Lipstick lover

What’s this – I haven’t blogged for weeks and then when I do it’s about lipstick?  We’re living in shitty times and I was so tempted to just post a picture of Nigel Farage with the title Oh Fuck today but I feel a strange, possibly slightly deranged, need to write about the waxy stubs I occasionally smear across my lips  instead.   Is it symptomatic perhaps?  The Bet Lynch form of therapy:  “There’s nowt a bit of lippy couldn’t solve”.  (Oh, if only.)

Anyway, I do like to pop on a little bit of lippy when I go out.  I’ve a nice orangey-red one right now.  I choose lipstick purely by the colours I think will suit me, like a pink that goes with my ears or a blood red that matches the veins in my eyes, that kind of thing. 

There’s no need to give each shade its own personal name as far as I’m concerned, that’s not a selling point.  I might vaguely see the labels on the rack when I’m buying them but they don't really register; they’re generally names derived from flowers or French words or fruits (strawberry, cherry, not so much kumquat).  Yesterday I realised that this orangey-red one I’m currently into could be called anything from Toxic Rust to Prickly Rash for all I know - so for some reason I decided to find out for sure and actually read the label.  I appreciate this isn't the mind-blowing info anyone else will be gagging to hear but if you've read this far then you may as well hang about for the answer....  

It's called Man Hunt!  I know, it's so 1972!

I am of course strictly anti-hunting for a start.... the only things I've ever hunted have been words and, in the past, some rare records and a house.  And as for the supposition that my quarry would be a man rather than any other variety of human...well, exactly - how very retro! (It would be, but one should never assume, should one?) 

Seems to me someone’s having a joyous time in whatever department it is that comes up with these less flowery names.  I want to work there.  Ah, imagine the whiteboards in the meetings.  It’s like those names they call house paints, especially from brands known for going beyond the realms of  Antique Cream with titles such as Elephant’s Breath, Arsenic, Earthworm, Sulking Room Pink, Down Pipe.   (Only one of those five isn't a real Farrow & Ball shade.  Can you guess which one?)

Whatever, I do rather like my lipstick’s non-politically-correct kitschy vibe, and I can’t help imagining an equally non-politically-correct 1970s advert for it featuring Valerie Leon and an E-type Jag - but  I just don’t think the manufacturer's intended market for a lipstick they call Man Hunt is women like me who are old enough to remember both...

Abstract moment of the week #11

I was so tempted to call this post ‘Just Another Phallic Monday’… but that might have suggested it was going to be the start of a new series and I’m not sure if I could, erm, keep it up.  However I can’t resist mentioning this once because it's tickled me...

I had coffee with a friend the other day who is not long back from a fantastic trip to Bhutan.  I know very little about Bhutan, but it sounds like a fascinating, peaceful and unusual place. Talking to my friend is always an education when it comes to travel.  I enjoyed looking at his photos of the dramatic mountainous scenery, people in national costume, the beautiful wildlife, and then he explained how there was so much decorative art everywhere, intricate carvings and detailed embellishment in the architecture, etc.  – all the things you might perhaps expect from a remote kingdom deep in the Himalayas.

What I hadn't expected, though, was to hear about the proliferation of imagery of a particular fertility symbol which here in the West we tend only to see scrawled on public toilet walls and concrete underpasses by less accomplished artists before being hurriedly removed by the authorities….   In Bhutan, however, it is normal to have it painted with great skill and finesse on the outside of your house, without embarrassment or censure, to bring good luck and protection.

I have to say, I do rather like the way they embrace it!  But I don't think my local council would approve if I did the same.

Crack the whip

I’ve walked up this pathway a thousand times, I’ve photographed the trees before: their mistletoe baubles, pollarded boughs, the shards of trunks struck by lightning – I’ve even shared them on these pages.  But every time I walk this way I swear I see something different.  Once it seemed to be a ghostly shape emerging from the mist.  Another time, a leaf was magically suspended in mid-air, twirling and spinning for ages without visible means of support until I realised it must be hanging from the finest thread of spider’s silk.  This is the place just to observe and when you do, you simply never know what you’ll find.

And that’s how, as I walked up there a couple of days ago, I came across the devil.

Although distant, he caught my eye immediately.  Why haven’t I seen him here before?  I can only assume he is also a shape-shifter, his form ever changing as the wind and the rain and the sun sculpt his features each week, each month.  But the moment I saw him, I recognized him, from this:

19th Century illustration

Well, actually, more from this:

My photo below doesn’t do him justice but, believe me, he had perfect white eyes, small dark horns and the bulbous hindquarters of the Sabbatic goat.  And then there's that whip - the way he was wielding that whip!

