Friday, January 28, 2005
'Rock 'n' roll journo' is back
I'd like to take back what I've always said about London bus drivers (that they are, in the main, deeply unhappy souls who delight in finding ways to drive past would-be passengers, leaving them in the cold and rain to wait for the next vehicle to randomly happen along.)
Shortly after 2am last night, following an enjoyable (and indiscretion-free, I'm pleased to say) work night out, I was making my way to my night bus stop on the Strand, only to see that the N171 had just left the stop and was waiting at traffic lights just before the left-turn on to Waterloo Bridge.
My only chance of avoiding up to an hour's wait for the next bus, was to run ahead to the next stop, which I started to do, wilfully ignoring the fact there was no chance of me making the stop at the other end of the bridge in time. The bus came round the corner and passed my galloping form, duffel coat flapping behind me, and promptly pulled over at the first opportunity - doubtless illegally - and opened its door to admit me. I think the driver was somewhat embarrassed by my profuse thanks.
Maybe having clear roads to drive on makes night bus drivers less vindictive than the day-shift sadists.
Anyway, after two big nights out in Soho with the KP on Monday, and with Jo, Sarah and the KP on Tuesday, that's three night buses in the space of four nights for Stevie. That "rock 'n' roll journalist" tag's not looking so ironic now, is it, TY?
(I am aware that no-one may be bothering to look at this any more, due to the infrequency of postings, but I am now computered-up at home and hope to be online within days. Then let the deluge of witty despatches (re-)commence.)
Shortly after 2am last night, following an enjoyable (and indiscretion-free, I'm pleased to say) work night out, I was making my way to my night bus stop on the Strand, only to see that the N171 had just left the stop and was waiting at traffic lights just before the left-turn on to Waterloo Bridge.
My only chance of avoiding up to an hour's wait for the next bus, was to run ahead to the next stop, which I started to do, wilfully ignoring the fact there was no chance of me making the stop at the other end of the bridge in time. The bus came round the corner and passed my galloping form, duffel coat flapping behind me, and promptly pulled over at the first opportunity - doubtless illegally - and opened its door to admit me. I think the driver was somewhat embarrassed by my profuse thanks.
Maybe having clear roads to drive on makes night bus drivers less vindictive than the day-shift sadists.
Anyway, after two big nights out in Soho with the KP on Monday, and with Jo, Sarah and the KP on Tuesday, that's three night buses in the space of four nights for Stevie. That "rock 'n' roll journalist" tag's not looking so ironic now, is it, TY?
(I am aware that no-one may be bothering to look at this any more, due to the infrequency of postings, but I am now computered-up at home and hope to be online within days. Then let the deluge of witty despatches (re-)commence.)
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Marks out of thirty? Twenty-four
Three cultural outings in six days for Stevie.
On Wednesday 24, Jo, Tracey, Adam and I went to see Stewart "The Bill Hicks who didn't die" Lee at the Soho Theatre.
Time Out's chief comedy critic had said: "One of the best stand-up gigs I've witnessed in over 20 years of watching live comedy." Well, I haven't been watching live comedy for that long, but it was damn fine stuff. Intelligent and puerile, serious and trivial, and performed with real presence and mastery of the craft. He had this great way of half-pausing mid-punchline, so that the audience almost got ahead of the joke and laughed into the space. Anyway, it seemed to increase the laughs. Timing, I guess, is the word.
I thought the highlight was a routine about how Americans are not a naturally curious people - and before any Americans who may read this complain, he backed this up with the statistic that 60% don't own passports (what's more, all my American friends are exceptions.) Anyway, he suggested that if you locked an American in a bunker for 30 years with only a tea cosy, they wouldn't in that time be curious to find out whether the tea cosy would function as a serviceable hat.
9/10
On Friday 26, Kelvin, Andy Richards and I went to see the laid-back country rock of The Loose Salute at Barfly Camden. It was the second time Kelvin and I had seen them, and on this occasion it was a slightly-less-than-vintage performance (largely due to a sloppy mix and chatty twats in the audience.) Nevertheless, debut single Turn the Radio Up still sounded great.
7/10
On Monday 29, Chris (Bird), Andy Richards, Dominic and I went to see the death-obsessed country rock of Willard Grant Conspiracy at the Garage. I hadn't been at the venue formerly dubbed "Indie Mecca" since the great days of Rob Liddiard and mine's doomed guitar band, Tonic, and it was good to be back. It hasn't changed. Anyway, WGC were great. The songs are marvellously dark and brooding, and a cracking band gave properly rocking support to the enormous, wonderfully still figure of frontman Robert Fisher.
Typical Mr Fisher between songs banter: "This next song's just the familiar story of boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy and girl die in a bloody suicide pact in the woods." All strangely uplifting.
8/10
On Wednesday 24, Jo, Tracey, Adam and I went to see Stewart "The Bill Hicks who didn't die" Lee at the Soho Theatre.
