Time For Bed

Oh joy. Oh rapture. Oh heavenly delights.

VE is feeling giddy with excitement because... after months of promises and weeks of waiting, The New Bed has at last arrived.

Yes, as I came home this evening - all tired and drained from an hour of kick-boxing someone smaller than myself - I opened the front door and was greeted by the smell of fresh wood. I followed my nose into the bedroom and was confronted with The World's Biggest Bed. After nearly three years of pushing and shoving, we will finally have enough space to sleep in... and we shall be doing it on our Soil Association approved, organic mattress.

Frankly, dear reader, I'm surprised I'm not tucked up right now.

Goodnight
x

PS -Sadly the chief photographer in the house (ie the one who has pictures hanging in the National Portrait Gallery because he's actually rather good at it) is out at the moment... so you'll have to make do with my less professional effort.

Put Quite Simply... Bragging

There's no other phrase for it but showing off. Today's Christmas copy of OK! magazine features a fetching snap of yours truly looking like a chipmunk (with P) on its glossy pages. Which puts a smile on my self-satisfied face and appeases my shallow, fame-hungry nature as it's been a few months since I was last in there (with Paul – Lily Savage – O'Grady, ha ha). A quick consultation with my abacus reveals that this tots my OK! appearances up to, ooh, about seven or eight now. How many do I need before that deems me a socialite (or merely a hanger on)?

How Thick Do You Need To Be?

The Guardian has today printed a mini version of Schott's Almanac 2007 and I find myself reading this at "work". So far, two pieces of information have startled me. Firstly, tough guy rapper Busta Rhymes is really called Trevor Smith. Grr. But second of all, Amazon.com - that bastion of salesmanship that distributes anything and everything all around the world to the detriment of the independent retailer on the high street - has now included something called Text Stats on its website, to help potential readers decide how tricky a book will be for them to read.

These Text Stats includes a Fog Index: this tells you how many years of formal education you need to tackle a particular book (apparently 8.7 years to read Zadie Smith's "On Beauty" and a staggering 9.1 to read the loathsome "Da Vinci Code"). The stats also feature a count of complex words: this breaks down the percentage of words in the book that feature three of more syllables. Other categories are the average percentage of syllables per word; words per sentence; total characters in the entire book; total words in the entire book; and total sentences in the entire book.

Talk about spoon-feeding. I am horrified and genuinely aghast.

Just how stupid do you need to be? If you need this kind of information to help you decide whether or not you can read a book, quite frankly, you shouldn't be allowed to read books in the first place.

"Flags Of Our Fathers"

P and I went to a screening of Clint Eastwood's new Spielberg co-production "Flags Of Our Fathers" yesterday, and God, what a harrowing way to spend a Sunday morning. Released on 22 December, this is a bizarre choice of film to put out in the days before Christmas - but perhaps, since this is the least festive Christmas on record due to global warming, this is what we can expect from cinema schedulers in the years to come.

Coming in at over two hours long, "Flags Of Our Fathers" is a gut-wrenching, stomach-churning account of the true events of the American battle against Japan for Iwo Jima. The continually under-rated Ryan Rhilippe is again fantastic as John Bradley, one of the three surviving soliders who helped hoist an American flag at the top of the mountain, which was seen by the war-weary Americans as a symbol of hope. But the real story that unfolds is that it is all a con. Bradley and his colleagues - the Indian Ira Hayes and the naive Rene Gagnon - are thrilled to be taken out of the war and back to America, but stunned when they realise they are to be toured around America and hailed as heroes... when in fact they aren't the guys in the picture at all. The self-congratulatory back-patting of the American government and the ridiculous hyperbole that goes on is all highlighted here, and the irony of it is not lost in the wake of today's war-ridden climate.

The bloody images and severed limbs take their toll quite quickly, but the underlying message of pointless death and lie-fuelled governments is clear. But what really shocked was the appalling way the Americans dropped their "heroes" after the war was over, especially for Ira Hayes, who got a particularly bad treatment. Johnny Cash's song "The Ballad Of Ira Hayes" (not included here) says all you need to know.

