Wicks' Word Web

Nights at The Cube

2012-02-05T16:34:00.003Z

My education in indie cinema has reached a new level of heightened obscurity.

I was getting delightfully accustomed to the eclectic and offbeat offerings at The Watershed, then I strayed deeper into the indie abyss and stumbled across The Cube Cinema, just off Kings Square, Stokes Croft. The Cube is so off-kilter that it makes The Watershed feel like the director's luxury suite at Cinema De Lux. The location alone should have signaled the alternative nature of this venue (it's wedged between a couple of intimidating tower blocks, just behind a rather attractive Georgian facade.) But with the tempting invitation to screen a film for free on an ample cinema screen in a city of diversity - I eagerly crossed the threshold with my short documentary, A Prickly Relationship in hand ready to join the list in the Bluescreen pot-luck filmathon.

I have screened films from my repertoire on every successive Bluescreen night since - amounting to four very different experiences. Like karaoke: open film nights must be taken with open expectations: some numbers make you want to pull your eyes out, whereas others can trigger fits of sniggers or squeals of joy. Due to the mixture of amateur and professional filmmakers in attendance - you're always sat amongst seriously bonkers enthusiasts or seriously pretentious auteurs (of the jaded or aloof variety) and a few semi-grounded filmmakers like me. There is of course also a hinterland of the average/clever/arty/jokey/weird/exploitative persuasion.

You are encouraged to introduce your film, which is a great chance to scope out the competition and gain an insight into their mental stability. There are always a few 'technical hitches' along the way, and the chap who hosts the night always always misreads names and film titles (a mixed misfortune of low-lighting and bad handwriting from entrants) - which adds to the comic absurdity of the event.

If your film is swallowed by the DVD machine or (in one case so far) you're subjected to two uber-boring 10 minute photo-montages because the DVD menu is on a loop and the technician can't be bothered to stop it/doesn't realise, I have learnt that you must sit still, breath long and hard and let it wash over you.

Last week's screening was extra entertaining as my ex-housemate Jamie's boyfriend, Fred came along. He's quite opinionated, and doesn't especially like the Cube as it is (bit low-brow for him), but he'd agreed to come as Jamie's music video was on the bill. But Jamie had made a grave mistake - arriving late. That means your film will be last on the bill, which basically means that not many people will see it, as the population decreases in the auditorium depending on how good/bad it starts and how long the films go on for (1am being the current record finish for Bluescreen's 10th year anniversary screening!).

I giggled in hysteric glee as Fred squirmed and huffed his way through the first two films on the bill: one - the double bill skateboarding photo montage mentioned earlier, two - a hideously cringy drama which included an angry psycho keeping a young man hostage then wrestling him on the floor for what felt like an eternity. Uh?!

Fred needs to learn to take the rough with the smooth if he's to become a Bluescreen vet.

By far the most amusing offering thus far comes in the shape of a mockumentary series titled 'Brenda'. I've been lucky enough to catch every episode (4), and have to say that although initially it confused me and left me cold - the story has evolved and I confess that I've become hooked to this bizarre micro-soap-op about a straight man who pretends to be a tranny in an attempt to capture the affection of his best friend who happens to be a lesbian.

I have to admit that I didn't realise 'Benda' was a mockumentary during the first episode - I thought it was just a bunch of odd-bods from Stokes Croft playing with a camera. But, as the story has developed, I think it's actually quite clever and a little bit funny. Mainly because the guy playing Brenda is gargantuan - about 7ft and the least attractive tranny I've even seen. So, you can imagine the shrieks and stomach-clutching that occurred when 'Brenda's' two veg made a three-second appearance in one scene. Just about every inch of Brenda has been laid-bare for all to see now, so what can possibly happen next?

A woman who's film was rejected/spat out of the machine about mid-way through the line-up got in such a huff with the recording device she was playing with in her lap (to record the sound of her own film being played? Or researching the competition? Odd any way) that she shouted quite audibly, "Stop turning yourself on!", (directed at her machine I presume), which promoted a ripple of giggles across the audience... and wether out of embarrassment or resentment, she and her companion abruptly left.

The interval is always a welcome chance to air concerns about the sanity of the congregation and recall the films made by the inconspicuous-geniuses hidden amongst us. Also the time for everyone who forgot they had a drink beside their feet to knock over said drink and spend an additional £2 on a replacement.

The best films always seem to proceed the break, though maybe that's just because you know there's light at the end of the cube-shaped-tunnel. Audience figures have ranged between 30 and 60, though as I said, past the 11pm home-time call for week-day workers, numbers dwindle considerably. The die-hards stay till the very end - (yes I can lay claim to being one of those ridiculous creatures).

Cube nights - are film nights subtlety vailing vaguely organised chaos, but enjoyable if you don't go with any preconceived expectations. Where else can you show a film for free, watch a hotch-potch, occasionally exceptional array of moving images crafted by regional talent? Get thy self down to The Cube and experience Bluescreen for yourself - just don't take your caravan-fetish montage and expect a genuine round of applause. In fact, I might suggest a ban for montages of any description.

Big Fat Nightmare Gypsy Christmas

2012-02-04T22:33:00.005Z

I caught up with a friend a few weeks ago for a coffee and as we hadn't seen each other in a while - we backtracked to how we'd both spent Christmas.

Mine was fun, relaxed and boozy - everything the festive season should be. Sam's was utter chaos and if I'd have had to face the same situation... well - I don't think I'd have made it through to see the New Year.

Sam is a duty manager at a hotel on the outskirts of Bristol. She'd been landed with a hefty Christmas day shift: the only member of staff on duty all day, she had around 40 residents to look after until the night staff took over at 11pm.

40 residents might have been daunting enough if something went wrong and you had no backup. But my jaw dropped when Sam unravelled her story of the day from hell - when she realised half the residents were Irish gypsies, who had managed to smuggle in a rabble of friends to stay and party in their rooms.

They were drunk by 10 am in the morning. Stealing things and causing trouble in the corridors by midday. Sam had to try and control them, as well as assuring the other residents that she'd evict them before dark. The gypsies would not adhere to her pleas for them to leave the building, so she called the police. She didn't want to - worrying that it would upset the local bobbies special day. She couldn't call her boss as she was equally anxious about spoiling his special day with the family. She was well and truly alone in her fight to restore peace at the hotel.

Sam knew she had every right to evict them - the incriminating footage was safely stored on CCTV, but the sheer power in their numbers and audacious behaviour rendered her rather useless. The gypsies were teasing her, picking her up, ignoring every remonstration.

Sam called the police. She hoped the theft element of their behaviour would be enough alone for them to help her. Two officers arrived. They were not very helpful. Sam stated her case, detailing all the offenses. They remained fairly nonchalant, uncommitted.

It wasn't until one of the gypsies made a racist comment to the black officer, that they stirred into gear and began evicting the gypsies and all their messy entourage.

As if that wasn't enough, Sam then had to stay on an extra hour or so to explain the situation to the night staff and get everything settled and tidied to resume service.

The only thing that saved Sam from breakdown was the words of commendation from the non-gypsy residents who witnessed some of the ordeal and saluted her brave fight to regain power.

Bravo Sam!

The Brave Face of Youth

2012-01-23T15:50:00.014Z

I've just watched the final version of a fantastic short documentary I worked on a few months ago, Brave Face, centring on a diverse group of young people affected by the summer riots in Edmonton and Tottenham. Watch the film here: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm

The film was funded by First Light, produced by Somerset Film (who I've freelanced for many times over the last few years) and directed by award-winning writer/director, Pete Snelling (who mentored a training scheme I attended at Somerset Film a couple of years ago).

I'd heard that Somerset Film had been awarded funding to make a film about young offenders, thought it sounded like a fantastic project and wondered how I might get involved. A month or so later, I happened to bump into Pete Snelling at Somerset Film - where I was doing a bit of freelance admin, and I inquired about the First Light film project. A week later, Pete called me to ask if I was free to production assist on the project, which was now going to be two films - one about young offenders in Bridgwater and another about the affects of the summer riots in Edmonton, North London.

I wholeheartedly agreed to both, not knowing quite what to expect, but cherishing the chance to work with such a prolific director and on such topical subject matter. The first week's shoot was in Bridgwater, predominantly working with a small group of young offenders living in a residential centre. The teenagers here had very damaged lives, and many were in the persistent cycle of reoffending and dodging meeting with their case workers in favour of escaping from themselves in drink, stealing and taking drugs.

The aim of First Light films is to interact with kids, making them the subject and production crew of the films, so that they learn new media techniques and tell their stories to a wider audience. It's a very interesting concept, as you really get to know the participants and it's quite a reflective/thearaputic process for them - to be talking about these major incidents that have shapes their young lives. I honestly warmed to them, they dropped their guards easily and got into the production process with great enthusiam. An opportunity for them to be creative and kept busy - temporarily kept away from the daemons that so often encroached.

The groups stories were exceedingly harrowing - damage done at a young age carrying through and often building into their adolescent lives. We recorded their voices only, as a lot of the stories involved evidence of current offences which might get them into trouble with court hearings and such. So, Pete came up with the novel idea to film the group from everywhich angle except for head-on visually. We used a 'Toddy-cam' (wooden 'a' frame structure on which the camera is mounted at one end and then the participant holds the other end, so that you get a fluid movement and a feeling of being a part of them without any juddering) to film them getting on with everyday things like rolling a cigarette and walking to the shops.

Although the kids were completely receptive to us, letting us in to their lives and engaging so well with the project; there was a sense of doom - that not many of them were ready to attempt to give up their vices - though a lot of it was circumstantial. There was only one boy who genuinely seemed repentant for what he'd done, and had quit the drink, drugs, and thieving. He was in the midst of reconnecting with the family he'd lost for many years, and getting back into horse racing - a passion he grew up with. The others either didn't seem to care, or were simply too damaged or failed by their caseworkers/families to want to change.

I truly believe that no one is born bad, and I wanted to believe that this group of kids would all come through in the end - but with such a mixture of pressures baring down on them, it's easy to see how these cycles of offending reoccur. This week was a challenging time for us, harrowing and heartwrenching but hopefully the film will show not just the negative things that they've done, but focus on why they have got to this dark place and how they can get out with the right kind of support.

I don't think that staying in a residential centre like that (living with a mixture of offenders and non-offenders) is totally productive, but when they have been ousted by their families (or its simply too dangerous for them to live at home), where else is it safe for them to live? One of the centre's managers came across as a beacon of hope, a very positive influence on the residents, though he despaired of their behaviour sometimes, he's one of our society's unsung heroes - just being so accommodating to us - realising that these kids need a voice, from the ground, to make the people with their heads in the clouds hear these voices and make changes for all sorts of social issues. With all the cuts to public services... if people like him are stretched even further beyond their means... they'll loose even more of the valuable time that they put in with these kids, and then who will guide them?

It was quite a different story at the youth centre in Edmonton, near Tottenham, where we shot the second film. With the same intentions, and same set up, we engaged with a massive group of kids (ranging this time from the ages of 7 to 17) who were all keen to tell their stories and although the subject matter (the summer riots) could have been much more contentious - their outlook was positive and inspirational. This group were part of a youth club run predominantly by young volunteers determined to keep their community off the streets and away from the threatening reaches of the local gangs. Such passion and proudness was evident here that it was initially hard to believe that their lives were marred by death and violence at a very immediate level. It's places like this youth centre that are the advocates of the social system - will they ever get the recognition they deserve, or will the government cuts stunt their progress?

Many of the kids that attend this centre three nights a week are damaged by a plethora of conflicting social and personal daemons, but at least they are safe when they join together and use their time productively - they will literally do anything to stay away from the gang-related crimes that are so prevalent in that area.

It was such an eye-opening experience to hear a bunch of under-ten's talk about a friend getting stabbed and killed just a street away from where most of them live, and to witness first-hand the turmoil they face if they're seen in the wrong place at the wrong time. I literally couldn't believe that kids that age are afraid to cross over the street in case they're caught up in a gang-related fray. I had such an idyllic childhood - it put a lot in perspective for me to hear these stories - the youngest ones are old beyond their years as they've had to grow up so quickly in order to avoid the troubles that surround them. Who knows if they'll survive to pursue their dreams (most of the boys want to be footballers). It would be interesting to go back in a year or so and see what has changed.

There was a feeling of hope in Edmonton which contradicted the general reputation of the area. Such a close-knit community revolving around the youth centre - it felt like an extended family - an extension of a living room, complete with table tennis, a Wii, massive TV and walls plastered with photos of activities and fun days out. There's even a music studio, which was in constant use the entire time we were shooting there, and where the soundtrack to the film was produced. Such a hotbed of talent waiting to be acknowledged.

None of the youngsters we worked with were directly involved with the riots but their lives have been inadvertently shaped by the reporting and invasion of the press eager to put faces to crimes committed during the summer. We could have found people more directly affected, or involved but we realised it was more important to focus on the positive aspects.

These kids are escaping difficult home/street lives and the youth centre provides them with a safe haven, a place where they can be children and enjoy the company of others from a multitude of ethnicities and ages. The staff (mostly unpaid) are loyal to their people - most also grew up in the area and strongly believe they are making a difference but also show their concern for the centre's future.

Both film projects tackle issues at the forefront of our society's consciousness, I sincerely hope the films get carried far and wide, and spark debates on a higher level. The young people we worked with have had a profound effect on me, I hope they can grow to be what they want to be in safety and happiness.

Everyone deserves a chance, but circumstance is a heavy burden.

Please watch here now: http://www.mypockets.co.uk/braveface.htm

The Dog That Took a Horse to Water (Short Story)

2011-10-12T10:40:00.009Z

Leon bought himself a horse because he could. He wasn't at all an equine enthusiast, didn't ride it for months - so I had to make sure Marmaduke didn't turn feral or lazy.

The workmen drafted in to build our annex laughed and jested about it almost on a daily basis. Being a stubborn and proud man, Leon made the effort one day to mount his neglected steed and put a stop to the builders' jibes. I had to restrain from laughing as I caught a glimpse of Leon strutting about on his jodhpur-clad legs before the full-length mirror in the hallway. It was not very becoming, but I was glad the clothes he'd purchased at the same time as the horse were finally getting an outing.

I made a low cough to introduce myself to him gently, but he became rigid-straight as he turned to me - a slight look of anxiety flecked his eyes.

I took his hand and said, "Come on then, lets get Marms warmed up."

He picked up the whip that was resting on the bench, wishing to look every inch the showman.

I brought Marms round the front of the yard. Leon should have been using the mounting block, but he insisted he didn't need it. Marms whinnied, which caught the attention of all three of the workmen.

Several attempts to mount sans mounting block proved very unsuccessful. A flush the hue of burgundy surfaced on Leon's cheeks. I stepped forward to give him a leg-up on the side the builders couldn't see - though I strained greatly, his backside hit the saddle with a dull thud. I whispered up to ask if he wanted to be led. I know that Marms has become lazy enough not to want to bolt, but think that Leon might want the security. His look tells me everything: No, let me get this over with as quickly as possible.

I stepped away. Courage improved Leon's posture. The whip rose. There was a second's delay as Marms tried to understand what had hit his flank so rigorously. He whinnied then trotted on - ears pricked, tail flared up. The whip cracked again and Marms strides into a canter.

I looked to the builders who were muttering. All together, they raised their arms and began clapping enthusiastically in mock celebration. The noise spooked Marms so much that he swiftly upped his pace to a full-tilted gallop. Leon was leaning too far back in the saddle, but somehow managed to told tight as they sped through the gate and into the rolling hills beyond. We didn't see them again for half and hour.

Luckily for Leon, when he did return - safely dismounted but disheveled, the builders were around the other side of the house taking a coffee break. He would not speak to me, only outstretched the reins and childishly patted Marms on the rump.

So, I now have two horses along with my lovely petite Dachshund, Florence to exercise and attend to. We make a rather unusual trio (obviously I can't take both horses out at the same time) when we go out hacking. Florence had been rejected by her mother at a very young age, so I became her surrogate dog-mother, and as such - she became more like a child and I honestly believe she did not ever think that she belonged to the canine world.

Flo had to be first for everything as if her sass made up for her lack of stature. Wether we were out walking, or riding - Flo would stride ahead, legs beating like a humming bird's wings. She'd invariably want to sit astride one of the horses - in front of me as if she were the captain of a great Roman war horse.

Being close to the coast of St Ives, I was always keen to get both horses acclimatized with the sea - excellent for all-round toning and cleaning. Such a natural practice for horses and dogs, but seeing Flo swimming alongside the horses always looked bizarre and often attracted remonstrations of worry from passers by who were not accustomed to a routine I had rendered as normal.

Shortly after Leon's debut on Marms, I decided that introducing him to the sea would save me a few hours work as it would tire the horse quicker than hacking on land. I had taught my horse, Shadow a few years previously, and although initially tentative, I soon got her settled into a sea-bonding routine. Unfortunately, Marms was not so keen to breach the waters of St Ives.

He just wouldn't be led or ridden into the shallows past his hooves. I tried dragging at his halter, teasing with carrots and apples - even taking Shadow for company. I was on the verge of admitting defeat when one day, as I watched Flo lapping up her water from a shallow bowl, I had an epiphany: if Flo was hot on the heels of Marms on hacks, then surely Flo could lead Marms into the water?

So, with great trepidation, I led Marms down our usual trail towards the sea. It was a relatively calm day - perfect really. Flo, excited and eager as ever, wobbled and snaked her way out front of Marms - turning her head full back to check we were following every few minutes. Marms followed her scent and gently touched his muzzle on Flo's back occasionally.

I took a deep breath as Flo's tiny legs began striding the water - Marms' nose tickled the surface, he shivered a little, but kept moving forward. Flo disappeared briefly under a small wave. Marms stopped momentarily, but started more readily when he saw her resurface. The water was nearly at Marms' flanks and my knees - we were making progress.

I like to think that Marms was too preoccupied with Flo's course through the waves to worry about the official christening of his sea legs - but I did feel a strain as he lost contact with the seabed and made the transition of carrying both our weight without gravity's aid.

Marms' nose snorted in the surface swell but he soon settled his head at a more sensible angle. For a few minutes we were all in unison, almost enjoying this strange new foray.

Then Flo disappeared.

Marms whinnied and his gait changed into a frantic thrashing. He tired very quickly. For a few seconds he gave up and we both sank below the surface. I kicked at his sides with my legs to try and bring him back up. Somehow he regained his composure, resurfaced and as we blinked the salt water from our eyes - we both sighed with great relief as Flo paddled towards us, Marms stretched his head towards her and their noses touched briefly.

The wise little canine knew which way to lead us next.

Marms would not so much as dip one hoof into the sea without his sausage-shaped guardian after that day.

A Show of Beauty and Endurance

2011-10-12T10:35:00.035Z

I have to admit, I had never heard of Kilnsey, let alone the 'Kilnsey Show and Sports' before I was whisked off Yorkshire-bound from Bristol one early morning at the end of August. Invited by a special someone who grew up in the area and promised a day of good, hearty fun - how could I possibly resist such an intriguing invitation?

We arrived mid-morning to be ushered into a free car park close to the domineering Kilnsey Crag, which provided a hardy, strong backdrop to the show ground nestled safely in the basin of an expansive valley.

As I opened the car door, I was immediately aware of being in an outlandish environment - not only was the temperature a fair few degrees chiller, but the broad accents of the two young stewards who'd directed us to our spot instantly beguiled, intrigued and enticed me with their jovial banter. One of the lads was sarcastically teasing the other about needing a bacon sandwich, the other replied: "Too right you need one, I've seen more fat on a butcher's pencil!"

Had to smile - I'd never heard this expression before. A harmless, playful comment, but it gave me a sense of the Yorkshire lilt. The dew from the grass wet my feet and I was glad I second-thoughted my lambs wool jumper - a flimsy cardigan was never going to be enough.

Being a self-confessed country bumpkin and no stranger to agricultural shows - I thought I'd be au fait with the general ambience and warm bovine smell, but things are definitely markedly different up this way. Some of the familiar signifiers are there: old codgers in tweed, flamboyant, over-exuberant food demonstrations, tents with meticulously-manicured cattle lined up with their patterned rears pointing towards impressionable visitors' faces.

Then you stumble across the dry stone walling competition - men fitting magnificently misshaped grey pieces of Yorkshire history neatly into place like an ancient game of Tetris, strangely mesmerising and endearing to see such mastery of a craft that has probably died out in more meagre areas of the country.

It was encouraging to see teams of fathers and sons - well younger men in general taking such weighted care of their heritage. There's a distinct level of proudness at play and playfully attuned - yes that's what was beginning to set Kilnsey apart from the other shows I've visited.

Just as the rain turns from a barely-bearable drizzle to angry spitting - so the brass band kick into energetic action with a melt-your-heart-as-well-as-the-precipitation rendition of 'Singing In the Rain'. The warming tones made me forget my shivers - nothing a strong coffee or a cider wouldn't curb anyway.

Next, we decided to take in the marquees filled with local crafts and culinary treasures. There were definitely one or two names that kept appearing against red-for-first certificates.

After a hearty chuckle at the odd shaped veg, warped flower ensembles and magnificent culinary concoctions we ventured outside again.

Cracking leeks and lovingly polished courgettes in neat pairs.