Time Out's chief comedy critic had said: "One of the best stand-up gigs I've witnessed in over 20 years of watching live comedy." Well, I haven't been watching live comedy for that long, but it was damn fine stuff. Intelligent and puerile, serious and trivial, and performed with real presence and mastery of the craft. He had this great way of half-pausing mid-punchline, so that the audience almost got ahead of the joke and laughed into the space. Anyway, it seemed to increase the laughs. Timing, I guess, is the word.
I thought the highlight was a routine about how Americans are not a naturally curious people - and before any Americans who may read this complain, he backed this up with the statistic that 60% don't own passports (what's more, all my American friends are exceptions.) Anyway, he suggested that if you locked an American in a bunker for 30 years with only a tea cosy, they wouldn't in that time be curious to find out whether the tea cosy would function as a serviceable hat.
9/10
On Friday 26, Kelvin, Andy Richards and I went to see the laid-back country rock of The Loose Salute at Barfly Camden. It was the second time Kelvin and I had seen them, and on this occasion it was a slightly-less-than-vintage performance (largely due to a sloppy mix and chatty twats in the audience.) Nevertheless, debut single Turn the Radio Up still sounded great.
7/10
On Monday 29, Chris (Bird), Andy Richards, Dominic and I went to see the death-obsessed country rock of Willard Grant Conspiracy at the Garage. I hadn't been at the venue formerly dubbed "Indie Mecca" since the great days of Rob Liddiard and mine's doomed guitar band, Tonic, and it was good to be back. It hasn't changed. Anyway, WGC were great. The songs are marvellously dark and brooding, and a cracking band gave properly rocking support to the enormous, wonderfully still figure of frontman Robert Fisher.
Typical Mr Fisher between songs banter: "This next song's just the familiar story of boy meets girl, boy and girl fall in love, boy and girl die in a bloody suicide pact in the woods." All strangely uplifting.
8/10
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
Read it and weep
Monday was the anniversary of England's incredible triumph in the Rugby World Cup final.
For those who saw it, one image from the occasion endures more vividly in the memory than any other. No, not Jonny Wilkinson's match-winning right-footed drop goal seconds from the end of extra time. Not even the mighty Martin Johnson fulfilling his destiny by holding aloft the gleaming Webb Ellis Trophy. No, the image that will be with me until my dying day, unless senility or alcohol despatch it before then, is of Geoffrey Hazlewood emerging through the mist-y eyed crowd in the Racing Page, his cheeks damp from tears and with the shattered look of a man who has lived every tackle, every ruck and every scrum with his team.
On the train to Watford Junction yesterday (here's why), the excellent anniversary coverage in a Daily Telegraph sport section someone had left behind brought back all the memories of what was a remarkable day - even for a Scotsman - and I ended up getting a little misty-eyed myself. An excerpt from Paul Hayward's piece is cut and pasted below.
Before that though, if the news is generally inclined to make you despair at the human race, check out this amazing, heartwarming story.
Now back to that rugby match:
For those who saw it, one image from the occasion endures more vividly in the memory than any other. No, not Jonny Wilkinson's match-winning right-footed drop goal seconds from the end of extra time. Not even the mighty Martin Johnson fulfilling his destiny by holding aloft the gleaming Webb Ellis Trophy. No, the image that will be with me until my dying day, unless senility or alcohol despatch it before then, is of Geoffrey Hazlewood emerging through the mist-y eyed crowd in the Racing Page, his cheeks damp from tears and with the shattered look of a man who has lived every tackle, every ruck and every scrum with his team.
On the train to Watford Junction yesterday (here's why), the excellent anniversary coverage in a Daily Telegraph sport section someone had left behind brought back all the memories of what was a remarkable day - even for a Scotsman - and I ended up getting a little misty-eyed myself. An excerpt from Paul Hayward's piece is cut and pasted below.
Before that though, if the news is generally inclined to make you despair at the human race, check out this amazing, heartwarming story.
Now back to that rugby match:
Today, Nov 22, is the first anniversary of the most dramatic triumph in rugby history: a feat to compare with the Boys of '66 raising the Jules Rimet at Wembley. But since Jonny Wilkinson bisected Australia's posts with a dropped goal 28 seconds from the end of extra time, England have emptied, scattered, broken down, gasped for breath and tried to regroup in one great cycle of coming and going.
No fact speaks louder than the realisation that England have lost their coach (Woodward) and leader (Martin Johnson) and have been without their most prolific scorer and new captain (yes, Wilkinson) for most of the past year, not to mention Lawrence Dallaglio, Neil Back and Jason Leonard, who were all made in a blacksmith's forge. Others succumbed to serious injury or became ghosts of their World Cup-winning selves. Here were a team who had walked through fire to arrive at an 80-minute slab of Australian time invincible, and were both made and broken in the delirium of a single kick.
