If it's brown...

For those of you who think most modern art adds up to a big ole' pile o' poo, here's a wall of it to confirm your worst fears. On the opposite wall was every meal over a six month period that resulted in the archive of excrement you see above. Is it art? What do I know for shizz. Needless to say, Room 101 was a resounding success and hats off to ML for all her hard work and fantastic yellow mini-skirt.

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Cubism

Nothing like turning around an executive board freebie in record time. This crystal cube, complete with master code running all around it, is made up of 27 little cubes, all branded with individual board member's company names. The concept being our code has been represented by a cube for the last two years, they all collaborated to create the code, and now they get to take a piece away at the end of their slap-up meal, ah bless. So it's a bit hokey, but not bad considering we're in the middle of our busiest show ever and really didn't have time to be fiddling about with giveaways for a bunch of individuals who could collectively buy most of Africa, but there you go.

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Crazy Bear

Crazy Bear has very interesting toilets. It has great food and nice booths you can hang in and attracts lots of bootiful people, but mostly it has loos that a) you can't find and b) you can't get out of. They also allow for some dramatic, if slightly hammer house, self portraits.

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Aaah Sienna

OK, so about 10kms outside Sienna actually, but 'Aaah Sovicille' doesn't quite have the same ring to it. The Wild Australian Boy wet his second baby's head in grand style, shipping out family and friends to a 13th century Tuscan castle and filling them with champagne purchased a few days earlier in Champagne central. The route to the Champagne region was a speedy one, pushing Vorsprung Durch Technik to its limits and eventually resulting in a shredded sports radial on the journey back. We arrived at Pisa airport with time to spare to pick up the star of the show and after a minor sense of humour failure, I was behind the wheel of a Fiat Anon and heading down the Fi Pi Li (Firenze Piza Linovo). Having only ever driven a left hand drive car once (and only then around the block), hitting an Italian highway at rush hour was a baptism of fire, make no mistake. Combining the wrong side of both road and driving position with utterly incomprehensible signposting leads to great panic, but we eventually made it to the old castello and the first magnum of the week.

Five days of pasta, pizza, red wine and getting repeatedly lost within a 12km radius followed. We visited the ancient Papal hideaway of Vitterbo, which wasn't exactly the rustic village we were expecting and walked the cobbled byways of San Gimignano once again, to relive the first magic moments of our fledgling relationship, ah bless!

All in all, a jolly jaunt, but now my liver and stomach must rest, at least until the weekend, or Friday, or later this afternoon.

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CEG

Ah so small. Little CEG has joined the hurly burly of Loved One's clan, but like her parents, remains blissfully serene and remarkably relaxed. Which cannot be said for Loved One and myself as we dash from new born to High School Musical party to Marks n' Sparks to Kupahville, to 30th birthday tapas to house party to bed to rise to food tasting to champagne to train to bed. We're pondering a more extensive sojourn in the future to ease the frantic pace of these visitations, but that won't be happening just yet.

Tomorrow begins the Lad's road trip to the ferry to Dunkirk to the Champagne district to Lake Como and then off for a week to some Tuscan shack for a wee christening. It will be an arduous journey but I will be strong.

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Still rabbiting on

It is a late Grahamstown night. The rugger buggers have finally stopped mauling each other outside my res room door and the last happy revellers have staggered up the hill from the Vic and passed out in their own pooh. The only sound is Ian “Mac” McCulloch's Scouse croon dripping from the tin can speaker of my mono tape recorder.

Fast forward nineteen years (nineteen years!) and that same voice fills the Royal Albert Hall. This is one of those rare occasions where I am surrounded by my peers. I've always been that bit too young to be blending in at those 70's rock gigs (Judas Priest, Motorhead, Alice Cooper et al) and a bit too old to not look slightly out of place at CSS gigs. Here, I'm just about right. The Bunnies (were they ever abbreviated thus? I care not) have kindly trawled through the classics, before having an interval break which allows the entire hall to scrum down at the bar.

When we return, a full orchestra has joined the lads on stage and they play 'Ocean Rain' from beginning to end. Fortunately this album contains four tracks from the greatest hits tape I had all those years ago, so I'm still able to sing along without mugging incoherently in that odd, badly synched way that clearly indicates you've never actually heard the song. Throughout the album set, images from the band's past slowly drift across two large screens and the crowd falters for a moment as a young and beautiful Pete de Freitas stares down at us with a small sad smile. The pictures start me thinking that sometimes the mere act of documentation is enough. It doesn't matter how good these pictures are (a lot are crap) or any pictures for that matter, it is the capturing of the moment that is important. It is with this profound revelation that I realise both I and Mr.Incredible are enormously drunk. We stagger out with the joyous crowd and make our way home via that evil pasty shop in Waterloo Station.