We were too late to see the cakes in their full glory - but the smell alone was a welcome treat as we entered the baked goods tent. Even though the entries were covered in protective/prohibitive plastic sheeting, we salivated and jested about the rationale behind the jam to cream to sponge ratio, which was often inconsistent with some of the Victoria Ss. How does anyone come up with the idea of making a pizza look like a scene from the Little Mermaid? It was obviously pain-stakingly put together and bizarrely brilliant, but who could justifiably eat it without feeling guilty?

Hot and sticky with the bustle of bargain-seeking bodies, the food court provided a suitable rain diversion. Top marks definitely went to a dazzling display of cupcakes (not the over-fussy feats of fantasy you witness in city stores), pretty, simple edible elegance.

We knew the smug (but rightly so) baker would have an empty display cabinet before tea-time.

Alongside her stall, there were others displaying more varieties of Wensleydale than you could ever conceivably tire of - but the most impressive array of morsels were of the pork pie variety. Never having eaten one before myself, I had presumed there was only one type of pork pie, but this local vendor displayed around 8 to 10 variants of these golden-facaded orbs of bewitching filling. I still wasn't tempted - but I was certainly tempted by the fresh fish counter's contents.

Whole trout, filleted trout, trout pate, trout medley - I doubt Bubba Gump could have come up with more ways to harvest a sea creature. But alas, they'd run out of trout sandwiches... which was what we were craving. Fortunately, the lady behind the counter assured us there was no shortage of sandwiches - we'd just have to go over the road to the trout farm and retrieve them from the cafe there.

A little mellowed from our midday tipple - my sprightly companion challenged me to a hike up the crag. Plenty of people were doing it, you could see pin-pricks of colour dotted up the escarpment and a few at the very top - so yes, why not? I was in training for the Bristol Half Marathon at the time, so I was in a 'yes' mood.

Well, the first tier was fairly gentle. We snaked through the grass which was a little slippy, but not too steep. Then, the grass ran out and the steepest most daunting gauntlet ensued. Inappropriate footwear aside - I began to feel a little worried - if I fell now, would I even make the Half Marathon the following week?

Taking our time and using hands to grip the rubble (refraining from looking downwards), we ascended with trepidation. It was arduous - the loose stones providing little security, but the sight of the flags at the top were a beacon to focus on. Out of breath and soaked in a misty drizzle, I soon forgot my pounding limbs and took in the sublime panorama. It was hard to believe that in a few hours, hundreds of people (young and old) would be running up this escarpment and heading straight back down again for the crag racing - with absolutely no time or inclination to admire the view.

We walked along the top of the ridge: there was no way either of us were braving the same route down. Even if this slope was covered in snow and I had my skis on - I'd still be a bit dubious about it.

Needless to say it took us a lot longer to get down, as we had to contend with slippery, wet grass. The homely-looking pub below acted as our focal point. Once safely inside, we joined the other equally triumphant and bedraggled ramblers escaping the drizzle.

I'm not much of an ale drinker, but I thought it would be positively rude not to sample a local brew. A honey-tinted, well-rounded half slipped down like a treat as we laughed and ruminated about the prospect of a "warm breakfast salad" advertised on the specials board. We were strangers to this pub, it was the early afternoon on a Tuesday - but this place had all the right ingredients associated with a leisurely bank holiday.

Damp but content after a second half of the golden liquor, we decided it best to get back to the show before we became part of the well-worn furniture... or fell victim to the ominous warm breakfast salad. As we left, one of the show's dignitaries (an old boy positively leaking tweed from every orifice) joined a group in the corner - looking every bit as proud as his attire and badges suggested. I wondered if he'd snuck out of the official show lunch hosted in the pomped-up judges marquee (imagine all the thrills and meringue-balloon drapery of a gypsy wedding) to mix with the riff-raff and savour a quick tipple?

Out in the cold and perma-drizzle again, we realised that we'd need something more than a brisk walking to fend off another fit of shivers, so coffee and flapjack was agreed on. As we left the food tent (and yes, the cupcake lady could nearly afford to pack up and get home a contented woman), we heard the announcement for the start of the crag racing, so we got a good spot near the finish line - though we could already see fast-moving maniacs scurrying up and across the hill that we'd struggled with a few hours earlier. This first batch were the under 12s, the first intrepid souls to pass us were muddy (some scuffed and bloodied), didn't appear to give even a jot of pain or anguish away in their faces - pure focus and dedication shined through.

Massive cheers of support rippled around as every new runner passed by - mostly boys, though a few iron-willed girls crossed the line at a sprint.

The open race featured burly men, the odd athletic-type, a handful of over 60s - all or mostly in unassuming, unpretentious attire, some strapped into walking boots or spikes rather than trainers.

I relished witnessing the camaraderie beyond the finish line. Many pats-on-the-back around the (one and only) water bucket where the runners were sponging mud off their legs. This appeared primitive, but strangely compelling and appropriate for such an event. I doubt this scene would be replicated at my Half Marathon in Bristol.

What a staggering feat of human will-power. Seeing these people conquor such a sharp and treacherous incline made me realise that I could do more to up-the-ante with my own running training.

The shivers were beginning to take over again, so we decided to go and investigate the Kilnsey Trout Farm, just on the other side of the show's perimeter. As we entered the cafe, they were beginning to close-down the kitchen, but we managed to persuade the girl on the counter that we'd driven from Bristol to sample the trout and we couldn't possibly leave without a sandwich. She didn't make so much as a murmur of an objection, so five minutes later we were tucking into sandwiches bursting with juicy pink flakes of trout with mayonnaise accompanied by thick crisps and salad. It was just gorgeous and well-deserved to sit inside and watch the ducks pootling around in the fishing lakes beyond the window.

Tired but content, we went back to the show for the final and hotly-anticipated event of the trotting races. As the sun dipped below the softening line of the crag, an array of traps, clinking and clattering along the way appeared from the far side of the track and began their debut parade. As with all the other beasts on display throughout the day, the horses were immaculately turned-out and the jockeys' silks were predictably and charmingly gordy.

No expenses spared, the commentator stood on a rickety scafolding tower, cursing his dodgy mic, which was faltering every time he shifted to a certain spot on his platform. A few jokes were made and the serious talk resumed. The thrill, the powerful yet steady trotting gait of the horses, the heavy clatter of their chariots all culminated in a heady mix, and a climatic charge amongst the spectators and bookies booths just behind.

We were only going to stay for a couple of races, but we ended up staying until the rosettes were handed out by the lady judge. By this time, the commentator up on his solitary podium looked ready to descend again into the furor and celebrate with the rest of show's crew in the beer tent - surreptitiously positioned beyond the field of pimped-up 4x4s and horse boxes. Temped to join him? Yes, ever-so-slightly. But it really was cold and my companion had a long drive ahead.

As the sun dipped lower, casting honey-tones over the hills and valleys, we meandered homeward through the commanding landscape - I sank lower in my seat, enjoying the warmth in the car, following a spectacular sunset.

Reflecting on the day, I really enjoyed observing the quiet confidence exuded by the breeders, showers, craftsmen at Kilnsey - they all knew their strengths and owned every right to that proudness. I loved the lay of the land and the crag racers' determination to both be at one with and master the tumultuous terrain, even if it meant having to soap themselves down with a bucket of muddy water and tend to bleeding knees in return.

There was just the right level of humour, true sportsmanship and bravado to keep me entertained - it is tough up north, but I didn't hear a single grumble from either man nor beast.

Block Party Continued

2011-09-27T12:59:00.037Z

Here's some very belated pictures to complement my writings about the Nelson Street Graffiti Art Project in Bristol last month:

Woolmersdon Walnut Thief

2011-09-20T16:09:00.004Z

I was in Somerset for work last week, so thought I'd stay at mum's. She offered me a lift on my second morning, and on our way past the neighbours' driveway (which runs along the length of our garden) we spotted a ruddy-faced rogue conspicuously foraging for walnuts - collecting his loot into a Quality Street tub, with his van parked where the drive entrance meets the road.

The loot belonged to my mum. The poor ravaged tree sits prettily at the corner of the garden, a few branches innocently over-hanging the fence. Initially, mum carried on driving past this heinous crime scene but I was outraged and we pulled over a short way up the road. My anger helped to fuel mum's fire so we made a swift u-turn and headed back to confront the old codger walnut thief.

Derek Irish is one of many 'local characters' that mum knows to be wary of - she said she wouldn't be surprised if he'd been casing the tree for weeks - waiting for the prime time for preying on the golden-cased gems, with the intention of selling his bounty to a local fruit and veg vendor.

I just couldn't believe the gall of this twerp - it was 8.30am in the morning, broad daylight, bright as brass.

Mum pulled up into the verge and wound my window all the way down.

She said, "Excuse me, what do you think you're doing?"

Derek idles over, with a slight hobble (attempting a sympathy vote?), leans right into the car, resting both elbows on the window frame. Taking a highly conspicuous look at my chest, he says, "Just collecting the dropped ones, I got permission."

We were both aghast.

Mum says, "They belong to me and you do not have my permission."

Irish says, "You can have 'em love. But I got permission... from the boss."

We both laugh in shocked dismay.

Mum says, "No, the tree is mine, my ex doesn't live here any more - and even if he did say you could take them, it's not his concern now."

Irish remained cocky, contented to commence battle. "I've got a witness."

Mum, "I don't care, I want you you off my walnuts, now."

Irish, "My misses was a witness, she'll tell you."

Irish kept a wry smile on his weathered face during this entire interplay - leaning dangerously close to me, so much so that I had to turn towards mum in order to avoid his ghastly gaze.

Mum says, "That doesn't mean anything to me, please just leave."

The persistent git had more, "Just taking the ones from the floor love..."

Mum, "It's stealing, please leave."

Mum begins to release the hand break, his elbows slip off the window sill. His glare is fixed on us, but he begins to step back. The yappy little dog in his van begins to bark and jump up against the glass.

I haven't come across anyone quite so horrid, abrasive and determined in a long time. The bloody cheek of it. Mum said that she wouldn't be surprised if Irish was eying-up other neighbourhood trees - what a joke. He'll probably come back, perhaps or perhaps not with more stealth.

When we returned from work, mum gathered as much of her bounty as possible and will no doubt harvest every kernel with fevered protectiveness from this day forward. Walnut thieves of Woolmersdon - beware!

Learning to Breath

2011-08-26T16:55:00.003Z

I'm running the Bristol 1/2 Marathon in two weeks. I'm running it for Penny Brohn Cancer Care, as my mum received emotional and therapeutic treatment from this charity during and after an invasive course of chemotherapy to eradicate cancer of the ovaries.

I am not a competitive sports person, so doing the race for a charity is helping to keep up momentum, especially when the donations keep coming in: http://www.justgiving.com/Holly-Wicks. I may up my target to £500 as there's still time to do some tin-rattling.

At the moment, I am feeling very confident and considering I ran 11.4 miles in an hour and a half last Sunday, I definitely can make the 13.1 miles on September 11th. The only thing I'm worried about is running in public. I know it sounds stupid, but I'm so used to running on my own, (as far from civilization as possible) that the mere thought of sharing a road with even a cluster of people rather scares me. That, and the fact that I go a deeper shade of beetroot when I exercise. Can't help it, think it's hereditary.

I know a whole load of race entrants will be eagerly awaiting race day so that they can show off their peak physical condition, latest running gadgets and bling sportswear but I'll be hiding or blending into the background as much as possible in baggy shorts and muddy trainers. Ah well, vanity is not my concern.

I am proud that my fitness level is the best its been since I learnt to snowboard, but I'm worried about what will happen after the race. I think I'll have to sign up to another race otherwise I'm likely to slip into bad habits.

Yesterday I had my first ever personal training session (and another this morning) with a French friend who's trying to get his business off the ground in Bristol (http://www.rainbowfitness.org/pages/circuit-class.php). He's amazingly confident and dedicated to making sure I get the best routine I can before the race. The first session was fun and not too strenuous. A mix of boxing, circuits, weights and stretching - so Neil could assess my fitness levels. It felt a bit weird doing exercises like this in public (Clifton Downs), while we were boxing, a cabbie came over to watch. He used to go to a boxing club himself, I tried to encourage him to get back into it (he was rather on the portly side) and Neil gave him a business card.

I woke up tired and achy today, especially from doing the lunges. I was a bit anxious about the session ahead of me. I met Neil at the same place on the Downs and we started running around the edge of the park. He made me attempt to do some pull-ups on the bars. I failed miserably and Neil had to get me down again.

Next, we practiced breathing. How hard could that be? I've been doing it every single second of every single day of my life. Pfft. It was hard, I'm used to breathing in and out through my mouth when I run and Neil insisted that I breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. Actually bloody hard to do. Then - he wanted me to sprint and breath! It was so weird, the reverb of the air coming out my mouth at such high-speed made my whole mouth shake - god knows what I must have looked like in close-up. Uh oh, lots of people are going to see this delightful spectacle on race day - I think they capture photos as you cross the finish line too. Great.

I totally appreciate how important it is to breath correctly and to get into the proper rhythm when you're pacing yourself and then to alter it before you sprint, but really - am I actually going to be able to breath like this on race day? I might be too nervous.

Must practice. Try and control the mouth wobble.

One should not wear one's best dress to Glastonbury Festival

2011-08-25T17:33:00.003Z

All you girls out there will know that there's one dress in your wardrobe, 'the' dress that makes you feel complete. It makes you feel confident, you can dance in it, you can accessorize with it, you can flirt in it - you can even sleep in it and walk home in it with a smug air of dignity. It's usually a classic design, or a neutral colour that compliments your colouring and shape.

I found 'the' dress a few months ago... out searching for a wedding outfit. It found its way to me in the form of a navy blue one-shouldered cotton number - classic and understated yet elegant and soft. I knew it was 'the one' for me. Needless to say, I did all of the above in that dress at that wedding and fell in love (with the dress, I was too busy dancing to find a man). Obviously 'the' dress needed a good wash, but I was eagerly anticipating its next appearance.

Stupidly, I decided to wear it to Glastonbury Festival a month after the wedding. I had a Sunday ticket... surely not much could go wrong? I though, I've never been to Glastonbury as a punter (usually work on Info or in the Pussy Parlure for the duration of the festival), so I will glam-up and arrive looking and feeling fresh. No such luck.

The dress got splattered with mud the moment we squelched our way on site. For the duration of the day the dress managed to stay neat and sweet. I got a ridiculous tan mark from the one-shoulder aspect, but was blissfully unaware of this until the following day.

No, the real trouble started when I met up with Charlotte - and we were, to put it mildly... a bit sloshed. Both a bit bored of the naff dance routine that Cool and the Gang were brandishing on stage, we decided to head to Shangri-La before everyone else descended. What fun we had at Arcadia, dancing to the energetic Gentleman's Dub Club. What fun we had with the reggae crowd in the London Underground... even donned some fake moustaches in order to dance around and watch a few queens perform in the NYC Downlow club. The piece de resistance - and when 'the' dress got really wrecked happened at the pinnacle of our odyssey.

Charlotte and I stumbled upon the Snake Pit, a massive club which was fairly crowded when we got in. The music was thumping, so we decided to get a place at the front. Through the stage curtain, we could see two nearly naked women being dressed in balloons - covering just there private areas. As they came out onto the stage some crazy techo-sleaze came onto the sound system and the 'strippers' began bursting the coloured balloons with giant pins. What we didn't realise was that the balloons were filled with paint: UV paint. We were standing targets and swiftly regretted our front-row positioning. Next thing I knew Charlotte was staring at me with a UV yellow eye. Ekkkk! It was inside her eye... she tried to get it out. I thought we'd have to go to first aid... but she insisted it was ok. Eventually she got it all out, but then we looked at our persons. Uh oh, guess what was on the dress?

'The' dress looked like a Jackson Pollock, had he experimented with LSD. At first I thought (drunk remember), well, it'll be cool. I can still wear this. Except for the fact that I'm 28 and I can't get away with the fluoro look any more. Surely the UV paint will come out, if they're going to use it in a show, surely it has to be 'health and safety approved'?

I didn't dwell on the paint for long, Charlotte was recovered and we carried on our adventure. The next day, I had to put the dress back on and then I felt like a bit of a disgrace. The paint was brighter than ever, and didn't look like it was going to budge. Once I got home, I asked mum what I should do. We soaked it, and tried to dislodge the paint, but it looked like it was acrylic-based.

I tried several other methods, but nothing seemed to work. Scraping appeared to be the only sure way of extracting the particles, but that was time consuming.

The dress will never be the same, it peaked too soon. I should have been more respectful.

It serves me right I suppose. 'The' dress should only come out on very special occasions, that's what makes it timeless. Sigh.

Rain Won't Stop the Pink Lady

2011-08-24T15:04:00.003Z

So, you know, it's mid August - the 'height' of the summer. Thought I might be safe to assume that a lunch-hour picnic in the park would be safe. Huh.

It was sunny when I left the house - a few light clouds appeared to be peppering the horizon but I didn't think anything of it. Bag laden with salads, couscous, a rug and elderflower cordial, I headed to College Green to meet Alex and Polly. A few light speckles of rain touch me half-way down Park Street. It'll be fine.

Meet Polly and Alex - we make the sensible decision to lay the rug under a tree. Everything is laid out and drinks poured. Then it rains. We muddle on, eating quickly, but trying to ignore the increase in size of the drops falling outside the tree's reach. Then the drops permeated our canopy. Oh. Dear. We finish the food, I shiver and Polly offers her coat. (In my haste to leave the house, I stepped out in shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops.) It appears that the city's abundant tourist population is much more savvy than us natives - taking refuge or donning macs before it's too late.

We're British, we shall persevere. Until the splodges of rain are as thick and fast as beyond the tree. We have to make a decision. Cathedral or a coffee shop? Have to think quick, we're sheltering up again the trunk now. Cathedral wins as it's that bit closer. The foyer is already crowded - but it offers some shelter.

We burst out laughing, what else can be done?

Alex takes some pictures of the torrential down pour. As he does - we witness a beautiful but grotesque vision. A large lady in her late 50s comes into the foyer from the depths of the dry cathedral. She is wearing just a short pink dress which could be mistaken for a ballet tutu if she was five-years-old.

Without the slightest flinch she strides out into the rain, no quibbles.

What a woman. Brave and British. (I presume)

Five minutes later we leave tentatively. I give Polly her coat back, Alex and I walk up Park Street. As I get to the top - I put my sunglasses back on. The only real give-away that we've been through an 'ordeal' is the muddy flecks of water splashing up from my flip flops onto my ankles.

Boys In Blue Get a Makeover

2011-08-24T14:14:00.004Z

Can't believe I didn't notice this on Saturday but the Police Station in Bristol (at the end of Nelson Street) has had an understated yet rather uplifting makeover. The building itself is (I'm guessing) Georgian or Victorian - quite imposing with a pollution-tarnished layer of dirt covering the ocher-yellow stone walls.

A very different form of graffiti has been employed here. Using reverse graffiti (cleaning away dirt to create a 'negative' style imprint), the artist has embellished the entrance to the police station with classic tattoo emblems like swallows and hearts adorned with the words "More Love" and "Mum". There's an artist called Moose (Paul Curtis) who I think coined the style... I wonder if this is his work? With there being so many world-renowned graffiti artists painting up the city last weekend, I suppose it wouldn't be such a crazy assumption.

The columns of the two grand street lamps that stand either side of the doorway have been fitted with knitted blue and white stockings - under closer examination, the knit reveals a complicated geometric pattern. Beautiful when properly observed but subtle enough not to upset the tone of the 'establishment'.

The piece de resistance has to be the sign hanging above the doorway. White lettering on blue background, it reads, "Holding Out for a Hero". I laughed out loud.

Again, subtle enough for most people to miss due to the traditional police colour way - but somehow the sign is saying: we, the police - we're fun. We can have a laugh too. I would love to know who came up with the concept. Was it the 'See No Evil' organisers? I should think so - I can't imagine the super-intendant of the station suddenly thinking... hummmm, today guys, we're going to be ironic. Today, we're going to give the people of Bristol a giggle. Today we're going to make reference to Bonnie Tyler's camp pop anthem.

Jokes. I need to buy myself a digital camera - words alone do not do this justice.

See No Evil Urban Oasis

2011-08-21T19:55:00.012Z

The Bristol 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.jondavey.com/panoramas/evil2.html) has reached epic proportions, not just in the size and scope of the concrete canvases that have been brought to life before our eyes, but in the way it has brought the city's inhabitants together to reinvigorate a woefully neglected part of the centre.

My mum and her best friend (who live in Somerset) came up especially for the NY-style block party, and I couldn't wait to take them to Nelson Street. We walked from Redland towards St Micheals Hill, which is where we got our first glimpse of the pinstriped paint-spiller piece, on the side of a 10 story building. The music on Nelson Street had managed to permeate all the way up here - surprising but adding to the anticipation. We arrived at the West Gate end at around 3.30pm and there was already a big crowd clustering close to the Team Love sound system as well as pockets of people ogling the art works.

Overnight the street had been transformed into an urban oasis - complete with green astro-turf on the ground, baskets/pots/tubs overflowing with flowers, herbs and foliage covering all the mundane and unsightly objects usually associated with your average urban setting. Even the bus stops had been camouflaged in reams of fake greenery - further embellished with, "Bus Service Suspended" signs. Then you look up and see the finished pieces of graffiti - well most except for El Mac, who was was still working on his sublime 'mother and child' long after the music stopped at around 9pm - so much pride has gone into this event, and it's evident at every turn of the head.

