Great balls of fire!

The midweek post comes a little early this time around, chums. Allow me to explain.

You see, once again, Yr. Humble Chronicler is doing a show. But no ordinary show. This time, Youth Action Theatre is spreading its wings somewhat and going for an all out, high-camp, rock ‘n’ roll musical, Return to the Forbidden Planet! Wooo!

If you don’t know the show, it’s… well, how can I describe it? It’s a spoof of sci-fi B-movies which is based loosely on The Tempest, set to a track of classic tunes from the 1950s and ’60s. It owes more than a little to Forbidden Planet, as you might imagine from the title, but also borrows liberally from just about every terrible science fiction film of that era. As well as pretty much everything Shakespeare ever wrote. It’s complicated.

The basic story is that the spaceship Albatross, under the command of the heroic Captain Tempest, makes the mistake of going on a routine survey expedition. As you know if you’ve watched any episode of Star Trek, in the future the word “routine” means exactly the opposite of what it does now, and the ship gets diverted to the mysterious planet of D’Illyria. There, they are greeted by the mad Doctor Prospero, his beautiful daughter Miranda and their camp robot Ariel. And then things start to go wrong. What is the terrible secret of D’Illyria? Who is the enigmatic new science officer? Where did Prospero get that outfit? All this and more will be revealed…

(By the way, I’m playing Doctor Prospero. Yeah, I do have to sing. Yeah, I am slightly bricking it.)

If science fiction campiness is not to your taste, I should mention once again our extremely rocking soundtrack. Good Vibrations, Shakin’ All Over, All Shook Up and Shake, Rattle and Roll are in there, along with a variety of songs that aren’t about vibrating at all, like Teenager in Love, Mr Spaceman, Great Balls of Fire, Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood, Wipeout, The Monster Mash, The Young Ones… and that’s just the ones you’ve heard of. All live, performed by an awesomely talented cast, and also me.

Our production is going pretty all-out. We’ve got the Mill doing our special effects – that’s the Mill, as in, the people who do Doctor Who and Torchwood. I know, right? We’re going to have a live band on stage. We’re transforming the Hampton Hill Playhouse into a spaceship (not literally). It’s all going to need a lot of work, so Yr. Humble Chronicler intends to be mucking in tomorrow evening.

Anyway, if you’re looking for something fun to do next week, something that’ll put a spring in your step, the show runs 9th-12th November inclusive at the Hampton Hill Playhouse in West London. To book tickets, kindly click on this link. Blast off!

Carnivaliant Efforts

On Sunday, I enjoyed a day that was a testament to the wondrous power of impulsively saying “yes” to things. God, what an appalling intro. I’ll try again.

Basically, last weekend I was feeling a little run down. Having come back from the Edinburgh Festival, getting back into the swing of everyday life was hard. I tend to feel a bit low after the end of a show, no doubt a psychiatrist could tell us more, and Edinburgh was such a surreal and crazy experience that it was doubly hard to accept the prospect of free evenings. Therefore, I’d been partying as hard as possible. Pimpstick Jr. had a boozy gathering at the Princess Louise in Holborn at which I got roundly hammered (and discovered that it is literally quicker to walk from Holborn to Waterloo than to get the Tube, but that’s another story). Tiny Emma came around on Saturday for a night of wine and Dark City (Emma is into films that “mess with reality,” and Dark City is a shining example of the genre). And then I got a text from Izzi inviting me along to Notting Hill Carnival the following day. I’d never been to the Carnival before, and I had nothing else to do, and Izzi’s company is never less than scintillating, and so I said yes. Tiny Emma, who does not frequent the Internet, thought this was incredibly short-term planning.

Sadly, when the day dawned, I was not in perhaps the best shape for the event.  Bloated, hungover and poor, Sunday morning was not my friend. Izzi and I met up, and she – who lives in the Western Zone of the city – explained how it goes. She also took the photos for this entry, by the way.

