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LOST IN TRANSLATION
This year has been an unusual one for me. As January dawned, I was sat looking at a diary devoid of work. I'd completed and delivered all my outstanding commissions before Christmas, I had no foreign trips in the offing and the landscape of my professional life appeared as bleak and barren as the trees outside my office window. I really wasn't feeling terribly optimistic. As often happens in freelancing though, things can turn on a sixpence, which is invariably what happened. In the event, I've ended up travelling wider and more frequently, to more new places, solo and with others, than ever before. Always on somebody else's dollar, always with something to write about, someone to see, or something interesting to undertake at the other end. This time of year though is traditionally a period that sees things gradually start to wind down. Lots of writing commissions, but mostly deskbound as the Christmas period beckons. I keep December clear of assignments generally and concentrate on the social side, as there are invitations to countless parties and events proferred to you when you work from home, and it’s always a good time for networking. Knowing this, when my parents asked me to join them for two weeks at their house in the U.S, I said ‘Great!’ and looked forward to a two week break. The flights were booked and I've been looking forwards to flying out on the 24th of this month, returning on December 8th. Last Friday I got an email out of the blue from a press contact. Completely apropos of nothing, it said, "Keep your diary free, I've got you peniclled in on a press trip to India. Fly out November 22nd, back November 25th". You can imagine how I felt. India, a country I've held ambitions to visit, one of the great destinations out there I've yet to experience. It's the jewel in the crown of places to go for me, a land of mystery, colour, spice and intrigue. And here it was being handed to me on a plate, but with my trip to America, I was already full. "No worries" said press guy. "If I can shift your flights to the U.S by a couple of days, how's that grab you?". Er, it suits me just fine, actually. So he did. I was more than happy. Then on Monday, I got a phone call whilst I was in the middle of a meeting. You might recall I mentioned in my last entry that there was the outside prospect of a trip to Japan in the offing. There were lots of hacks under consideration for it, but only one place available. The phone call that interrupted my meeting was short, but it said all I needed to know: "Japan's a definite, you're in. Be in touch to arrange the flights!". Only one obstacle; the trip falls in the first week of December and I won't be here. But that's not a problem for Media Guy, because the PR company are happy to arrange my flights to Tokyo from the U.S.A. Sorted.
So the upshot is this. A two week period of time that is normally as dull as ditchwater will see me flying to three seperate long haul destinations, two of which are at the zenith of my wishlist. On Tuesday November 22nd, I fly east to Bangalore, India, (+5 hours time difference) returning three days later on Friday afternoon, a round trip of 10,000 miles. Back in London, I'll just have time to catch my breath before flying west on the Sunday to my parents' place in Louisiana, a distance of 4,800 miles (-6 hours time difference). Three days after landing there, I'll board the first of several flights west to Tokyo (-15 hours local)and back again to Louisiana five days later. In the process, I'll cross the International Date Line twice, rack up 13,500 more miles and cross the Pacific Ocean (a new one for me). With just six days to relax and enjoy my Mum's company (dad's tied up with work, sadly), I'll then board another plane to fly east to London, a further 4,800 miles. So, two weeks, three continents (four if you count home) and a total of 33,100 miles. Oh, and one very dazed and confused me, no doubt. So, it's been a better than good week, all things considered. I spent Monday in London, courtesy of a lunch appointment at Browns in Covent Garden with a contact whom I'm working with on several potential projects (more on those as they develop). From there, I headed for Balls Brothers in SW1 and a meeting with my editor from the news agency. Came away with more commissions, an invite to the agency Christmas Party in December, and the prospect of a several fold increase in work come 2006. Met a girlfriend from work in the evening, browsed in the Apple Shop on Regent St (and fell in love, against my better judgment, with the new video iPod - however small and lithe you think it is, it's smaller and more desirable!) before settling down for happy hour at Digress in Beak St. Spent