Every area was accessible, there were few security guards and even fewer police - an unusual yet welcome gesture of trust. We explored a whole new world accompanied by some funky family-friendly tunes spouting from three sound systems - the distinctly poignant smell of paint still lingering in the balmy air. Up on the bridge crossing the street we got a proper view, though I was more intent on watching other people reacting to the Nelson Street take-over - such happiness in abundance. I don't think I heard a bad word spoken all day.

I'd say most of the people there had heard about the event through word-of-mouth and wanted to satisfy their curiosity, but you'd see the odd stag do or hen party (rudimentary element to any Saturday night in Bristol) happen upon Nelson Street and get a bit caught up in the commotion. A friend of mine over-heard someone saying "What's this - some kind of a hippy street party?", which I suppose it looked a bit like after about 7pm when the street's inhabitants became more inebriated. I think it was a good idea to stop the music and close down the street at 9pm, to preserve the kudos of such a good day and not let things get hairy.

I only had one cider and a few sips of wine - mainly as I needed to train for the marathon today (11.4 miles without stopping!), but I didn't feel like I needed anything else - it was such a naturally high day for me. I even managed to fit in a bit of sightseeing from the M shed (acting as tour guide for mum and her friend), the top floor terrace really gives you a unique view of the city - though it's a shame it's not quite enough of a panorama to incorporate the suspension bridge.

My night drew to a close at Castle Park, sat within a circle of friends discussing the day's events. Such intrigue and debate - where else would you see so much contemporary art for free, in the middle of a street? Or, where a ten-year-old boy can bust out his break-dancing routine in a circle of over-joyed parents and party-goers - everyone gunning for more?

Received a very encouraging text from my mum the following day, which read: "Still soooo impressed by the graff, may come again while it's still fresh." She also said the graffiti had inspired her to inject more colour into her ceramics - which is a beautiful and moving gesture. I would imagine that many others feel the same, and this should be exactly the kind of reaction the 'See No Evil' organisers were hoping to evoke.

Bristol is where it's at. Friendly, unpretentious, gritty yet hopeful.

I love this city - take a bow Bristol!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qfp6a0rEcqc&feature=player_embedded

Art Breaths Life

2011-08-19T17:33:00.005Z

There's something brewing in Bristol - the cosmetic transformation of a concrete jungle.

Over the last few days, a terribly sad street in the heart of the city has been given a graffiti-centric facelift. Who'd have thought that a lick of paint could purvey such power. Last night Nelson Street (formally known for its tired office facades and limited retail outlets) was abuzz with people and a heady reek of aerosol spray paint tinged the air.

The organisers of the 'See No Evil' street art project (http://www.seenoevilbristol.co.uk/) - billed as the biggest of its kind in the UK and Europe, hope that this extravagant showcase of world class graffiti artists in the city's forgotten district will breath new life into the area. It is definitely already drawing a flood of curious locals, photographers and journalists - if today's crowds were anything to go by, the finale NY-style block party tomorrow should hit the mark.

I was desperate to take my SLR down there to capture the art-in-motion today, and it was a pleasure to see so many people cluttering the street, heads turned upwards in awe. If 'See No Evil' gets enough publicity, I would not be surprised if Nelson Street becomes more of a tourist attraction than Banksy's many statement pieces around the city - it's such an exciting adventure to experience so much artistic diversity in one place. The likes of Inky, Tats Cru and El Mac are topping the talent board of artists, with El Mac's black and white portrait of a woman holding a baby making a visceral, poignant and haunting statement at the top end of the street.

One of my other favourites is the understated 'oasis' mural with birds of paradise weaving around mountains and seascape. Beautiful use of colour painted over a series of dotty-textured metal grills. I can't wait to see how things evolve tomorrow - and I wonder if Banksy will add to this torrent of intrigue by contributing a piece?

The other triumph of this event is the 'pop-up' club (complete with mini-replica of the Millennium Square Mirror Ball, coloured light box seating cubes and an almighty sound system provided by Team Love) at the West Gate building separating Lewins Mead from Nelson Street - it's a prime location for any business, but why has it been left to fester for so long? Whatever the reason, I hope people will realise that this ought to be the beating heart of the city and the 'See No Evil' project is setting a precedence now.

I've proudly been living in Bristol for a year, and in these austere and trying times, it's refreshing to witness a vibrant, thought-provoking act of city-love by those who want to make art the centre piece for change.

More tomorrow, but while I'm waiting to get my pictures developed (five days is the swiftest option in Boots these days!), here's some links to the best found on Twitter so far:

http://www.lobstervision.tv/seenoevilbristol#

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104579622754205696/photo/1

http://bristolculture.wordpress.com/2011/08/19/welcome-to-bristol-by-tats-cru/

http://twitter.com/#!/SeeNoEvil2011/status/104571493698117634/photo/1

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/culturepicturegalleries/8711647/The-See-No-Evil-graffiti-project-in-Bristol-Britains-largest-street-art-project.html

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-bristol-14577524

Black Cab School Run

2011-08-15T16:29:00.003Z

I don't suppose many people can say they were delivered to primary school in a London black cab... well, not in the Somerset countryside anyhow.

I suppose I had quite an obscure childhood - living in the middle of nowhere and having parents who didn't want to send us to the closest, most average of village schools. They wanted to send us to Enmore C of E Primary, which was around 6 miles from our cottage. This caused a few catchment-area problems. We were not alone though, my parents closest friends who had two boys the same age as my sister and I were also gunning for Enmore too.

So, somehow, we were entitled to transport via taxi to school. I do not remember exactly when the black cab made an entrance into our young lives - before that we had had 'Colin Cowpat' (obviously named for his distinctly bovine odour), a quiet man with wiry hair a bit like Gene Wilder in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, alternated with Ray who smelt of really cheap aftershave and looked a bit like what the biker from The Village People would have looked like if he'd sat in a car all his life.

Even now when I return to North Petherton to visit mum, Colin Cowpat and Ray can often be identified cruising the village in their (possibly) updated rides. Imagine some of the sights and sounds they must have witnessed since my childhood!

So, for some time, Lilli, Tom, Richard and I shared this weird environment with our chariot drivers... I don't really remember if there was much chit-chat, but I do know that we all dreaded the days that the black cab appeared to collect us. Black cab driver was an archetypal 90s boy-racer... probably into the rave scene and definitely not concerned about our lives. Cabs are big, especially when you're under ten years old. If a cab is tearing down country lanes twice over the speed limit with four little bodies in the back - there's no way of keeping in your seat. I definitely remember white knuckles featured quite regularly. 'No Limits' by the Euro dance duo 2 Unlimited also featured very heavily - at top volume. Ekkk.

Boy racer didn't speak to us through the plastic division. Inside we were probably all thinking we were going to die... perhaps we did shout out for him to slow down, but I doubt he ever heard or cared. Bring back Colin Cowpat or Ray - please!

That was one of many quirky school transport issues we faced. Another rather scarring one that sticks in my mind is the times when no taxis where available (or perhaps we weren't entitled to them any more?) and the car wouldn't start in winter. On those dire days, we'd get up extra early and have to cycle (regardless of snow/rain/wind factors) to Richard and Tom's farm - a good two/three miles up and down some ferocious hills, in order to catch a lift with them.

Getting to secondary school was almost as perilous... more later.

Willow Man Looses his Stomping Ground

2011-08-15T15:24:00.003Z

There's a scary amount of development occurring along a stretch of the motorway between Dunball and Bridgwater. I was shocked to see that the once enormous, landmark figure of the Willow Man has been barricaded in by ugly mottled green buildings - more like giant lego blocks, along with what I presume is yet another housing estate.

The gracious and charming natural beauty of the Willow Man has now been dwarfed and shunted into obscurity. This is man again nature writ large. I suppose he's been there for quite few years now, and sadly some of the fibres holding his frame together are straying - a bit like an untamed birds nest. There are many other motorway attractions nearby to distract bored passengers - most notably the Maunsel Monster (a 10ft dinosaur who recently got knocked over) and the carnival camels. These obviously have their charms... but old willow man, striding through the grass, arms outstretched somehow summed up a more serious message of freedom and heritage - built from the willow trees that dominate the surrounding Somerset levels.

I suppose he'll either be left to fester or perhaps be removed to make way for more development. What a shame, but then isn't this just one more example of nature being eclipsed in the name of 'progress'.

Rogue Knitting

2011-08-15T14:06:00.003Z

I know that rogue knitting is not exactly a new phenomenon, but I'm delighted to be experiencing it first hand in Bristol.

For those unacquainted with knitters of the rebel variety - it basically entails people with a penchant for anarchy and goodwill leaving little yarn-based presents attached to everyday street furnishings... ie: lamp posts, benches and railings.

The first piece of rogue knitting I encountered here was in Stokes Croft: A rainbow band embellishing a lamp post just below eye-level. Aha! Good work, a bit like graffiti artists: you've managed to give the city a unique piece of art without shoving morals or ethics down people's throats. It's funny, quirky and completely harmless. I love the thought of gangs of Bristolian knitters patiently waiting till the clubs have closed and the streets are clear to sneak out and twitch their needles ferociously huddled around a lamp post. Perhaps I should try and make a documentary about them - reach the inner-circle, become initiated. How hard could it be to infiltrate such a clan? I can't imagine that they'd make me take a fraternity test.

The second example of rogue knitting I've encountered was just the other day, up the top of Redland Road. When my phone won't give me enough signal to take a call or receive messages (which is 99% of the time), I hike up the hill. There's a small park with a few benches lining the grass looking across the city. As I passed the last one, I noticed a white mouse sitting on a pink sleeve, woven around the arm of the bench.

A mouse you say? Yes, a little white (knitted) mouse with little pin-prick black eyes. He was facing the view, stationed on a soft pink blanket. How romantic, though he could have done with a little chum, non? I will go back and take a picture as soon as I've bought batteries for my camera - I hope he doesn't fall prey to vandalism or cat-attack in the meantime.

Watch out rogue knitters - I'm determined to catch you at it now!

Bus Stop Brawl

2011-07-11T18:56:00.002Z

It was just after 9am in the morning. Still a little sleepy, I approached the bus stop on the main road leading through North Petherton (the village close to where my mum lives).

I was jolted into fully-fledged adrenaline-fueled consciousness by the bizarre scene that unfurled as I put my bag down on the pavement to wait for my National Express:

A large (most likely pregnant) woman, in her early twenties stood beside the bus shelter, gently pushing a buggy containing a mixed-race toddler. Inside the shelter (around 15ft away from the woman) slouched a short black man in a scruffy tracksuit - a handsfree set/ipod headphone plugged into one ear. An empty push chair was positioned close to him.

Like a car chase scene from an action film (minus the handsome hero), a people-carrier taxi swerves across the oncoming lane (facing the wrong way in the bus bay), bumping the curb and screeching to a stop. An angry fat man with grey joggers and a massive paunch bounds into the bus shelter and begins to shout a derogative steam of abuse at the black man - their foreheads practically touching. In fact I initially thought that a headbutt was surely going to be planted.

The crux of the fat man's 'beef' I began to realise was the idiocy of the black man and his treatment of the woman standing by... who was trying her hardest not to react to the scene. I swiftly realised that the black man was the father of the toddler (and potentially the unborn child?). Their distant stance at the bus stop definitely pointed at some recent feud or breakup. But why did they have a push chair each, and what part did the fat taxi man have to play in this obscure situation? After a few more very loud expletives at close range, the taxi man stormed out of the shelter, pointed a threatening finger at the woman accompanied by a sentence along the lines: "You're both as bad as each other - should of bashed your heads together..."

Without any though to the highway code or road safety, the taxi sped off again, crossing lanes- screeching tyres leaving black marks on the tarmac.

I was shocked and wished I was anywhere else. I was the only person witnessing the scene on their side of the street, and now I had to endure the aftermath.

The black man came to the edge of the shelter and mumbled to the woman, who tended to the toddler - who remained remarkably unscathed by the shouting. Maybe it was used to this kind of behaviour from its parents. The woman mumbled back, though neither looked directly at each other. Intermittently, she angrily answered her phone with, "WHAT?!", listened for a minute or two and then hung-up on the caller. The woman hide her dismay well, but did look round at me a few times anxiously. The man kept trying to get the attention of the small boy, cooing at it but not daring to go any closer. She continued to argue with the man and the person on the phone until their bus pulled in. Half of me wanted to get on and follow the story, but I also wanted to get out of this hellish situation.

She pushed her toddler on and paid for her ticket. The man followed soon after with his empty push chair. I watched curiously as the woman sat down near the front and the man folded his buggy, put it in the storage area and then took a place right at the back of the bus.

Did he have another mistress and another baby to attend to? Or were they going to swap the toddler into his buggy at their destination and go their separate ways? What had the man done to spark such a violent attack from the taxi man?

Perhaps I will write a script which explores a possible situation.

Showreel

2011-06-17T19:33:00.004Z

Please watch my latest showreel for an idea of what projects I have been working on over the last year or two.

http://vimeo.com/25211699

Here's a bit more explanation for two of the latest projects as they are still in development:

'A Prickly Relationship'

At the moment, there's a short cut (9:37) which has been entered into Branchage, Encounters and Aesthetica mag comp, as well as Shooting People's 'Film of the Month' comp. So, judging on the reaction it gets from those submissions, I may pitch a long-from doc to horticultural digital channels, as there's over two hours of footage that could be very insightful for cacti enthusiasts.

'A Prickly Relationship' will be screened at CineMe in Bristol on 28th June: http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=232502106764892

'A Stately Facade'

The footage in my showreel was from a short teaser made with one of the lead subjects, Kirsty Hughes, but I recently shoot footage with her parter, eccentric Baronet, Sir Benjamin Slade, and currently editing the footage together with Kristy's to make a much more entertaining and substantial teaser. I want to co-produce with Level Films, but we need to find a bigger indie company to co-produce with before approaching broadcasters. I want to make a series with the tag line: An observational documentary about a stately home-come wedding venue run by eccentric baronet Sir Benjamin Slade and his partner, Kirsten Hughes.

I will upload a link for the initial trailer soon.

Cotham Characters

2011-06-13T11:12:00.002Z

I moved from Hotwells (pretty but uninspired) to Cotham/Redland (quiet, grand and well-connected) a few months ago, and still have a feeling of smug satisfaction at finding such a perfect location.

I live on a leafy street of grand Victorian houses close to Redland train station, Clifton Downs, Whiteladies Road and a vast array of independent stores and boutique charity shops that are always boasting designer garb from pampered students who need to downsize before they go home for the summer. This is a student-centric area, but when they give away such fine clothes, who can complain about the odd bout of noise pollution or badly-managed recycling boxes?

I feel safe here, I know that one should never let ones guard down in the city, but I can't help thinking that it's ok to walk home alone at 2/3 in the morning occasionally because it's such a quiet and unassuming area.

What I most love about Bristol is that it doesn't really have a centre, but it is more like a collection of wildly differing boroughs attached by a somewhat heartless high street shopping quarter which I suppose could be called the middle. Cotham and Redland are nestled close to Clifton, so keep that air of wealth but minus the over-flux of pretentious designer shops. On the other side, Redland is neighbouring on Gloucester Road/Stokes Croft anarchic arts quarter and includes my favourite cinema (The Cube), where you can watch a film for £3 on a Tuesday and take booze in with you.

I explored St Werburgh's (between Gloucester Road and St Pauls) for the first time last weekend, for a street festival centred around the local farm. As we queued up to enter, I was thinking we were about to step into a village in the middle of a Somerset village, complete with allotments, pigs and bails of hay. A host of local bands played from the belly of a lorry as merry people country-danced in accompaniment. Bunting criss-crossed above the streets surrounding the village green where the music was bellowing from and local stall holders sold homemade food and crafts.

I don't know south of the river very well yet, but I intend to check out the Tobacco Factory - and North Street soon. I also need to give my bike an airing and explore the Bristol to Bath cycle path (along the canal with many fine watering holes to explore en route.) Summer may not be looking too promising weather-wise - but at least there's plenty yet to explore in the peripheries of a city with intrigue and character at every turn.

Talking about characters on corners: there's a man on the corner of Chandos Road, Cotham, who is is guaranteed to be sat on his low garden wall as soon as the sun puts in an appearance. I walk past this corner every day, and have noticed the man (late 50s maybe early 60s due to sun-induced prune-like skin) turn as brown as a nut almost over night. Sun worshiper or not, this man must enjoy being part of the outdoor furniture... and there's nearly always someone stopped and chatting to him. Which I'm glad of, as when there isn't anyone stopped and chatting to him: I feel obliged to smile at him when I pass by as he always seems to peer up from his book at the sound of footsteps.

I suppose that if I could ever afford to retire early, I'd enjoy spending my time outdoors reading - but preferably not being overlooked by passers by. I suppose the man on the wall is either in need of the social engagement he gets from being in such a prime stop and chat position, or he's a bit of an extrovert who wants to expose a large amount of his body to achieve the optimum tan. Either way, he is part of the furniture on that street and I'm curious to see if he continues his post throughout the summer.

Another regular character who lingers close to the man on the wall is the lady flogging greetings cards. She's a large, brightly coloured lady of mid-50s age and always seems to have a lot of misjudged makeup experiments on her face. I always see her on the same street, just off Cotham Hill when I'm carrying bags of shopping from Sainsbury's, so already I have a good excuse not to stop and buy anything from her. She's not a tramp - too well dressed and fed - but she's definitely not all there in the head as she talks a little like Tubbs from The League of Gentlemen shop sketch. She starts muttering as soon as you approach her:

"Lady, buy a pretty card?"

I usually try and avoid eye contact and mutter back, "Sorry I don't have any change".

I can feel her eyes on me as I rush by, and often she will continue talking to me or make an observation like: "Oh blue trousers, I've never seen a lady in blue trousers."

I haven't seen her selling cards anywhere else so I can only presume that she lives on the street and is a batty artist. I suppose the prints could well be hers - I never look close enough to make a proper assumption though. I admire her perseverance, but wish she would broaden her pitch area so I didn't have to bump into her quite so often.

Cider and peas with Bob and Dolly

2011-05-20T19:56:00.002Z

Going through my address book just now, I came across a familiar name (Bob Boulton - an old neighbour of ours) which instantly gave me a warm feeling and a particular memory of him flooded back to me.

Bob and his wife Patricia (in their late 70s) lived next door to my family home for around six years, and although we didn't exactly live in each others pockets - they were characters of the highest order... coming from very privileged backgrounds and with a touch of opulence and authority that was quite alien to us. Bob is an ex-Sergeant Major, and Patricia worked as a secretary for the Queen. They married and then divorced and married again recently, when they realised they couldn't quite live without each other in old age.

Patricia had a stroke a year or two before they moved to Sussex, which left her fairly immobile and greatly hindered her as she used to love painting. Bob reminds me of a tank: he's tall, robust, strong without being completely bionic and agile: all traits he no doubt picked up from being in the forces. He also makes the BEST G&T ever (a hefty glug of Bombay with ample lime and ice), and is a true gentleman with a glint in his eye that makes me think that he would have been rather ravishing 50 years ago and no wonder Patricia took him back.

I miss them both dearly, but the resonant memory that I referred to earlier is one days that will always sick in my mind - a gloriously idle day where nothing and everything was perfect in the day's unplanned beauty. Let me set the scene:

Lilli (my sister) and I were pottering around at home. It's a lovely sunny day in July or August and we agree that pea-picking is the order of the day. The fields that surround our house are full of pea plants and they will disappear soon, so we head out with a few bags and containers between us. As we leave the house, we hear Bob in his front garden tending to his new terrier puppy, Dolly. We discuss our pea-picking plan and he expresses an interest, so runs inside the house to find his own bags. We play with Dolly as we wait.

Next, we are striding up the track, Dolly on a lead, getting under everyone's feet. The field opens out into a much bigger one and we decide this is where to begin. It's harder than we first expect: the pods are firm to the pull and many of them feel dry - as if the contents might be shriveled already. I am selective, but I do not have the patience to concentrate on the selective process. So, instead we let the conversation take over and I think Bob relaxes into story-telling role, though I don't remember anything in particular. It's just lovely to be around someone who is so confident and natural. Dolly is eating the peas that we throw for her, and I wonder why Bob has not let her off the lead.

I suppose we stayed out in the field for an hour or so, but collectively decide that enough is enough when we find more dry pods than succulent ones on our patches.

Bob suggests a refreshing cider in the garden, to which Lilli and I gladly agree. So we stride back with our supplies, leaving them in the shade under Bob's porch, sitting at the patio table whilst awaiting Bob's return with cold drinks. He gives us a choice of a few Sheppy's ciders in bottles and we drink down the cold, bubbly liquid. Bob and Patricia are more than partial to an afternoon aperitif, but it's only usually a special occasion for us girls, so we melt into our seats and soak up the sun as Bob prattles on in his warm yet authoritative voice. He'd make an excellent Pixar hero. I think we have another cider, Dolly bounding around - how can something so little have so much energy?

The cider has zapped our energy, and we think about the prospect of making something of those wilting peas. So ends our day of cider with Bob. I wish there could have been more, but that one day will always be remembered, so it will remain special and treasured.

Thanks Bob.

A Prickly Relationship

2011-03-23T20:55:00.004Z

A day full of filling out festival submissions: must be a good sign.

I have a new project to seed, to throw into the wide world and let the people into an alien yet clement world, where prickles and spikes are magnified from a safe distance.

I am talking of a short documentary I have just finished about an 80-year-old man who has been collecting cacti all his life. This man is my grandpa, and I'm proud to have been able to bring his obscure and fascinating obsession to an audience he's never had, but greatly deserves.