"Every Eye" by Isobel English

I'm torn. I've finally read a Persephone book that I didn't get on with. I've read a couple before that I didn't adore ("Reuben Sachs" by Amy Levy, "The Wise Virgins" by Leonard Woolf...) but I always found that eventually I got something out of those books that I didn't have before I started them. But with "Every Eye" I'm just not sure. Admittedly the situation was all wrong - I read a library edition, wrapped in that horrible thick plastic they coat library books in, and with a white label stuck over the endpapers and not a matching bookmark in sight. Plus my mind is distracted by thoughts of "the gendering of commodification' for my modernism essay, but I thought this mini novel might be a brief distraction.

However, I struggled to care what happened to Hatty, who struck me as a rather unlikable and dull protagonist - bizarrely dating a much older man who repulsed her, seemingly because she thought no one else was interested. Did she have no self respect? The book flits between the past and her present, which takes her to Spain with her current husband and on a trip to unravel a mystery surrounding her past. But it was a mystery that failed to capture my interest either... or one that I even really noticed.

To be fair, I have been very distracted while reading "Every Eye" and I'm sure it would benefit from a second reading, although at the moment I can't find the enthusiasm (or time). But what did interest me was reading the preface (which I always read after the novel as they have an annoying habit of giving away the plot) and learning that Isobel English was tortured by horrific migraines and emotional stress, which in hindsight added quite a lot to the book. So many critics rave about "Every Eye" that I'm sure I have missed something... one day I'll have to go back and find out what it was.

Persephone Latest

The Persephone online newsletter dated 30 November 2006 (which VE shamefacedly admits she has only just got around to reading) thrills me because it quotes my nomination for the shop on the Guardian's Independent Bookshop pages. My third appearance on the Persephone newsletter and still the novelty hasn't worn off.
http://www.persephonebooks.co.uk/letter.htm
http://books.guardian.co.uk/shoptalk/page/0,,1398384,00.html

Oh, Christmas Tree...

...how beautiful you are.

The Magic Of Rodin

VE was strolling alone along Piccadilly on Saturday afternoon (a vile experience in the run up to Christmas, but P wants a Savile Row shirt to be waiting under the tree and it had to be done), set to dash into the Royal Academy of Arts to pick him up a birthday card, when An Extraordinary Event happened.

First off, a Complete Stranger approached me in the courtyard by Rodin's impressive "Gates Of Hell" sculpture. As if that wasn't bad enough (this is central London after all), said stranger thrust a card into my hand and offered me a free ticket to go and see the Royal Academy's Rodin exhibition... for nothing... right now... he just has a spare ticket and doesn't want to waste it.

So I took it and thanked him very much, and as the Complete Stranger headed off to join the throngs on Piccadilly, I watched him, slightly dazed by this unusual turn of events. And then headed into the Academy, scrutinising the card he had given me as I went, assuming it to be some kind of con. But no... I showed it to an assistant, who thrust an e hibition guide into my hand and told me to bypass the queues and go straight in. So I did, baffled.

Now, I admit that I don't know a lot about Rodin - although I've seen The Kiss, The Thinker and The Gates Of Hell before (possibly in Paris, or maybe London?), and I did a mini project on him for my A'Level English coursework (although, as far as I know, Rodin is better known for his sculpting than hhis writing - don't doubt the minds of Yeovil College English Department).

And I also admit I wasn't hugely in the mood to see an exhibition (but I was of the opinion that An Opportunity had come my way and that if I didn't follow it up, something bad might happen - or, conversely, something really good might happen if I did follow it up). So I kind of whizzed through the whole thing in about 20 minutes (philistine, I hear you cry) and only stood to stare at the major works. And anyway, in my opinion, there is something Wrong about galleries hanging doodles drawn on the back of envelopes and labelling them 'important works of art' when the artist in question probably wishes they had been burnt as no one was ever meant to see them - and there were quite a few of these in place.

Anyway, it turns out my card is a magical one - and I, and whoever I pass it on to, can go to see the Rodin exhibition for free whenever they choose before January 1. So if you're interested, let me know. Otherwise, maybe I'll go again when I've prepared myself better for it and study him properly.

"This Morning!"