a pleasant couple of hours in there, before wandering over to Masala Zone for a meal (verdict: Don't bother, it's a poor second to Wagamama). Tuesday saw me back in London for a meeting with another editor (this one from the hotel review contract) and a pleasant lunch at one of my old haunts from my City days - Corney and Barrow at Broadgate Circle. From there I headed off to a pub in Moorgate to meet with my mate Iain who I used to work with in the City - and another member of the team, Steve, who I hadn't seen for the best part of eight years. I won't tell you what we talked about, simply because I don't remember much about the evening. I thought I was sober, but the text messages I allegedly sent home appear to have been written in an as yet undiscovered language and bear testament to the fact that I may just have been drunk. I have another mountain to climb next week; a shed load of commissions to write and deliver, a meeting down on the south coast, and visas and innoculations to arrange for my forthcoming trips. That said, a phone call I've just receieved, the bright, crisp sunshine outside my window - and the fact it's Friday all conspire with the events of this week to shine a delightful hue on the weekend. I'll be enjoying mine - make sure you enjoy yours, too. |
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4.11.05 13:01 |
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APPARENTLY NOTHING, NOTHING APPARENTLY
My relationship with Shakespeare has been tenuous to say the least. A year or so spent reading, studying, watching and interpreting Twelfth Night, the last of his mature comedies, for my English Literature 'O' Level in 1984 was my most intimate acquaintance with the Bard, since when - aside from the odd quote used to illustrate some point or other in my writing - I've rather lost touch. At the English Dept's visit to a performance of the play at the Old Vic one evening when I was 16, I remember my thoughts being held hostage not by the performance of the actors on the stage before me, but to the raging hormonal cocktail that is adolescence, for I was far more interested in the girl from the school on the south coast who was flirting with me, and went on to become my girlfriend after that night. Which is a shame. Because like many people, as soon as I hear the word 'Shakespeare', there's a part of me that goes, 'I don't get it' and feelings of inadequacy wash over me to leave me feeling thick and stupid; like maybe there's a special gene you need to enjoy his original works, a gene that classical thespians, the audiences who attend their rapt performances of the Bard's plays - and Dame Judi Dench - posess. Don't get me wrong; I've always enjoyed Shakespeare's work and his impact on the English language, our very culture, can't be overstated. It's just that there's always been a part of me that wonders if I'm missing some hidden subtext, or that perhaps everyone else is enjoying it more than I. And perhaps that's put me off Shakespeare a little, in the same way that great swathes of the poplulation just don't bother because they think it's 'not for them'. And that's the great tragedy because his works, at the end of the day, are very simple stories that focus on the basest, and most familar of human emotions, and if they're told properly and simply, then most people can understand them. So full marks to the BBC for last night's broadcast of Much Ado About Nothing, the first of four 90 minute dramas to present modern adaptations of some of Shakespeare's best known works. Maybe it's testament of the original story's timelessness; maybe it was down to the brilliantly-penned script, the tight direction, the superb casting, or simply the stylish sets that ensured such a beautifully realised contemporary comedy of love, lies, and jealousy. This wasn't an adaptation for Shakespeare fans; it was a glorious piece of television that will stand as one of this year's most enjoyable dramas. It was an inspired decision to set the adaptation at the regional TV news magazine, 'Wessex Tonight' where the progam's two anchor presenters, Beatrice (Sarah Parish) and Benedick (Damien Lewis) are portrayed, thanks to a failed romance, as bitchy, backstabbing, spiteful rivals. Beatrice utters some genuinely funny lines (she calls Benedick 'the man who put the W into anchor'), thanks to Cold Feet writer David Nicholls' brilliantly acerbic script, which is fast-paced, wry and bang on target. Parish and Lewis are excellent as the sparring twosome who, beneath the catty remarks, clearly sill fancy each other. And using Shakespeare's well-honed device - of the principal characters' colleagues banding together to trick them into rekindling their love affair - that's exactly what makes the performance so watchable.