The Carnival has been running since 1959, and since then has grown to be one of London’s greatest excuses to let its collective hair down. Initially started in response to racial tensions in the area, it is now a celebration of Caribbean culture in the city and, indeed, of the city’s multi-culturalism in general. I did not steal any of that from a press release. This year, it enjoyed over a million attendants, of whom Izzi and Yr. Humble Chronicler were two.

Initially, I have to admit I was cynical (read: grumpy and hungover) - on the way from Notting Hill Gate, I was struck by the number of boarded-up shops and houses, and the number of makeshift stalls charging exorbitant amounts for food and beer (beer especially). But we got further in, and helped by a rum-filled coconut and the appearance of sunshine, I started to mellow out.

By the time we got to the parade route, I was definitely in the mood to party most hearty. Now I see what Polly Thomas meant in her essay, ‘Growing Up With Carnival’ (published in Miranda Davies and Sarah Anderson’s Inside Notting Hill):

“I’ve never been able to understand those joyless souls who don’t love Carnival, who refuse to get impossibly excited about the prospect of sharing their streets with some two million revellers intent on sticking two fingers up to the norm for a couple of days and letting it all hang out in public.”

Indeed so.

We strode along the route for some way towards Ladbroke Grove, enjoying the wind-baiting costumes and awesome Caribbean music, although that ‘Trini and Tobago’ song got a bit tedious the eighteenth time. An awful lot of people, us included, wound up smeared in chocolate (yes, it was definitely chocolate). Even the odd shower of rain could not dampen the mood, although I have to say the presence of baton-carrying police was slightly sinister. Izzi and I opined that the event would be improved if they started breakdancing.

Lunch consisted of curry goat, plantain and rice and beans, because why the hell not? Izzi was most pleased to bump into Mr Levi Roots, a saucy fellow indeed, hey nonny. Food was followed by booze and, of course, more dancing. In fact, so merry were we that we decided to continue partying in Bayswater after the parade had ended. At this point my memory grows hazy and fragmented, but for some reason my pupils have gone white and Bibles combust at my touch.

My last memory of the night was an amateurish attempt to sell me cocaine in Stockwell.

All in all, as Portobello Road degenerates into a row of chain stores, it’s good to be reminded that Notting Hill still retains some individuality. I think I’ll have to go again next year.

In the meantime, here’s this.

A Correspondent.

As I mentioned in my previous entry, I’m currently in the middle of moving house. I never realised quite how much crap I own. Anyway, sadly, this means I don’t really have the time for a proper entry this Wednesday, for which I apologise.

In the meantime, however, here is a song you might like by genius Wandsworth electro-swingers the Correspondents. I think ‘What’s Happened to Soho?’ might have to be the official theme tune of this blog.

Or maybe ‘Splendid‘ by Professor Elemental should be the theme. Hmm. This may require some thought.

In Other News
Does anyone know where Oxshott is? Because I fell asleep on the train last night and ended up there.

What’s wrong with hipsters?

You see a lot of them in London. Shoreditch and Hoxton are where they’re most prevalent, but Hackney, Soho, Camden, Islington and Fitzrovia can all boast plenty. Even dear old Wandsworth has been invaded. Find anywhere with an art school and you’ll find a few of them hanging around. If you haven’t guessed, I’m talking about hipsters.

Now, hipsters get a lot of stick these days. As subcultures go, they’re more reviled than goths, geeks and hippies combined. But what exactly is a hipster? This is where people seem to run into trouble.

A hipster, it seems, is someone who takes pride in being different from the crowd. Nothing wrong with that, surely? I mean, who wouldn’t want to be seen as an individual? Ah, hold on, looks like I missed the point. The point is that the hipster is someone who takes pride in the difference itself – difference is what they cultivate. The problem arises from the fact that the difference manifests itself in the same clothing , hair and affectations as every other hipster, resulting in a kind of uniform. And the pride manifests itself in smugness.

The ire towards hipsters is not derived from the fact that they are eclectic and different, so much as that they think they are eclectic and different. Ironically, if someone genuinely was eclectic and different, they probably wouldn’t be classed as a hipster.