I walked around him very cautiously, and came home with my soul intact.  Dare I go up there again tomorrow and see what has become of him, though?  Perhaps by then he will have changed form once more, and all I’ll find is benign old broken tree stump sprouting a long, thin branch.

Bauhaus: Lagartija Nick

The answer is in the soil

I loved it so much I tuned in to i-Player and watched it all the way through twice in less than a week, and now I’ve ordered the DVD too.  If that isn’t a reason to pull on my patent lace-up blogging boots and finally write something here again then I don’t know what is.  

It’s the film Arcadia.  Did you see it?  I missed it on BBC Four when it aired a few weeks ago but thanks to the spot-on recommendation from a good friend who has the measure of my tastes, I turned out the lights, settled back into my chair at my desk under the stairs (the suitably quirky and shadowy cubbyhole from which these posts emanate) and treated myself to it on my PC.  By the eerie blue glow of the modem I let it take me into its part-dream, part-real landscape – one inhabited by the monochrome ghosts of our distant past and the colourful eccentrics of our more recent one,  a place that could only be Britain.  Oh I loved it.  It’s so far up my street it’s in the front door and helping itself to tea and biscuits. 

I didn’t really know what to expect; none of the reviews I’d read beforehand could really give me an accurate insight, and so I realise I probably can't give one here either. Perhaps that’s part of the beauty of this film– its inability to be easily categorized.  I was trying to persuade Mr SDS to watch it with me the second time and found myself struggling to answer his queries.  “What’s it about?”  he asked. I couldn’t explain that one easily.  The British countryside?  Nostalgia?  Nature? The changing seasons?  Life and death?  Folklore?  Any one of those themes would have put him off, and all were too simplistic, so I had to choose my words carefully. 

Arcadia is about all of those things, but in a glorious, eccentric mash-up.  It’s a collage of existing footage, seemingly quite random and yet crafted in such a way as to deliver an unspoken narrative about past, present and future.  It’s arty, but not arty-farty.  And it taps into something that I can imagine only those of us who were brought up in Britain could really, truly get, if you know what I mean.  That could sound worryingly jingoistic; in these horrible times of racism, the rise of the Far Right and Brexit madness I’m almost afraid to mention ‘Britishness’ as a thing – it’s feels almost shameful.  But this film somehow gets to that ‘quintessential’ stuff we all recognise, without passing judgement – an innate identity we can’t help but have because of our experience.  It’s the Britain of BFI Public Information films, Nationwide, maypoles, Alice In Wonderland, foxhunting, the North/South divide, the Wicker Man, Stonehenge, punk.  Mystical, prosaic, carefree, dark, beautiful and brutal -  all these contrasting things and more.  Actually I was quite surprised to find that its creator,the Scottish film-maker Paul Wright, is only 37, because it’d be easy to presume it came from the experience of someone with a few more years under their belt.  (I’m thinking: my age!) I was also put in mind of Julien Temple’s style of montage, which I’ve always enjoyed in his documentary films such as The Filth and The Fury and Oil City Confidential – his characterful way of peppering his work with odd little archive clips.

At least one thing I could tell Mr SDS was that within the first five minutes we'd see some black-and-white footage of the village just up the road from us, where cows were wandering through the deserted main street and where happy-faced women waved to each other across the road from their cottage windows.  Like most of the film, there is something deep and dreamlike in this sense of familiarity now so warped by the passing of time.  There might even be something from your neck of the woods - if you check out this BFI page for it, you can access the sources from which the clips were taken and it's a fascinating selection - I was deeply side-tracked by this later so be warned...

Enhancing it all too is a rather brilliant soundtrack which comes courtesy of Portishead’s Adrian Utley, Goldfrapp’s Will Gregory and folk singer Anne Briggs.

Here's a sample of the music to whet your appetite.

Anyway, what am I doing, taking up your time reading this waffle when you could be watching it?!  There’s only 7 days left on i-Player.  

8

Blimey, sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted anything.  Funnily enough it’s not due to too much work – pretty much the opposite really.  For the first time in years I’ve had some lovely time away from frantic deadlines and tight briefs (oo er missus) and as a result I’ve dropped into a lower gear.  A much lower gear in fact; I’m so chilled I’m practically going backwards. 

So I’ve been making the most of it while it lasts.  It’s given me the time and mental space to try to reprogramme myself creatively, somehow, and chance to revisit some of my own projects which had long been abandoned.   Trying to free myself up in this way has been a slow process - a sort of reboot - and not as easy as I thought, but I feel great for doing it.  Just look at all those "re"s in those last few lines: reprogramme/revisit/reboot - I think that says it all.  And I can’t stop walking, I’m walking miles.  Ever so slightly obsessed. Packing as much in as I can before work all kicks off again and I get rooted to the spot.

