The Trouble with Travel

There are, at least, three babies teetering on the edge of screaming, two arrogant teenagers to the side of me talking slang that I'm still yet to understand, I have Aldi pasta salad all over my shirt and some woman's sparkling water all over my crotch. Guess where I am? 

Sitting on the 6.10pm Megabus down to London, that inexplicably takes four and a half hours when I've bombed down the M6 all the way to Kent in about that time, I'm faced with the inevitable question: whatever happened to travelling in style? Where are the glam days of fabulous hard suitcase and Jackie O waving at the paps as she steps off the plane in a classic Chanel three-piece? For lack of a dry martini I've just munched through an entire bag of very dry (very plain) tortilla chips and considered that, as we're stuck with this shitty method of transportation because the rail prices are extortionate, these are the some of my own personal rules of carriage that are imperative to abide by:

1.    My knees are necessary. They help me walk. Push your fucking chair back upright or I'll jab both of them straight into your back. Dick. 

2.    Nobody likes the smell of fish on a packed coach. Not even people who like fish. Put...the sushi...down  

3.    No, no, we're not going to have a friendly chat about which musical you're going to see. I bloody love musicals and I'm not interested. What does that tell you? Face front; keep your mouth shut. 

4.    I have an eclectic music taste but I can't say I'm a life long fan of "kids' TV show background music" as a sub-genre. There's a reason Taylor Swift is yet to duet with Peppa Pig; put some headphones on your child because It's 2015 so you might as well get them used to It. 

5.   Nobody has enough stuff to vocalise for four hours that they can't write in a text or extensive email. You're not a lovesick 15 year old girl so there's absolutely no excuse, nor health benefit, for talking on your phone the entire way. 

6.   As above, why are you conducting business right now?! Clearly you're not the high-flying exec that you're trying to make us think you are or you'd be in the first class lounge of Gatwick right now, or at the very least the quiet coach of a Virgin Pendolino. We're all on a Megabus trying to forget the week so shut the fuck up. 

7.    You stink. Always wash before venturing on to a coach.

8.    In fact, just always wash! Before leaving the house!  

9.    Oh yes, look, we have indeed stopped at a service station! Do you remember the driver saying we could all get up and go for a fag break though? No, me neither. Do you remember him saying that we're just stopping for a driver change? Oh.my.god...me too! So sit down shut up and go back to Candy Crush, yeah?  

10.  We're in London now. Disappear into the crowd and if we happen to see each other on Oxford Street you are absolutely not permitted to look at, talk to, or approach me. See you on the return. 

 Oh and this one is for the drivers:

1.     You're not a comedian. The driver on the way down made the same joke. It's not funny to pretend we're all on the wrong coach. It's not funny to pretend the air con has broken. It's definitely not funny to say you're going to sell all of our lost property on Ebay to pay for your divorce: that's theft. Shut up and drive.

2Faced Dance Company: Out Of His Skin – a review

Choreography: Tamsin Fitzgerald 
Dancers: Johnny Autin, Nicholas Bodych, Nathan French, Alex Rowland, Tom Tindall, Ed Warner

“Say what you need to say plainly, and then take responsibility for it” Ai Weiwei


When I received an email saying I could get tickets to see an all-male dance piece for just a tenner…I was pretty much typing in my card details before I’d even read the synopsis. When I found out it was about adrenaline junkies well that was it: forever a whore for a bargain I dragged my partner to the Lowry on a Friday night preparing for him to fall asleep and me to be inspired. As it happened, by the closing curtain, he was crying and I already had a scathing article written in my head.


Let me first clarify that this review in no way calls into question the talent, finesse and virtuosity of the dancers on stage because, for anyone who wasn't
 asleep in the theatre, there was no question about it: they were marvellous. My cynicism comes from a more sceptical view, I guess from experience, of the choreography I saw that night. My partner felt I was elitist; I felt I was entitled.

©www.2faceddance.co.uk

As the audience piled in, and half-filled the theatre, I noticed that the tall tower of scaffolding erected upstage right was housing a man in the foetal position, watching us for a reaction. A disturbing sense of Déjà Vu started to cloud my previously open mind. Once we were done with the attempt to build tension in the space the dancer ran around his tiny prison for a few minutes and then promptly threw himself off of the scaffolding and on to a huge, obvious, eye-sore of a crash mat that I presume was supposed to be hidden away to continue the illusion. I was instantly reminded of the ending scene in Black Swan and fully expected to see him emerge from the wings in a tutu and breathe “I was perfect”.