The look is fairly easy to identify – NHS glasses, lumberjack shirt, skinny jeans, keffiyeh, maybe some sort of woolly hat. And stupid hair. Basically, if you see a haircut and think, “That looks stupid,” you’ve probably found yourself a hipster. There may be a scraggly beard attached, if scraggly is even a word (I don’t think it is). If you trawl Topman, you can probably catch several.

Interestingly, the reputation of the hipster as less “trend setter/social rebel” and more “rich, middle-class, self-important, unoriginal snob in uniform” means that now, about the most insulting thing you can say to a hipster is that they are, in fact, a hipster. By labelling them a hipster, you effectively call them exactly the opposite of what a hipster desires to be. Some commentators have even gone so far as to suggest that by their very existence, hipsters have destroyed the meaning of cool.

I wouldn’t go so far as to say that, but I do think the hipsters may be an interesting (although it goes against the hipster way to admit to being interested in anything) by-product of globalisation. With minor variations, hipsters may be found all over the world (as the Independent article above notes). As so many of the major clothing stores are multinational if not worldwide, there’s no need to hipsters to mix and match to achieve a look – they can buy the whole thing down their local high street. Head into Top Shop or Uni Qlo or – if you’re poor - Primark or H&M.

Primark. I think my image researcher may have made a mistake.

Basically, Westfield should see you alright. Interesting fact: Uni Qlo is a Japanese term derived from the English “eunuch clothes.” [NOTE FROM LAWYERS: No it is not]

So what’s the solution? Well, if you want to be unique and different, try actually being unique and different. Try enjoying what you like, rather than what the Internet and adverts tell you you should like. Wear clothes that suit you that you picked out yourself – instead of going for a charity shop look, try going to an actual charity shop. Listen to music you’ve found that you like, and if it goes mainstream, well, that’s just a sign of your good taste.

Also, stop wearing those plastic glasses, you look ridiculous.

Further Viewing
Being a dickhead’s cool, apparently. Thanks to Sazzi for alerting me to this.

Oh yes it is

Pantomime is one of those British Christmas institutions as traditional as mince pies and the Doctor Who special (incidentally, did you see it yesterday? So good). It’s one of those things that’s a little bit difficult to explain to someone unfamiliar with the concept – it’s a play usually based on a fairy tale, but there are jokes and songs and you usually have a famous man dressed as a woman or a famous woman dressed as a man and at some point everyone is contractually obliged to shout “Oh no it isn’t!” followed by “Oh yes it is!” The whole thing should be very camp and self-aware and strive to avoid major innovation. Basically, it’s pretty much the opposite of conventional theatre. As I sit here with my Boxing Day breakfast (two slices of stollen, a Stilton sandwich, coffee festived-up with brandy butter), it might be nice to look into the history of this weird art.

And no, he wasn't short of work when he did this.

Although it’s come to be known as a peculiarly British phenomenon, the origins of pantomime go back to the ancient Greeks, who regarded it as something to keep the plebs happy. Lots of singing, dancing and vulgar humour, but Serious Dramatists considered it utterly beneath their contempt.

Similar forms of entertainment survived into Britain in the eighteenth century, which is when the story of modern pantomime really begins. To understand this early-modern panto, you have to understand a bit about theatre of that era.

You’d have more than one show on the bill. There would be a formal play (or ballet, or opera), what you or I would normally think of when we go to the theatre. But there would also be something more populist beforehand as a warm-up act, something with lots of jokes and songs to grab the audience’s attention and get them on the performers’ side. Audiences in those days would openly and loudly talk during the show, the wealthy would parade around, orange peel would be thrown, people would come and go as they pleased and it was not unknown for the performers to be heckled so much that they would change the bill right there and then. The opener was, yes, a pantomime.

Pantomimes were deliberately formulaic. They had to be instantly understandable to everyone. No matter what the story, they featured a stock set of characters and devices and – this was significant – no dialogue. Licensing laws were strict. Pantomime performers were not regarded as true actors and so, by that rather snobbish logic, could not be licensed to perform spoken drama. There were various cheats – you couldn’t speak, but you could sing, you could write on a big board, you could rhyme. And nobody paid much attention to a couple of words here and there. But really, it was down to instantly recognisable conventions and physical performers to carry the thing.