A brilliant supporting cast led by Billie Piper (who must have been busy this year filming this alongside her commitment to Dr Who) as the TV magazine's weathergirl 'Hero' delivers some outstanding performances, which really make the program sparkle. But it's the play itself - the devices, the characterisations, the humour - penned almost 500 years ago that really stands up. Much Ado About Nothing is perhaps the most modern of the Bard's comedies - as Damien Lewis says, "There's no conjuring of ghosts or spirits, no one goes into a metaphorical wood to be transformed. It's about two people living on their wits who have blocked off the idea of love in their lives, without knowing that the perfect person for them is each other – there's a rich comic vein in it. The conceit in Benedick is terrific because his vanity never leaves him fully. Once he is led to believe that Beatrice loves him, only at that point is it possible for him to love, so he needs a little prodding". "I think there are wonderful parallels with modern living – the way people have become. In the pursuit of careers, men and women, nowadays particularly, have often blocked themselves off to committed relationships in pursuit of their careers or in pursuit of some spurious notion of independence and, in doing so, can harden themselves unwittingly; harden themselves more than they think they are to the idea of love and a relationship with someone else". Even though this version of Much Ado sets Shakespeare in the modern day, Damian believes there still remains a fairytale element. "It's just the transforming power of love, so that what we see in Benedick and Beatrice are these two hard-bitten, rather cynical, self-involved, thirty-something news presenters, whose lives haven't quite gone the way they both anticipated," he declares. "With a simple dramatic conceit, which is simply a bunch of friends duping our two heroes - fooling them into believing that the other person absolutely loves them – they just accept that. "If you allow the fairytale elements of the story to work at that point, it's absolutely delightful to see their faces soften and open, and allow the possibility of this other person loving them into their world." The modern interpretations of Shakespeare's major works, through the minds of Britain's best contemporary writers, continue throughout this month. Next Monday sees a retelling of Macbeth, with the famous tragedy relocated to the heated world of a top restaurant kitchen. That's followed a week later by The Taming of the Shrew, retold against a modern backdrop of parliamentary politcs with succesful politician Katherine Minola tipped for the leadership of her party (the only problem is, her awful temper has left her a 38 year old singleton, and everyone, from her party chairman to her sister, wants her to get married. Is passionate eccentric Petruchio the answer to her prayers?). Finally, the series ends on November 28th with A Midsummer Night's Dream, starring Johnny Vegas and Imelda Staunton. If you missed this one, make sure you catch the others - I can't recommend them highly enough. And if you're one of my overseas readers - sadly, you'll have to enjoy them vicariously through the BBC's website, unless you're in a country able to receive BBC1 on satellite. Anybody else watch last night's broadcast? What did you think? |
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8.11.05 10:37 |
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THE CUP RUNNETH OVER
British women have the biggest breasts in Europe. Yes, confirming something that I have personally researched in depth over a period of many, many years (all in the interests of science, of course), the boffins working on behalf of a British bra company have discovered that the British Woman has a far heftier décolletage than her European counterpart. They went on to say that over a third of British women wear a bra with a D Cup or greater (and if it's a Friday night and the booze is flowing, they aren't averse to 'getting them out', either!) As if that wasn't enough, respected market analysts Mintel recently issued a statement that British women's breasts are getting bigger, too. Apparently, British girls average an extra two inches up front when compared with figures from ten years ago. What it means is that the typical bust now measures 36 inches, up from 34 inches in 1995, with cup sizes increasing from a modest B to a fuller C or D. Which is great news if you live here in England but not so good if you live in France (although French women more than make up for any deficiency in cup size with their renowned chic and panache!) I should, at this point, bring into play lots of cliched statements about 'inflationary measures'. Or regale you with witty puns about 'a fine pair'. I could even resort to tired old metaphors about 'the twins'. I could do all of that and more, but I won't because that sort of lexicon, combined with words like 'norks', 'knockers', 'tits', 'Cor blimey' and 'you don't get many of those to the pound, do you?' is the preserve of the red top press. In the words of Ben Affleck, then - here comes the science bit...
The study found that today's more buxom women have sent sales of structured and supportive underwired bras soaring. Demand for the underwired bra is up by 12 per cent in the last two years and now makes up 70 per cent of the bra market. Sales rose 12 per cent in the last two years as part of a 27 per cent increase in Britain's total £1.2billion annual lingerie spending. But the bottom has finally fallen out of the thong market - down 14 per cent last year - as French knicker sales shot up by 36 per cent. Analyst James McCoy said: "There has been something of a backlash. Shorts leave the wearer feeling less vulnerable than they do in a thong." He went on, "Undoubtedly, the growth in the average British bust size over the last 10 years from 34B to 36C or D has played a significant role in the increasing popularity of underwired bras which provide greater support. It is also far easier to make underwired bras more flamboyant and intricate, making them a popular choice." But the Mintel report also found that almost two-thirds of British women only buy a new bra to replace a worn out one. And only one in six will splash out on a sexy bra for a special occasion or to take on holiday. And girls, I make no apologies for this entry, for the simple reason that however us guys might appear on the outside, the reality is that we’re just kids who shave. We may hold down responsible jobs, have mortgages and we might even how to act before your parents, but we’re still fascinated by your breasts and we always will be. Still, there has to be a point to all this, and there is. It's this: Scotland was recently hailed as the bust hotspot of Britain by a diet website, with women there measuring a generous 39in on average. So, I'm just off to Heathrow - there's a flight to Edinburgh leaving shortly. Fellas, anyone fancy coming along? ;-)
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12.11.05 14:54 |
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MADAM, IN THE MORNING, I SHALL BE SOBER...