Anyway, enough of all that, that was just to explain why I’ve not been very productive here lately, as being elsewhere in my head with all those "re" things means I haven’t felt quite so much of a need, if that makes sense.  However, I felt I had to write something quickly this afternoon because this blog is celebrating a birthday today!   It’s 8 years old, which I find kind of shocking; it means I’ve been blogging for more years than I was in secondary education!  Quite a scary thought, but nice too.  I’ve loved being able to come here for a multitude of reasons, mainly to have a personal place away from everything else, a platform to indulge in whatever takes my fancy. Being able to rabbit on about things that might not necessarily crop up in a general conversation, and not worry that I’m going to be met with weird looks (well, at least I can’t see them).  I always wanted it to be an undefined place with no confines, never knowing or planning what I'm going to write about next, so it's very freeing.  Plus  I’ve been really lucky to find myself among the loveliest fellow bloggers and commenters who just seem to get it and how brilliant is that? - honestly, I couldn’t wish for more here in this online world.  So, huge thanks to you!

Help yourself to cake! x

Senses

I could not believe the colour of the sky today...

I mean, just look at that!

The snow of last week has melted and even though the cold air was cutting and I was wrapped in a thick fluffy coat, the overly long sleeves of my jumper pulled down to envelop the cuffs of my gloves, that feeling of soaking up the warm sunshine on my face seemed like an act of defiance.

I strode briskly up to the church, through the graveyard and then along to my favourite place, this long avenue of lime trees.   I love the way the huge clusters of mistletoe adorn the trees’ branches like giant green pom-poms.

When I walk like this, I drift into a sort of autopilot mode; my mind goes into freefall; I'm sure most people find the same when walking alone.  I love these moments of solitude in my head. 

I started thinking about all sorts of things – about WWI soldiers (we’d watched the incredibly poignant film ‘They Shall Not Grow Old’ last night) and about Henry Moore’s sheep drawings and about the blister on the back of my ankle and what it might look like when I take off my sock.  (Not good, as it happens.  Raw!)  But then all those thoughts trickled away, just trickled away…. they had been too busy…  and I started to notice only how heightened my senses had become, out here, in the cold, in the sun, in the moment.   Everything so vivid. I could hear a bluetit up in the branches, then a mistle thrush.  I could smell the manure from the fields, hear the crunch of gravel beneath my boots and the squeaky wheel of a tricycle ahead in the distance as a small child navigated his way between potholes, I could see the rooks on the gate, their plumage illuminated by the sunlight. 

I just went with it, feeling in every sense totally, dazzlingly, alive.  (Sorry to be so corny.)

Inevitable then, anyway, that this song should come into my head!

The first singles you ever loved

It was just a little box of second-hand singles, but I reckon that’s where it all began, the moment that music took on a lifelong meaning.  I can’t even recall quite how they came into our possession - something to do with my teenage sister; she’d either bought them for a few pence, been given them or swapped them, I think.  But I do remember that there was much excitement about their addition to the family’s music collection.

I would’ve been about 8 or 9 I think.  My personal record collection at that point comprised a 7” EP of children’s songs on yellow vinyl (‘How Much Is That Doggy In The Window’ being my fave track), some Pinky & Perky, something from the Nutcracker Suite, and a concerto by Handel, or was it Mozart, on 45 in a shiny picture sleeve.  I wasn’t able to discern between Pinky & Perky and Mozart - but how free you are at that age, totally lacking any self-consciousness about genre; as far as I was concerned each had their own merits.

Downstairs in the very modern Danish style G Plan cabinet where the hi-fi, books and my mum's pottery were housed there were a few other records, but nothing that was of much interest to me: some jazz, opera and classical, one or two Reader’s Digest freebie flexi-discs, Glen Miller I think.   So this box of singles made quite a statement; they were pop records.

Childhood memories are funny – the things that can seem quite unremarkable to an adult can be so vibrantly sensual to a child and imbued with the most vivid associations and feelings.  Those old singles do just that to me.  I can clearly remember the ones I really liked, their B-sides too.  They were about more than just the tunes, they were about the weight and the shine of the vinyl, the touch of the creased paper sleeves, and about the room and the rugs and the cats and the curtains.   Their labels are indelibly imprinted in my psyche too - the colours, the logos, the type style.  My mind drifts now to the way this is so perfectly expressed in the words to 'Over The Border' by St Etienne: 

 “…. green and yellow harvests, pink pies, silver bells…”   

We know what they mean!

In this particular box the pies/Pyes were blue, and a faithful terrier listening to an old wind-up  gramophone was silver on black.