There was huge joy today as a lunchtime visit to the shops of the Oxo Tower led me to end up in a lift with Fern Britton and Philip Schofield of "This Morning!" fame. Your fickle writer has now decided that Fern (who is much thiner in real life) is the nicest person I have ever met in my entire life. Not only did she hold the door so I could get in the lift, but she also complimented me on my butterfly broach and said how pretty it was. Phil's hair is even whiter than you first thought - and he has amazing skin! It made my day (this coming from someone who managed to remain unimpressed during a face to face interview with Al Pacino. Clearly Al didn't have the same celebrity presence as Fern).

However, when I returned to my desk all a jitter (I'm at a top TV fortnightly this week), not one of my colleagues was impressed. Miseries!

Libraries - Further Appreciation

As a reinstated geek, I have been browsing the internet for information on my new favourite location - Senate House Library, the imposing 19-storey building belonging to the University of London, of which I am an addicted library member. And I've learnt some fascinating facts about the building (pictured above) today that I'd like to share:

* It took five years to build and was completed in 1937. King George V laid the foundation stone.

* Adolf Hitler was so impressed by the building that he intended to take it over as his London HQ after his invasion of Britain.

* He wasn't alone. Oswald Mosley also thought it was a special place and wanted to move Parliament from the Houses of Commons to Senate House in the event of him taking power.

* At 210 feet high, Senate House is the second tallest building in London (after St Paul's Cathedral) - apparently this spared it being bombed in WW2 as it was a handy reference point for pilots hovering over London.

* George Orwell was so inspired by the building he used it as the location for the Ministry Of Truth in "1984".

* The gay porn film "Spyboy" features an exterior shot of the building - which it rechristens MI69.

"The Ladies' Paradise"

"The Ladies' Paradise" - Emile Zola (Oxford World Classics, 1886)

At long last I have read a book for the MA that I have genuinely enjoyed - rather than made mumbling noises about obscure premises and unilateral thinking, mumble mumble, in an attempt not to seem too stupid. So much so that I raced through it.

I'm preparing for my first major essay - 5,000 words on something to do with the role of women as consumers in modernist literature (I'm going to hammer out the precise question with my tutor tonight). But I'm an eager beaver and love to organise, and as such I have spent much time on the inernet and library catalogues and databases compiling a reading list, printing off relevant articles and checking books out of the library to photocopy surreptitiously at work. One of which was the 1886 novel "The Ladies' Paradise" by Emile Zola, which bears the original title "Au Bonheur Des Dames" (despite being half French, my French vocabulary doesn't extend much beyond GCSE level so I opted to read the English translation). And I'm so glad I did. I started it on Sunday morning and have just finished reading the 432nd (and final) page.

Denise is a French peasant who, after the death of her parents, moves to Paris with her two younger brothers for whom she feels responsible. Her draper uncle is unable to employ her because his business (along with that of all the other small traders in Paris) has been ruined by the engulfing Ladies' Paradise department store opposite - which acts as a mecca for the rich and spoilt French ladies. With no alternative, Denise accepts a job at the Paradise as a salesgirl, and her humble status as a bullied employee pales in comparison with the nauseating oppulence of the store's owner, the bored Mouret. As Denise's life progresses and she struggles to make ends meet for the welfare of her helpless brothers, it is sharply contrasted with the wealth and indulgence that Mouret is wrapped up in. Mouret is used to being gossiped about by his staff for his indiscretions with his salesgirls, but Denise refuses to be bought - she is a strong-willed girl who is determined to hang on to her morals, while all those around her are happy to drop their knickers to make a few francs. Throughout it all, the spectre of the Paradise grows ever larger and larger, like the shadow of a monster swallowing everything it sees and destroying everything - and everyone - in its wake. The store itself - referred to continually as a machine - is clearly the protagonist of this novel.

"The Ladies' Paradise" shows how one man, Mouret, takes women for fools: as lower class beings he can exploit for his own profit, both in the department store and in his boudoir. And the book also shows how one girl, Denise, unwittingly plays this powerful man at his own game, despite sticking to her old-fashioned morals. It is interesting that although this book was written nearly 150 years ago, the tale of woe regarding monopolisation, globalisation and commodidification still holds true, and it could just as easily be set today in this Starbucks, Virgin and Microsoft embossed world. I wonder when people will learn their lesson.