My previous entry on the growth in the average bust size of British women attracted a comment from Pixeldiva, which I thought got right to the heart of the matter. It's not so much about the objectification of women (or even men for that matter), but rather, what aspect of ourselves we really want to be judged upon by members of the opposite sex. Specifically, I guess, why those? The previous entry threw up some interesting comments on the whole issue of objectification and whether or not it's ever acceptable to focus attention on a woman's breasts simply because as fellas, we have a genetic predisposition to noticing them. Sure, it might seem okay to acknowledge them, but few women would profess to enjoying the fact that everything there are, everything they've done, is boiled down to a pair of tits. That said then, why do most of us rank our intellectual capabilities, or our personalities over the gifts that nature blessed us with? In some respects, paying somebody a compliment based upon their looks, their tits, or their model-like facial features is utterly pointless; the honest reply should really be, "I'd like to thank mum for my eyes, dad for my finely chiselled nose and defined jaw, and my grandmother for the fine cleavage which has been the focus of your gaze since our conversation started". It's not, of course - if we're lucky enough to receive a compliment based on our looks, we accept it graciously and say thank you. But looks, in the great scheme of things, are uttlery meaningless in the great lottery of sexual relations. As humans, evolution has allowed us to judge potential mates based upon the likelihood of them delivering where it counts as a long term partner. And in that respect, looks become as relevant as two slippers by Sir Douglas Bader's fireplace.That however doesn't stop the advertising industry, the media using sexy girls to push products. Sex sells after all, tapping directly into that most base of human desires, but it isn't neccessarily right that it is turned into the commodity that a large section of the media see it as. One only needs look to the motorcycle industry, which continues to employ scores of scantily clad girls to pose provocatively on the latest models at the NEC Bike Show each year; it's hardly progressive, is it? Wrong? Or is the industry simply putting its money where its mouth is and being open and honest about it all?
I'd far rather get attention for my intelligence and conversational skills, as I imagine most people would. Yet if popular culture is any indicator, tens of thousands of already perfectly desirable and sexually attractive girls still want to get their tits surgically enhanced, their noses and jaws reshaped, or their stomachs tucked in when in reality, there's nothing really wrong with them in the first place. Where does the fault lie? With plastic surgeons, ready and willing to take their money in an effort to 'make them happy'? With a misguided media that continues to portray a size 8 dress as the norm? Or with the lads' mags, happy to offer a free boob job as a prize to the most deserving girl, based upon her other half's description of why she needs one? Why do so many (mainly) girls, desperate for 'approval' by a non-existent, or unimportant sector of society, continue to seek solace in the hands of plastic surgeons, spending thousands of pounds in the pursuit of something they can never attain through outside agencies - true happiness and confidence? Why are they so willing to spend so much money on their looks or in pursuit of youth? Poor misguided fools that they are, they focus not on their personalities, which are what really count, but on 'assets' which, once the first gaze of a stranger has been met, are negated back to nature's intended use. It seems they are more interested in how they're judged on looks, than by how others see them as people. How do you feel? Is objectification ever desirable, or acceptable? Would you be happy being judged on your appearance, rather than the life experiences, people and events that have shaped the personality that makes you unique? Over to you... |
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15.11.05 13:50 |
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LIKE HISTORY REPEATING
I always put it off. Each month, each crop of assignments, it's always the same. They lurk in the background, underscoring everything I do, taunting me. And the insecurity grows. What if I fail to deliver? I'll never find the inspiration, the metaphors, the drive. What if writers' block afflicts me, renders me mute before my PC? I delay, prevaricate. And like the adolescent me with homework assignments, I leave them until the last possible moment, until the panic is rising in me like molten rock through a fissure in the earth's crust. Which is when I know that I'm ready. Because whatever strange alchemy is at work in the deepest synapses of my brain, it's what works for me and it's the only way I can write. No matter how much panic I feel whilst the words remain unwritten, I can't deliver work in advance of my self-imposed deadline. Regardless of how many features I have to write, I can't do them in installments. I do them all, or not at all. But when that day comes, I know. And I'm as ready and single-minded as can be. By the time I’ve come to sit down and write, the words are pushing to come out and once I've despatched that first paragraph, it's like the cold water that comes out of the mixer tap when you first turn the hot on. It stutters, it falters at first, but by the second paragraph, it’s flowing and I can’t stop until I'm spent. I've given up trying to change after all this time - I write better that way. The metaphors are purer, more raw, visceral. But it's not just the way in which I work that's like history repeating. The parallels in my life when compared to this time last year are quite extraordinary, too. As then, I had a mountain to climb work-wise with a raft of commissions to write, only this year, the 25 stories I've just written, subbed and delivered are for a different news agency to the one which employed me then. And as at this time last year, I've been sat contemplaing the vicissitudes of a working life that just six weeks ago saw me enjoying the thrills of flying a Harrier Jump-Jet, whereas I've just spent the past two weeks sat at my desk, fingers dancing furiously across the keyboard turning out a bizarre collection of features. Assignments such as the various press trips that take me to interesting places, flying fast jets, or sailing under the water in a nuclear attack submarine, they're what inspire me. They're each an adventure, with the potential to fire me, teach me something new, immerse me in another life. Contrast those then with the past 24 hours, in which I've produced 25 features for the agency, over 25,000 words (enough content for a short novel) on a range of disparate subjects only one of which came within a country mile of inspiring me (a piece on the technology used by car manufacturers and the automotive media to accurately test and measure the performance of cars and bikes).