If you watched Woodward's finest launch their bodies against southern hemisphere opposition in the run-up to 2003, you knew they were reaching into the furthest recesses of their souls. The ferocity of some of those matches will never leave the memory. Nor will the physical sacrifices made by Johnson and his pack. It was all leading to one moment. The ultimate trial. It was finite. The flames would consume them in the end.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Good food, good company
I managed to accidentally invite myself round to Gail and Chris's for dinner last night, which was well-timed, in fact, with Sara's last night in the UK before returning to Baghdad.
As ever, I was treated there to hospitality of the highest order. Chris, despite having been off work for almost two weeks following a knee operation, rustled up roast beef, asparagus and fried squash, followed by dessert of chocolate eclairs and mince pies (this mince pie fanatic's first of the year).
As you will see below, Gail and Chris are closing fast on James and Helen in my league table of owed hospitality. They have a long way to go, though, to threaten Geoffrey and Karen's near-unassailable position at the top.
I shall endeavour to make 2005 the year of returned hospitality.
As ever, I was treated there to hospitality of the highest order. Chris, despite having been off work for almost two weeks following a knee operation, rustled up roast beef, asparagus and fried squash, followed by dessert of chocolate eclairs and mince pies (this mince pie fanatic's first of the year).
As you will see below, Gail and Chris are closing fast on James and Helen in my league table of owed hospitality. They have a long way to go, though, to threaten Geoffrey and Karen's near-unassailable position at the top.
I shall endeavour to make 2005 the year of returned hospitality.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
Quins on song... at last
Harlequins managed their first win of the season from 11 games in some style on Friday. It will tell you how bizarre an evening it was when I say that when I went to the bar just after kick-off - no, that's not the extraordinary bit - I returned to my seat to find I'd missed three Quins tries. They eventually ran in six - more than in all their previous home games combined - to beat Saracens by 40-10.
James and mine's repeated full-throated renditions of "Come all without" can only have enhanced South Stand spectators' experience (fans in other stands were singing, but those in the cheap seats never really get into it, leaving our voices brutally exposed. We were up to the challenge.)
It was a pleasure for the Quins faithful to be joined for the first time this season by Bellen - clearly a lucky mascot, we shall have a whip-round for another season ticket (and possibly a Harley bear costume.)
In a related matter, the main bar had 200 plastic jugs at the start of the season and now has only 11. Would those responsible please return them forthwith.
James and mine's repeated full-throated renditions of "Come all without" can only have enhanced South Stand spectators' experience (fans in other stands were singing, but those in the cheap seats never really get into it, leaving our voices brutally exposed. We were up to the challenge.)
It was a pleasure for the Quins faithful to be joined for the first time this season by Bellen - clearly a lucky mascot, we shall have a whip-round for another season ticket (and possibly a Harley bear costume.)
In a related matter, the main bar had 200 plastic jugs at the start of the season and now has only 11. Would those responsible please return them forthwith.
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Meet the Wainwrights
A truly great gig on Monday night by Rufus Wainwright at Shepherds Bush Empire. In contrast to some performers whose live shows fail to meet the standard of their studio-engineered albums, live is the way to experience this guy and his extraordinary voice. If you're not familiar with his work, you can listen to a few tracks on the official site. The highlight of the evening, possibly - although there were no lowlights - was a soaring version of Hallelujah in tribute to the late, also great, Jeff Buckley.
Tremendous support, too, from sis Martha. I'd long been meaning to direct you to the terrific song BMFA on her website. The talent's clearly in the genes (they're the offspring of folk singers Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle.)
On a separate note, more than a week later I'm still struggling to find an answer to a truly baffling question.
Tremendous support, too, from sis Martha. I'd long been meaning to direct you to the terrific song BMFA on her website. The talent's clearly in the genes (they're the offspring of folk singers Loudon Wainwright III and Kate McGarrigle.)
On a separate note, more than a week later I'm still struggling to find an answer to a truly baffling question.
Monday, November 01, 2004
'Two of life's winners'
Saturday saw the best game at The Stoop in a season-and-a-half following Harlequins (apart from the injury-time win over Bath last season which prompted a pitch invasion and which Geoffrey and I missed having given away our tickets. D'oh!). With eight defeats from eight games this season, Quins appeared to lack the confidence to put the game away but hopefully a draw sees the rot stopped.
KP didn't come to the game and was left unsupervised in the pub for the afternoon. (When will we learn?) His evening ended with him tripping up as he came out of The Clapham North, leaving him with a swollen ankle he can barely walk on. He spent most of Sunday under a duvet on my sofa bed, despatching me to the shops for Dr Pepper, pickled onion Monster Munch, a Pot Noodle and Haribo, and we worked our way through almost the entire first series of Cheers on DVD. A pair of winners, we are.
KP didn't come to the game and was left unsupervised in the pub for the afternoon. (When will we learn?) His evening ended with him tripping up as he came out of The Clapham North, leaving him with a swollen ankle he can barely walk on. He spent most of Sunday under a duvet on my sofa bed, despatching me to the shops for Dr Pepper, pickled onion Monster Munch, a Pot Noodle and Haribo, and we worked our way through almost the entire first series of Cheers on DVD. A pair of winners, we are.