Next week, I will not drink anything, no really.

Dedication

It's not easy maintaining a blog. Having the inclination and inspiration to post something on a regular basis that's vaguely interesting to the dozen or so people who can be bithered to visit. Ah well, what can you do.

Went to Oxfordshire and saw a 17th century pile and a girl who spoke to cats. Went to Brighton and looped the Loop festival. Here are some pictures. The band is called Transformer, they do an interesting line in cheesy electro disco and bad eyewear.

Blogging, it's exhausting.

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'Allo John

Like crazy mad monkeys, we snatched up this baby in the space of minutes. Many happy years of motoring in the wee mini cooper will soon be but a memory. Ah well, a new vista of driving bliss unravels before us. Now all I have to do is get my license so I can drive the stupid thing, how tedious.

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By any other name

I can't deny a twinge of guilt as I liberally spritz my roses with anti-black spot (I warned you this would be blogging material) anti-some other hideous floral disease and anti-any bug fulish enough to wander into the general vicinity. Chemical warfare strikes me as the sort of thing that shouldn't really be practised in the back garden. Anywhere else is fine, but the back garden is a no no. It's all so violent gardening. You mow down your grass, dead-head your daisies, lay down napalm pellets on unsuspecting slugs and snails before sprinkling blood n' bone over everything else. I want to sit on my faux rattan furniture and be one with nature, rather than brutally subsuming it to my will. I now realise why my mother has been so keen on gardening all these years. She's been carefully channeling her rage into grafting, plucking, strimming and forking rather than flipping out completely and stabbing my father in the eye with a butter knife while he was enjoying his breakfast grapefruit. Still, the lawn has returned from the brink and looks positively verdant and there's no denying the roses look good. The pessimistic sci fi geek in me can't help fearing the worst however. I'm going to wake up one day to find the entire house enveloped by some gigantic mutant rose/slug hybrid. Actually, come to think of it that would be quite cool, more agent orange, break out the toxic weed killer, let's build a monster!

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Re-enter sandman

Ooooooh! So shiny, so smooth. Complete with newly painted skirting board and touched-up (no spencer etc) hearth, it almost seems a shame to shove a bed on top of it. All we have to do now is either knock a hole in the lounge wall, or reroute a major piece of piping to resolve the five month old leak issue. Then we'll be all set to take everything out of this room again to fit secondary glazing, huzzah! This house business, it never ends.

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Rainbows in my head

Oeeoooooeeeeeeeoooaaaaah' says the scruffy little chap in red jim-jams, standing on the organic, low emission, carbon neutral stage in front of 50 000 odd people, all of whom are going 'Oeeoooooeeeeoooaaah' in return. Thom Yorke (for it is he) always brings to mind the narcoleptic dormouse from Alice in Wonderland. The weight of the world sits on his eyelids, making it dreadfully tiring to open his eyes and actually focus on the undulating sea of acolytes prostrating themselves before him. Perhaps it is all those energy efficient lights shining down from on high that keeps those peepers hidden, perhaps not. Needless to say, the man doesn't require sight to sing, and sing he does, solidly, for three hours.

The entrance exam for Radiohead must have been extremely hard to sit, as every single band member including Thom (or T Hom to use his gang name) demonstrates a complex array of musical dexterity. Equally at home behind the drums, strumming guitars, tinkling the old Joanna or singing, the band sheds instruments like beads of sweat. Les Pauls fly off and Fenders fly on and everyone seems to switch positions with every song. This band is a fluid and synchronous machine, oiled up and polished to a harmonious sheen by a thousand performances and 7 studio albums of consistently individual, exceptional rock music. Driven by the knowledge that they have utterly nothing to prove but what the hey, they'll prove it all again anyway.

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If it's yellow...

The relentless broiling sun of Cyprus seems like a distant memory as I gaze out the window at the drab Grey blanket smothering Sol UK(tm). Twelve days of intense sitting and reading, a lot of frenetic lying down and at times even some furious wallowing seem to have passed by in a blink. Cyprus Spirit was quaffed in vast quantities and profit margins for local brewery and purveyor of all things liquid, Keo, rose dramatically. Even their truly diabolical Keo Vin Rouge was consumed with gusto. Some Olympic standard games of pool volley-ball were played, and not even the random intervention of that 'crazy wind' could prevent the boys team from triumphing.