A feature derived from my trip to South Africa in September, a piece on Loake shoes, a brace of stories about bespoke shotguns (one on Holland and Holland and one on James Purdey and Sons), several with an engineering bent to them, and 1,500 words on Molton Brown, the cosmetics company all added to the total I sent to the news agency yesterday. But do you know what the piece de resistance was? Yet another story about packing tape! I thought I'd left it behind. I thought I'd sealed the box on that particular bête noir. But no. It's stuck around (ok, that's enough, Ed), remained there in the background waiting to roll again (that's it, you're fired!). Fast jets and submarines to packing tape in a week. Just like this day last year, then. Rock and roll. Still, having cleared all my outstanding commissions until mid-Decemeber, I can at least relax a little in the knowledge that next Tuesday sees me flying off to Bangalore in India on another press trip, the first of several flights which will see me, bar a couple of days, away from home until December 12th. I've got my visa (a courier collected and returned my passport last Thursday) and luckily, the six vaccinations I had prior to my departure for Baghdad in 2004 - Yellow Fever, Typhoid, Hepatitis A, Ditpheria, Tuberculosis and Polio - are all current, and the same as what I need for this trip. Japan is looking a little easier, though. I've got a holdiay to the U.S to look froward to. And the knowledge that when I return, it's the height of the party season and the world will be winding down for Christmas. Things could be worse, even if I do have another 15 stories to write when I get home. That's what I do, right? Before I go, I just wanted to mention ITV's two-part drama "Walk Away and I Stumble", which concluded last night (the title was taken, I think, from Macy Gray's song of the same name). It was cliched in its premise, which has been done a million times before - married man has an affair, leaves his wife only to come back again - but what made this so compelling was its stellar cast, great script and inspired choice of music. Mark Strong, Julie Graham and Tamzin Outhwaite were all brilliantly cast, but what stood out for me was the careful and inspired use of Kate Bush's 'This Woman's Work', as haunting and moving a piece of music as you'll ever hear, was inspired. It's perhaps one of her strongest and most emotive songs and by some coincidence, I'd downloaded it from iTunes a few weeks ago. Then two weeks ago, the NSPCC launched a new ad campaign, which uses the track, shortly followed by the trailers for 'Walk Away and I Stumble'. I had a look on iTunes just now, and it's the 5th most downloaded track in the top 100 - bizarre for a song released in 1990 and which has received almost no airplay on commercial radio. If you're not familiar with it, download it; I challenge you not to feel moved by it. It's my birthday tomorrow so I'm officially relaxing now and downing tools, because I intend to kick back and enjoy myself. The only fly in the ointment is the fact that, whereas this time last year, 35 was just eighteen months in my past, 24 hours from now I'll be on intimate terms with 38. Which is like, only two years away from 40! I don't think I'm anywhere near ready for that yet. Arse. |
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16.11.05 11:04 |
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ARM THE POLICE
Sharon Beshenivsky was loooking forward to finishing work yesterday evening. The 38-year old mother of three children, and two step children had a particularly pressing reason to see the end of her shift and get home yesterday- it was her daughter's fourth birthday, and she'd planned on making it one to remember. Sharon finished her tour of duty with West Yorkshire police early last night. But she had no hand in the events that brought her shift to a premature end. And she didn't go home. She went to the morgue instead, shot dead by an armed gang. Responsibility for Sharon Beshenivsky's death lies with the three armed thugs who were raiding a travel agents in Bradford, and who fired at Sharon and her colleague Teresa Milburn, 37 when they arrived to investigate. The two probationary police officers - Sharon joined the force just nine months ago, her colleague Teresa in April last year - were responding to a personal attack alarm sounded by a member of staff at the travel agents, which was popular with local muslims planning pilgrimage to Mecca. The travel agency was flush with cash and an easy target for those armed with guns and a disregard for life. But Sharon and Teresa didn't know that. The two officers were the closest to the premises when police received the alert, and they responded. Several shots were fired and both women fell wounded, Sharon fatally. Detective Superintendent Andy Brennan of West Yorkshire Police, said the fatal shot was fired by the gang "almost immediately" and hit PC Beshenivsky in the chest. Several other shots were then fired, one of which hit her injured colleague in the shoulder. She has given officers a description of the men. Both officers had been wearing body armour, which provided limited ballistic protection, but it was inefficent against the round fired at PC Beshenivsky, and the shot penetrated her chest, killing her. Several questions need answering in the immediate aftermath of this tragic incident, not the least of which is why two probabtionary officers with so little experience between them, were posted together. Sharon joined the force in February and was only posted to her station in West Bradford in May. Teresa Milburn was the more experience of the two women, but that statement has to be taken in context; her 'greater operational experience' was just several months. Given what's known of the circumstances at this stage, it's questionable whether being armed would have saved Sharon's life. Personally, I think it would have tipped the odds in her favour. Not simply because carrying a gun would have enabled her to defend herself - that's questionable given how she was killed - but because in being armed, she would have had a different mind set when approaching the scene.