Mr Joseph Grimaldi

The inventor of the modern pantomime is often regarded as the legendary clown, Joseph Grimaldi, seen right. He was undoubtedly the first modern clown, and really deserves an entry in his own right. His father (of the same name) was also a brilliant clown, part-time dentist and utter bastard. Young Joey was raised by a father who was physically and emotionally abusive to the point of psychosis (for instance, Grimaldi pere once faked his own death just to see if his sons really loved him). Grimaldi Junior was plagued by depression and insecurity throughout his life – he would often joke that “I make you laugh at night, but I am grim-all-day.” He invented modern clown makeup, and it’s psychologically interesting that a man so uncomfortable with himself should transform himself so completely for the stage. In comedy, he found a means of feeding his insatiable need for affection, and so it’s no surprise that he became a popular and beloved performer.

His first great pantomime triumph was Mother Goose in 1806. To call him the “inventor” of modern pantomime is to unfairly deprive everyone else of well-deserved credit. It was actually created as a last-minute thing. Thomas Dibden was the usual author of Christmas pantomimes for Covent Garden Theatre, but that year, nobody had thought to approach him. It was only a few short weeks before curtain-up that the theatre’s management asked him, “So, how’s this year’s panto coming along?” Panicked, Dibden wrote a low-tech panto requiring no elaborate special effects or routines, tailored for a short rehearsal period.

The resulting show was far better than anyone could have hoped – helped by a clever script and Grimaldi’s naturalistic physical comedy. It was wildly popular, running right until the following Christmas. And so it became the standard model for the pantomimes that followed.

Quite apart from the actual merits of the show, pantomime became a far less restricted form of performance than conventional theatre. Being regarded as low art, the censors didn’t pay much attention. Satire and sexual innuendo were standard, the latter generally coming from the panto dame. The dame, being a man in drag, could get away with lewdness that an actual woman couldn’t. Similarly, the convention of having the principal boy played by a woman was largely so that you could legitimately have a woman showing her legs off.

Other traditions were added and removed over the years. The characters became less rigidly “stock” as the ban on spoken pantomime was abandoned, though the principal boy and the dame remained. The panto horse, two actors in a silly animal costume, became another standard element. The Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, pioneered the use of celebrities as a draw in the late 19th century.

These days, it’s regarded as something for the kids – innuendo is still an element, of course, but it goes straight over the children’s heads. If it doesn’t, well, they’re already corrupted anyway.

It’s also regarded as a means for keeping B-list celebs in the limelight, though lately a lot of really quite legit celebrities have been trying their hand, partly I suspect because it’s fun. The picture above is from the Wimbledon pantomime last year, which boasted Pamela Anderson, Paul O’Grady, Ruby Wax and BRIAN BLESSED! in its cast. Sir Ian McKellen enjoys a good panto, as seen up top there, and BRIAN BLESSED! and Christopher Biggins are well-known for hamming it up on an annual basis.

The big ones in London these days are Wimbledon and Hackney. Wimbledon tends to do the big star-studded shows, while Hackney aims for something resolutely traditional but critically acclaimed. However, most reasonably-sized theatres outside the West End will put a show on, and they do tend to do pretty well. The glory days of pantomime are certainly not… wait for it… behind us!

No? Oh, please yourselves. Merry Christmas, chums.

Steady on, Chaps

You may have spotted a certain type of outfit among the smart sets of Soho and Shoreditch. Not quite commonplace, but certainly more visible than it used to be. I’m talking about this sort of thing:

These are the Chaps, a relatively new movement that revels in being old-fashioned. Resolutely twentieth-century, it should not be confused with steampunk (though there is a certain amount of overlap).