I always remember visiting the cacti houses as a child, when we used to visit my grandparents in Dorset. The collection has had several moves in its lifetime - a mean feat considering some of the specimens are 6 ft tall. My grandpa is a very determined man, so it's no surprise that he's managed to keep the collection going, (nurturing exotic species from all over the world), never faltering to keep his enthusiasm in-check - even though now the collection is diminishing due to his age and ill health. The collection is currently housed in a small-holding, by a small village called Low Ham, Somerset.

Grandpa Stephen thinks that this will not be the cacti collection's final resting place, as they plan on finding a more manageable retirement home soon. The harsh winter has rather dented the collection's magnificence, when I visited recently, the warmth of atmosphere and general vibrancy had faded. Dad and I agree that grandpa should weed out the dead plants in order to see the thriving ones and nurture them.

The main reason I wanted to make this film was to reconnect with my grandpa (there was a period of around 6/8 years when I didn't see my grandparents due to a family feud that has since been resolved). I wanted to document a hobbyist (obsession/perfectionism seems to be a re-occurring theme in my work!) and also archive a rare character with such superior knowledge of a peculiar subject.

Grandpa knew exactly what he wanted to say: he was exceedingly easy to direct and came equipped with a clipboard outlining all the topics to cover in the interview... seemed like he was more prepared than me. Dan Gale accompanied me, daring for a camera man to want to get so close to what was essentially a health and safety inspector's nightmare: a prickly hell.

Thankfully neither of us were injured during filming, but grandpa shed a few drops of blood in order to demonstrate a few nifty tricks. It was so funny to watch him move around the cacti house (imagine two or three garages tacked together with a plastic roof, botched together but the man himself), quite heavy on his feet (tripping and stomping over debris), yet extremely gentle and mothering to the cacti themselves. He tickles, strokes and nuzzles them as if they were pets. Touching and entertaining to watch, but then, when you've had an 70-odd-year relationship with these alien beings, I guess you get to know their individual personalities.

Many of them have names too. The most impressive specimen has to be 'Sampson', an 7ft beast from the Agave family, which has outgrown its poly tunnel and the two tallest prongs have pierced through the top - poking through like Jaws' fins. "He's becoming a bit of a small problem", says grandpa - the biggest understatement of the century. Sampson did have a tiny girlfriend, Delilah (around 4ft, and positioned just a few metres away), but she is shriveled and decaying due to the lack of warmth over the winter... I wonder if Sampson will die of a broken heart? That might solve the problem of what to do with him if they move (I hear you gasp at my callousness, but how else can he be dealt with?!)

I did the initial edit with my uncle, Lars, who was delighted to see grandpa's history documented in HD glory. As a professional director/producer himself, we zipped through the footage (2/3hours worth) to get a 20 min cut over the course of a weekend. We both felt that we couldn't go any further with it until the project had time to settle and until I'd decided what I actually wanted to do with the format and exhibition.

I have directed subsequent edits with Alex Richardson (http://alexrichardson.co.uk/blog), who helped me cut it down to a neat and tidy 9 mins. Any more cutting and you'd loose the essence of the story, along with the quirks of the character. I chose an eccentric music track called 'I'll take you home again Kathleen' by Vernon Dalhart, which is under public domain license due to its release date of 1926. I think the piece complements grandpa's up-beat attitude to life, and gives the film a playful tone that again, suits the character and subject matter.

I've entered 'A Prickly Relationship into 4 festivals so far, and I have also contacted the Sky Horticultural Channel to see if they'd like a cut for broadcast.

I know in the scheme of things, this film isn't likely to change the world, but it's an honest and funny portrait of a man whose passion for prickly things is as strong as his religious belief - and believe me: that's saying something profound.

Casualty in the Bank

2011-02-25T16:38:00.002Z

So, I've been living in Bristol for about seven months and I've just spotted my second local celebrity (the first being Justin Lee Collins who can be seen on his own reading a paper all over Clifton on a Saturday).

The second was a bit more exciting and unexpected. Unfortunately, I can't recall the name of this second celeb, but he's been on Casualty for a number of years (not quite Charlie's longevity, but close), and other TV programmes... possibly East Enders.

I walked into Lloyds Bank in the centre of Clifton Village, queuing up behind a man in a wheel chair. We're being held up because a man (said celeb) has just handed over bag loads of coppers. Sigh. I can see the disappointment in the cashier's eyes as she weighs the change and bags it up in more manageable amounts. They have a bit of a joke as she asks him how he'd like the cash in return. He puts it on his card.

They share a bit more banter, then he turns and that's when I recognise his face. He looks a little sheepish as he leaves the bank.

I have a bit of a giggle to myself. Times must be hard: I haven't yet been desperate enough to empty my penny bell jar since the credit crunch!

Please Let Me Go

2011-02-13T08:57:00.002Z

The second film in two weeks to leave my heart pallid was Never Let Me Go. I wish I could have gone - away from this drivel.

Based on a screenplay by Alex Garland (of The Beach fame), Never Let Me Go is a creepy, boring slightly Sc-fi film that is too mixed up to serve you up anything meaningful. For a start, setting a film about children born to be harvested for their organs in the 70s/80s is wrong. That kind of futuristic mumbo-jumbo should be set in a time that is unfamiliar to us, so we can at least try and believe the world they live in.

Seeing trout-pout Keira K et all at a distinctively normal-looking boarding school, doing fairly ordinary things, in a slightly stunted way doesn't make you want to believe that something really gross is happening to them. The only thing that reminds you that they're captive is the 'asbo'-type scanner bands they wear on their arms. As they never try to escape or seem remotely interested in attempting to engage with the outside world, it not only makes them boring characters, it also stunts the drama potential.

Unfortunately, this film is a concept film. I think Never Let Me Go has been wrongly-advertised, because you think it's going to be kind of a costume drama with depth. Once I realised it was a concept film, I couldn't believe the characters, couldn't care for the characters because they didn't try hard enough to defy their destined life-path. It's slow moving too, and not enough happens - there's too much talking and not enough doing. I was so bored I was looking for continuity glitches: I never do this intentionally. I saw two modern cars, one drove by in a scene where the lead characters go visit 'Madame', and another parked close to their retro 80s car outside 'Madame's' house. Bad mistakes that took me further away from the 'action', and made me more mad that it wasn't set either in present day or future.

The only real pleasure I gained from watching Never Let Me Go was seeing Weston-Super-Mare as the backdrop to the cafe and pier scenes. Being a Westcountry girl, I feel very proud to see a childhood and teenage haunt being used in features... more money for the local economy and all that. Hurrah for Weston.

New. Egotistical. Director.

2011-02-13T08:22:00.002Z

I hate it when a new director stunts his growth into featuredom.

Take my latest example: James Mullan. He's the 'New Egotistical Director' of 'Non-Educated Delinquents, a film that could have given Shane Meadows a run for his money (edgy social realism but with Non-actors this time). Instead Mullan has added a few over-superfluous scenes that actually take you completely out of the reality he creates and leaves you feeling cheated and dumb-founded.

There are two scenes in particular that I have to mention. The Jesus dance scene and the finale scene where the lead boy walks (unscathed) through the middle of a pack of lions with the boy he maliciously rendered handicapped a few years previously. Utterly ridiculous. Considering that the rest of the film is as naturalistic as is possible (sets, use of grainy 70s film, local non-actors), it seems so strange to undo all the good work by cutting in two scenes that should have been axed at the scripting stage.

But why did the script editor/producer allow the scenes to stay? Well, it's a case of vanity and it's a glaringly obvious case of new ego. Directors have a vision, and in the early stages: as in, when they're making shorts - they can do pretty much whatever they want to as that's what sets them apart and gets them nurtured and trained up for featuredom. However... once directors start making features: they have to cater for much larger audiences and that means they are supposed to water things down. But by this point, their egos have been bolstered and have grown into giant triffids that thrive on drama.

"How can I make this film an award winner?"... is what they start thinking. This is the point where their 'artsy' ego steps in. "I know, I'll put two highly-unrealistic, cringe-worthy, abstract scenes that people will praise for their 'symbolic resonance' and 'diverse metaphors'." Pants.

If you're making a film based on true events, with amazingly natural non-actors and set in the past: stick to that world. Don't play with the nuances that were going to quite possibly give you a nod towards greatness.

Put the ego away and concentrate on creating a film that sticks to its guns and delivers what it says on the tin.

Wedding Blues and Greys

2010-09-15T15:20:00.003Z

I went to about 30 weddings last year.

Not as a guest (thankfully), but as one of many behind-the-scenes cogs in the 'big day' mega-machine. I can boast to having had a unique 360 degree omnipotent view of 'that' special day: I've witnessed every conflicting human emotion, every possible family rift, every booze-induced confession, nothing is sacred at a wedding - they are without a doubt the most drama-filled events of our lives. Nothing ever runs smoothly, and even if the bride and groom are blissfully unaware of any possible damaging undertone, someone somewhere is (inadvertently or intentionally) on the road to ruining the happiest day of their lives.

I honestly believe that these days (with all the added pressure to look beyond the realms of perfection and be seen to have spent a lifetime's wages on the 'big day') perhaps as few as 1 in 10 brides actually enjoy their wedding days. I've seen brides throwing tantrums about table settings/ flowers/ positioning of guests as soon as they've walked through the doors of the wedding venue/ stately home where I'm setting the scene for all this tension. So many expectations are supposed to be met (if not surpassed), and I think choosing a facade venue in the form of a stately home exacerbates the mounting promise of 'perfection'.

It's not big news that usually, the more money spent on a wedding: the less gratification those paying for it gain. The best wedding I've attended as a guest was for my best friend, two summers ago. I don't know exactly how much money was spent, but it wasn't much and this added to the general excellence of the day. The bride and groom are a designer and photographer, so they pulled in their own skills for all the decoration/ table adornment and personal touches. The afternoon reception was held on the splendid lawn of the bride's parent's home. The evening reception was held a minute's walk away at the local village hall - which had been transformed for the occasion. By getting every family member/friend/ friends of friends to contribute in some way or another, the happy couple had covered every aspect of the wedding for favours and the promise of a jolly good bash.

On a much higher-profile scale, but still endearing and intimately low-key, TV and film actress, Amanda Redman married her long-term beau at my place of work some months back. 200 guests (including the entire cast of New Tricks, Ray Winstone, Shelia Hancock and Lisa Falkner) graced the lawns and got royally sozzled. There was a massive amount of apprehension felt by the staff in the lead-up to the epic day... this being the biggest, most high-profile wedding hosted there to date. In my opinion, the current of stress that rippled amongst the head-honchos was a little unfounded, as the guests were not demanding the stars on a plate: they were polite, obliging and thoroughly respectful. We didn't really know what to expect, but near-on everyone behaved themselves impeccably well.

At times I had to pinch myself: my first customer of the day (at the new outside bar) was Ray Winstone along with a few of the old dogs from New Tricks. Ray asked for a vodka coke, and sent a shiver up my spine as he gave me a smoldering look and said, "thanks babe". I melted. He's literally my favourite British actor... I watched Nil By Mouth over 50 times when I was studying the film for my first dissertation. He's every bit how you'd expect him to be: smooth, witty, sexy and down-to-earth. He's the daddy after all!

His wife, Laura, was stunning - and so sweet to me just because I remembered what they were all drinking so they didn't have to ask. It was bizarre to be listening in to their conversations, I wish I was another step removed, (maybe just hovering above the bar) so that I could absorb everything, but unfortunately, I had work to do. Amanda was lovely, darling. I hear from the wedding planners that she was very nervous and so stressed she couldn't eat anything all day, but this was mainly due to worries that the few spots of rain that landed during the ceremony might lead to a proper down-pour. She needn't have worried: though the weather wasn't perfect - it didn't affect the outdoor setting for the majority of the proceedings.

I imagine that a hell of a lot of money was spent on their day, but it was by no means lavish or excessive. There were a few technical hitches behind the scenes, but I doubt if Amanda will ever know that there was a light sewage flow on the front lawn just hours before her 200 guests made their way to the pagoda or that the caterers temporarily forgot to place sparkling water on the tables for the wedding breakfast. The wedding was a triumph: everyone was at ease and in awe of the setting, the staff were buzzing from being in such company, and they all partied into the small hours without the faintest whiff of anger, resentment or bitchery in the air.

You really couldn't have predicted a bigger contrast to the next wedding I worked at. A bunch of pretentious Londoners who were bickering and complaining as soon as they arrived. There was a palpable tension between the two families and there were a few villains determined to make the weekend as hellish for everyone as possible. I think it was the worst case of bitchiness that I've ever encountered at a wedding. The bride was atrocious (though I can't help thinking that her spitefulness was a knock-on effect from those around her), demanding, from what I could gather, her family are a bit mafia-esque, wielding some special status in the town where they're from. No need to bring those airs and graces with you to the countryside, where all is meek and reserved.

The brides gran was the ring-leader in a gang of plump, miserable older ladies who plotted and moaned at a table in the bar for the entirety of the wedding day. Many tears were shed this weekend, I believe this may not have been the case if the Witches of Eastwick had just kept their mouths shut for one day. It's so selfish to cause such a scene, who's day is this anyway? I honestly can't believe that some people feel the need to vent their anger when so much is at stake. At one point in the evening, a particularly intense conversation between the witches and their other granddaughter results in all involved weeping - the atmosphere in the bar was like a morgue... any new entries swiftly ordered and went back to the dancing at a rapid gait. Things obviously got progressively worse, as two of the brides 'uncles' turned up late and in Batman and Robin costumes. They proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible and were practically bursting with fight-juice.

The surprise 'event' of the night came from a couple of outside contenders in the 'who can ruin the wedding first' stakes. I'd watched in smug safeness as a man in a kilt and his girlfriend tried to clutch at their remaining grain of sobriety, both gripping the bar for support as they argued about his supposed level of drunkenness at the highly disrespectful time of nine pm. As the only sober party in this equation, I avidly followed the line of argument, the crux of which was about her wish to go home as he's embarrassing her and making a fool out of himself. They're both oblivious to the amount of attention their raised voices are gaining, and she seems to be getting drunker and drunker by the second as she demands shots from anyone who happens to be ordering drinks by the other side of her. They're slurring their words, he looks like he's going to be sick - but it's just a series of burps.

Their friends get involved: he's the man, he shouldn't have to go home, the groom will not allow it! She relays her anguish at them, but they don't care, he's highly amusing, he's one of the lads. Defeated, she tries to show her hurt by turning her back on him as he staggers back to the dance floor. She now swiftly downs another couple of shots and long drinks. Next minute, they're both nowhere to be seen. I hear from my colleague (who is also following this mini-soap-opera) that the couple in question have been booted out by the bride. Doesn't surprise us.

For a few minutes things settle back down into the routine set by the bitchy witches, who now have an extra thing to gossip about. Then, shock horror: the drunk girl has been found with massive wound to the head and covered in scratches and bruises. An equally drunk woman is trying to control the bleeding, repeating that she found the girl outside, that she had run out of a hedge screaming: dripping with blood. As all involved where so drunk, it's hard to fathom if this was a case of domestic violence or, if she just fell over and hit her head on something sharp.

I've seen fights and the odd drop of blood at weddings in the past, but this one had a much more sinister tone to it. The girl was taken somewhere more private, and at this point, the boyfriend arrived... and the wedding planner called for an ambulance. We had to try and remain calm, and divert any unwanted attention away from the incident. Rather impossible when these people appeared to be hounds for gossip and desperate for more woe and terror. The poor bride was livid that they had both come back inside the house, and unfortunately they would remain there for another hour - due to the lateness of the ambulance and then the girl's reluctance to go to hospital.

The police arrived. Not quite sure if they were called separately by one of the guests, or if they were alerted to handle the situation due to the ambulance's lack of attendance. Either way, this exacerbated the drunk man's anger, but strangely it also seemed to sober him up in a flash... maybe it was the guilt setting in? They questioned him in the back bar, as I was loading the glass machine: I heard his full story, my heart was flitting around, I was shaky. What a stressful night, and yet the time passed so slowly. The ambulance arrived before the police left, so they briefed the paramedics. The girl was adamant that she was fine and that she just wanted to go home.

The paramedics insisted that, although it wasn't life-threatening, she needed a few stitches as her skull could be seen - it was a deep wound. Eventually she was persuaded to go in the ambulance, aided by her now shocked-into-sobriety boyfriend. What a relief. Though they'd gone, the aftermath was not pretty. Word had got round the house, everyone was talking about it - everyone seemed to have their own little conspiracy theory about what had happened. Any atmosphere that hadn't already been poached by the witches had now been stolen by the outsiders, the underdogs - never to return. So ever glad I didn't have to serve those hideous people the following morning for breakfast.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, by way of this extreme example of wedding hell is that there is never a dull moment at a wedding, but instead of mainly being entertaining and sometimes heart-warming - they can also bring out the worst in people, regardless of who's special day it is.

Goes to show that money can't buy you love, class, style or grace - and it most certainly can't buy you a well-behaved family.

Nowt Queerer Than Folk

2010-09-02T19:52:00.002Z

I love people.

They make me laugh a lot. And after an excellent weekend's-worth of people-watching opportunities in London, I was not expecting to pick up yet more eccentric behaviour on the bus home, but oh what a corker!

Katie and I were lucky enough to nab the disabled access seats (second from front for those uninitiated) which give you an extra foot of leg room. Happily settling into our as-comfortable-as-you-can-get-for-a-bus-journey positions we watched in silenced awe as an old lady tried to fight for her right to keep not one but TWO of the priority seats in front of us:

Old lady sits on the isle-side seat, with seat belt done up already, though it's ten minutes till lift off. Big momma lady with boobs as wide as her hips and crazy Afro/frizz hair bounces up the steps, deep takeaway box proudly guarded in both hands. She doesn't even glance down the bus: she wants the front seat. Old lady doesn't want to share with anyone, let alone a forthright young momma with more attitude than Russell Brand on coke.

Big Momma: "I need to sit there, (points to vacant window seat) can you move please?"

Old lady doesn't say anything, doesn't move - just shuffles her feet over so big momma has to squeeze past her very awkwardly. The window seat shakes as big momma forces herself in from a pivoted position. Old lady is leaning out of her seat so much that she may as well be sitting in the isle.

Once the driver is seated, old lady pipes up in defence:

Old Lady: "Excuse me, I booked a priority seat, not half of one!"

Bus Driver: "No, you booked one seat, so you paid for one seat, and that's what you've got."

Old lady mumbles incessantly, there is a bit more shifting from big momma, I assume cross words or maybe even rude words where exchanged... then silence.

I presume either the old lady was racist or she is one of those people who always has to have two seats no matter who wants the other free one.

Needless to say: old lady kept her half-out-of-the-seat position for the whole journey: I am 110% certain that her whole body was ridged with spite and resentment every second of that time.

Grad Bay Hell

2010-09-02T19:31:00.002Z

I'm two steps from hell, stuck in a charity-fundraising-limbo worse than purgatory.

Three days without a sign-up, they'll be scraping at my back soon and I know who's going to ensure my demise.

The Grad Bay weasel. He's a shifty guy: a Dickensian caricature: part crackhead, part vermin, part jester.

Dancing around in beige slippers, greasy jogging bottoms and novelty t-shirts.

Never content, he prances and sidesteps - circling our pod, baying for someone to make a mistake so he can pounce, jeer and take us down. Or, on an all-too-rare occurrence: a swift karate chop/pat on the shoulder for good behaviour.

His hair is lank and grey-blonde: too much time spent in unhealthy places. His face is shallow; eyes as sallow as saucers.

Weasel sneer, weasel leer... why must you persist in tormenting us? Tiny dull teeth protruding, jutting your chin out to show your pathetic pride.

What pride can you possibly take, in making us wait for a tiny scrap of your wisdom? Wis-doom more like; jaded, resentment-addled deflections.

You were me once. You were scared, confused, unsafe. Only you have the weasel instinct, the thing that twists tight and forces you to beg, beg, beg. Make the sale. Rinse old ladies of their last pension scraps. No, I can't do that.

Actors play other people. You don't have to act any more. You've been promoted to head of the grad bay floor. You witness our amateur dramatic group grappling with the emotion, the tone, the inflection. But you don't care. The targets are not going up, and this affects your pluck.

How long till he shoots to kill? Do I fit the bill? Probably will, if I don't get my fill.

The sooner the cull begins the sooner I will escape the torment. Please let it be me, I've never been fired before. If it's going to happen - this is the optimum time and place. A hot house where nobody expects to thrive, sprout buds and flourish. Best to be cut and displayed outside, not left inside to fester like the grad bay jester.

Chaos with a capital "C"

2010-09-02T18:51:00.002Z

Arrived in London after a refreshingly pleasant National Express journey hosted by a jolly, wholly unpatronising driver who had who good banter as well as manners. As we made the short crossing from Victoria to Putney Bridge, a sense of excitement embellished the air... the odd spray of Carnival colour dipped and weaved amongst the hum-drum weekend crowds. Maybe I'm just more alert to such hyperbolic statement in apprehension for an event I'm yet to experience: the colour and atmosphere spelling out both a dart of danger and a spell of joy.

Maybe it's just the way London makes me feel. Edgy, yet fully prepared to embrace whatever the city can throw at me today.