There are those who say that we don't need a routinely armed police service. That arming all officers will necessarily dilute the professionalism and efficacy that is the corollary of having a small cadre of highly trained specialist armed officers, the current status quo for British Police. I disagree. Because arming the police isn't just a physical exercise in issuing firearms to each officer. It's a state of mind brought about by the in-depth training that being armed carries with it, encompassing greater understanding of tactics, and a wholesale change in the manner in which police officers interract with the public, and approach any given situation. We still operate on a principle of policing by consent here in the U.K. And we're unique in having the only routinely unarmed police service in the civillised world. But the reality of life in contemporary Britain doesn't match with the way our policers operate. I'm not going to second guess the events that led Sharon and Teresa to approach what they considered to be a routine call in the manner that they did. But one can't help but wonder if a similar scenario would have taken place had both of them been armed, with all the training that that encompasses. Was it lack of experience that led to one female officer being shot dead and another being seriously wounded? Perhaps, in which case some of the responsibility for Sharon's death must surely lie with those who considered it acceptable to place two inexperienced probationers together. More likely though, it's the culture that bred three young men who consider it acceptable to shoot at, with the intention of murdering, two unarmed women police officers. A society so lacking in respect for authority does not deserve to be policed by those unable to defend themselves. The routine issuing of body armour to police officers in the 1990s should have provoked the question - if our police need protective armour, capable of stopping high-calibre pistol and rifle rounds, then they need the means to defend themselves against those elements of the criminal fraternity carrying weapons. It's wrong that criminals have ready access to firearms, whilst only a tiny percentage of our police officers do. And it's immoral and iniquitous to expect those who protect us not to be able to defend themselves appropriately. People become law enforcement officers for myriad reasons, but a desire to put something back, to help society, is evidenced by many. Why should that desire to benefit us all carry with it the risk of death, or grevious bodily harm from the members of that society with lesser morals, and the means to bring grief to others? What possible argument can any right-thinking person have against the routine arming of our police officers? It won't bring Sharon back. But every murdered police officer is an affront to what's right, and events such as Sharon's murder - and incidents like this - all hasten the day when all our officers will be armed. How many more must die needlessly before that happens? The time has come to balance the odds in favour of those sworn to protect us. |
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19.11.05 12:53 |
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SHE WORKS HARD FOR THE MONEY
I had the most fantastic evening on Saturday, which was my official birthday. In the same way that our monarch, Queen Elizabeth has two birthdays each year, I've decided that when my actual birthday falls on a school night, my 'official birthday' shall be on the first Saturday to follow, as school night birthdays are officially 'pants'. Thus, this weekend was the first after my actual birthday, and Saturday evening was the night for me to celebrate. So, where better than at my favourite West End bar? Engineering works have wiped out any form of train service from our local station at weekends ever since May this year, so a taxi whisked The Blonde and I to the furthest most station on the Picadilly Line. There was a tube waiting at the platform, empty of people save for a family of four at one end (mother, father and two adult daughters, all resplendent in glamourous evening wear). I too had dressed up for the occasion, as had the Blonde, looking stunning in black. We took our seats, and headed into London through the cold, dark evening. Although only 17:00, the sky had been bled of colour and the lights twinkled as we sped overground before dscending into the depths of London's underground system. We alighted at Picadilly for some light retail therapy; my birthday cash was burning a hole in my pocket and I knew just