The choreography progressively disappointed me from then onward.

I could pick out, at least, four motifs that were easily traceable back to their workshop routes and it’s my (humble, I might add) opinion that these methods of choreographing should be seamlessly hidden away in the tapestry – unidentifiable. We had “listen to this music and move to the instruments you hear”: the dancers exaggerated the movement of playing a violin and added an ill-suited gorilla hunch to it. Next was “see how many styles of dance you can bring to the plate”: we had break dancing, contemporary, a couple of plies for ballet and then a selection of Latin ballroom flares which, frankly, were horrendously misplaced and kept appearing out of nowhere like a blundering uncle at a Christmas party. Imagine all of the above then throw in some “what ticks do you produce when you’re frustrated?” head jerks and ten minutes of “natural” stillness...and that’s pretty much what I witnessed. Although you’d also be right in imagining a GCSE drama piece. Certainly if you bear in mind the opening sequence.

To give credit where credit’s due some of the blame has to lie with the marketing around the piece. A YouTube video starting with a man hovering on the edge of a sky scraper and a plot summary claiming we’ll see dancers “Pushing every available boundary and risking everything until there is nothing left”? Well yes, to give the choreographer a break, it was the marketing that lead me astray. With taglines such as “unpredictable, fierce and tender” and “One man searches [..] for the next big thing” I was expecting to see some death-defying falls; a string of erratic twists on common choreography; maybe even a couple of lighting tricks but, instead, there were just lifts-that-we've-
all-seen, common choreography with no twists (let alone erratic ones) and a boring set that had so, SO much potential! The fact that the program even credited a stunt coordinator was baffling to me…did they hire him just for that one cliff dive at the beginning?

©www.blackpoolgrand.co.uk

I know that this may read like an unrelenting rant attacking very commonly used, very professional, choreographic techniques but, in reality, it’s my admiration for what the dance as aiming at that brings about frustration. This piece didn't need any techniques in fact all they did was cheapen the act. An act that may well have been ground breaking had they kept the speed high and the adrenaline pumped; transcending through the sweat and out into the audience. The themes of greed, frustration and angst in a struggling socio-economic climate were so incredibly current, personal and relevant that I wanted a lot more than what was offered. I wanted movement derived from hours of passionate, unstructured, improvisation; visibly exhilarated dancers pushing themselves to their physical limits then pulling back at the last minute, not because of choreographic direction but out of pure fear. Then going for it all over again just because they felt like it. Wasn't that what we were told we would be seeing? Risk? Rush? Fear? Instead they punctuated tense moments of “oh shit he was at the top of that tower and managed to climb through three other men to get to the bottom within seconds” with odd playground head spins and uninspired contact work that simply fell flat in the face of such expectations.

Again, I dispute not the ferocity of the dancers but the ferocity of the piece…I've seen it all before! I saw nothing new, nothing remotely daring that evening that would grab me by the balls and leave me feeling like I’d just seen the reincarnation of Martha Graham.

On reflection, perhaps I judge too harshly and it was just unfairly high expectations and, above all, taste. Taste developed after seeing some incredible works at the Lowry before: such as, on a side note, Hofesh Shechter’s Political Mother - during which dancers threw themselves around the stage as a three tiers of a live band smashed away at guitars and drums and a dictator figure towered above them screaming inaudible hate speech. The sight of that promptly pushed everything I thought I knew about dance out the window. Out of His Skin did leave me feeling subtly aroused…but only because they all took their shirts off at the end.

"Tattu, and you?"

It’s a special occasion, you’re sexy twenty-something city dwellers and you want to earn bragging rights on Instagram…where do you go? To a trendy new bar with an ominous name and a website loaded with sophisticatedly dark interior shots, of course.