A venerable birth was celebrated and the neighborhood regaled with multiple renditions of 'Happy Birthday'. Brandy sours were compared and contrasted, moussaka and skewered pork consumed and no doubt there are remnants of the 10 kg b'day cake still in existence today (and for the next few years). Balls were whirled and skills developed from a childhood spent trimming pineapples on the old farm, finally came into their own.

Not that we didn't stray from the pool and bottle from time to time. Our trip to Kalamata, er, Kalimari er, something beginning with 'k' gorge was most enjoyable, though it wasn't long before we were gorging ourselves in a different way on yet more vast chunks of pig at a local eatery. We also did a boat trip and never has the word azure been more appropriate to describe the waters around the island, as we all set off for hours and indeed hours of jaunty ocean-going fun (and more pig, hurrah!)

Now we are home and forced to console ourselves by stroking our Sky boxes and sipping on that bottle of Cyprus Spirit that's been rotting in the cupboard since the last family jolly. Was it all just a dim hazy dream? No! Look here and remind yourselves.

Birthday 2.0 on the weekend, excellent!

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Let's go fly a kite

Anyone who swims in the ocean off the coast of England is obviously suffering from some form of frontal lobe injury, possibly sustained by running repeatedly into a brick wall (or being hit over the head by a carbon fibre surfboard). Anyone who straps a board to their feet and a giant kite to their hands and then enters said waters is certifiable. Then again, the land based kite flying done by the rest of us became crushingly boring within seconds, as the wind was so strong the stupid thing shot into the air and hung rigidly in the sky like it was on the end of a long pole. Perhaps if I was being hurled about by the elements rather than hanging grimly but uneventfully onto a thin string I would have found the entire exercise more gratifying in the way that near death experiences often are.

I vividly recall when I was at Uni, swimming naked in the sea off Kenton, in the Western Cape. I remember an ecstatic euphoria enveloping me along with the unseasonably warm water, and the strangely disorientating effect of being spotlit by the full moon's all-encompassing flat glare. Just ahead of me I saw bobbing in the water the other full moon of JN's naked buttocks. 'Join me' I thought I heard her say, and manfully (and perhaps a bit lustfully) struck out after her. It was only when I got closer that I realised she was actually saying 'Help me', by which time I too was caught in the unyielding maw of the undertoad. An hour of desperate struggling and many litres of salt water later, I felt the tantalising scrape of sand beneath my grasping toes. Staggering onto the beach I vomited a ruby cocktail of Tassenberg and brine onto JN's feet and we collapsed onto our towels, sobbing like babies.

Right, not sure why I recounted that story. Something about near death-ness and excitement, frankly I prefer boredom. Needless to say, the water in Cyprus better be hot n' flat n' shallow, otherwise I'm buying a kite.

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Seldom seen kids - not for long

Bury. When you grow up and live in a town called Bury, it's likely your music is going to err on the melancholic. Elbow however, have managed to take melancholy and give it an almighty kick in the buttocks. They've armed it to the teeth with vast stabs of brass, soaring swathes of string and cataclysmic percussion. Guy Garvey leads this charge from the front. A mournful Northern grit is the bedrock of his voice, giving it endless light n' shade; sweeping the crowd up from rain filled graves to sunny skies in the space of a verse.

Garvey is also a highly under-rated wordsmith and an acute observer of the mundane and profane. He describes a Soho doorman as 'Mercifully free of the pressures of grace/St Peter in satin/He's like Buddha with mace/.' (Forget myself) It's this wry humour that permeates a lot of the songs, adding a welcome smile to what is essentially quite gloomy material. His affable banter between songs ensures you warm to both him and the band even more. He's constantly asking us if we're OK, then gently admonishes us when we don't ask him back. At one point he horribly fluffs an intro and calls on the entire audience to boo him. His look of horror and dramatically clutched heart instantly turns every voice in the house to wild cheering, in case he believed for a moment we actually meant it.

This was a great concert and possibly the last time we'll see this band, which has been steadfastly plying their trade for 18 years, play such intimate venues. Songs as big as these need stadiums to contain them. These kids should be seen everywhere.

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Lost Highway - found at Young Vic

I suppose it must have seemed like a terribly daring idea at the time. Imagine if we took a dark, baffling, impenetrable movie, by the elder statesman of the dark/baffling/impenetrable oeuvre and made it into, *Gasp* an Opera! We'll get a DBI style composer and an even more DBI writer to knock up the libretto. We do some right moody visuals and presto, box office gold.

Sadly, what we actually got was a meandering, Philip Glass lite score, lack lustre visuals and some awkward melismatics from our cast of Actors(tm). The Mr.Eddy/Dick Durant character had the most fun with it, warbling and screeching like Tony Soprano on PCP. Our femme fatale also had a fine set of lungs on her, which she showed off with admirable regularity, both vocally and visually (God bless her). The Fred/Pete characters were deeply underwhelming however, and the rest of the hangers-on looked like the sort of saddo drama wannabes that hang outside the Old Vic stage door waiting for Spacey to sign their arses.