how to sate that particular desire. First to Lillywhites, where I bought a great overnight case on wheels, suitable for the odd 24/48hr assignment and sized perfectly for carry-on status with the airlines. From there to the Virgin Megastore where I bought three DVDs for £20 (9.99 each or 3 for £20) to see me through a couple of my impending long-haul flights - Lost in Translation, Mike Leigh's Vera Drake and simply because the third one was free and I couldn't find anything else I hadn't seen, Open Water. From there, we fought our way through a log-jam of pedestrians in Regent Street, most of whom adopted a 'deer-in-headlights' stance to make walking a little more taxing than usual (you've travelled from up North to see the Christmas Lights? Get a life, move along now, there's nothing to see here) and sought succour in the Apple Store. I tried to drag it out timewise - really I did. I browsed. I played, I prevaricated, but in the end, I couldn't hold off any longer...I walked to the desk, handed over £219.00 in cash, and walked out with a gorgeous, lithe, sexy, alluring and perfectly formed 30Gb iPod Video (in white - the black ones show up every single fingerprint and smudge). Leaving there, I alighted in one of London's nicest retail outlets, Molton Brown, a riot of perfectly ordered colours, smells and shapes. The shop was empty as we entered, and as I checked my watch to see it was 18:58, a shop assistant locked the door after us for that unique, if unplanned for, one-on-one shopping experience - I've had some lock-ins in my time, but they've always involved alcohol, never men's grooming products! The sales staff were a delight, especially the gorgeous Sasha, a girl I'd spoken to previously. We browsed, sniffed, tried and after paying for some Amino Eye Therapy cream and Black Pepper Bodywash , were despatched on our way. A slow walk, and by 19:30, we'd arrived at our destination - Mint Leaf Restaurant at the bottom of Haymarket.
I first came here to review it when it opened in 2003, after meeting the owner at another restaurant launch party. I was immediately taken with its unusual but inspired menu, and the huge, sweeping bar, which is one of the longest and well-stocked in Britain. The bar staff have won countless awards, the waitresses are to die for, and the decor defines understated cool. You descend three flights of stairs into a subterranean lobby, check your coats and in through a set of double glass doors to the bar. It was busy enough to have a decent vibe, yet quiet enough that my favourite table, in the far corner was free. Perfect. Lelia, our waitress for the evening was another vision in black - Spanish, accomplished ("I'm going to take care of you this evening!") and sexy. I ordered Champagne for the Blonde and myself and settled back to enjoy myself. I love it there; I love the vibe, watching the way people dress up, kick back, enjoy themselves. Everyone looks like they've arrived straight from central casting, but it's not precious, they're there to have fun and they dress to impress. Somehow, 'smart casual' wouldn't work here. I love people watching, the looks on other's faces, like the forty-something, slightly overweight woman on the far side of the bar, unwrapping a birthday present from her corpulent, bearded, but smiling husband. It's a bubble umbrella, transparent with a shocking pink handle - obviously some shared, private bond that means something to her. The look on her face when she sees it is pure, childlike, unadulterated glee, an exquisite, priceless look that must have been everything her husband hoped for, to the power to ten. She's demonstrative, tactile, her joy writ large across her face for the world to see. She looks alive, drunk on the moment.
I've finished the glass of Champagne and order another for the Blonde, my favourite cocktail - a Dry Martini with a Twist - for myself. Simple, yet difficult to do well and they make them to perfection here. A frozen Martini glass, sluice with extra dry white vermouth, swirl and discard. Fill with chilled Bombay Sapphire Dry Gin, squeeze the merest sliver of lemon zest so that the oils float on the gin, and drop the twist into the glass. Simple, dry and oh so delicious. Winston Churchill was a famous Martini drinker and liked his extra dry. A wet Martini has more vermouth, a dry Martini less and the story goes that he'd fill the glass with gin and then look in the direction of France (from where Vermouth hails). I've just finished reading Churchill's Bodyguard, an account of the great man by his close protection officer Walter Thompson and going by the loving and affectionate way Thompson writes of him, I'm given to believing the particular anecdote! That drink goes down too easily, and Leila, attentive as ever, is immediately by my side so I order us another round; another Martini for me, another glass of Champagne for the Blonde. I'm hungry too, so I order a bar snack, four of the biggest, most succulent black tiger prawns ever to walk the ocean, fried. They're to die for. Leila brings us a bowl of almonds, honey roasted, whilst we're waiting. I notice what at first glance appears to be a fantasy female at the bar. She has her back to me and wears a black blouse, a mini skirt that barely covers her non-existent ass, allied to knee-high fuck-me boots. This over a Sindy-doll thin frame, long blonde hair ironed to perfection.
