Love in an Artistic Climate

OK kids, listen up.

Have just been out at the Saatchi Gallery for an art2heart do. Run by a guy called Ranjit, it's a singles event whereby one can attend an art venue and chit-chat with single ladies.
I loved it, shameless conversationalist that I am.

However, the thought occurs. The sort of women who were there because they are interested in cultcha and that, are not that into the sort of bloke who would attend this type of do.

A fundamental dissonance, one thinks.

Close but no cigar, as Bill Clinton might say.

P.S. Alright, you know me too well - it was an exhibition of (loosely) post-war German paintings. Perhaps a bit brutalist and somewhat misogynistic, a lot of the artwork was nonetheless fascinating and intriguing, covering earlier reactionary pieces against a divided Germany, moving on to reunification. The rest was more abstract. Not everyone's cup of lapsang souchong but there you go.
Much recommended; the earlier works of Jörg Immendorf . First I've seen or heard of him but I'm quite impressed. A pop-art sensibility with a nice sense of drama - might have a separate post on him...

When Mongols Attack!

...or "The Wrath of Khan".

I've been working on a post on the Mongol Empire for some time now but condensing the lives and times of Genghis, Ogedai, Kublai and the rest of Golden Horde is getting tremendously difficult.

The draft is now longer than some of the essays I did at university. Mind you, there were facts printed on the inside of Weetabix boxes that are longer than them. And better researched as well.

Last night the BBC saved me some time by showing a well-constructed and brilliantly filmed drama-documentary on a Mongol named Temujin - a.k.a Genghis Khan.

Written by Isabelle Grey, it charted his life from the death of his father, covered the kidnapping of his wife, early alliances, decisive battles in the power struggles on the steppes and his unification of warring tribes into a more modern and meritocratic Mongolia. The programme also dealt with his attacks on the Chinese Empire and Persia, and the exploratory forays into Europe.
A great bit of television - now I'm hoping for a sequel about Ogadai Khan.
Might write to Points of View about that...

Formula 1 - Imola Grand Prix

A stunning drive to victory for Fernando Alonso in the Renault (that's three in a row), hotly pursued by Michael Schumacher's Ferrari.

Schumacher had qualified a dismal 13th after running off track but proved that both the revised Ferrari and the new Bridgestones have given a package with which he can win again, powering up through the field and sitting on Alonso's tailight for the last laps.

Alonso kept his cool, however, and stayed out in front to the end.

Honourable mention to Alex Wurz, the Maclaren test driver standing in for the injured Juan Pablo Montoya, for driving the Maclaren to fourth place in his first GP for 4 years.

Narain Karthikeyan brought Jordan the full race distance to the chequered flag in fourteenth place.

Grandprix.com's race report, here.

The BAR-Honda of Jenson Button came in third, heralding a return to form of last year that was dashed when post-race scrutineering threw up a problem - the car could have been underweight. The stewards took a few hours to clear them of this charge. Now the FIA is appealing. Quite what the FIA knows that the race stewards don't, is unclear. Grandprix.com puts it succinctly, as ever.

The Guardian has the full details here, along with an article covering the more famous F1 rule infractions, here.

Ich gehöre nicht zur Baader Meinhof gruppe

This Is Baader Meinhof.

An exhaustive, brilliantly researched website with the kind of detail and analysis that shows t'internet working at its best.

Written by Richard Huffman (son of Chuck Huffman who, as head of the bomb disposal squad of the US Army's Berlin Brigade in the early seventies, was responsible for defusing a number of terrorist devices) the site covers the formation, career and decline of the left-wing German urban guerilla group, Baader-Meinhof.

Born out of the ideals of the German student movements, and against the backdrop of the 1968 uprisings, the initially popular group quickly lost support once they started their killing sprees.

The site also discusses the overlaps with other groups of the time and region e.g. Red Army Faction (RAF), Socialist Patients Collective (SPK - some of whose theory and writings are available on the net. Scary stuff), Movement 2 June, the West Berlin Tupamaros.