I think what irritated Skrzkrk and myself most was the unspoken assumption that the very act of making an opera out of Lost Highway was radical enough in itself to not warrant any further challenging of the material. No need to bother doing a score that actually disturbed and disquieted the audience in the way that Trent Reznor's original soundtrack for the film did. Lynch's films all have fantastic soundtracks and he's never afraid to mix genres and blend classical, jazz, electronica and heavy metal influences into one twisted soundscape. This show was seriously in need of some Burial or perhaps Sunn O))). The same goes for the lighting and general staging. Surely in a high tech space like the Young Vic's newly revamped auditorium, some of the film's intensely claustrophobic lighting could have not just been recreated but taken to new extremes. Let's pin Fred to the floor with a burning spot or crowd him into a pitch black strobed up corner. There was just too much conventional theatre business going on.

While we were perfectly well entertained I couldn't help thinking Mr.Lynch would have been bored stiff.

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Green thumbs up

A lot can happen in a week. An election can be stolen on one side of the world, a garden landscaped on the other. Sunshine can turn to snow. Hey ho. Thanks to some hard working individuals, we've got our back garden all ready for Summer. Unfortunately, no one seems to have informed Mother Nature (TM) that Summer normally kicks in around the beginning of April rather than Winter. Ah well, at least it saves me having to water the turf. Perhaps next week, when it rains toads or blood, we'll have to think again.

Needless to say, stock up on boerie n' beers, the braai's at our house ekseee.

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Meribel Wedding

No, this isn't strictly related to the wedding, but was our attempt to recreate a B horror movie scenario, using only a snowboarding rubber mitt and some artful lighting. Quite successful in my opinion, thanks to Edwardo for the art direction and stunt handwork.

After risking life and limb on some impressively snowbound roads we eventually cruised into Meribel with our clutch smoking and fingers bitten from a frenzied bout of last minute tire-chaining. The gloom and driving snow disguised the fact that outside our chalet window the mountain range, ski slopes and village were laid out before us in chocolate box perfection. It was only after pulling back the curtains in the morning that we realised how truly astounding our view was. Check out the flickr site I have set up here to see the panorama in full Technicolor.

After a boisterous public ceremony in the local town hall, the wedding party were all armed with matching brollies and formed a gauntlet for the happy couple (TM) to charge through. We then tottered down the hill to a sumptuous marquee, packed to the gills with champers, mooze booshes and foie gras. Having had prior experience with these events, I tried not to down too many shot glasses of salmon mousse and slivers of parma on rye, knowing without a doubt there would be more to come. I wasn't disappointed as we all took our seats for a four course meal of gargantuan proportions. The HC arrived to the distinctive strains of the Star Wars theme, which segued artfully (ahem) into Scissor Sisters, a particularly inspired choice which had the crowd on its feet. Many cute and hearty photo montages of L n' M followed and the love in the room was a thick n' creamy cloud enveloping all. Admittedly vast amounts of champagne had been consumed by this point, along with the odd 'PM' cigarette and some of the '76 red, which had been brought out especially for the occasion. We burned up the dance-floor like mad things, and I for one was extremely grateful for not having to DJ, mostly because they were very good (Plastikman into Blur anyone?) and partially because I was severely debilitated by excess.

We eventually called it a night around three, and apart from an unfortunate 'key left behind' incident, made it home in one piece ('Amore, where is thee key?' ) I felt a lot better than I should have in the morning, which was probably just as well, as we were set to do it all again that evening. In the interests of survival and a well lined stomach, we headed for the village and a hearty cheese-fest for lunch. Our fondue was utterly delicious, as was the vast slab of of melting joy which was Benjamo's raclette. We all decided that we probably wouldn't need to eat cheese again for the foreseeable future, which was very stupid of us considering the bubbling behemoth you see above which awaited us. More champagne, beautiful pate and breads and this massive tartiflette ensured our arteries would never be the same again.

My liver and stomach moaned with relief when we finally got into our car and headed back to Geneva the next day. I would like to say I have since been following a strict detox diet of nettles and distilled goat's urine, but this would be a lie. I seem to have drunk a lot, why only this weekend. This must end soon (or I will end it with my er, end) Perhaps I shall stop drinking until we go to Cyprus. This sounds very sensible, as no doubt that's going to be yet another booze-athon.

Maybe just one more glass. To the Happy Couple, Huzzah!

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