The ethos of the movement might best be described as a tongue-in-cheek harking back to a more polite era that may never have really existed. The emphasis is on gentlemanly behaviour, fashions and activities, albeit with a somewhat bohemian bent. Its heroes are the likes of David Niven and Leslie Philips, although more modern figures who embody chap values, such as Sebastian Horsley and Stephen Fry, are more than welcome. Indeed, one need not even be male to be part of the scene – Fleur de Guerre (whose blog, Diary of a Vintage Girl, may be seen linked to your right) is a regular contributor to The Chap magazine.

Which is really where the whole thing began. The relatively small press magazine was founded by Gustav Temple, one of the fellows in the photo above, back in 1999. It received wider exposure through, of all places, articles in Loaded and continues to maintain a cult following among those who follow or aspire to Chappism. It regularly features articles on such subjects as fine alcohol, pipe smoking and moustache maintenance. 

Temple uses the term “anarcho-dandyism” to describe the movement. The aim is to bring about social change through the more positive aspects of the past – the feeling is that consumerism and conformity in the modern era have put paid to common courtesy and the simple pleasures of life, and the aim is to bring these back.

Oddly enough, though, Chappism can embrace modernity in its own unique way. For instance, there is a Chappist style of music. It’s called Chap-Hop and the first known exponent was Jim Burke, better known as Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer, seen left. A sort of unholy spawn of Vivian Stanshall and Weird Al Yankovic, his speciality is taking existing hip-hop tracks and reworking them (with extensive use of the banjolele) into a more Chappy form. For instance, his take on ‘Straight Out of Compton’ was ‘Straight Out of Surrey,’ in which he boasts of his cricket expertise. His version of ‘Let Me Clear My Throat’ was ‘Let Me Smoke My Pipe,’ whose subject matter is self-explanatory.

The other major Chap-Hopper is Professor Elemental, pictured right – although it’s fair to say that his work has a more steampunk feel than Mr B. Both are funny as the dickens, though, and well worth a listen.

However, there are storm clouds on the horizon – with his song ‘Fighting Trousers’, the Professor has instigated a feud with Mr B. The Chap ethos demands that this be settled in a manly fashion, either with bare-knuckle boxing or a duel on Hampstead Heath. I’ll keep you posted.

Chappism has become more mainstream in recent years, I suspect due to the surge in popularity of vintage fashion.

I suspect Doctor Who has played no small part in this either. First we had the determinedly 1940s-styled Captain Jack Harkness, then we had the rather wonderful Eleventh Doctor, played by Matt Smith. This character has singlehandedly revived the British tweed industry – tweed jackets are now popular even among non-Chaps. Although The Chap was quick to find fault with his use of clip-on braces. Should have buttons on his trousers, you see.

Retro fashion is an odd thing. First it was the teddy boys harking back to Edwardian fashion in rebellion against the conservatism of the 1950s, now the Chaps hark back to the conservatism of the 1950s in rebellion against the conspicuous consumption and facelessness of the 21st century. What goes around, comes around.

Further Reading

http://www.thechap.net/ - The Chap’s official web site.

http://www.myspace.com/mrbthegentlemanrhymer - Mr B the Gentleman Rhymer’s “My Space.”

http://www.professorelemental.com/fr_home.cfm - Professor Elemental’s web site.

I get a kick out of you

Last-minute changes of plan are always good for a laugh, as I discovered on Friday when the event upon which I had anchored my weekend was moved. I shook my fist and generally cursed the fates until I received a call from Izzi asking if I’d like to go to see the High Society exhibition at the Wellcome Collection.

The Wellcome Collection is a real oddity. I never know quite how to describe it to someone not already familiar with it. Describing itself as “a free destination for the incurably curious,” it’s part museum, part art gallery. The basic theme is medicine, human biology and their position in society. There are sculptures, art installations and historical artefacts relating to these themes. Its purpose seems to be to make you think rather than to supply you with information – there is no explanatory text beyond basic captions for most of the exhibits.

Morphinomane by Eugene Samuel Grasset, one of the paintings on display.