The terrorists in the 1976 Entebbe Hijack (excellent BBC resource, there) comprised two members of Baader-Meinhof and eight members of the Palestinian Liberation Organisation (PLO).*

Aside: Many of New Left were influenced by One Dimensional Man by Herbert Marcuse (online here, critique here), a book critical of both Marxism and Capitalism. Heavy-going but worth a shot...

*Note: the neutrality of the Wikipedia PLO article is currently disputed.

Buttoned up weekend...

Friday: To Bar 38 in Canary Wharf for Inane's leaving do (he's going from one law firm to another. Strange boy).
He'll be up in my neck of the woods, so we're planning to become lads who lunch - money permitting.
All good fun (although wouldn't recommend the venue). Too much, in fact...

Saturday: Guess what? Yeah...
Failed to make it down the pub to watch the Grand National. Not that I minded, as I'd managed to pick a lame, scrofulous, three-legged rank outsider mule in the office sweepstake. I think it died of mange in its box before the race started or something. It's a mug's game, I'm telling you.

Headed out to the Garden Bar on Upper Street again, for another mate's birthday (didn't I do this last weekend?) - again the food was very nice and I even forced myself to some wine.

Then boosted out to Mayfair for drinks at The Grosvenor Arms (better than the review suggests) and then on with some mates to Buttoned Down Disco. It was their last night at Infinity, before this old townhouse is converted into offices. Bah. Enormous queue but we made it in the end. Once inside I had a fantastic night - music was as eclectic and brilliant as ever.

A girl at the bar said to me, "I asked to meet Kylie Minogue but he never sorted it out". It took me a while to work out that she was referring to my Jim'll Fix It T-shirt....
We swapped Jimmy Saville requests (her's; the aforementioned Kylie, mine; to go to a wrecker's yard and crush a car into a cube - violent child that I was), debated Minogue's oeuvre (her; "Better The Devil You Know", me; "Confide In Me"), moaned about missing out on Glastonbury 2005 tickets and reminisced about Glastonbury 2004 (specifically Paul McCartney).
She and her mate were up in town for the night from the University of Kent and were both studying to be educational psychologists (there's a lot of money in it, apparently). She was very cute. And very attached. Sigh.

Danced about like a loon for the rest of the night and staggered home in the early hours.

Sunday: Laundry.

But I might die at the barber's tonight!

On the late shift this eve, so took advantage of the free and easy morning by going to the barber's. Barbers are always nice and quiet before lunch on a weekday, so I opted for a haircut and a shave and settled back expecting snippage and light conversation.

Nothing so mundane.

I had gone to City Barber, 24 Tudor Street, EC4 for the first time - recently opened with trendy new ground glass basins and ergonomic yellow chairs. Tasteful.
Haircut was as per usual, then Zeki Pihlis (the barber) produced a cut-throat razor with disposable blades and started lathering up a nice old-fashioned badger-hair brush.
The thought crossed my mind that there must be a better name for a razor that a stranger is about to put to your neck than 'cut-throat'.
Of course, having removed my spectacles for the procedure, the razor appeared as a dim, fuzzy, flashing object, nicely adding to the sense of impending doom that started when a second thought occurred - I was not 100 yards from where the infamous Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street had set up shop, murdered his customers with such a razor and had their remains made into pies. The foam had been applied when thought number three kicked in. This barber's had been part of a greasy spoon cafe and the owners had converted part of it, whilst retaining the cafe next door.

Oh, bleedin' heck. As he shaved me, I knew any concerns were wholly unwarranted but at the back of my mind, a voice said "You never know do you? I mean you do hear about these things don't you?"

It all passed off without incident - in truth, he gave me a damn good shave, lathering twice and stretching my skin to make sure all the hairs were reached.
He then dabbed a bit of cold cream on my face - and then a bit on each of my hands. What for, I wondered as he poured some liquid into his hands and slapped it on my face.
The liquid felt like pure alcohol. Nrrrgh......