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

When VE returned to her ivory tower last night, she was pleasantly surprised to find a hand-delivered package containing four copies of the latest issue of Smoke - A London Peculiar. Contained within the new-improved, all-colour glossy cover of Issue 9 there is a two-page feature by yours truly, and if that's not incentive enough to make you buy a copy and support this worthwhile enterprise, then I don't know what is. (Click on the link on the left for more details).

Here's a sample from my piece, as teased on the Smoke website:
"The No. 6 swung round Marble Arch and set out up Edgware Road. Foolishly, I’d resumed gazing out of the window, my eye having been caught by the dazzling lights of the Odeon cinema, which was advertising a saucy new blockbuster where bodices were ripped and cherries popped. I say 'foolishly' because, when I turned back, I was both stunned and impressed to see the newly-formed friendship in front of me had progressed to kissing across the aisle. With steadfast British stoicism, my fellow passengers were burying their heads in their Standards, turning up their iPods, and giggling behind their hands; but I, as a diehard romantic, was gripped."
[No.6 Love Story]

World Wide Web

A month or two ago, VE installed a "Site Meter" to this blog to see, out of curiosity, if anyone was actually reading it. And I have been pleasantly surprised by the results.

I have learnt that I have readers all over the globe - from places as far flung as Texas, Kiev, New South Wales, Brooklyn, Tokyo, London and, erm, Norfolk. I have discovered that in the past seven days, 76 people have visited my blog (may not sound like many to you, but it seems a lot to me). And that their reasons for visiting include clicking on links from other blogs, or Googling things like "Woolworths" or "Lee Hazlewood". And I am extremely thrilled to learn that a member of Scritti Politti is among those who have Googled themselves and come to my blog to read about themselves. And leave me messages. I approve of that.

Vanity

It's mere vanity, but VE has just had a lovely email from my former screenwriting tutor telling me that I should come back to his hallowed classes and bring my torrid script of a psychotic student who becomes obsessed with his school teacher with me. "To be honest, you are missed". Aah, he just misses the lust-fuelled pages of teenage testosterone and the random whales in the Thames. Since my classmates' scripts largely consisted of futuristic sci-fi yawns and middle-aged rom coms, maybe it's time I inflicted my latest script on them - an everyday tale of a nun who gives birth to Satan but the child is brought up to believe he's Jesus. No? Thought not.

Henry Green and Djuna Barnes

And these are some books I read recently

“Party Going” – Henry Green
(Vintage Classics, 2000 – originally 1939)
In the F Scott Fitzgerald vein, a bunch of over-priviledged and super rich London socialities are holed up in a railway hotel as a rog descends on the city and prevents them catching their train to France. On the cusp of the modernist vein, this novel spans a four-hour period in about 200 pages and focuses on the fear of the working-class crowd who are all gathering in the station below, battering on the hotel doors to seek refuge, and the contrasting wealth of our anti-heroes.

“Nightwood” – Djuna Barnes
(Faber & Faber, 2001 – originally 1936)
Apparently a lesbian classic, this virtually unreadable account of a group of thoroughly unlikable characters is highly praised by TS Eliot – who claims that only those who understand poetry will fully appreciate it. Felix marries Robin, who has his baby and leaves to go off with Nora. She then leaves Nora for Jenny. All this is narrated by the cross-dressing Doctor. Lots of metaphors, lots of long speeches about ‘the night’, and a confusing ending. Preposterous!

Films I have seen recently...

I have no time sadly to catch up properly on films I have seen in the last week or so at the cinema or on DVD - instead, here are some mini reviews.

“Orlando” (1992, Sally Potter)
Tilda Swinton is perfectly cast as the immortal man/woman in this adaptation of Virginia Woolf’s imagined biography of the man/woman who spans centuries of British aristocracy. Not a joy to watch, but manageable.

“The Libertine” (2004, Laurence Dunmore)
Johnny Depp in dull period piece about the sleazy Earl of Rochester, the king’s brother who shagged his way around the courts and then died a grizzly death as punishment. Very boring.

“The Hours” (2002, Stephen Daldry)
A re-watching of the re-interpretation of Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs Dalloway”, seen through three women in three eras. A second viewing and a greater understanding of Woolf helped considerably. Got much more out of it this time.