Within this small collection was one of my favourite songs of all-time – one of my bestest, most favouritest songs ever ever in fact - so it deserves a post of its own some day but I can’t write about the rest without mentioning it here.  I was totally hooked on this song and still am.  I could play it over and over and never tire of it (and I did, probably driving my parents and sister mad). I wonder what it is that makes it so special and enduring, and what was it about it that appealed to me so much, even as a child?

The Kinks: Days
(eternal perfection)

But the others in the box all had their own unique appeal, here's what they were:

I loved the catchy soulfulness of ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ by the Foundations and was intrigued, and slightly unnerved by its contrasting B Side, ‘New Direction’ - a strangely doomy, jazzy/psychy number.

The Foundations: New Direction

'Do Wah Diddy Diddy' by Manfred Mann had obvious singalong appeal to a child of my age.  ‘What You Gonna Do?’ on the B-side was far less commercial – a classic example of raw ‘60s R’n’B.

Manfred Mann: What You Gonna Do?

'I’ll Be There' by the  Jackson Five - well,  a little later I had some pictures of the Jackson Five on my wall (next to the Osmonds), of course I liked it!

'Love Child' by Diana Ross & The Supremes - a song I still hear in my head with pops and crackles.  What a fine example of classy soul, not that I would have understood that word then.  

There were a couple of singles I was less keen on, one of them was '(If Paradise Is) Half As Nice' by  Amen Corner – I didn’t like the voice, I still don't.

And then there was also 'I Can’t Let Maggie Go' by the Honeybus – famous for its use in the Nimble advert and anyone as old as me will remember the girl in the balloon who "flew like a bird in the sky".  However, I much preferred the fabulous B side, ‘Tender Are The Ashes’ and I still really love this song with its uptempo groovy Northern Soul vibe.

The Honeybus: Tender Are The Ashes

Finally there was a record that always sounded a bit more grown-up to me.  I think it was because of the harmonica combined with the fact that it was an instrumental - it was 'Groovin’ With Mr Bloe' by Mr Bloe.  You know it, of course you do!

I don’t know what happened to them in the end - they weren't mine! -  but I continued to dig them out and play them in the interim years and even after I started buying my own brand new singles.  By the time Abba, then Buzzcocks, etc. each arrived on the scene for me, records from the previous 10 years seemed bloody ancient.  But there was something about this small selection that made them immune to my teenage prejudice against the past and all things out-of-date. The feelings, those first far-reaching feelings, endured.  I think it must simply be because that’s where my love of music all began.

How about you?

Pinky & Perky
(and a very scary duck)

Pretty pretty vacant

A cringe moment:

I was Johnny Rotten.
Singing 'Pretty Vacant'.

On an open air stage.

In front of a hundred people...

...Maybe more.
Without a mic.

I wasn't alone - my friend accompanied me.

Pretending to be Sid Vicious.

With curly hair.

And no bass.

We snarled and swaggered and posed our way through our chosen song and won third prize in the Miming Competition.  Maybe there were only three acts.  I think we got away with it; we must have been pretty... convincing?

Despite being a bit drunk.
And fourteen.

And, you know...

...female!

Thank god there was no YouTube in '78. No camera-phones. It must have been horrendous.  But perhaps that's why we were so uninhibited too?  It was a moment in time, spontaneous, never to be recorded or viewed again. A moment, that's all.  Here today, gone tomorrow.  Whatever happened to that?!

So, how it was is this: my friend and I had tipsily convinced ourselves we could enter a competition (part of a free live music event in a local park)  just as it was happening, with no real forethought and certainly no preparation.  Oh, the bravado!  I would never do something like that in all the years since. I suppose it was like a forerunner to Karaoke (we're talking 40+ years ago, after all) although without the live vocals, just the posturing.  I do remember standing there and not really being able to see the crowd, just looking out in a cider-induced daze, imagining myself as Johnny - a silly, inebriated, normally shy schoolgirl doing her best to mimic a fully-grown man.  There are two key things about that which I was just never going to pull off:  fully-grown and man (if you'll please excuse the double entendre).  And glancing across at my dear mate, who was doing the same. I think we 'won' some record tokens.

When we came off the stage we were both immediately chatted up by a pair of young lads who perhaps saw our bluster as a sign that we were a couple of goers. I don't remember a lot about what happened next but suffice it to say I became vaguely acquainted with a skinhead boy who told me he was on holiday (?!) from Borstal.  Class!  Actually I seem to recall he was quite nice but I only got to see him in the dark so who can say?

Pretty vacant sums it all up....

Aren't you glad sometimes that, like me, you're all grown-up and sensible now?!