After a short stop in Putney to off-load belongings and get changed, we head for the tube to Notting Hill Gate. Helen and I sit next to two Rastas armored up with vuvuzelas hanging from their chests with Caribbean ribbon. The conversation between them was enlightening and amusing. Man 1 was obviously a seasoned carnival-goer, whilst the other (Man 2) was either exceedingly precautionary or a carnival virgin, like me. The conversation started with a bit of light banter:

Man 1: "Why you no got your phone, bro?"

Man 2: "I ain't got no credit, bro!"

Man 1: "Well, what ya gonna do when you get lost? You's scared you gonna get it nicked, innit?"

Man 2: "Nah mate, no point bringing it with no credit - I just got the important things here in this bag."

(He points to a cheap sports bag with a drawer string and two thin string straps, that is pressed to him on the front of his chest like a baby in a sling)

Man 1 laughs.

Man 2: "Couple o' cans o' Guinness, and me jacket, that's all I need."

Man 1: "Ha, couple o' cans o' Guinness! What if they snip here and here." (He gestures thieves cutting the strings of the bag)

Man 2: Well... at least if they do get it... it's only a couple o' cans, eh? And not me phone, camera and wallet!"

Man 1 laughs hysterically.

At this point, Helen and I are barely able to control our giggling, and luckily the doors open. Uh oh, look at the crowds. It's solid all the way up the stairs and the crowd is also just as thick from behind. Man 1 and 2 exuberantly honk their vuvuzelas, they seem to be making their way through the crowd even though it's at stand still. Just as Man 1 gets up to the first set of steps, he turns back on the rest of the masses still getting off the trains, blows his vuvu and shouts:

"GET USED TO IT!"

Priceless.

Notting Hill Carnival is certainly one of a kind. Messy, chaotic, anarchic. I get the feeling that the true heart of the matter is missing (more style over substance), it's as though the cutting loose has taken centre stage and the culture lurks in the background... not quite comfortable to perform in front of such hungry revellers. I don't think the family day is particularly child-friendly, there were times when I felt a little uncomfortable, though this was mainly due to my lack of tolerance in crowded places. Maybe I wasn't drunk enough... but after queueing for Caribbean food in the rain for what felt like and hour and a half my carnival spirit was somewhat diminished by a chill on my back and an empty belly.

Later in the day, the sun made a prolonged appearance and we were able to watch a section of the procession on a less-frequented side street. The procession was exactly as one would expect: vibrant, soulful and melodramatic. Yellow paint was sprayed into the audience, chocolate laced the air as the performers grabbed handfuls of the gooey brown stuff and planted it on their fellow dancers and the unsuspecting audience. (I admit to hiding behind a tree at this point - as good as it smelt, the appearance of chocolate can just as easily resemble a bodily excretion of a much lesser appealing variety.)

But after the procession and the sunshine vanished the mood changed and things felt a bit on the apocalyptic side. Every conceivable corner of every street harboured a mountain of takeaway boxes, chicken bones, drinks cans and smashed glass, rubbish was literally flowing onto the through-fare, god only knows what it must have looked like ten hours later in the unforgiving dawn light. The irony is explicit. I've never really seen Notting Hill without the carnage, but when you look up and see the glorious architecture and wealth... juxtaposed with the boarded up window fronts, tagged cars and messy debris at street-level, it's hard to imagine this district as a highly respectable neighbourhood... where the Hugh Grant yuppie/yucky blockbuster movie was set a few years ago. Where do the residents put their cars for the weekend? Do they dare leave their homes at all?

The rum and ginger I was swigging warmed me from the early-evening chill, but I was ready to voyage back into the 'regular' chaos of the city after the sun disappeared. It was impossible to know where to exit, every route seemed to be teeming with police ready for action. Wild eyed, wobbly legged zombies appeared to be fencing us in. A strange and eerie twilight fixed the scene, I watched the last glint of the sun fade through the obscure window of a tower block which surely marked the divide between well-to-do Notting Hill and its underbelly. The fallout seemed to reach well-beyond the periphery, the roads car-free for what felt like a mile more. Then: over a bridge and we hit civilization again, there's a bus with our name on it. Cocooned by the warm, yet stale aroma of public transport, we breath easy and watch the madness unfold at a staggeringly slow pace. There's a fight at one set of lights, but the police are swift and intervene quicker than any one could imagine.

We realise how exhausted we are. I ditch the rum and ginger and we head home, an early night and a leisurely day of touristy fluff in the morning somewhat more appealing than a convoy into rebellious mayhem.

I think I'm actually getting old.

Enemy On the Door

2010-08-17T21:16:00.003Z

I'm at war.

I'm at war with the man who guards the door.

He hates me.

Won't let me passed unless I shake my plastic pass,

In his face: what a waste.

He's got the hump - someone please give him the bump!

Then I can get on with my lunch,

But may still need to punch this most terrible grump.

He really seems to care that I don't meet his stare.

But I don't dare: I'm too pressed to care.

Too pressed to care.

Stop with the sneers, it won't win you cheers!

Just let me through, clear of you.

To the door, and on to the call-floor.

To help the poor.

Selling Lives

2010-08-16T21:26:00.003Z

I am currently in the business of selling lives. Children's lives.

Every ten to fifteen minutes from 1 pm until 9 pm I must try to act my way through a script that is designed to make people part with £18 - a month.

I must tease/manipulate/induce guilt/empathise/cajole people whilst remaining 100% impartial and committed to the cause at hand. Do not deviate. Big Brothers are watching. There's one Big Brother per 'grad bay', though there may be more listening: every call is recorded. We can get fined £5000 is a 'declaration clause' is not tacked on to the beginning and end of every call.

It starts with: "This call may be recorded for training purposes", and ends with something reassuring the caller that we only take £337,000 in admin costs for "calling people like you."

I have to talk to the elderly: the unemployed, the terminally ill, the students, the time-wasters, the insane, those too young to commit, yet eager to answer the phone whilst mummy struggles with the youngest. All walks of life and the others you forget about. The ones everyone forgets about - that's why they're the worst to interrupt as they've been storing up all their jaw-mangling spite just for you because you're the first person insane enough to call them. Not my fault: the system picks numbers at random.

It's not uncommon to talk to the same person three/four times in a day, (partly due to others pressing 'Call Back' when they can't be bothered to record a proper outcome) but as you've already spoken to many faceless voices in between... you're stuck in auto-pilot mode and they get the impression that the bond you formed earlier was a false pretense. Well it was.

And yet the numbers keep coming, and there's barely a moment to regenerate you self-esteem and bolster confidence levels.

Some people here have been 'on the phones' for between 5 to 12 months. On the phones. Reading a script. How is that possible?

I have no desire to be here longer than it'll take me to re-claim the training hours we put in (three days worth)... but clever people above the Big Brothers only dispense that after a month on the phones. On the phones. Clever, very clever indeed. I need that money: I must count down the days before it is mine.

I've never done a job like this before: I never will again. I'm a creative not an actor with a heart of gold. I respect the cause, I enjoy the lunches in the park with the other 'Grad Bayers', but this is not real life.

This is selling lives.

Have you guessed what I am yet?

The Village Within

2010-08-15T21:44:00.003Z

I'm sure many people have pondered the benefits of villages within cities. My fresh eyes have only just been warmed by such a concept.

I like the proposition very much. I like this village very much. It is but a short (but vertically challenging) walk from Hotwells, and it has everything I could possibly ever want. If I could site all the best ingredients for living somewhere, Clifton would roll out of the 'best places for Holly to be' tombola. I fell in love today. It's a village within a city, it has GREEN spaces, water, a massive bridge, a Thai deli, posh charity shops, a spiffingly quaint fruit and veg market, an antiques/vintage archade, a Thali Cafe, model-Georgian architecture... oh the list could go on and on and on - and I've only actually spent one morning there thus far. I get excited about these things, and I'm not going to apologise. This is exactly why I moved to Bristol: to find my own little piece of heaven (a place like home in the countryside, but with more choice) in a vibrant city.

It's almost a bit too perfect... (ventured there on a blissfully lazy/sunny Sunday morning) so I'll have to see if I can lift the veil and hunt for nasties in the week... maybe in the evening. Maybe Clifton turns into a chav ghetto on a Friday night? Or (more realistically) maybe I'll out the guerrilla organic society planting tomato seedlings in the raised beds of their well-to-do yet ignorant neighbours?! I doubt either are true, but I will certainly be spending more time in Clifton before I can officially crown it king of the burbs.

I am a country girl at heart... and although I think I'm coping well with my week-day trips to work in the big cider apple - I will certainly relish the slower/quainter west side of the city. So very happy to find such a diamond of a place such a short amble from my already ideal abode. I'm in danger of becoming as smug as a Shoredich trend-bender, but without the style fascism. What I mean is that though I won't be flouncing around with a pug in one hand and a coffee in the other... I will be enjoying the quiet self-satisfaction one feels when one becomes a chameleon (after spending many years in practice at matching its surroundings) who finally finds its perfect backdrop.

I shall make it my absolute mission to fix the heights of Clifton as my permanent backdrop before next year's spring has sprung.

Goodbye Countryside, Hello Big Cider Apple

2010-08-09T20:51:00.002Z

Well, I've finally gone and done it. Moved. To the. City. Bristol City, cider capital of the West country. Not at all surprisingly, I feel right at home already.

For a start, I can see patches of green and many trees from outside all of the windows in my flat. The traffic noise is a bit of a give-away, but aside from that - I don't feel as much 'out-of-water' as I thought I might. (There was a loud dog-fight in a court yard close by on my first night... the owners seemed to be at war along with the dogs, but aside from the menacing bickering I felt safe peeping from a safe distance four flights up and hidden behind a tree.)

On the fourth floor, to the north I can see the city, the masts of the SS Great Britain, a bit of the river and some green space. From the South facing windows I look out onto a reasonably busy one-way system and above that, the splendor or Clifton. I hope soon to excel upwards and migrate to this place of designer charity shops, delis and running clubs. One day, Clifton - you will be mine.... If I can ever find a good job.

In my rush to leave the countryside in pursuit of something a tad more cosmopolitan, I didn't think it necessary to secure a job. I thought get there first and the rest will follow. Not so simple in times of recession. Also, I neglected to take into account the ratio of over-qualified post-grads to meager media jobs. I sent a CV and cover letter for a writer's position on a magazine, thinking next step, at the very least, I may be invited to interview. Oh no. Nothing is ever that easy. Due to the "volume and high standard of applications... we've set a brief for you to prove you're really interested in the job" The director wanted applicants to provide a 30 second piece-to-camera video (cut, and edited by applicant) and to send it back in a week. What? So I have to invest my time and money producing a film so you can see my face on camera... before I get an interview?! No, I don't care about the job that much. Maybe the wrong attitude, but before an interview? If I had gone to them for an interview - if it went well and I liked the staff... well maybe then I'd be prepared to make a video. Bloody hell, I'm a bit scared. What if there's that much competition for every job I go for?

So, unemployed with new city bills to pay and a new lifestyle to up-keep, I was in a bit of a panic... and also suffering a mighty bout of self-confidence bashing. Not only have I been out-of-the-loop (larking around in the French Alps) for effectively nearly two years, I can't seem to muster up the enthusiasm for following a story like I did when I first entered the world of words. I'm perfectly happy to blog (even though my followers can be counted on one hand) - hello? Is anyone out there? But, when it comes to even thinking about pitching a feature idea I can't energize my mind into motivation. I blame it on the crap rates for freelancers. I blame it on the competition. But what is it really? Well, as much as I hate to admit it: it's a money thing. Right now, I need stability. Writing features, or even pitching features can take days away from me, writing the bloody things takes me at least a week. So why should I spend a week and a half on an article for less than £200? I'm just not going to do it... unless rates increase and journalists get proper recognition for their art. Never going to happen. Not in the 'digital world'.

So, I am rather ashamed and ever so embarrassed to admit that I am temporarily (ONLY temporarily) working in a call centre. But it's not as bad as you're thinking. This is a call centre for charity fundraising campaigns. So, basically I'm a street-botherer... but on the phones. There... I've said it. Well, when you're in severe financial meltdown (blame it on living in the snow), and you've signed up with all the agencies in the city, and you've handed your CV out to all and sundry... you have to take the job. Immediate start... paid weekly... commission for sign-ups... weekends free. There are perks!

I was so reluctant to go for the interview, but my doubts were lessened when I spent time in the office. Turns out this office is full of people like me: creatives struggling to get creative in their chosen industry... having to supplement their living by calling people to talk about sponsoring children half-way across the globe. Funny old world. I like to think it's going to be character building. I'm prepared to do most things if I'm in good company. I think this motley crew of artists, musicians, filmmakers and odd-bods from business redundancies are going to be amusing. They will also doubtlessly provide me with some gold dust for scriptwriting. I can't wait to witness the micro politics. The relationship patterns, oh the conflict... gossip, it's all going to come out.

I'm supposed to be contracted to 13 weeks here, but I don't know if I'll be able to last it out on the phones. I know how annoying it is to be called at home by a cold-caller... I know a lot of people only have the attention span of two seconds... can I handle the rejection? The put-downs? The ignorance? We'll see.

I will of course, be on the look out for more appropriate jobs in the meantime. But it looks like I may have to be prepared to take a few steps down the ladder in order to gain my place on the Bristol scene. This will also be a confidence demolisher, but I'm of strong stock. I can take it.

Second day of training tomorrow. World Vision: I am your minion (for now).

Port Elliot: Festival for wannabe-rebels and the ever-so-well-behaved

2010-07-28T19:00:00.015Z

Port Elliot Festival: a small, bespoke literary affair perfectly suitable for the middle classes. Wind the clocks back 20 years and you'll see a very different turn of events at the same secluded location.

Port Elliot used to be the venue for the Elephant Fayre (http://www.ukrockfestivals.com/elephant-fayre-1986.html), which by many accounts was a bit of a hippy pilgrimage where free love, cheap drugs by the barrel load and anarchy reined supreme. The Elephant Fayre was a big, unpoliced alternative festival set in the grounds of a vast estate on the North Cornwall boarder. It got shut down in 1986 when a convoy of travellers refused to leave the site, causing a rather unfavourable raucous with the media and locals.

I didn't know anything about the Elephant Fayre until I left the site. I wish I'd done a little research, as it's a fascinating story and it would have been fun to retrace the steps of the aforementioned rebel outcasts. Port Elliot is now a literary soiree predominantly aimed at the middle classes; it's a tidy, close-knit event with a cosy attendance of around 5 thousand - the campsite is just a stone's throw from the main arena and you can walk the perimeter of the site in under 30 mins. Talks by the literary hoi-polloi don't necessarily take centre stage; Port Elliot has a programme that mixes artists, fashionistas and live music with impromptu creative gatherings, wild swimming and one-minute discos. As the festival is on such a small scale, it's highly likely that you'll actually get to attend most of the above... as many performers have repeat sets and off-the-programme sporadic gigs happened upon if you're in the right place at the right time.

This was very refreshing for me, as I'm used to going to Glastonbury where there is too much to see and the site is so big that you end up staying in the areas that you like best and not venturing too far from your safety blanket if you're too hot or hungover. Port Elliot has a smug ambiance that is so hard not to warm to: it's no wonder there are no crusties or hippies in sight.

I was amused and mildly shocked to wake up to silence, aside from the odd snore from one of our endearingly lovely neighbours. Ok, they were all mostly in their silver years... and oh so precious of their campsites (flowers and gingham table cloths on fold-away tables, incense sticks, tents decorated with bunting, ice-chilled champers etc...) but I think I'd rather deal with these trivialities than coping with people fighting/shagging/dumping rubbish on your temporary door step. My tent companion, Katie and I actually had cheerful banter with our neighbours on a daily basis... and if anything we were worried we'd get into trouble for being the 'wild ones'.

Being in such resplendent company made us more eager to be gracious campers, upping the ante by keeping our camp immaculate, cooking jealousy-inducing meals, and dressing as glamorously as our means would allow. Usually, at Glastonbury, I resign to the fact that I'm going to look and feel like a tramp for the week, so I don't make an effort with much aside from leaving our patch free of rubbish before we leave.

Such joy! To be surrounded by conscientious individuals in a beautiful secluded location: so safe we were not afraid to leave our box of wine outside at the end of a night. I thought I may have been a bit weary of all the families and stuffy rahs - there was a significant array of designer wellies on show and exceedingly well-behaved children being tightly guarded by yummy mummies. I laughed so hard waiting in a toilet queue when I observed a Port Elliot style (innocently tumultuous) family showdown. The situation follows thus:

Two little boys, two little girls and two mothers are dithering at the front of the queue. One boy and one girl are dressed normally in fleeces. One boy and one girl are dressed in some obscure green felt and sequin outfits obviously hand-crafted by mummy. One of them is refusing to go into a toilet: doesn't need to go. The more resilient of the two mothers starts squawking in a loud voice: "Eton, Eton. Come here, I want the fleeces in one loo and the monsters in this one." The kids aren't taking much notice, and the little girl monster replies: "Mummy, but I don't need to go!" Angry mummy will not back down, "Aurelia, come here. You're a monster, monsters must come in here with mummy." The poor child reluctantly plods into the loo with the other monster and monster mummy.

Too right I bet the two monsters belonged to her, and no doubt they will turn into bigger monsters when they're publicly harangued as they're growing up for having such pretentious names. I feel deeply sorry for them.

Other such over-protective mumsy behaviour that I witnessed over the weekend included a mother who wouldn't let her kid take a significant short cut over the fence to the car park, siting that it was: "too rusty darling". They had to walk the perimeter instead. I have to say this type of festival opened my eyes to modern middle class behaviour... being surrounded by rahs was eye-opening, thoroughly entertaining and provided me with a wealth of amusing writing fodder to boot. Katie and I made no effort to conform to such middle-Britain formalities: I suppose we were the rebels without a cause. We raved too hard on the first night, we got embarrassingly sick, we didn't have a shower. We even picked litter for our tickets (gasp!)... but more on that later...

Maybe we would have fitted in better had the Elephant Fayre made it into the 21st century. But sod it, we had every right to enjoy Port Elliot; we were there for the culture, the music, the inspiration that such events exude. I'm not saying that there felt like a divide: it's just that I'm not used to such civilised company at festivals. Even the celebrities seemed to be perfectly at ease in our presence. I witnessed Grayson Perry rocking out to a new local band in the 25 Tent, Tim Dowling from the Guardian flitting between talks up at the Bowling Green and Jarvis Cocker ambling idly along with family in tow. No mobbings took place. No paparazzi-induced break downs were reported. Just people being people minding their own business amongst the paying public.

The only dampening to my spirits over the weekend occurred when Katie and I discovered that we had to pay five pounds to snoop around the manor house which provides the focal point to the magnificent grounds. We've at a festival: therefore everything within that festival space should be free. We were rather perturbed, as we'd begrudgingly left Grayson Perry's superb performance in order to be at the house for the allotted tour time.

I think the picture below humourously sums up the way we felt. On the last night, we noticed a number of people standing on tip-toes in order to get a glimpse into a grand entrance room illuminated by this ridiculously grand candelabra. The resplendent figures in the portrait on the opposite wall look mockingly back at the dark individuals on the outside. A little like how I felt at this festival: Like a moth to a flame I wanted to be warmed by the splendor, appreciative of my surroundings, yet firmly (and unashamedly) left on the outside.

Port Elliot, I shall return and I shall find an alternative way to bask in your superior warmth.

Glastonbury at 40

2010-07-06T20:17:00.002Z

Last week, I left planet earth and arrived at Glastonbury Festival 2010.

Nothing gives me more of a chill of excitement than driving on site before the throng of 'punters'. This year, I headed for Glastonbury-land on the Tuesday, which may seem a little excessive to those unacquainted with such ritual gatherings, but it makes perfect sense if you are in possession of an on-site vehicle pass and relish the glory of finding optimum camping space. Aside from these major factors, it's also an excellent chance to see the site at peace; tranquil, a sea of lush green (at least 10 cm above ground level before Wednesday brought in the stampeeders) and an air of smugness that comes with knowing that your first night is going to be a rare 'quiet' moment with friends and fellow crew-members.

This year, I worked (with a team of friends) as a comedy granny cleaner at the Pussy Parlure, a glamorous spiegel tent venue for cabaret, jazz bands, DJs and general eccentricities. Dress up included our personal choice of 'granny style' clothing: we varied our ensembles from 'classic housewife', to 'Glamorous grannies' to 'true pensioner', never forgetting our feather dusters: an essential prop for tickling customers and excellent dancing partner. I'm not much of a performer (never enjoyed school plays, shying away from any public speaking), but I think that this 'part' was perfect for me, as I felt comfortable in the clothes... enjoyed the reaction we got from our audience and to be honest, a little (pre show time and break time) liquid de-inhibitor sure helped us get into character! The shifts were short, but staying in character for three hours was actually quite taxing. Being part of a circus-type family was exciting though; seeing all the acts preparing for their sets and just generally feeling like part of a special show made the experience all the more endearing - I would definitely do it again next year.

As per-usual, I didn't see as many acts as I should of... not that I don't make the most of my time, it's just that I'm of the opinion that Glastonbury shouldn't be on an itinerary. I like to cruise around, take in the alternative-side, seek out the underbelly of the festival - very rarely venturing into the main arena. In fact, the only time I frequented the Pyramid field was (begrudgingly) for the football, and (wholeheartedly) for Stevie the living-legend Wonder. What a performance. I knew it was going to be ethereal, but this set surpassed all expectations.