The High Society exhibition is the Wellcome Collection’s exploration of mind-altering substances. I hesitate to use the word “drugs” because one of the points the exhibition makes is that one man’s drug is another man’s mainstream stimulant. In this country, alcohol is generally considered to be a perfectly acceptable substance, provided you don’t make a tit of yourself. In many cultures, it’s considered to be four-star Satan fuel. Is the go-getter who takes a quadruple espresso to wake them up in the morning any worse than the stoner who lights a joint to relax? These are the questions the exhibition invites you to think about.

At the start of the exhibition, we’re presented with a load of drug paraphernalia, for the broadest definition of “drug.” As well as syringes and bongs, we see coffee and absinthe (which, incidentally, is nowhere near as crazy as it’s made out to be). We then go on a tour of drugs in medicine, in self-exploration, in social interaction and in law. We see prohibition posters, photos of pro-drug rallies, psychedelic light shows, tribal rituals, paintings and books, grouped by theme but not necessarily by stance or source.

No attempt is made at any kind of moral judgment, except that portrayed within the works themselves. The overriding message seems to be that nobody knows who’s right. We see that views on drugs depend who you are, where you are and when. The Victorians thought nothing of giving opiates to help baby sleep. In the Andes, coca tea is a popular cure for altitude sickness, seen as being no worse than regular tea over here. In the USA, coca leaf means cocaine (and Coca-Cola, but that tends to get glossed over when they take the moral high ground and spray defoliant over every back garden coca plot). Maybe none of us are right. Maybe Bob Dylan was right, and everybody should get stoned.

It certainly got Izzi and me talking. Like many people, I’ve done my share of experimentation, and Izzi’s done a lot more than me. I rather wish I hadn’t been talking about this experimentation so loudly, as while I was doing so I looked up and discovered that, by a million-to-one chance, my boss was attending the same exhibition. Shit.

Anyway, yeah, both Izzi and I are fairly liberal on the subject of drugs. Speaking personally, I think there’s quite a lot that could or should be legalised. I think it’s hypocritical that I could get in legal trouble for possessing a couple of joints’ worth of cannabis, but I could then drink two bottles of whisky and seriously endanger my life with no legal intervention whatsoever. Quite apart from such moral considerations, there’s the practical fact that with certain substances legalised, they can be taxed and policed more effectively.

But maybe I’m wrong as well. I invite you to take a trip (har har) to the Wellcome Collection to see for yourself. High Society runs until 27th February, entrance is free and it’s just a short walk from Euston and Euston Square stations. It might expand your mind.

Further Reading

http://www.wellcomecollection.org/whats-on/exhibitions/high-society.aspx - The official website

Charlotte Street Blues, we hardly knew ye

God damn, but this is sad news.

http://www.charlottestblues.com/

For those of you who didn’t click on that, Charlotte Street Blues in Fitzrovia has closed down. I mean, I just wish I’d got to know it better, you know? It was an awesome place for standing around, looking cool, listening to fine music, drinking fine beer.

Tempus fugit or something.

The Mask of the Red Death

(Warning – this entry probably NSFW, we’ll see how it goes)

Having engaged in the usual Halloween activities of placing razor blades in apples, poisoning Haribo and breaking several dangerous psychopaths out of prison to roam the streets, I’m fully prepared for the trick-or-treaters the evening may bring. In the meantime, I probably ought to recap the events of Friday and the Last Tuesday Society’s Danse Macabre event.

The day did not go well. Two of our party cancelled, a cashpoint ate my card and it was raining when I set out for the evening. When I got to Borough, the intent was to meet with the Directrix and others at her new studio – unfortunately, I managed to balls up the communications there. On the way in, I bumped into someone who directed me in a play a few years back, which continued the tradition of weird coincidences around Last Tuesday Society events.

Nevertheless, I managed to meet up with Tiny Emma and some others who were new to all this. We went and queued up, where we were delighted to meet some of the security staff. I don’t know where the staff came from, but they seemed to be quite determined that however much fun we were having standing in the cold, we should be having less of it. The Society handed out bananas, which improved matters somewhat (and you know what? Banana skins really are slippery!).

Eventually we got in, and I tried to seek out the Directrix’ party in an effort to unite our two groups. Unfortunately, I was hampered by the fact that the event was extremely crowded, and my mask made it kinda difficult to see.