Though I walk through Spinningfields almost every day of the week I could not for the life of me remember seeing this “new fancy Chinese restaurant” anywhere. Ten minutes after strolling past The Oast House three times, and with Google Maps in hand, I was still none-the-wiser and the bottle of Prosecco we'd downed just before leaving refused to do anything other than add to the fog. Ged (birthday boy, partner in life and crime --->) was just on the edge of deciding that I'd fabricated the entire existence of this place when we spotted two burly bouncers hovering outside what looked like an entirely black glass wall at the very edge of Hardman Square. We approached with nervous caution and only when said bouncers pulled apart a galleon ship's wheel to usher us into a very dark foyer did we realise just how intimate an affair this was going to be. 

On first impression I was confused at how small the building was but was simultaneously distracted by the giant anchors, draped in flowers, hanging down from the roof and realised there’s a second floor. “This is the kind of joint that I need to be seen wandering through with a cocktail”, I thought. Said cocktails were not only reasonably priced at £7 - £10 (considering you could walk into any number of overpriced Canal Street bar and expect to be charged £7.50 for syrup-in-a-glass-masquerading-as-a-Mojito) they were abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. I ordered a "Bambu - Baby Panda" and was treated to the cutest glass you've ever seen in your life. The restraint I had to muster just to hand it back to the waitress when I was done surely warrants a free meal. Or at the very least a free bamboo straw. As for the cocktail itself, I can only really remember it noting vanilla vodka as an ingredient but I'm pretty certain it was the spirit of life in liquid form, no joke. And the spirit of life tasted gooood. Ged ordered something with rum, I think, but who cares because he didn’t get a panda glass.

Being lead upstairs felt akin to be whisked away to a secret society; the narrow staircase was carved from dark wood and delicately lit by small lotus flowers cut out of the steps that tied in nicely with the great big blossom tree that stood proudly in the middle of the restaurant floor when we arrived at the top. It was pretty breath-taking to be honest. Once we’d taken our seats we were handed the two glasses of what I presume was sparkling rosé that Ged's friend (cheers Keebs) had ordered us from London. I say "presume" because I never actually found out what it was but as soon as I saw it was pink and fizzy I couldn't give a shit what it was, so sparkling rosé it is. 

  

So let’s talk about the food. We ordered Chicken and chilli Gau and Lobster and prawn toast for Dim sum. Ged fawned over the softness of the chicken and used his chopstick prowess to flirt with the waitress whilst I admired the crockery and tried to find the fastest way to get it in my mouth in one go. Next up was an incredibly succulent red roast baby chicken for Ged and melt-in-the-mouth lobster and prawn (get the theme here?) ginger noodles for me. The presentation was nothing short of beautiful; when I received my main and saw an entire lobster head staring at me I was delighted - sick right? - and couldn't wait to Instagram the shit out of it as the visual alternative of saying "yah yah look at me I drink sparkling wine and eat lobster, how's your Thursday?" 

The chicken was tender; the lobster was fresh and the prawns were like little creatures from heaven. My only complaint was an ever so slight lack of sauce on my noodles…but that didn’t stop me clearing my plate so much that it barely looked like I’d had a meal there in the first place.

 The cocktails and pink fizz (oh and the subsequent bottle of Pinot we ordered that I’ve only just remembered about) got us slowly drunker and drunker until I was convinced we were in the most high-tech restaurant that this city has to offer and had basically fallen in love. When I dried my hands under a neon green light I was so astounded by the atmosphere that I felt compelled to leave a note for myself. And, of course, washing your hands under the watchful eye of a gorgeous tattooed Chinese man is surely everyone's dream, no? Just mine?

  

To finish off, Ged's friend again apologised for her absence in true London city style by sending over the.most.incredible.brownie from 250 miles away. According to the waitress this dish isn't on the menu anymore so sucks to be all of you because LOOK AT IT! We offered to let her try a bite but she politely refused and said she's "not allowed", even after we drunkenly tried to force feed her and attempted to shield her from the eyes of her manager using a napkin as a decoy. Top marks to her for being great company throughout the evening. 

Even after the bill we kind of didn’t really want to leave in the end because what could have been a highly pretentious "concept" restaurant that relies on its image to sell seats actually turned out to be one of the best, most honest, dining experiences we've had. And we like to eat. The tables were dutifully waited on by a team of humble and happy staff who really believed in the brand, the food was almost under-priced for how good it was and you could see how someone’s vision had so carefully and lovingly been executed to create a truly unique atmosphere. In short: it was just really, really cool.