I cried, several times. This is unusual for me, I don't think I've ever cried during a musical performance. The tears came at an unexpected time: during a song I'd never heard before. It was a simple ballard, sung by Stevie alone, with no embellishment from his extensive band of approx 40 musicians from around the globe. And again the tears let forth when he sang 'Happy Birthday' with Michael Eavis, simply because it was such a perfect moment - I doubt if there was a dry eye in the field by the end of the song. However, leaving the Pyramid field was not such a pleasurable experience. The crowd was so thick that it took what felt like an hour to get to the dance village, step by laborious step... I realise I have built up a strong fear of large crowds and spent most of the rest of the festival at the quieter reaches of the Park.

So, Monday rolled around at ridiculous speed, sometimes I think a week at Glastonbury isn't enough, but then I remember that Monday-morning feeling I always get. It usually occurs as the highs of the last night subside and you realise that the party can't go on forever. I was especially disenchanted as those around me were still very much 'tripping their nuts off' and I had no desire to play catch up. A heavy, hazy dawn was upon us, and out of the corner of my eyes in all directions I noticed the crusties and freaks emerging... where did they come from? Such creatures included: a man in gimp costume, a man in head to toe black spandex, but the worst by no mistake was and an angry, aggressive, socially retarded Bristolian who decided that he'd try to win over some friends by throwing a handful of laughing gas bullets amongst my friends... only he had no canister to fulfill their potential.

Full of self-pity and obviously in desperate need to let his emotions out - he then started saying things like: "My Missus hates me, my mum hates me..." at this point we were edging away, but he just kept intruding, maybe he was that delirious that he actually thought we were his friends.

The most disturbing moment came soon after: he totally crossed the line of all decency: "Come on, come on! Lets all toss each other off!" Horrible. Vile man. I began to notice that this guy had attracted the attention of a team of security people lolling around close by. They seemed to be circling closer as a few of my friends began to get upset by his presence. He noticed the security people and got aggressive towards them, refusing to move on.

I'd had enough: there really was nothing to keep me up any longer. As I left, I noticed a security van at the top of the Park, hopefully he got restrained and return to whatever hell-hole he emerged from.

But in all honesty - that was the only moment of hellishness in the midst of an otherwise spectacular festival.

Happy Birthday Glastonbury: may you continue to enthrall me forever.

Back to Blighty

2010-06-09T11:30:00.007Z

Coming back to the UK after a seven-month absence is always going to be a bit of a culture shock. And I mean it in a good way this time. Coming back to splendid weather certainly helps matters. I spent my first week cycling/walking/picnicing around the Somerset countryside going as far as my legs would carry me. As close to an Enid Blyton's Famous Five as you could possibly imagine (for a twenty-something any way).

I had an accomplice (Charlotte), see we're in the same predicament, so we're perfect companions in such wild-spirited adventures. When I say predicament I mean: we're fish-out-of water, at a massive, important juncture in our lives that calls for sensible decisions. But we ran to the hills to look for answers instead of spending the daylight hours googling and ogling jobs; hunting for new places to spread our roots. The more time we spend together the easier it becomes to stay away from reality, yet the conversation ever-increasingly seems to slip back to our worries for the future and how we should go about making that first step back into sensibility (or the rat race).

I'm not saying this idle time was unproductive. In fact I think it gave me a certain perspective, opening my mind to new ideas whilst also reintroducing myself to actual horizons. By this I mean the place the sea meets the sky. You don't get horizons in the Chamonix Valley. You are in the Cham bubble, subtly and lovingly caged in by mountains. You don't notice whilst you're there. But when you're standing on a deserted pebble beach, (all be it a dirty, flotsam-strewn beach), and you can actually see a line in front of you, an endless line: that's when you realise it's liberating to be back. In the UK, surrounded by gentle hills, the smell of summer, a dry and reassuring heat on your back - I'm home and I love it.

Friendliness is another British trait that I have been newly-treasuring, that I am ever-so glad to be enveloped by on my return. Last week Charlotte and I escaped the idyl and travelled up to Todmorden to see my sister. I'm ashamed to say that in all my worldly travel, I have somehow managed to neglect my home country and before last week, Nottingham was the furthest north I'd ventured. Todmorden is a welcoming town set deep in a valley surrounded by moors and forbidding hills. I think the landscape could certainly be isolating and oppressive in the winter, but at this time of year there is enough colour and life to make it as pleasant as any flat-lying land. A micro brewery just a stroll away from my sister's front door provided fresh ales and cider as well as a ten-piece band that were abstractly poised in the mid-section of the bar... a cosy affair which proved a little impractical when we left. I have to admit to knocking a small piece of band equipment onto the floor as we passed by to leave - not because I was drunk (I'd only had a pint of 5% cider) but because the band had expanded into the walkway to the exit and their excess baggage had spilled a little further afield.

Later we found a Thai restaurant that seemed to have an atmosphere more attuned to a low-key, arty London bar than a small-town Asian eatery, which are generally serene and dated places. The owners had successfully fused traditional Thai hospitality with good lighting, comfortable seating, crowd-pleasing music and excellent food bursting with flavour - no small wonder it was a bustling hub on an otherwise dreary Sunday evening.

A brisk canal walk the next day took us to Hebden Bridge, an extremely quaint yet metropolitan town with an impressive selection of eco conscious/vegan/vegetarian friendly establishments... including a handmade soap shop with a penchant for shaping suds into fantastical gateaux and stupendous desserts. Talk about too good to eat! I was pleasantly surprised by the freshness of the town: although the architecture still points towards an industrial past, (cue the stock 'Coronation Street' set facade, complete with sagging washing lines strung on every yard) the local attitudes and ethically-minded community spirit seems to have catapulted Hebden into a future yet to be discovered in more metro-central parts of the country.

Next, a day out in Manchester. Sadly, the weather and a poor choice of footwear tampered my spirits somewhat, but the promise of a vintage clothes markets soon perked me up. A menagerie of fashion items ranging from the 40s to present day retro-rip offs greeted us all around the walkway of a modern mall. I was so overwhelmed that I actually couldn't buy anything. There was too much beauty, and as we stumbled across this mecca at the end of a high-octane walking tour of the city, I was again too preoccupied with my aching feet to make any sensible decisions.

Liverpool. A city of many faces. The skyline viewed from the ferry on the Mersey is a triumph of diversity: old and new jostling for your attention, but not in an ugly way. I loved the slick black visage of the new Maritime Museum, and strolling along the Albert Dock in the afternoon sunshine reminded me of being in Barcelona, minus the palm trees. Liverpool is a fun city; youthful in it's outlook and yet still bound by historical glory.

The two wildly differing Cathedrals are a pleasure to behold, especially when you get an idea of what the original plans were for the Metropolitan. We were (accidentally) lucky enough to be given much more than the regular tourist tour of the Met's crypt by a burly yet jolly security guard who, unaware of our presence down there was about to lock us in for the night. Instead of bustling us out so he could get an early finish, the guard showed us deep inside the crypt's many halls and prayer rooms, which are used for modern practises such as beer festivals and choir recitals. The crypt's size gives you a better idea of the scope of the original project, but the actual ground level build is less spectacular after you've viewed pictures of the original scale model. Unfortunately, the war and lack of funds broke the project's ambitions and the cathedral now, though grand in an ultra-modern way, is less spectacular in size than the space below, which was completed before the money ran out.

People like to talk in Liverpool. As a tourist this is very endearing. As a writer this is also very endearing. The heart of the city is as lively as I imagine it was in the swinging 60s, and the Beetles heyday. One night on the town, intoxicated by inexpensive cocktails and the warm night air, I was struck by the fashion sense/hair styles and attitudes of the young people around me in the hip and fizzy bars... it all harks back to that golden hour. I was in a time warp, and it was authentic, not a hint of tacky/embarrassing fakery in sight. Sigh.

Even in London strangers are sometimes friendly and talkative. After a liquid-heavy last night in Liverpool I found myself descending into a hot hell on the tube. Rush hour. Stress hour. I had to be patient, no point in joining the riot. I had time enough before my bus back to Somerset not to have to go into a blind panic... which is what I usually feel myself straying towards when in such situations. As I ascend the stairs, I notice an official Underground worker walking parallel with me, he wears a look of sympathy and it's directed at me, yes me!

Anguish is obviously etched on my face; he asks if I'm ok, do you know where you're going?Instantly, hearing these words make me feel a little more relaxed, yes I am ok and I do kind of know where I'm going. But I say it anyway. Hammersmith. He gives me the directions I know I know, sort of. But it's reassuring. Always reassuring to be helped without having to ask for it. I said I was tired, he laughed and asked where I'd traveled from. We struck up a short conversation about Liverpool (whilst walking), it was nice, casual. When does this ever happen in Chamonix? He was interested, then pointed me even more in the right direction when it looked like I was straying. An insignificant exchange, but poignant for me, reminding me that I'm home and I'm safe.

Courmayeur In Pictures

2010-06-09T10:32:00.009Z

Untracked mountains looking towards the Italian side of Mont Blanc.

So sublime, up here you really feel alien, as if you're not supposed to track such beauty. The quiet is unnerving.

There's me, already lagging behind. Trying to traverse on my new skis, trying not to look at the drop on my left-hand side. I actually took my skis off around the next bend because I thought it may be quicker.

Semi-triumphant, behind me is the virtually untracked basin we skied down shortly after the mini-avalanche episode. Highs and lows followed by quiet success.

Me with Jenni (excellent and extremely experienced Finnish snowboarder). Jenni has been skiing/snowboarding most of her life, and had completed this off-piste run once a year before. She certainly succeeded in tried to keep up my spirits when I thought I was never going to get down this mountain.

Lessons in Chamonix Living

2010-03-07T22:28:00.005Z

I love observing the French. They come in so many varied forms that I'd like to just share a few archetypes with you.... kind of as character studies and just for the pure joy of passing on knowledge in case you ever find yourself in a French resort town and feel the need to 'fit in with the locals'.

Just to set the scene, here's a summery of what you'd expect to observe on a leisurely stroll thought the Chamonix high street on a sunny day at the height of the winter season:

You'd better hope you're sober and not in a rush, as traversing between tourists who can't take their eyes off the mountains proves difficult, and if you're still drunk from the night before... or in the early stages of a hangover, you'll be looking at the floor, so this proves equally disastrous. If you try and take over large groups of slow-moving tourists, make sure you say, "Pardon" and don't touch them, else they'll get angry, or you could ruin one of a billion Mont Blanc photo compositions. Watch out for luxourious-looking rats that pose as expensive dogs, there are too many to avoid and they make a god-awful noise if stepped on, and also, their owners are so attached to these small balls of scrawny in-bred K9 that you could probably end up with a massive law suit on your hands. The bigger husky-type dogs are much more entertaining and often more accommodating, but a lot of big, big doggies (like St Bernard's or bigger) dribble on you or sit on you, so don't touch or look at them too intently.

The French love their dogs, and Chamonix is a very rich resort, so don't under estimate the seriousness of their affections... and never laugh at the silly jackets that often match the owners outfits or hand-luggage. As well as fancy dogs and tourists, you'll also notice the odd celebrity mingling in the shadier places... so yes, maybe keep your eyes at eye level now. Last year it was Kylie in No Escape (a not-too-grimy strip club), Penelope Cruz, Matt from Busted (in Le Terrasse, where I worked), and a famous cricketer who's name escapes me. So far this year we've had: Kate Moss, Ralph Little (drank in the pub that I am working in now) and boxing hopeful Amir Khan, and it's only March! I just found out that a friend of a friend was sacked from their chalet-hosting job for leaking a juicy piece of gossip to the press regarding one of the chalets guests: Tiger Woods' wife at the time of THAT embarrassing incident. Poor woman... just when she thought she had found a safe haven to retreat to...

Back to the street-voyuering:

Everyone you pass will have the rudimentary baguette in hand... so make sure you do the same, and purchase earlier rather than later in the day, as they go stale pretty quick. Whatever the locals are doing (be it driving, cycling, dog walking, on phone, shouting) they will always have either a baguette or a cigarette in their hand/s.... haven't seen any onion-strung necks or strings of garlic yet... but maybe that's a rural thing?! Another thing I'd add is to smile at all old people... they seem to like shouting at tourists, and young people.... so it's best to have them on your side. (I was recently on the receiving end of a torrent of incomprehensible abuse from an old French man in my apartment block. I had just walked in the front door. That was all. I know that a lot of the residents are old there, and they complain about people using the stairs in the evening and moan if you take any ski kit into your flat.... but still - I hadn't done ANYTHING!) I was extremely hungover and unable to retort, as my French is so poor... I wanted to cry, that seemed like the only conceivable option at the time.

The other thing I've noticed in Chamonix is that there is a massive gap between the rich 'second home owners' and the 'seasonaires' that populate the town. It feel so similar to when I was studying in Cornwall... and I guess it's a very familiar cultural divide as with many resort/tourist towns around the world. We seasonaires are seen as the scum of the earth to the people who populate this town in the holidays, and yet, most of us provide the valuable work-force that keeps them happy and provides them with all the luxurious trappings they take for granted when they arrive in there Porche 4x4s at the weekends. Believe me, I've cleaned enough chalets to realise that there is another side to Chamonix that I will never experience (underfloor heating/marble baths/extinct animal shag-piles/fully-stocked Champagne fridges) unless I marry a millionaire. The seasonaires are an eclectic mix of lost-young-souls looking to escape 'real-life', or wishing to pursue an extreme lifestyle in an area of sublime beauty. We appreciate each day that we get to wake up surrounded by the mountains, work extremely hard to afford the French resort cost of living (approx. £1.30 for a tin of beans) and of course play very hard to reward ourselves for being alive at the end of a crazy day of skiing and to celebrate mountain life. I'm not joking when I say that living here really makes you realise how fragile life is and how much you should appreciate what you've got, wherever you are.

Before I get too deep and meaningful, I'd better add on a few more characters that you're likely to encounter should you decide to embark on a six-month-party-fueled winter season in France:

French Rude Boys

Easily the most entertaining sight to behold in a resort. Let me describe the style first; colour is king and the more neon the better. Clashing neon wins browny points: even your blind grandmother will spot these kids from a town away. Brands are very important too. I think these kids either all have very rich parents or literally spend the whole rest of the year saving up for the latest Special Blend jacket or Burton gloves. Ski pants are baggy, often hiked up to just below the knee with long socks on show and prize trainers in full view: one wonders if they have even been up the hill, where are their ski/board boots, huh?

Hair is usually just the right length to peep out in curly torrents under a hard flat cap placed at exactly the right angle and orientation of peak. They have a distinctive swagger that makes them look like wanna-be surfer dudes... low and loose. Some carry their boards with them everywhere, but more often than not, they're using their hands to smoke or to swig from illegal bottles of beer or vodka. Most are under-age, but they seem to get away with consuming a successful amount of booze in front of the many late-night sandwich shops... I know, I've been offered a swig many times whilst waiting for a snack. Completely harmless, these boys are all about style, cheeky charm and fairly-innocent adolescent behaviour.

Scandies

I am not friends with the 'Scandie' crowd. Probably because I'm not cool enough, ah well.

The Scandies have a massive presence in Chamonix, (because Chamonix is the best, most extreme resort in the world, yah?) and as with the French Rude Boys, they are very, very, very easy to spot. They obviously take a lot of time to perfect their look, so already you're intrigued when you see a group of them because most of the young people you see in Cham are pretty casual in appearance in comparison. Not meaning to stereotype: but the girls look pretty classic: long blond hair, slightly greasy (to show all the hard work they've done off piste that day) and tussled, aviator sun glasses, skinny jeans, white shirts with a boho edge. They've been up since dawn to catch the first tracks on a powder day, so they can't look too contrived. Natural. Beautiful: I'm not jealous one fraction...

The boys have a more groomed look, though they don't have to bother with makeup, so they probably have more time to get ready than the girls. During the skiing day, they'll be sporting the PHATTEST powder skis imaginable.... as big as two snowboard welded together times two. Their ski gear also takes a neon theme, though it's not as rude a style as the French boys. At apres or maybe on a leisure day they will be found in packs of three or four, mirrored aviators on, slicked back hair - either with powder-day sweat or pomade. They also tend to wear skinny jeans and lumber-jack-type shirts and maybe a leather jacket: the Stockholm look basically. They are all very skinny and tall, so this look is effortless and elegant. Almost too cool for school... definitely too intimidating for lowly-types like me to approach...

A Day of Epic Proportions

2010-02-21T15:32:00.004Z

Ever had the feeling that a day is going to change your life in some significant way, regardless of the part you play in it? Well, that happened to me yesterday.

I'd arranged to go skiing in Courmayeur, Italy with three other girls from Chamonix. We were all feverishly excited by the prospect of a day out of the valley and a chance for me to have a proper go at off-piste skiing. Plus supposedly enough time for pizza and to soak up the sublime vistas.... also my first excursion through the Mont Blanc tunnel.

We met at the Chamonix bus stop, at a reasonable hour in the morning, loaded our skis and boards into the store and got on a thankfully quiet bus - unusual for a peak-season Saturday... however, this tranquillity swiftly evaporated as soon as we came through the tunnel and were dropped at the resort. The promise of fresh powder and a perfect blue sky couldn't distract us from the impending doom that rose as we joined a teeming crowd of predominantly Italian families at the ticket office. Just over an hour later (and a few rising degrees noted on the info board), we graced the first gondola at Courmayer. The two Finish girls were very keen to head straight to the top of the mountain and surf the virtually untracked freeride area. Annabel was impartial and I (though apprehenteous at my low-level off-piste abilities and nervous of using new skis that I hadn't practiced off-piste with yet) was keen to push myself and endure whatever was thrown at me.

The pistes looked welcoming, a pleasing array of blue and red runs that I personally would have preferred to start off with.... but time was of the essence, as we'd already lost so much due to queuing. We smugly booked a table at a Pizzeria for our return: a deserved reward for the journey ahead. 2:30pm, that potentially gave us almost three hours skiing time. Unfortunately, we still had another two gondolas to tackle, and they were as eagerly clogged as the first. As we boarded the last gondola, I let a wave of mild panic engulf me as I read notices about avalanche risks and forbidden areas to avoid at all costs. I also remembered that the Carte Neige insurance I had didn't cover off-piste accidents and that I hadn't yet completed my Carte Vitale paperwork (free health insurance cover for me as an employee on a French contract).

I hadn't realised just how extreme the terrain we would be descending was until we got off the last gondola and we were alone at the edge of a series of deserted mountains, virtually untracked and steep-looking. The Finish girls had graced this particular area only once before the previous year, but they weren't 100% sure if they could recall their route. Between them, they had a small amount of avalanche kit, Annabel and I had nothing but our mobile phones. At the time I didn't think about how dangerous your impending journey could have been, but the girls positive enthusiasm, calm confidence of our ability to do this and their insistence that most of it would be traversing and wide expanses of powder helped to put my pessimistic thoughts at bay.... for the time being.

We commenced our descent with a frightening traverse along the ledge of a steep, untracked mountain ridge. I struggled initially to keep at a pace that I felt comfortable, without picking up too much speed, but I ended up lagging far behind the others and side-stepping most of the end section. Panting and sweating, I eventually caught up with the girls, and we trekked over the other side of the ridge, looking down a steep, but expansive gully. The first bit was steep and massive moguls confronted me, there was no way I could do tight turns in such a tight spot, so again, I had to side step and slide, until I reached an area I though I was ready to start skiing properly. Unfortunately, I lost a ski... trying to retrieve it in waist-deep powder was frustrating and demeaning.... I didn't want to hold the girls up any more. As I replaced the lost ski, I heard a few whimpers coming from the girls, who were in front of me.

I gasped as I saw the beginnings of a small avalanche topple over Annabel and Jenni's heads. I looked directly above me and a small amount was falling on me too. Luckily, it wasn't anything too serious, probably a product of a freak gust of wind over the ridge, but it was enough for me to realise I was in a very dangerous situation, way out of my depth in many respects.

After a few minutes of the girls deciding the next move, I encountered possibly my most sublime snow-moment thus far. A long, glide through the powder, feeling free and beginning to understand the addict's-fix status that this mighty white stuff has for so many boarders and skiiers. I was surfing, floating just above the glistening snow, carving out fresh tracks.. not caring if I fell as it was the ultimate in soft landings.

Having caught up with the girls again, we took some time to soak up our environment and take some photos. The next section of our descent entailed a sketchy traverse to a tree-lined gully, again severely mogulled, narrow and in poor light, as we'd now dipped below the sun's reach. I was getting cold, shaky with a nervous lack of energy: I looked at my phone and realised that we were already late for our pizza booking and still had the steepest section to go. I couldn't get my turns flowing, so I ended up doing long zig-zag traverses, disappointed in my lack of confidence and annoyed that I was holding up the girls. I have to admit that by this point I was almost ready to cry and give up. I shouted at myself and soon realised this was not the right attitude to have in such a situation. The girls offered me encouraging words and stressed that we'd take things at my pace. I was so glad for their understanding, but I could tell they were probably resenting taking me all the way to the top.

After what felt like another hour or two of snail-paced traversing with the odd turn over massive moguls, we reached the bottom of the valley, where we reached a path that was well tracked and would obviously lead us back to civilisation. I realised that we'd only seen a handful of people since we set off, and for once I was actually looking forward to being amongst the hoards we had sought to avoid earlier. The time was fast approaching 3.15 when we finished an exhausting cross-country trail, and came across a restaurant and chair lift. Unsure if this was the correct way to get back to the main gondola, we took a risk and asked to jump the extensive queue to try and avoid missing our bus; the only service running that day. I was anxious, and once we jumped off this lift, we had to make a few split decisions to decide which way was the quickest route down.

