ever more fluid, the entire posse decamps to the roof garden, where those legendary voices are doused in nicotine.
We steer around the corner to the Crawdaddy, where the discussions start to falter and the captains of industry are drooling Guinness and blackcurrant down their expensive suits. No matter. The stars are out, the evening is balmy and this is still a tremendous alternative to civvy street.
A Paddy in Paris
- 6 Jun 07, 02:16 PM
Yes, I am back once more from several days filming with the canine delinquents and one of my regular visits to ¡®mon cheri a Paris¡¯ ¨C hence the absence of blog. Actually I did try to post something when I was away, I even had a photograph taken on the Pont Neuf to add a little authenticity, but I just couldn¡¯t get the damn thing to work. Now, I could put that down to a technical fault or I could be entirely honest and admit that it was almost certainly because I am completely hopeless with all forms of technology. Indeed, if left to my own devices a quill pen and parchment would be my communication tools of choice. But forgive me, I digress and talk drivel ¨C nothing new there I hear you say - so back to my point which is my growing fondness for all things French.
I have long been an ardent devotee of ¡®la dolce vita¡¯ but I think it may be about to be replaced in my affections by ¡®la vie en rose¡¯. I never thought I would prefer Parisian hauteur to Italian earthiness; indeed I have always been extremely nervous of being on the receiving end of that legendary Gallic rudeness. This fear was intensified as I watched in horror the unfortunate treatment of Carrie Bradshaw when the Sex and the City scriptwriters sent her to Paris. She started off all starry eyed and excited but in no time at all she was being ignored, despised, ridiculed and made to feel like a complete outsider. I was certain the same fate would await me as I put in my days while ¡®mon cheri¡¯ was earning our daily bread. But then I had forgotten the one very important difference between Kimmie and Carrie ¨C no, not the fact that she is a size zero, but that she is American and I am from Northern Ireland. Oh yes, in just about every country in the world playing the ¡®Irish¡¯ card works like a ¡®Royal Flush¡¯ time after time. My French is rubbish ¨C an ¡®o¡¯ level taken more years ago than I care to calculate ¨C but I¡¯m always forgiven and told that my halting linguistic attempts are excellent because I invariably start with the line ¡°I¡¯m sorry I don¡¯t speak a lot of French¡I¡¯m Irish¡±. That instantly does the trick as it seems ¡®paddy¡¯ equates to ¡®party¡¯ in any language, and even in the capital of chic they like a bit of the old charm and blarney.
Of course even with that there are still down sides to ¡®la vie Parisian¡¯. French women are soooo skinny that it is impossible to get clothes much into double figures. I remember reading that book a few years ago ¡®Why French Women Don¡¯t Get Fat¡¯ and it was a very smug explanation about balance and portion sizes and not too many carbs. It¡¯s all nonsense! I can tell you in a sentence why they don¡¯t get fat. It¡¯s because women in Paris do not eat they only smoke ¨C before, during and after pushing their gorgeous looking dinners around their plates. Now, having been brought up here in a traditional ¡®waste not, want not¡¯ household, being extremely keen on good food, and a vehement anti-smoker, I haven¡¯t got a chance. Indeed, I wish to report that even after a week I found the seatbelt on the plane on the way home much tighter than it was on the journey out. Another interesting point is that apparently French women don¡¯t go to the gym. They don¡¯t like all that inelegant sweating and smudged make up ¨C well who does. Anyway, why on earth would you need to pay to work out when at every metro station there are hundreds of steps up and down with no lifts and no escalators.
So to look and act like a real Parisian this summer I will need to stop eating almost entirely, take up chain smoking and spend the day riding the metro. Alternatively I could write the definitive book ¡°Why Irish Women Get Fat in Paris¡±.
Haste Not¡
- 4 Jun 07, 11:46 AM
The freelance life is a mixture of freedom and chaos, self-reliance and anxiety. It¡¯s been this way for over ten years now, when I swapped a staff job at the NME in London for an irregular livelihood in the hometown. On a good week, the work-life balance is decent, the work pays well and there¡¯s space for a bit of fun. Then again, there are times when it feels like you¡¯re being shot from a cannon.
Last week, for instance, was a chronic rush. There were spur-of-the moment calls from a bloke over from Helsinki who has a huge multimedia centre and wanted to compare notes with the Belfast scene. A day later and a posse of musicians from Novia Scotia had hauled into town and they also wanted to know the score. Meantime there was a filming session with the Sonic DJ Academy, a documentary edit to view in Bangor, reviews to write for the Saturday Magazine show and a request from Arts Extra to talk music festivals.
The freelancer doesn¡¯t want to say no to a paying gig because the phone may not ring again for a while. The work may go to someone else and may never return. So you keep running on the giant hamster wheel and hope that stability will follow.
On Friday there was also the issue of an outside broadcast from Mullan¡¯s Bar in Downpatrick. A load of blues players had been booked, the Â鶹ԼÅÄ engineers were on site and another deadline was looming. So I was on my pushbike, heading into town and worried that I might miss an important slot. Instead of crossing the road outside the house, I took a short detour along the footpath. This was a dumb idea as a bloke came striding out of a Chinese take away, directly into my path. I clipped him, and he spun around.
He wasn¡¯t hurt, but his food was on the road and he was justifiably angry. I tried my best to resolve the mess and his order was replaced. But there was a very plain conclusion to the story, a truth that¡¯s often declared by every granny in the land. If you work yourself into a frenzy, the results aren¡¯t likely to be great. You might want to increase your productivity, but too much haste is really uncool.
Down With The Blues
- 1 Jun 07, 09:34 AM
Tonight at 10pm, we¡¯ll be broadcasting live from Mullan¡¯s Bar in Downpatrick, aided by some premier musicians, some great tunes and a bunch of people who are working to make the Saturday Blues festival a success. This Radio Ulster special will feature the likes of Rab McCullough, 18 Roses, Whitey Johnson and Rev Doc. We¡¯ll be in conversation with Paul Jones of Manfred Mann and The Blues Band fame, and the playlist already includes the likes of John Lee Hooker, The White Stripes, Bonnie Raitt, Muddy Waters and Bessie Smith.
If the proceedings get you as excited as we hope, then you should check out the Saturday festival at the Balydugan Mill, from 3pm until midnight.
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