She's making a statement, wants to be noticed and from her attire, I get the impression that she believes sex appeal is a commodity you buy with your outfit, like it's some odourless, invisible, tasteless chemical that lives at molecular level in what she's wearing. It's sex by numbers but she doesn't have the attitude, the innate something - the 'X' factor - to carry it off and whatever look she was going for, she missed. Stood next to her, Leila looks plain, but she oozes sexuality. It's not her olive skin, or her tumbling dark hair. It's not her black blouse, struggling to make a connection with the top of her trousers. Neither is it the barely visible discrete tattoo that exists at the top of her thigh. She gets it - less is more - and she has a look, a discrete confidence that emanates from within her. I feel a bond to her, she's 'our' waitress - but she's more. She has what the other girl, stood next to her fat, oversized boyfriend, lusts after and can't have. I excuse myself and go to the bathroom where, after making room for my final Martini, I play my favourite Pavlovian game. Anecdotal evidence shows that when alone in a WC, the average male won't bother to wash his hands after urinating. Put another fella in that WC though, and something like 70% will feel compelled to wash and go! So I stand at the glass sink, making a great song and dance of washing my hands as first one, then another fella, goes to walk out, thinks better of it, and doubles back to wash his hands. Stéphane Pompougnac's 'KissKiss' is pumping out the speakers when I return, one of my favourite tracks and perfect for the vibe. The bar's full now, wall to wall people. The restaurant too - no tables available, which pleases me. Something like 70% of newly opened restaurants close within 12 months, so it's good that not only has this place remained popular, but it's still cool as well.
It's almost 22:00 by the time we settle our bill with Leila (she works hard for the money - attentive as you could wish, yet never intrusive, always to hand when you want her) and head out into the sub-zero night air. I hail a cab to take us to my favourite Indonesian restaurant in Soho but the driver tells me traffic is heavy in that direction and I elect to walk, handing the cab over to actor Richard E. Grant who appears at my shoulder. We eat a delightful meal at Melati, in Peter Street, and suitably sated, wander through night time Soho. A homeless girl with a cherubic face catches the Blonde's eye and we stop. She has long, blonde hair, beautiful eyes which are imploring, a sadness etched into her face that belies her 28 years. It's -3 outside before the wind chill, I'm warm under a £350 Hugo Boss full length coat and she's shivering in the clothes she lives in, swaddled with a sleeping bag that's pathetically inadequate against temperatures like these. We talk. It's the drink, but my heart melts and I feel a deep empathy for her, I'm sucked into her web. I hand over several pound coins, everything I have in my pocket. If I had any notes in my wallet, I'd have handed those over, too. Why? What good does it do her? What does it do for me and the Blonde? Nothing. It doesn't make us feel good, or guilty, or anything else, but we were compelled to stop. We make a connection, bond and then walk away, my mind a torrent of confused thoughts. Pathetic. Walk to Tottenham Court Road tube station, grab the Sunday Times from the vendor in Oxford Street and descend into the warm womb that lies beneath London's streets. Our chariot awaits - a tube glides to the platform as we arrive and at half past midnight, we're whisked home. It's 01:30 when we reach the end of the line and step out into the night, a light dusting of frost over everything. I called a cab on my mobile as the train reached surface level and it's there, waiting for us as we leave the station, warm, inviting and ready to whisk us home. The Blonde falls asleep on my shoulder, we get home and I pay the driver. Time for a nightcap - I pour myself a generous glass of JD Single Barrel and feel it lighting a fire in my stomach before I head off to the land of nod, the perfect end, to a perfect day. The Taming of the Shrew hits our screens tonight (hence the image at the beginning of this entry, in case you're wondering), the third in the BBC's Shakespeare Re-Told series and it looks delicious, the best yet! I can't wait, so if anybody missed the first two and has kicked themselves ever since, make an appointment with your sofa for 20:30 tonight and turn on BBC1. It'll be the last thing I watch this week; my office is its usual pre-departure mayhem as I attempt to pack ready for my early morning departure to India tomorrow morning. Only a flying visit - I'm back on Friday to recharge my batteries before flying out at the weekend for the U.S.A. See you all then. |
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21.11.05 12:35 |
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