Joining the hoards on a mogulled red run, we began to recognise our surroundings, we were only a few minutes away from the main gondola. It was going to be a struggle to make the bus, as we still had a few roads to walk along before we were back at the bus stop. Thinking ahead, we called the bus company to ask if they'd hold the bus for a few minutes. The representative was French, but Annabel seemed to think that he understood our predicament.

Mentally and physically drained and not relishing the idea of having to stay in Courmayeur for the night or arrange a lift back to Chamonix, we decided we had to concentrate all our efforts on getting to the bus stop as quickly as possible. Not an easy task in ski boots, and with an up-hill ascent on the horizon. Red as beetroots, we arrived just in time, the bus driver giving us a series of amused and disapproving looks as we staggered aboard. At last: rest, relaxation and repose. After a non-stop, action and adrenaline-fueled day, we relished the short journey back, deep in thought about what we'd achieved that day... finally having the time to piece together the madness.

Once back in the valley, we went on a well-deserved apres mission, followed by pizza.... not made or consumed in Italy, but fitting non-the-less. After a quick bath and repose, we reconvened at the pub and a very long day, turned into a long, long night. A celebration of life, a salute to the mountains and a well-deserved treat for surviving what could have been a treacherous or even disastrous day. I'm thankful for the girls for getting me though the toughest day's skiing I've done in my life, but I also know that if I can get through that, I can get through almost anything. Like I said before: I knew full-well it was going to be a life-changing day, a day that makes you truly appreciate life and respect the mysterious ways of the mountains. I will be much better educated in avalanche risk and such before I attempt this terrain again. I shall be playing much closer to the piste for the time being, until I'm more confident at off-piste and have built up my leg muscles to withstand the intense pressure of powder!

Winter Sessions 2010 Launch Party Review

2010-01-28T17:17:00.005Z

Venue: Le Podium, Chamonix Patinoire/Ice Rink

Date: 18/12/09

'Mountain folk gear up for a season laced with fresh tracks and glorious powder'

As the first heavy dusting of powder hits the Chamonix valley, what better way to celebrate mountain life than with the launch of Winter Sessions 2010, a series of events led by a prolific cohort of artists/DJs/snow sports fanatics and creative types brimming with mountain soul.

Over the next five months, the head-honchos at World Sessions 2010 have concocted an events calendar spanning the Alps that is going to be hard to outshine. Lucky powder-hungry people can expect to be treated to the fresh sounds of D-Code, Jenna G, Foreign Beggars and Engine-Earz playing in resorts such as Meribel, Val D’Isere and Chamonix - culminating in a storming three-day festival in April.

The launch party got off to a stomping start with DJs in two arenas revving up the crowd, reverberating ear-tingling vibes from a white-hot sound system supplied by Funktion One. A burly crew of local artists including: Delph, IYE 95 and Skred teased and tantalised with a bouncy mix of hip-hop, breaks, and dub step. Swiss duo Luluxpo provided a hearty blend of pink-tinted electro with a sensual, loved-up vibe.

The line-up was headed by legendary godfather of hip-hop Rodney P, who exuded more energy than a six-month-old cocker spaniel - integrating himself fully with the crowd like a true showman. Rodney P belted out a barrage of familiar tunes in his iconic London wide-boy accent, inviting all of the Winter Sessions crew to join him on the decks throughout the set. This free-style attitude paid off, keeping everyone buzzing with adrenaline, exactly how mountain-junkies should feel after an epic session on the slopes.

For more info on forthcoming events go to: http://wintersessions2010.com/

Avian Invasion

2009-10-12T20:37:00.003Z

It's Monday morning, alarm goes off at 7:45. No, please just another hour!

No such luck, after a work-heavy weekend at Maunsel House (ancient stately home used as wedding and conference venue) it's usually the last place I want to be on a Monday when I'm tired and groggy. So imagine my dismay when I come upon the following situation:

I've been asked to check one of the cottages on the estate to make sure it's presentable for a viewing with potential new wedding clients. I'm thinking that it should be a quick and easy task, as none of the cottages have been used by guests all week. Well, it turns out that this cottage has been 'occupied', but not by any civilized beings.

I open the door and straight away notice two vases on the floor, one with a broken handle. Hummm, strange. I then go through to the living room and notice dark splodges on the cream rugs and books shelved above the fireplace have been knocked off-kilter like dominoes. Hummmm, I'm kind of worried now.

I turn to the left and go towards the bedroom on the left. Under the large mirror at eye level across the other side of the room is a large splattering of sludge coloured bird poo, and lots of it. Shit! Then I start to examine the room closer: everything is covered in poo. The wood-laminate floor, the fireplace, the window ledges, the curtains, the bed cover. Oh no.

Hoping that maybe the intruder hasn't investigated the rest of the cottage I go back into the sitting room and notice more poo. I walk into the other downstairs bedroom and this is worse. More poo on the cream carpet, much more poo on the window ledges and curtains. Oh, and a few picture frames are definitely squiffy. This clean up job is going to take ages. Where is the culprit - what if it's dead?!

It's a small consolation that the intruder did not poo in the bathroom, even though the door was open and inviting...

One more room to examine: the upstairs bedroom, (which is supposedly haunted) and as I slowly embark up the steep and tight stairs, the sun gleaming through a small window at eye level, I glimpse my first sight of him. Or her.

It's a black crow, a skinny one (we determined that it must have been in the cottage for at least three days) and it's misty white pupils glint in my direction as I come as far as I dare on the stairs. It doesn't squawk or move, just turned it's head more in my direction. I'm not superstitious, but I did feel a little on edge. To be honest, I was expecting it to be one of the ducks or chickens from the estate - for all the poo this bird excreted seemed too much for a crow to produce.

I'm too much of a wuss to go any further, so I head back to the main house and recruit house keeper Jane to assert her no-nonsense attitude on the crow. Jane is superstitious and she has regular psychic readings, so as we went back over to the cottage she was all-too confidently telling me that a crow in the house signifies death and she'll take the situation up with her psychic. Uh oh.

I show Jane all the poo downstairs and it's nice for someone else to share my outrage. She then bounds up to the room containing the crow, and closes the door behind her. Within seconds she's managed to grab the thing, and opens the door to show me the fairly-docile animal in her grip. She's laughing about how bony it is. It's not surprising; losing all that body weight out of its backside.

Jane opens a window and the crow flies off. I'm left on my own wondering where the hell to start on this avian invasion. An hour later, I'm fairly pleased with my effort, but not totally convinced I've detected all the brown and white matter-splatter. I then go over to the house and start deep-cleaning the industrial-sized kitchen, guh. Yuk. The man who collects the posh crystal glasses from the weekend's wedding moans to me that the motorway is clogged from here to Bristol because of a major accident. Uh oh, my parents are in Bristol, or on there way to Bristol. I can't help thinking a morbid thought that somehow the crow has brought bad luck to my family. But I'm not worried enough to call them to confirm this ridiculous speculation.

When I cycle over the motorway bridge, I am staggered to see the traffic still at a stand-still as far as my eyes can see. Little bit worried. When I get home I call mum, but it goes straight to answer machine. I leave a casual message advising them to take another route back. They don't call back till much later on in the day. Mum airily tells me that they took the motorway any way and do I need anything from Sansbury's?

I want to stop thinking about this odd start to my day, but it's one of those strange events that I needed to write down and maybe come back to. Crow, crow go away. At least he's free now and I didn't find a dead body. Must remind the management to mend the mesh over the chimney pots...

Seasonal Itchy Feet

2009-10-06T17:56:00.002Z

What is it about the metamorphosis from Autumn to winter that makes me get itchy feet, desperately in need of a change of scenery or lifestyle? I know I'm by no means the only one who feels like this, but there are certainly a few things I'm working on to metamorphose into a happy winter-dweller.

First - I'm getting fit. Signed up at the gym three weeks ago, and beginning to feel stronger and although the weight isn't exactly dropping off yet, I am enjoying the exertion, near pain of circuits, weights and hardcore cardio.

Secondly, I've got to make a massive decision very soon as to where to spend my winter and spring months. It would be far too easy to head back to the Alps and live in a bubble of hedonistic bliss, now that I have a good friendship base there, work contacts, etc. all it would take to emigrate there once more is enough money for a ski pass and deposit for accommodation. I could kid myself that this time I'd spend more time writing and less time drinking, but seriously, I could get involved in one of the two magazines that are produced in the region as well as writing screenplays from home. I think that as long as I'm not working every evening until 3 in the morning like I did last year, there's hope for the creative juices to flow forth.

My other (much more sensible option!) is to move to Bristol and get work with an independent production company. I'm volunteering at a few film festivals in the South West in the next month or two, so I have the chance to scope out the options, see what kind of jobs are on offer and build more contacts, which may then lead on to job opportunities. It's about time I got a 'proper' job, maybe even enjoy an 'office' environment... and Bristol is an un-pretentious place; smaller than London, yet sharing London's off-beat, artsy community feel. I also have quite a few friends there, so it would not feel like too much of an upheaval for me, the self-proclaimed country bumpkin.

I guess one side of the coin offers fun and frivolity with a dash of character research (also a chance to improve my skiing, learn to snowboard and live in a sublime environment), whilst the other side of the coin offers financial stability, better job opportunities, arts and culture galore... and really, really bad weather! Aghhh, now I remember the main reason why I hate the English winter: mild, rainy, mild, rainy, oh and maybe a dash of dullness thrown in for good measure.

Ok, I think I may have made a decision... ?

Reflections on an Alpine Adventure

2009-06-04T20:20:00.023Z

The following photos are a selection of my favourite views from my apartment, and on the slopes in and around the Chamonix valley during winter 2008 and spring of 2009.

A halo above the beautiful Mont Blanc mountain range - a view from our local park.

Bottled "Natural trouble"... the advertising couldn't be more correct... (well, in truth 'trouble' means 'cloudy' in French, but it caused us no end of amusement!)

One of our famous Alpine BBQ spreads

One thing I learned from living here is that dogs are the most important possessions of any self-respecting Chamonix resident. All shapes and sizes, dogs rule this town, without a doubt.

Taken on my way down the Grand Montet chair lift after the Boss Des Boss ski contest.

View from the Grand Montet chair lift, possibly my favourite chair lift due to these stunning views.

View from Grand Montet chair lift

Goodbye Vin Chaud, hello Xante. Easily my new favourite apres ski beverage.

Apres ski smiles with Vicky.

Apres ski smiles with Sophie.

A stunning sun-set above Mont Blanc, a view from our living room window.

Another stunning sun-set view from our apartment window.

The only charity shop in town had a hefty supply of classic and retro one-piece ski suits, which my friends and I utilised to the max. Here we are assembled for a 'one-piece extravaganza' and picnic at Grand Montet.

The 'Cham Bubble' after a hefty dusting of fresh snow.

Easily my favourite view/apres ski location up the mountain. Le Tour, I love you.

Iris and I after a successful day's skiing at Le Tour in the sunshine.

The Ice Bar at Le Tour.

One of the best day's skiing of the season - fresh powder, blue skies and no one on the piste! Blissful!

My ski gear. Such a difficult decision to choose a colour scheme... I thought fresh green would work well with the approaching spring...

Sun rise over the mountains, again a view we were privileged enough to witness every day from our apartment.

The approaching sun casting an eerie mist over the edge of the mountain - a view from our living room window. I still can't believe we were so very lucky to see scenes like this every day.

Advent of an Alpine Adventure 07/12/08

2008-12-09T15:07:00.001Z

As I write this, I am less than 100 yards away from the sublime heights of Mont Blanc, Chamonix. The apartment I am sharing with my sister and two friends has floor to ceiling windows on one side, looking out at a snowy winterland that changes in unexpected ways throughout the day. I’ve been here since Monday, and adjusting to the Alpine way of life is becoming easier with every flurry of snow – which is very consistent at present. Chamonix is a bit like a surreal bubble of perfection; there are beautiful, well-dressed people (and many pooches), idyllic apartments and a rocky terrain peppered with fur trees and lift stations. I couldn’t have come to a more outlandish place – in comparison to gentle, subtle Somerset.

Why have I chosen to up sticks to this part of Europe? Well, first and foremost, I want to master skiing, which in equal measures scares and thrills me. I am not too good with heights, and the first time I got in a bubble up to Les Grands Montets in March, I have to admit that my stomach was doing more than just somersaults. I will be starting on the much more suitable incline of Le Tour baby slopes – as soon as I have forked out for the kit. The second reason (and more sensible option) is to develop a number of screenplay ideas that I have been intending on starting for some time. I have two feature ideas and a few shorts, including a mixture of comedy and drama.

A few of these ideas came to me after a rather over-indulgent weekend spent at the Cornwall Film Festival, where Pernickety was screened and short listed for an audience award. We didn’t get the award, but I made friends with the winning filmmakers, who I then stayed with a few weeks ago whilst networking and volunteering at the Encounters Short Film Festival in Bristol. I find festivals fascinating, and observing them from the inside, is so much more interesting. I think there is a story in the pretentiousness hierarchy and fakery within such a bizarre environment, it would be fun to play with a character based on a young volunteer set in this environment for the first time.

I feel quite at home in the hectic flow of such events, having partaken in volunteer work at Glastonbury, Cheltenham Screenwriters Festival and Encounters this year alone. Such a great way to meet people in the industry, suss out the gossip, go to screenings and seminars for free and attend the oh-so-important networking events. I will certainly continue to make myself known at more festivals next year… maybe expanding to the London Short Film Fest and some over-seas events. They are also the perfect ground for pimping films, so Pernickety has of course been distributed accordingly. Most impressively, I think I deserve brownie points for placing Pernickety in the hands of a script editor at Working Title and Dawn Sharpless at Dazzle Films.

I also placed a number of copies on the information desk at Encounters, so there is a chance that they may have made their way into a few important people’s hands… though I have no way of knowing unless they email me with feedback. I was lucky enough to read a draft of a new Julien Temple feature script earlier in the summer, and I recently sent him a letter thanking him for letting me read it, along with a copy of Pernickety.

I am beginning to run out of steam in the distribution department though, as it’s just me doing all the promotional stuff, it’s difficult to get excited about filling in info on Withoutabox and shelling out submission fee money when some of the festivals don’t even have the courtesy to let you know if your film hasn’t made the cut. Now I’m in France, it will be even more expensive to send things off, but I will persevere, as the film should have at least another six-month’s shelf life ahead of it. I am very excited about beginning my next script, though obviously I am already stalling my progress by writing this long blog. But hey, I’m a writer and it’s all about the double-edged sword of self-doubt and procrastination!

As for the long winter months ahead, I am so very excited about après ski, observing Chamonix’s characters and spending time with friends on the slopes, and writing of course. Just last night I witnessed a crazy scene that is begging to be used in a film.

Picture this: all my new friends smoke, and so as not to appear like a complete loner in the bar when they all went out for a fag, I reluctantly donned my coat and followed suit. There was already some kind of commotion going on outside, but things became pretty clear when we heard a man barking at a snarling dog just in front of the bar’s forecourt.

The man, obviously deranged, or drunk or both would not stop barking, circling the dog, provoking it, testing its authority. The owner of the dog pleaded with him to stop, but to no avail. The Frenchman now started shouting obscenities at the dog owner, his scraggly hair shaking violently around his bony face. Other people were now getting involved, trying to calm the Frenchman down, and ushering him away from the dog. The commotion upset not only the crowd that had congregated, but the other dogs in the area were all cowering away, accept for the one that the Frenchman was venting his anger at.

Eventually the Frenchman backed off and staggered off with his friend, still murmuring and flailing his arms around as he went. It was such a strange situation, and a visually arresting scene to witness. Obviously it was pretty horrific to see a man challenging a big snarling dog, but very cinematic non-the-less. I will try and write it into something, for sure.

Right, now I must get on with some real writing, fire up Final Draft for the first time since Pernickety, which was about four months ago, but first, I must eat the remains of a delicious celeriac soup that I made yesterday. Bon appetite!

PERNICKETY PREMIERE

2008-08-11T10:01:00.003Z

Pernickety premiered to a full house (50/60 people) on Friday 08/08/08. Thank you everyone who came along, it was a fabulous event, with much laughter. The film has since been shortlisted for the Deloble Audience Award at the Cornish Film Festival, Falmouth in Novemeber. We submitted Pernickety to the Virgin Media Shorts Competition, it didn't get shortlisted, but a snippet of the film is available to watch and make comment on:

http://www.virginmediashorts.co.uk/film/1632707077

And, if you haven't already joined the Pernickety Facebook group, please do so by clicking this link:

http://www.facebook.com/groups/edit.php?success=1&customize&gid=37537091240#/group.php?gid=3753709

The film is going to be screened with Groovy Movie at the International British Riviera Comedy Film Festival in the last weekend of September, and I have just send a bunch of copies off to various international film festivals including the NBC Short Cuts, USA.

PERNICK PREVIEWS AT GLASTONBURY FESTIVAL 2008

2008-07-06T11:16:00.003Z

A week before Glastonbury festival 2008, I emailed the coordinator behind the solar-powered mobile cinema, Groovy Movies. After hearing that my good friend Richard's film was due to be screened in their cinema during Glastonbury festival, I thought that there would be no harm in asking that Pernickety have a preview there. Hattie was very accommodating, and said that she would make a decision as soon as she received a copy of the film. I was aiming to send her a copy before the festival, but a few technical hitches with the soundscaping on the film meant that Alex was not ready to send out copies until the Wednesday of the festival.

After briefly setting up my camp, I ran to the Green fields to find Groovy Movies and hand over the film, very hot off the press! I found Hattie in a van surrounded by kids. She was cooking a stew, we had a bit of a natter, she said she'd watch it after lunch and text me her verdict. I had already printed off at least 100 flyers to hand out, so by this point I'm preying that she'll like it and give us the slot on Sunday evening.

Two hours later Hattie gave her consent, but changed the screening to Friday sometime after 10pm. This threw me a little, as I'd already told everyone it would be on Sunday.... and she hadn't specified a time, so that all felt a bit vague. But, we had a date! And how many people can say that their film previewed at Glastonbury?

The next day (Thursday) I set to work amending the flyers with a big fat marker pen, and text the invite like crazy to everyone I knew on site. My friends in the press office took a wodge of flyers, and I took loads with me on shift at my Information desk. How strange to be mixing business with pleasure at a festival like Glastonbury! It was tough to get the balance right, but made the whole experience all the more exciting.

With Friday came a bit more rain, enough to give me a touch of depression, but on the plus side, more people turned up to the screening to shelter from the rain, so I guess it had mixed blessings... surrounded by my friends on the front row of Groovy Movies, camera in hand, and drink in the other, I listened as the projectionist introduced Pernickety, my heart did not stop pounding from that moment until beyond the closing credits. I nervously looked around to try and gage people's reactions, there was at least 40 bodies absorbed in the film...

For a twenty-minute film, Pernickety raced by with the new soundtrack setting a pace previously unattained. We got a good round-of-applause, and most of my friends begged for a speech, but I was just too stunned to do anything other than breath. Alex and Al Butter were standing at the back of the tent, and they seemed equally over-whelmed. I remember asking Hattie if she would show it again on Sunday, before leaving the tent in search of the closest bar...

Since the showing, Hattie from Groovy Movies has contacted me to ask if she can take Pernickety to be shown at the International English Riviera Comedy Festival in Torquay in September. Of course I said yes! I'm in the process of arranging a proper premiere at the Engine Room in Bridgwater, towards the end of July. There are a few kinks that need ironing out in the soundtrack and a few minor editing issues to address before we send the finished film to more important competitions and film festivals, but we have at least 10 days before the next set of deadlines, so I think we'll take it at a leisurely pace.

Please excuse my shaky camera work here, seeing your name on the big screen for the first time is un-nerving to say the least!

Pick Up Shots Day 7

2008-06-23T17:41:00.014Z

So, last Thursday, Alex, James, Dan and I troop back to Wellington to finish gathering the last of the shots for Pernickety. There's a list of six shots, and it takes us 11 hours to shoot them. Gordon's perfectionist streak has rubbed off onto all of us, and there's no point in doing anything half-heartedly now! Alex and I had to be body doubles for Gordon and Penelope, which was highly amusing... I got to wear Kellie's crasy boots, and a cushion cover to hide the fact that we didn't have Kellie's costumes on set. Luckily, we had all of Gordon's attire, and Alex fitted them a treat, although it become obvious that they are certainly not the same body shape! But by making us out-of-focus, James managed to achieve the shots effortlessly. I was worried that the amount of moles I have on my arms might get picked up on, but having watched the edit today, I'm fairly satisfied we've done a good enough cover-up!

Here's Alex watching back the shot of the female figurine smashing on the piece of marble we placed under the carpet to give it a better chance of shattering. It worked a treat, only I was out buying fish and chips for lunch and the boys neglected to wait for me before they got into destruction mode - not fair, I'd been gagging to see them perish, as I'd spent so much time making sure they stood together safely before this moment. (Remember me saying that we only had one set of each...)
Here's one of the figurines used in the finale, but notice a slight alteration to his arm... he has two hands! Oh the fun we had with these figurines, I've still got the whole collection at home, in various states of grotesque disarmament!