I felt like my face was on fire and barely restrained myself from squealing like a girl with a skinned knee. The barber massaged it into my face, in a way which would have been enjoyable except for the the extreme burning sensation coupled with the alcohol fumes making me almost choke everytime I drew breath.
However, I hadn't winced yet and I was damned if was going to start now.
After the facial massage, my face was wrapped in hot towels and I subsided into a nice tingling feeling. Cool. He then started rubbing the cream into my hands. Lovely.
That is, until he started twisting each of my fingers 'til the knuckles popped, wrenching my arm out and then pummelling it. Same routine with other one, then he leant me forward and pummelled my back and shoulder muscles.
Tamils breed their children tough, however, and by this time I was practically blase about the whole deal and loving every minute.
I was leant back, the towels were removed and I was left feeling as fresh as a daisy. Albeit, a slightly trodden-on daisy.
Which left me a little unprepared for what happened next. He held up a taper and lit the end producing a large yellow flame (and I didn't need specs to notice that).
Then, and only then, did I realize that I was getting my first full-on Turkish barber experience.
Noting my impassiveness he asked, "You have Turkish shave before?"
"No. But I've read about it", I replied loftily.

The flame was danced over my face, igniting some of the residual alcohol to singe off any nose or ear hair, before he patted me down. Ace.

Sauntered off to work, good and relaxed.

That didn't last long. One of the features of the evening shift is sitting alone in an office that usually has a team of 9 people. Surrounding office lights go off and it gets rather spooky. If it's a quiet night there's nothing much to do except wait for the next piece of work and brood about what sequence of events, starting with one's birth, led you to manning an office in a City of London backwater at nine o'clock on a Wednesday night. Much brooding this eve.

Not helped by one of the albums I listen to at work being Tea For The Tillerman by Cat Stevens, with track six, now playing:

"But I Might Die Tonight"

Don’t want to work away
Doin’ just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine

’cause I know for sure
Nobody should be that poor
To say yes or sink low
Because you happen to say so, say so, you say so

I don’t want to work away
Doing just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine, job like mine, a job like mine

Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!

Hmm. It's been a funny old day.... ;)

Neverending weekend

Oh lordy, where do I begin? Here goes...

Thu 24th March:
The start of a very extended weekend.
Went out with work colleagues for the leaving do / birthday party of the lovely girl who sits next to me at work. It was close on my birthday too, so I was presented with cards and £40 worth of book tokens from my team. Nice. Managed to organise / scrounge a buffet and booze at work, then to the Bear on Clerkenwell Rd to meet with more people (most of whom seem to work for The Guardian) and finally to Dust, where I lost the cards and book tokens. Damn.
Transpires that the girl in question and I celebrated our birthday last year on the same evening at the Vibe Bar down Brick Lane, before we'd actually met. That's probably meaningful but I'm not sure what of, so we'll skip it.
Things got very drunken. And a bit messy...

Fri 25th March:
Ponced around Bond Street for the day, swanking round the boutiques and generally being horrified by the prices. Then to the excellent 43 South Molton Street for a late and boozy lunch /dinner where one of my companions spent most of the time making doe-eyes at Heather, the Canadian girl who works there.

Boosted off to Brown's on Islington Green for another birthday do - this time one of my flatmates' (I do seem to hang around with a lot of Aries people. Again probably meaningful, again don't know what of).
Odd place - overpriced combo bar and restaurant with a lot of colourwash and way too much pretension.
Left at eleven to try to locate a restaurant that would take all ten of us at that late hour.
Found a little one that was empty apart from a couple at one table having some kind of domestic which culminated in her yelling, "God, you're so arrogant!" and storming out (presumably stiffing him with the bill - the cheeky mare). I of course went over and told the bloke "not to worry, cos women are like that and I've spent years on the receiving end of similar behaviour" blah, blah.
I become very empathetic when I'm drunk, y'know. Or maybe just pathetic? Oi! I heard that. Quiet at the back.
He turned out to be a nice bloke and seemed sure he could patch things up with her.
Nice food and a bottle of wine later and I find to my consternation that people are threatening to go to a "cheesy disco". Fliers are produced and given that they state proudly that the Osmonds and Toni Basil are played nightly, I make my excuses and leave.