Overall, the costume – pictured left – was a bit of a hit. I lost count of the number of people who wanted to take a photo of or with me. I also managed to startle quite a few people, and had a couple of women who wanted to kiss the skull. Not bad for a customised £3.50 mask from Sainsbury’s.

As for the event itself, it seemed a little less OTT than previous balls. I think there were fewer freaks than usual – I certainly didn’t see as many, but as previously mentioned, I had trouble seeing anything at all. A lot of people seemed utterly bewildered by the whole thing (“There are naked people! In the buffet!“).

I wonder if this was perhaps because, with it not being strictly a masked ball this time, people were less willing to drop their inhibitions. There were a lot fewer people at the hot tub this time by the time we got there, for instance.

The bar service, credit where credit’s due, was a lot better this time around. Separate bars had been set up for those who just wanted water or beer, which helped, and the staff seemed a lot more competent. So kudos there.

These two delightful young ladies were very complimentary about the mask.

As previously mentioned, we weren’t too impressed by the security people, who seemed rather overzealous. One of our party bitterly noted that the plastic club (about the size of a truncheon) that formed part of his costume had been confiscated because it was considered to be an offensive weapon. Upon his pointing out that several people had canes and the like, which are far more offensive as weapons go, he was told “We’ll get around to them.” In fact, he seemed rather annoyed that I still had my cane. I’ll be honest, I got the impression that he didn’t like me much. He was Tiny Emma’s ex, and such people tend not to like me. I don’t know why, it’s not like I’m some Adonis who’s going to whisk their former girlfriend away. Seriously, I don’t even have a face.

Still, there was much to enjoy – the pop-up cinema was showing the classic of silent horror cinema, Nosferatu, and Tiny Emma was mildly horrified by a man who offered to put hoops through her spine and suspend her from the ceiling. I told her she should have gone for it, but she remained sceptical. So much for open-mindedness.

Oddly enough, I managed to remain pretty sober throughout. I don’t know if this is a by-product of the diet and exercise, but the alcohol just didn’t seem to have any effect. Given the amount of effort it took to drink anything with that mask, I thought this was jolly unfair.

Despite the general lack of freaks, this event lasted rather longer than the others. Usually things start to properly wind down around 2.00, or so it seemed to me. This time, things were still going pretty much full swing when the party came to a close at about half four.

Goodness me, I don’t have much space between these two pictures… Ah, that’s better.

With the party over, I made my way back through the mean streets of Southwark and Elephant and Castle to Kennington, where I got the night bus home. One of our party asked if it was entirely wise for me to be wandering through the rougher parts of South East London at this time of night. I pointed out that dressed like this, it was unlikely that I would even be approached, let alone mugged. And it was so.

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU DON'T TAKE YOUR MEDICINE, BILLY

I arrived back home just in time for my alarm to go off, indicating that I had now been awake for 24 hours. Not bad, really. Between that and the clocks going back, my body clock is royally screwed. Oh well.

Roll on New Year’s Eve Eve, I say.

The lowest depths

I’m a terrible one for putting things off. This is why I could never be a proper reviewer – by the time I get around to seeing something, it’s just about to close and the review would be of no use to anyone. Anyway, a consequence of this was that I left going to see the Directrix’ latest opus until the penultimate night. So enjoy this useless recap.

The opus in question was part of a night called Theatre Souk. This, I was told, was interactive theatre. I generally loathe interactive theatre, being as how it has a tendency to consist of a lot of drama students who aren’t half as interesting as they think they are having a jolly good laugh while providing entertainment to each other. But, well, the Directrix has yet to direct a play that I have not enjoyed.

The concept of the evening may require a little explanation. The venue was an abandoned office block on Picton Place in Mayfair, once the headquarters of Uzbekistan Airways (so sucks if you want to go to Uzbekistan). Stripped out and derelict, the rooms and corridors of the building were turned into performing spaces, with several shows going on at once and various types of cabaret going on on the ground floor.