We couldn't have asked for better weather for these establishing shots, the sun was shining on the front of the house to highlight the features and add yet more grandeur to the establishment... You'd never guess that it's a b-u-n-g-a-l-o-w!

Alex, (still wearing Gordon's outfit on his lower-half), James and Dan work out how to frame the shot, as I watch for traffic on this road outside my Grandma's house... They're aiming for a sweeping pan across the hedge and up to the sign I so lovingly made, shame it only gets about two seconds screen time and you can't even see the bit that reads, "Proprietor Mr. G. Pernick". Oh well, it still looks authentic though.

Mid-way-through this tricky pan, Dan sticks the camera through the letter box and paps us in full-concentration mode...

Alex and Holly looking oh so professional using the crane to pan up to the door bell and then up to the light above the door. Turned out to be quite a tricky shot as there was only two of us to maneuver the crane and I also had to body double in order to press the bell!

The video clips below include high-lights of smashing the figurines on a marble slab under a piece of carpet, assembling and moving the crane so as not to get run over by traffic, Alex throwing a newspaper (ie the paper boy) at a gnome for a 'realistic' morning establishing shot. Then there's Alex pondering about how to make the figurines fly to the floor realistically, whilst He and I act as Gordon and Penelope's body doubles!

Test Title Sequence

2008-06-16T17:25:00.003Z

Above is a screen grab of the wireframe Phil created for the teapot that pours out the letters P-e-r-n-i-c-k-e-t-y and then they rearrange themselves neatly, as if Gordon is at work! Phil has thus far only seen stills and video clips of the production, so I am amazed that he has picked up on my vision so accurately, this tea pot is pretty much exactly the same as the one Gordon uses to woo Penelope at breakfast! Phil created this from scratch in a day, and he's got some great ideas for the credits...

Here is a sneaky peek at his first try at the title:

For a first attempt, I am absolutely gob-smacked! I think it's perfect as it is, but striving for absolute perfectionism - I asked Phil if he can make the tea pot pour more than once and have a few more of the letters rearranging themselves for the next try. He said yes, so I can't wait to see how it turns out...

Phil lives in Manchester and can be contacted via the following routes:

www.PhilBearman.co.uk
0161 834 3328
07740 367197

DVD Artwork

2008-06-16T16:46:00.006Z

Phil suggested that we put a few credits on the front cover, which I think works very well, and he faded out the wallpaper under the text to make it stand out more coherently. I still need to work out what text is going to run at the bottom of the back page, but as yet, the running time is still negotiable, so I'll probably leave it to the last minute.

This is what Phil sent me the same afternoon that I set him my mock-up, pure genius! I have no idea how he did it so quickly, just cut and pasting mine took a whole morning...

I didn't want to give too much away on the front cover (right page), so I thought keep it simple and go for the title and tag line. The back page has the comedy image of Gordon inspecting his cactus for de-fluffing.

I had no idea how to convey my idea for the artwork in words, so I thought I'd just make a mock-up, scan it and then send it to Phil. It's very basic, but Phil must have understood my vision - see above!

How pleased I was to get an email from my best friend's (Stills Photographer on Pernickety) brother, Phil Bearman saying he was keen to start on the artwork for the DVD cases and graphics for the title sequence! For free! It's amazing how people want to keep the momentum going on such a low-budget project, the good will just keeps fizzing up and up...

Premiere and Publicity

2008-06-05T10:47:00.004Z

To anyone interested in viewing the film, it should be ready for a screening at the end of June, most probably at the Engine Room, (http://www.theengineroom.net/) in Bridgwater.

Updates about the film can be found if you join the Pernickety Facebook group: http://www.facebook.com/photo_search.php?oid=37537091240&view=user#/group.php?gid=37537091240

Any questions or enquiries can be directed to me at: pernickety@hotmail.com
The website with extra features such as; script excerpts, detailed cast and crew biographies, and an extensive photo gallery will soon be available on: www.mrpernickety.co.uk

Thanks again to everyone involved, especially Matt, James and Alex of Level Films (http://www.levelfilms.co.uk/index.html) for their help with the budget and getting the cumbersome kit to and from each location! Alex has commenced editing, and he's a pro, so fingers crossed a rough cut will be ready by the end of this week...

THE POSTER SHOTS

2008-06-03T20:46:00.010Z

Here's a selection of my favourite images, poster shots for promotion of the film, courtesy of Miss Kerry Bearman, of Kerry Bearman Photography.
www.kerrybearman.co.uk

Here is the photo-shopped image that Kerry has been working on for the home page of the Pernickety website - coming very soon! The idea is that he will stand like this, with vile beige wallpaper behind, as various trinkets from his collection fall and build up around his body, eventually covering him from head to foot.

Massive thanks to all crew and cast involved in 'Pernickety', it's been a roller coaster of a week, with much, much hilarity. I haven't laughed quite so much, quite so consistently in years... my cheeks still hurt from laughing... The most significant achievement of this project has been the amount of dedication everyone has put into it for nothing - for the love of filmmaking. I added up my receipts last night, and my outgoings for the project (from screen test to expenses, to presents for location owners and cast) is £300. I know that the Level Films boys have spent about £200, so we've made a film with (I think) very high production values for approx £500. With a crew of 6/7 people!

Nick said that the big budget shorts that he has starred in in the past have had triple the amount of crew, so I think we've succeeded to prove that smaller can be better. I haven't felt so exhausted in a while, but the immense sense of achievement I feel now weighs out any niggles... having so much control over the project also gave me a much needed confidence boast.

PERNICKETY DAY 6

2008-06-03T19:43:00.009Z

Day 6 at the Walnut Tree hotel in North Petherton started off promising, as we arrived an hour earlier than anticipated, but then it swiftly went a bit pear-shaped. After carrying up the kit, James and I went into Taunton to get some props from Sainsbury's, then onto the rugby club to pick up a mini-bus that was supposed to be used for taking the dolly and kit back to Bristol later in the day. James filled the tank from a Jerry can, and then got in and turned the key. The engine made disapproving noises. He tried again, again and then a short pause. It sounded like it was dying! And it was!

We then drove (in James car) to his friend's work place to see if we could borrow his van for the day. No problem, but not till after two o'clock... ok, so we go back to the hotel and get on with setting up as quickly as possible. As I wasn't paying to use the room, Claire (receptionist) said we had to finish up by two. For all the other days of the shoot we didn't have time limits, so the pressure felt unusual and unpleasant. But, we only had one scene to shoot, so surely, it wouldn't take long?!

It was great to have Matt around today, (see above, the man below the dangling knickers) a fresh face and another person to witness the eccentricities of Gordon Pernick... the room was better than I remembered, and the twin beds worked a treat to add further awkwardness to Gordon's naive disposition. Set dressing was fun - flinging underwear around the room and messing everything up... I think the boys got a kick out of the situation we were setting up and there was certainly enough laughter to prove the affirmative.

Here's Nick eating some ridged Hoola Hoops on the (closed) toilet, taking a short respite in between takes. The first part of this scene took no less than 15 takes, a record number for the shoot... I really believe it was the time constraint that was putting us on edge... and there was a lot for Gordon to interact with as well...

The last of the nasty figurines, Gertrude, loses her head in this scene, but she also lost her arm, due to Nick's over-enthusiastic handling of her... but instead of fretting, we turned it into another comedy moment. Maybe the young couple deliberately broke her and stuffed her broken arm up into her neck!!! Yes, that'll work...

Some hilarious video clips of the boys playing with pants and figurines... they'll probably kill me for this...

PERNICKETY DAY 5

2008-06-03T17:44:00.013Z

Last night I took Nick with me and my sister, Lilli to our friend's 50th birthday party at a village hall in North Newton. Needless to say, we got very, very drunk, and I still needed to find two extras for day 6. I don't think I got out of producer mode all night - "Hey, Lloyd, what'ya doing tomorrow, do'ya wanna be an actor?!" Most said no, or maybe, but Charlotte, trusty Charlotte says a definite "YES" straight off. Love the girl, what a legend...
Think Crabb might have already agreed, but I was too drunk to remember if we'd found a man to play Charlotte's on-screen beau.

Woke up this morning very, very drunk, and extremely tired. Got up, made breakfast for Nick, packed the car, then phoned Charlotte. She's still up for it.. see you in ten. Nick arrives for scrambled eggs and tea, James arrives and then we wait for Charlotte. We're already half an hour late... I ask Lilli to phone her again. She's waiting for us, in North Petherton. Oops! First boo boo to me. So we make a quick get away in James' car and race up to pick up Charlotte. Luckily her and Crabb are ready to go, if a little jaded from the booze. They fit into their characters extremely well, a couple of young'uns off for a dirty weekend away... Alex suggests we give them a few lines, I whole-heartedly agree, but then can't come up with the dialogue as the booze has cut off the supply of brain juice to my head...

This (below) is our genius cast and crew shot, standing in front of a topiaried tea pot - yet another irony on this shoot! My Gran's house is full of tea pots, she has tea pot books, we use tea pots in just about every single scene, then - BANG - we're following a road that leads to our second location and here this surprise feature awaits our thirty eyes! Pure and utter freakery...

I think day 5 was my favourite (despite the HUGE hang over and being told off by Alex for making everyone late, oops!) day because everything felt natural and we really were having this much fun! The phallic references and slap-stick-esque behaviour of the characters really meshed well with our collective sense of humour. Kellie came back from Bristol at 4, just in time for pasties and a good giggle!

PERNICKETY DAY 4

2008-06-03T16:09:00.011Z

Day 4. begins well, there is a buzz in the air that reeks of confidence and happiness with cast and crew alike.... I think we know what we're doing! Everything has clicked! Except for Kellie's fringe, which is being most unruly today... until we get Kerry (stills photography) to help out... and calms the waters. Well done Kerry, and thanks for your fabulous pictures, which I will post later!
A bit of quiet time as the cast enjoy the wireless facilities during a coffee break... god bless the Internet!

Here's James rigging up a blonde(?) I'm still coming to grips with the terminology of lights and other bits, but find it quite amusing that some of the most important bits of kit have the most ludicrous names - dolly? Red head? Peganini?

Here is a selection of video clips from day 4. my favourite is the one where Dan plugs in our beige prop phone to call Alex, who is in the next room... Alex is not best pleased, but it was highly entertaining for the rest of us! Also, Gordon looks decidedly creepy before his hair is fixed, maybe belonging in a horror movie about hair or a reincarnation of Norman Bates?!

Also, check out Nick's animal impressions - absolutely amazing!

PERNICKETY DAY 3

2008-06-03T14:42:00.010Z

Here's Kellie looking fresh and beautiful at the start of day 3. I know the shot is over-exposed, but it's effective against her dark hair...Here's Alex pondering on how the hell we're going to achieve the show-down between Gordon and Penelope, that is also supposed to be a seduction. It ended up taking about two/three hours to set up, but the results are perfect. We decided against letting the audience see them getting it on, on the sofa, and instead decided upon the much more subtle approach of suggestion and rattling tea cups. Then Warwick recorded some soundtrack with Nick, repeating a series of "Yes's", gradually getting louder and more climactic... absolutely hilarious!!! Bearing in mind Nick has done a lot of radio work, voice-overs and such, his comedic timing is impeccable, and it echoes the "No, no, no's" he mutters to Penelope in the finale. I'm glad the original ending stuck, because I don't think audiences should be spoon fed!

We were so lucky with the props that my Gran already had at her house, I hardly had to bring in anything, and then someone spotted this teapot book and we suddenly had a reason to keep Gordon in the room during Penelope's breakfast scene.

I was so worried about these figurines, as I only had one pair for this finale scene. I'd bought other sets, but they'd already been used in other scenes. We put cushions on the floor and had a load of practices using aerosol cans... they didn't get smashed, but Nick managed to bounce one off the edge of the table so that it looked fairly serious. Alex and I will have to do the smashing on carpet shot next week. We've borrowed a piece of matching carpet from my Gran and are intending on filming me in Kellie's boots treading on the broken pieces. I know it's cheating, but it would have taken too long to get the shot right on this particular day and would have required half a dozen sets of identical figurines...

Here's Kellie looking extremely mischievous, momentarily dominating her opponent in the challenge of figurine positioning!

Kellie looking very cheeky again, using the Rushbury charm to seduce Gordon into thinking he's won the game!

Good chin action here, Gordon, what could Penelope possibly be reaching for here?

A short video clip of a section of the finale:

PERNICKETY DAY 2

2008-06-03T12:44:00.016Z

Day 2. and the sun is shining! Nick is in character and looking dashingly beige... again! We have two additional crew today, Lilli on costume design and Dan Gale (Right Smart Productions) on camera/lighting. I stocked up on sweets, chocolate and pastries today as we seemed to use up a lot of food yesterday, and I figure that if I can keep the crew and cast's bellies happy, then we're going to have a great, artificially energetic day... here's Nick arriving outside for tea and donuts, in a typical Gordon-esque pose.

Oh no, the sugar high has peaked and the energy lull has sent Nick to sleep. What this photo doesn't show is that ten minutes later, my Gran sat in the chair behind Nick, he woke up when his head fell off the arm rest and he shouted "F**K" at the top of his voice, he thinks (or hopes) that my Gran found it amusing...

Whist doing the last bit of cleaning in preparation for today, I found my favourite teddy, Pennington bear. He's a lot smaller than I remember, but then, I won him at play group... so I was pretty tiny then as well!

To give the impression of space, the crew took this shot outside the window, through the gazelle's antlers for added depth and a unique focal point. I love Alex's vision here, the whole film has a theme running through it that will help to bring that connection between Gordon and his objects of affection closer to the audience.

So glad Dan took over my camera for a while today - he also has a great way with composition and such a cheeky type of humour...

Another one of Dan's shots, the lighting is just beautiful here... definitely a poster shot!

Tea time and we're all having more cakes - all except James, who found a pack of Pringles in the kitchen and hid in the corner to devour them.. until Dan exposed him in this shot... we didn't know who they belonged to, but they disappeared again straight after this tea break. Where did they go, James?

A fabulous shot here, and another stroke of genius by Alex, using the lamp as another devise for clever framing. Kellie was not best pleased with the distortion of her face, but we all thought it was ace!

More videos here; one of Kellie whistling magnificently in between takes, one of us all laughing at the lamp distortion (sorry Kellie!) and one of Kellie and Nick fighting over the last night's Indian takeaway...

PERNICKETY DAY 1

2008-06-02T19:16:00.015Z

Day 1. felt a bit awkward and alien, (mainly because I felt out of depth and tired from a previous day's shoot on a friend's film), but I was determined to put 100 % into the project... once we'd found our bearings, located props from their hiding places and fed the cast - we were ready to shoot. We only got about two/three scenes done, but taking our time and striving for perfectionism paid off as we went our separate ways that night.

Here's Nick and Kellie at the end of day 1. feasting on a fantastic array of Indian dishes from my local restaurant in North Petherton... the staff stayed open just for us and it was certainly appreciated! Although I personally wish I hadn't indulged in the rich stuff as I did not sleep a wink, too much digestion for my body to cope with...

Here's Nick with a Sabata moustache, just before he slicks back his hair and trims the Sabata into a neat pencil... he's ready to become Gordon...

Here's Alex and James (www.levelfilms.co.uk/) setting up the dolly that we managed to blag from a company in Bristol for virtually nothing, I think they paid for 1 and a half days (£150) for a six day shoot - good work! In the photo below, the dolly is sinking into the soggy ground, when we left at around 11pm, the next door neighbours (on a slightly lower flood plain) were evacuating water from their houses... we were very lucky to get this break in the rain.

Day 1 and I'm feeling a bit daunted, but excited about the forthcoming week's filming. Nick agreed to a wardrobe fitting last night, and aside from freeing up a button on some trousers, all is well and looking decidedly beige. Also notice that Nick's face is covered in hair and he really didn't want to remove it... "nice to see you, to see you nice!"

These are a few video clip from later on day 1.
The hall way that looks pretty immaculate here was covered with carpet and completely full of junk, so I had to clear it, clean it as the boys set up the kit... really wish I'd had time the previous week to do a proper good cleaning-up operation. I thought my Gran kept a startlingly pristine home, but we all suffered from dust/allergy-type symptoms as the week went on... it's probably been years since the house has been deep cleaned.

Props and Giggles

2008-06-02T18:57:00.005Z

Here's the finished reception desk, complete with side flaps for Gordon to hide behind... took three coats... and was still sticky during filming - oops.... I'm always a bit on the generous side when painting...

Unfortunately, Alex pipped at the post for a cracking "vacancies" tag on EBay, and with pre-production time running out, I decided to build on my prop collection... The sign is actually red nail varnish painted over the same gold ones as in guest house sign, but I didn't have a big 's' left, so I had to use another letter's outline as a stencil!

Mr. Pernick's Guest House Comes Alive

2008-05-25T18:21:00.011Z

Eight packs of assorted letters, with my maths brain on over-drive to make sure the spacing was right, and I've made something that looks half professional - providing you don't look at it too closely!

One old frame found after scavenging in the attic: right size, right decoration...

Frame washed, brushed and painted...

The molding painted white lacked depth, so Dad gave me a golden crayon that I rubbed over the pattern, which adds a whole new dimension to the frame.

Once I'd taken the sign outside, the glare from the glass disappeared... which I was glad about because it would loose depth if I took the glass out all together. I couldn't find a "G" that was the same size as the rest of the letters, and I think a lower case "g" looks a bit wrong, so I may replace it with a capital one that is smaller...

Here's the reception desk with undercoat, bought some 'bitter chocolate' paint to coat it with next to make it look as naturally wooden as possible. Dad's adding a panel on the front and flaps that he's going to hinge to the sides.

2008-05-18T20:58:00.004Z

Dont' worry - this is only a mock up! I need to buy more packs of lettering because they don't seem to put enough of the biggest sized ones in...

This is the mock up sign outside my house, to see if the gold lettering could be picked up well enough on camera. I think it stands out enough... I know the lettering is wonky, but you just wait till you see the real one with its properly measured spacing and all!

Props Away!

2008-05-18T20:36:00.002Z

Just had quite an exhausting day making props for Pernickety. I've taken it upon myself to make the sign for the guest house and paint the reception desk that my dad has kindly amended for the purpose of the film. I had a brilliant meeting with Alex at the end of last week, and it looks as though we've rectified our location issues fairly painlessly.

To avoid problems finding an exterior that matches our other two locations, we're going to use the rather grand drive way to my Grandma's house, where we are shooting most of the film. We're going to have three of the six shooting days there, which is ace because the house is in a quiet part of Wellington and we'll have a lot of free roam due to my Gran's relaxed attitude to the production. She may even make sandwiches for the crew! We can only hope!

Most of our crew is assembled now, and the Alex is busy making a dolly... I've got a few more bits for Gordon's wardrobe to find, and the sign to finish, but on the whole, I'm feeling pretty happy about how organised we are. I attended a meeting for another short production that is being produced through the web of Engine Room freelancers on Thursday, Josh (DOP) asked me if I'd like a small speaking part in it! Ever-so slightly flabbergasted, I said yes, because I need to do more things that challenge me, and I think it will be beneficial to see the production from an actors point of view.

The scene I'm require for involves me serving two professional actors (Sharon Duce and Peter McGowan) at a supermarket checkout. They're a troubled couple, and Peter's character makes a bit of an idiot out of himself in front of his wife, other customers and me... I'm trying to learn my lines, but I know I'll forget them as soon as I get in front of the camera. But, I guess that's the beauty of film, you can do loads of takes and still get it wrong... and then they can re-cut it in the edit! Magic!

I'm so glad to be having so much creative control over Pernickety, it's great to see it though with such a lovely bunch of people who are all doing this in the name of art. It's crazy to think that the only money I've put towards this project has gone on secondhand props and actors expenses! I think I've spent a total of £90 so far... I think I read in Empire earlier that most of the up-coming blockbusters are being made for upwards of $35 million, which is just absolutely ludicrous...

I'll post some pics of the work I've done today on the props... rather proud really. I know the sign will only get approximately four seconds of screen time, but it's got to look spot on, or otherwise some wise-ass will no-doubt laugh about it... and that would be heartbreaking!

Prop Hunting

2008-05-04T15:06:00.007Z

So, the race is on to collect all of Gordon's collectibles before the shoot, which is in approximately eight days time! Lilli and I got most of his wardrobe from charity shops in Bridgwater -oh what a beautiful collection of ties you have now, Gordon... all (about four costume changes) for less than £30. We are on a non-existent budget, so I'm all for a bit of recycling.

Today, I went to a car booty just outside of Taunton - not a complete waste of time, but it wasn't quite as rewarding as I'd hoped. We found a number of figurines, but no matching tea sets or interestingly naff condiment dispensers. It is a bank holiday weekend though, so we're off again a bit further afield tomorrow for the rest of the prop list... lets hope there's some buried treasure. And at least these treasures come at 50p or £1 max, so it's not such a drag to keep hold of such tat - sorry Gordon, I love you really!

Below is Ermintrude, and she figures in one of the most important scenes. She is intact here, but a young couple later break her head off in the heat of a passionate, and slightly violent embrace.

Below is headless Ermintrude, a lot of comedy comes to the fore when Gordon looks for the head which has rolled under the bed, but he has to abandon his mission when he realises the young couple are on their way back up to the room...

We may use this set of figurines (below) for the final scene, when Gordon fight over them, but I think we will need copies of these if we want to do the scene in more than one take... oops, didn't think about that!