Sat 26th March:
Little bit worse for wear. Sat around, watched an awful lot of trashy television and (owing to my vulnerable state) got completely hooked on Ellen on abc1. I must have watched about eight episodes in row. It's quite funny and I'm sure Ellen DeGeneres was looking at me in a special way. Honest.
I considered staying in all day, until a couple of texts reminded me that I had in fact organised my twenty-ninth birthday celebrations for that evening in the Phoenix Artist Club on Charing Cross Road, so I had to make a move. Sigh.
In the end, I had an uproariously good time - most of the invited showed up, a lot of them bearing cards and gifts and everyone seemed to have a good time.
A bumper haul of presents this year! Not that it matters but, y'know....it's nice...8o).
The booty included Martin Brundle's Working The Wheel, a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a biography of Sir Percy Sykes, a portable ashtray, Anthony Sampson's Who Runs This Place? The Anatomy of Britain, The Dedalus Book of Absinthe and Hilary Clinton's autobiography. Not sure about that last one...
Met an interesting bloke in the toilets who told me he had fallen in love at first sight with the girl on the next table and was trying to pluck up the courage to talk to her. I advised caution and warned against such folly. He went for it and appeared to be doing well. However, at our next rendez-vous in the bogs, he confided that she just seemed to like the attention and not him. Alas.
The bar would have been open 'til three but the clocks went forward an hour and thus the fates conspired to rob a hour's drinking time from me. Damnation.

Sun 27th March:
Laundry. Old habits die hard.

Mon 28th March:
Headed out to South Woodford for the birthday party of an old mate from university. Glorious day in leafy suburbia, pub action, pizza and quickfire DJ competition (play four random tunes from his vast vinyl collection and get graded by the others on style, quality and technique. I went for 'Hot Love' - T-Rex, 'Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots' - The Flaming Lips, 'You Can't Alway Get What You Want' - The Rolling Stones, 'Sunshine of Your Love' - Cream. Open booing and catcalls ensued).

Tue 29th March:
My actual birthday. Decided to have a rest from partying hard and slobbed about the flat all day, watching Press Gang on DVD. It's strange watching a TV series that I was so passionate about years ago. It made me remember how I was and what I thought at the time. Old man wipes nostalgic tear from his eye, etc. Also I know from watching it the first time that Julia Sawalha looked at me in a special way. Honest.

Wed 30th March:
Headed out to The Boardwalk on Greek Street, Soho to meet a mate where we discussed joining this little social club and were joined later by Cursor Miner. We planned to go to Cheapskates at Moonlighting (shots only 60p!)but the queue was horrific; five wide and stretching down the road.
Scooted off to NagNagNag at The Ghetto to be confronted with surreal door pressure consisting of questions such as "Have you been here before?", "Which bar have you come from?" and "Where do you usually go out in Soho?". Judging by the numbers of people turned away, not everyone was giving satisfactory answers.
Cursor calmed my intial suggested response of "I've been going out in Soho since before you were born - who the f**k are you?" and mentioned that he's DJ'ed at the night before. We were passed graciously through. Nice. Glad we made it in as we had an enjoyable night of frenzied dancing and drinking to excellent music - highly recommended. Cursor got introduced to Boy George and exchanged a few pleasantries. He's a bit taller than you'd think.

Thu 31st March:
I've forgotten what I did.