I rather regret leaving it until the second-to-last night, actually. My original thoughts were along the lines of “Wow, this is weird. I’ll just see the Directrix’ show and make a hasty exit.” By the end of the night, I found I wished I could have seen more of what was going on. As it happened, I saw two of the shows and quite a lot of the cabaret.

The shows were tailored to the venue (for instance, the one on the top floor was actually called ‘Uzbekistan Airways’). The two I saw were ‘Matador’ and ‘Priceless’. ‘Matador’ was a one-man show in a small room, the audience huddled around a circle while Neil Connolly performed the piece. Essentially an attack on our attitude towards the credit crunch, Connolly played a city trader who starts out as the kind of smug bastard we like to think of as being the root of all our current economic troubles before breaking down and turning the tables on us – pointing out that we must all bear some responsibility for the crunch. Very funny, very thought-provoking and, in the intimacy of the venue, more than a little uncomfortable.

The cabaret was a mixed bunch – the Directrix informs me that I missed a naked Pavarotti impersonator, which did not upset me too much. What I did see was a little stand-up, a very moving monologue, some spoof fortune-telling and some surprisingly enjoyable performance poetry. The only criticism I would make is that some of the acts perhaps lacked a little polish. Still, at least they remained clothed throughout.

Now, the Directrix’ piece was a show called ‘Priceless’ in the basement. Even if we put aside my obvious bias, this really was right up my alley. You see, I’m a big fan of the bizarro. The strange, disturbing and cultish is definitely my bag. The concept behind Priceless was a little bit Big Brother, a little bit The Prisoner, a little bit Fight Club. But what it reminded me most of was those weird and disturbing things you come across on the Internet, following obscure links, when it’s late at night and you’re alone in the house. Look up Fantastic Hey Hey Hey, Suicide Mouse, the Swedish Rhapsody numbers station or – if you can find it – The Grifter.

‘Priceless’ was something straight out of the urban legendarium. The background is that, at one point, there was a reality gameshow called Priceless which was once huge. But in a desperate attempt to regain falling ratings, the games became more extreme, and the show was pulled following the death of a contestant. And so it went underground, free from censorship and commercial considerations, disseminated via the Internet and publicised via word-of-mouth. We, the audience, are participating in the latest episode.

In the basement, we’re given a number (I was 99) and, looking around, just enough clues to piece the story together – audition videos, application forms, press cuttings, crew passes and an intimidating disclaimer. We meet the crew and the presenter. Wait, wasn’t that crew member one of the contestants? No time for that, it’s the first game.

This was an appropriately gruesome challenge, taking place in a blackened, filthy room. It was a little bit gross, particularly if the sight of a lot of blood makes you nauseous (yeah, that’s me). One of the audience commented adversely on the challenge, and found herself called forward. At this point, things started to get confusing. Was Number 69 a plant? Was she genuinely as nonplussed by events as we were? Did they – did they just pull her tooth out with a pair of pliers? Oh shiiiiittt!!! Even though I’m chummy with the director and know it’s all a play, oh shiiiittt!!!

I hesitate to go through the whole show, because so much of it was based on not expecting what came next. But by the end I reckoned I’d figured out who was the real deal and who were plants. So when the contestants for the final challenge were called forward, I was back in my comfort zone. The contestant next up was 99.

Oh shiiiittttttt!!!!!

By the end, we were all thoroughly disorientated. I won a false moustache, which is a little redundant given that I have a real one, but you never know. Two of the other “contestants” were a little confused as to whether the backstory of ‘Priceless’ was genuine or not, and the other winner and I spent about five minutes trying to determine if either of us was a plant and if it had finished.

The evening as a whole was different, but not in that “I mean bad but I’m being polite” way. It was the first audience participation event where I genuinely felt part of the action – I found myself chatting to a number of total strangers over the course of the evening, sharing experiences and swapping recommendations and genuinely regretting the end of the night. In short, you can keep your glamorous musicals and giant theatres. Filthy abandoned office blocks are where it’s at.

Further Reading

http://www.theatredelicatessen.co.uk/ - The official website.