“Shopgirl” (2005, Arnand Tucker)
Steve Martin ‘stars’ in this adaptation of his own novella – in which he plays a rich and dull, emotionally retarded businessman seduced Claire Danes, who is significantly younger than him and has her own neurosis to deal with. Jason Schwartzman plays the klutz who also wants to date her. Unbelievably dull.

“Junebug” (2005, Phil Morrison)
Quirky, meandering account of hick family life seen through the eyes of a rich New York art dealer, played by Embeth Davidtz, who is baffled by their weird customs and family sensibilities. Good soundtrack by Yo La Tengo. Picked up after confusing start. Amy Adams is very good as the sweet but dim, pregnant wife Ashley.

“Borat” (2006, Larry Charles)
Sacha Baron Cohen is hilarious as the spoof Kazakh reporter. It’s noticeable how he only sends up those who take themselves too seriously. Highlights the flaws in petty-minded Americans. Favourite three scenes: the chicken on the subway; the naked wrestling; and the street kissing.

“Casino Royale” (2006, Martin Campbell)
Bond is back and Daniel Craig is better than expected. Quite refreshing to see a Bond who could equally be a Bond villain. Too long, but keeps momentum up, doesn’t get tedious and shows a new side to the super spy. Surprising.

"Amy's View"

Mrs M was in town last night and we met up to see the delightful Felicity Kendall in David Hare’s “Amy View” at the Garrick Theatre. I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from the play – but I certainly didn’t expect the theatre to be only two-thirds full just one week after the play opened. It must be so dispiriting for the actors to have to put on a stirling performance when they look out and see rows of empty seats. But, to their credit, they gave it their all – doubtless spurred on by the fact director Peter Hall was sitting perched in a first floor box, watching their every move.

The play is set in four different years, with the same small set of characters moving and progressing forward – with life and love threatening their happiness. Felicity plays successful stage actress Esme, and the play starts in 1979 when her daughter Amy (Jenna Russell) comes to visit with her wannabe media tycoon boyfriend Dominic, and this visit sparks off a chain of events that influence the play for later scenes set in 1985, 1993 and 1995.

Parenthood, the Lloyds financial crash and morals influence the later developments. But the whole thing is overshadowed by drawn out discussions between warring Esme and Dominic over the value of the theatre in contemporary society (which seemed ironic considering the half full house). Dominic, who becomes a successful media critic on TV, feels that theatre is dated and offers nothing to young people, who want to watch videos so they can fast-forward the boring bits. While Esme remains true to her art, despite having to later concede and take a job in a hospital TV drama where her co-stars are amateurs in paste bangles.

Felicity was marvellous as the fiesty, determined and strong Esme – a personality it is easy to see Barbara Good having turned in to. But quite why the seats were empty baffled Mrs M and me (although the price of the tickets might have had something to do with it – we rather wish we’d just turned up at the door and got the same tickets for £15 instead of £45. Ho hum).

Scritti Politti in W12

There was much excitement on Sunday night as we headed out in the freezing cold to Shepherds Bush to see Scritti Politti play live. This was a dream come true for me, as I've been a huge fan since I was seven and first heard "The Word Girl" in 1985 (in a cricket pavillion in North Perrott). Green Gartside (for whom Scritti is a musical vehicle) rarely plays live - and until earlier this year, he hadn't played live since 1980 owing to nerves... and his nerves were very evident on Sunday, especially in the early half of the set. But despite this, he put on a fantatsic performance.

Until very recently, Big Brother 2 lived in Dalston Kingsland, two doors down from Green, and frequented the same pub that Green apparently uses as his second home... which is the same pub in which Green (apparently) recruited his current backing band. Sadly BB2 has bizarrely chosen to emigrate to the cultural desert that is Melbourne, so instead of going with him, I had to take P - who barely knew what he was coming to see.

Opening on "Snow In Sun", with a glittery discoball light effect, Green kicked things off as he meant to go on - playing largely from his recent Mercury Prize-nominated album "Black Bread, White Beer", and adding in a few older smatterings such as "The Word Girl" (my personal highlight), "The Sweetest Girl" and even 1978's "Skank Bloc Bologna". As newcomer P observed, Green is nothing if not diverse - mixing in influences from ska, hip-hop, rap and reggae. But since we're talking about a man whose musical collaborators over the years include no less than Miles Davis, Kylie Minogue and Shabba Ranks, what more could you expect? Hell, he even had a track on a Madonna film soundtrack way back when.