Fri 1st April:
Arose bright and early to make the Caravaggio exhibition at The National Gallery (excellent Guardian link, here). The ticket allocation on t'internet had sold out, so started queueing at 9.20. By the time the gallery opened there were about 70 people waiting - this guy inspires some hardcore fans.
The exhibition itself was relatively small but no less intense for that - in fact, given the detail and brutality of these (his later) works, I think it was better that way. I bought a "Supper at Emmaus" fridge magnet, which'll go nicely with my "Last Supper" fridge magnet. Renaissance supper magnets are the way forward for fridges.

To the Kings Road in Chelsea for some hardcore posing and minor shopping. We nipped into a gift shop and found ourselves at the counter with Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys who was purchasing a card. He's a bit taller than you'd think.
Then took a 22 to Piccadilly for a spell at the Japan Centre for my mate to locate Kanji books. A brief browse and I discovered that the Kanji character for "cowardice" is also the character for "tenderness". Cue long debate about language and its effect on national character. Need to look into that one...
Grabbed some Japanese cuisine there, too - salmon teriyaki, very tasty.

Quick blueberry G&T (sadly not as good as it sounds) at the top floor bar in Waterstone's, thence to the Hogshead and Duke of York down Dering Street (met a bloke who works in the trauma and counselling department of London Underground - many horror stories - never knew there were so many attempted suicides on the tube) and finally to Loop. Loop is the kind of West End bar that I swore blind I'd never frequent and it lived down to expectations...

Massive ruckus occurred on the number 12 bus back home when it picked up a bunch of kids at Elephant & Castle. They sort of split into roughly two groups - one trying to pick fights with anyone on the bus and the other trying to stop to them. More yelling and threats to get their mates to shoot suspected rivals than actual fisticuffs but there were so many of them that people couldn't get to the doors and were missing the stops thus generating even more aggro on the increasingly noisy and swaying bendy bus. Managed to squeeze out near Burgess Park and left them to it. I might take a self-defence course...

Sat 2nd April:
Would you believe it; another birthday. Inane's girlfriend to be precise. Venue was The Garden Bar on Upper Street - the food and drink performed well and comfy banquettes to boot.
Noticed a girl who kept glancing over at me. Ullo, I thought...
Left it a while and still she kept looking over. Hmm.
I was noisily chatting away but every time I checked she was flicking her eyes in my direction. Ding dong...
I strolled nonchalantly over and introduced myself.
Her name's Kirsten and she's from New Zealand.
It transpired very quickly that the reason she was looking over was because I was standing directly by a television screen showing an Antipodean rugby match that she was watching. Ah...
I made my excuses and slunk off. Sigh...
Home to the Walworth Road, stopping at the 24 hour bagel shop where an uncouth individual lounging at the counter tried to sell us cocaine. Having demurred, he then started listing all the possible drugs he could get hold of for us at reasonable prices. To fob him off, my flatmate told him he was a police officer and he was lucky he wasn't on duty.
I wish I'd snapped a photo of the guy's face but he disappeared too quickly...

Sun 3rd April:
Nursing a week's worth of hangover with my liver the size and consistency of a squash ball, I was fit only to potter about the flat and water the plants. Watched the Formula 1 Bahrain Grand Prix, the Box of Delights on DVD, read a few of my birthday books and dozed in front of Midsomer Murders.

I think I need a holiday....

Formula 1 - Bahrain Grand Prix

Once again, Fernando Alonso dominated the race from pole to flag to take a well-deserved win for Renault; Jarno Trulli continued his good form to bring his Toyota in second and Kimi Raikkonen was third, showing there's life in Mclaren yet.

Race Report from grandprix.com.

The Ferrari and BAR teams had a pretty poor time of it but the stand-out drive of the day was Pedro de la Rosa in the sister Mclaren, taking over from the injured Juan Pablo Montoya. He overtook a BAR, a Ferrari and a Williams with joyous abandon, although Mark Webber made him work for that fifth place. Such was the Spaniard's thundering pace, he had a couple of off-track excursions when attempting to pass cars, yet always managed to catch them again in a few laps and make it stick in the end. Nice work, Pedro.

Martin Brundle had a few things to say about him.