How to Ruin a Perfect Date

I listen to women all.day.long. I work on a bank of desks with three single women and I also have eight sisters. I literally listen to women all.day.long. And the one thing I've listened to them most talk about all day long? Men. Or, more specifically, the poor men from last night’s dates that they’re currently dissecting piece by piece.

I’m not going to sit here and pretend I don’t join in…okay I’ll be really honest, it’s normally me that starts the conversation but sometimes I do wonder if some of these hapless gents have a clue what she really thought when they offered to pay for last night's drinks...or didn't offer to pay…or didn't offer in the right way…or offered to pay too much... Or how that joke about *insert inappropriate lad topic here* really landed, despite her raucous “laughter” (that's the sound of her faking it - take note)

Gentlemen, these are tips derived from genuine conversations I've had with the female kind:

1. Don’t stand too far away during any verbal interaction. You appear disinterested and, of course, this means you've noticed her spot and/or the chewing gum hasn't worked and her dress is hideous. Oh and obviously standing too far away means you’re sneaky and have something to hide and that’ll definitely come into play further down the line. Basically you’re clearly going to cheat.

2. Don’t stand too close! That’s intimidating! What, do you have an inferiority complex or something? Do you feel that you need to assert your masculinity over her? You are definitely arrogant.

3. Why have you taken her somewhere that’s empty? Just because it’s a Tinder date, doesn't mean you can hide her in the corner of a dive bar. Jeez...

4. Don’t take her to a bar that’s rammed with people or you won’t be able to hear each other! Don’t you care about what she has to say?! At all?!

5. Don’t talk about how much money you make. You’re dealing with 21^st century women here, they’re making it too so it’s not that impressive.

6. No don’t tell her that you’re broke! If you tell a date you have no money it’s definitely a thinly veiled prompt for her to pay. Duh!

7. Maybe just stop talking.

8. A kiss on the first date is great - Carrie Bradshaw says so. You’re definitely going to get a kiss tonight so stay away from garlic and chocolate breath.

9. It’s really suspicious that you’re not eating certain things on this date. Are you fussy? Because that’s really unattractive. Or are you presuming that she’s easy?

10. The kiss of death. It’s real. Practice on a pillow. Practice on a mirror! Just...practice.

11. But remember not to practice too much or she’ll think you've kissed a lot of girls and now you've made her insecure. 

12. Never, never lunge

13. So you lunged. Great. It’s pretty hard to get back from an awful kiss so no it’s not appropriate to ask if she wants to come upstairs. Even if it really is to see the primary school photo you both had such a laugh about earlier. She doesn't care and she’s long forgotten that inside joke because it’s the middle of the afternoon, you've already humiliated her and yourself and she has a bus to catch. Just walk away.

14. Oh god don’t walk away too fast! Everybody on the street has seen that kiss and now they’re going to think you’re running away because of her! She could have dealt with the bad kiss maybe but this is too much. Well you’re definitely not getting a second date but you are forever going to be known as “bad kiss guy”. Congratulations on your new AKA.

15. Don’t wear a Gillet.

16. Do wear a Gillet; Gillets are cute!

17. Gillets are something a farmer wears. Or a grandfather.

18. No Gillets are good for men with big arms!

19. This guy doesn’t have big arms

20. Don’t wear a Gillet.

21. You’re getting it wrong. All of it. Just go home.

Secret Bitches and Great White Grinners: surviving passive aggression around the office

Working in an office has turned me into such a secret bitch. When I was younger I used to think the world could be put to rights (and the two faced people in my life put to shame) by talking to people face to face about a problem instead of bitching about them behind their back. Ha! Age, and the fact that I've now been working in a fashion retail company for over two years, has taught me that this was nothing more than childish naivety.

It’s hilarious, really, that we do spend so long on formalities during email conversations. It’s quite obvious that I’m annoyed with you and I’m clearly going to be smug that it wasn't at all my fault that everything is now severely fucked up. I hope one day I can work in a company where it’s appropriate to construct emails using just subtext, and disregard formalities altogether. Sure there’d arguments but wouldn't this email be more fun to send?