It seemed like a very intimate concert experience, with a rather unique audience. There were no noticable smokers, no significant drinkers, and I (at 28) was by far the youngest person in attendance and one of the few females. We also counted three people with walking sticks, and lost count of the number of people with white hair. To sum the audience up, I'd say they went to art college in an out of the way place like Bromley around 1980, and like to wear their hair just a little touselled to show they still have a bit of edge. Quite what this says about Scritti I'm not sure I want to acknowledge.

To me, Scritti are up there with my all time favourites. I remember the excitement of going round second hand record shops, snapping up Rough Trade 7"s of "Asylums In Jerusalem" and "Lions After Slumber", and my joy at finding a German Virgin 12" of "The Word Girl" at a car boot sale in Somerset. But none could match the highlight of coming across a 1978 7" of the legendary "Skank Bloc Bologna" (complete with photocopied wrap-around sleeve detailing exactly how to press your own single) in the darkened gloom of the now defunct Revolver Records on Park Street in Bristol (this was the original HQ for the influential independent Revolver distribution chain, which is now, horiffically, a coffee shop and stands as further proof of the vile nature of global monopolisation by the big cheeses at EMI etc). To clarify this point, "Skanc Bloc Bologna" is one of those records that people like Simon Reynolds and Jon Savage always refer to in their books about punk because it had such a revolutionary new twist on the DIY ethic.

Anyway, I've waffled. But I'm excited. Still. I never thought I'd have the opportunity to see Scritti live, and I'm thrilled that I now have as I doubt it will happen again. For further reassurance of my fandom - if I had to pick just one album for my desert island, I'd make it a Scritti one.

VE Has Returned

Apologies for a quiet week on VE but I've been away. No time to go into proper details now, suffice to say the past nine days have seen me head to Somerset for four nights of babysitting and DVD viewing (including "Junebug" = not bad, and "Shopgirl" = diabolical).

Then back to London for two nights of education (intense three-hour lecture on the pre-history of the postmodern, and a two hour reading group on "Nightwood").

And off to Bath for two nights of high luxury and over-indulgence in a swanky Georgian hotel with Big P (with short breaks from the delights of our rooms to see "Borat" = hilarious, and "Casino Royale" = too long but better than expected). We also took a trip around the Roman Baths, to the aural accompaniment of that highly critical nasal Yank, Bill Bryson, and had a proper Georgian tea in the Pump Rooms.

Last night, one hour after our return to the Big Smoke, we took the 148 to the darkest depths of Shepherds Bush to see Scritti Politti live in concert = truly fantatsically amazing (total joy). This fulfilled one of my lifetime achievements (anyone who knows anything about frontman Green Gartside will understand why).

The break has also seen me bury my nose in "Party Going" by Henry Green, "Little Lord Fauntleroy" by Frances Hodgson Burnett, and "The Wild Body" by Wyndham Lewis, as well as a few Virginia Woolf short stories and some trashy womens' mags and the weekend papers.

However, I'm now back at work - so I sadly expect there to be a considerable downturn in cultural consumption and overall quality of life/joy. Ho hum. If I get a chance, I shall try to expand on the more enlightening of the above over the next few days.

PS - Have now had the sodding Freeview box for three full weeks. Despite claiming it has a five-minute easy-to-use set-up time, I still haven't managed to get the bloody thing to work. Multo grrr. And we're a whole week into "I'm A Celebrity - Get Me Out of Here!" - the only reason I bought the stupid thing. Am not impressed. Stupid technology.

"Observer Music Monthly"

Yet more joy, yet more recognition - swoon, swoon. Today's Observer Music Monthly (the free magazine that's somehow better than the paid-for titles) saw fit to print my response to its Lee Hazlewood interview last month... and despite being disgruntled at not being letter of the month, I am greatly pleased to see my humble name in print. However, eager readers will have read my letter a month ago on these very pages (see "Lee Hazlewood - Some Velvet Morning" in the archive section if you can be bothered).