Pull the Other One

Although I love jokes and pranks of all sorts, the one thing I dread is bad comedy. Tell me, is there anything worse in this world than a stand-up performer who goes on and on and on and on about something that really isn't funny? This fear of mine is so strong that it has completely stopped me from attending any kind of comedy performances in London. Until yesterday, that is ...

When my friend M. asked if I wanted to go to see Pull the Other One at the Jermyn's Street Theatre in the West End, I said yes yes yes. M. and I went to boarding school together, and she had always been the artsy one in our group. I loved spending my evenings and weekends with her, because it would always be weird and wonderful and different in some way ...

Yesterday was just as I had expected: the acts were delightfully silly. I didn't need M. to tell me that the host Vivienne Soan was her aunt. They look the same, they wear the same crazy-cute outfits and they have the same sense of humour. Among the performers, there was Simon Munnery with a stand-up act rambling on about everything and anything, including an impression of Bob Dylan; there was Holly Burn dressed in leopard print head-to-toe and pretending to be one of those totally drunk women who think they are verrrry sexy. (Typical sight outside any club in England at 2am.) There was "Pants Off", a lady in the middle of a mid-life crisis with an accordion who dreams of becoming a rock star. (Haven't we all seen these lost souls audition for the X Factor?), and there was Emi Ogle, the contortionist. Last but not least, Matthew Robins with his slightly morbid episodic operatic shadow-puppet theatre, which totally made me want to buy an overhead projector. Here's an example of the stuff he does:


Unfortunately, M.'s uncle, Martin Soan (the master of props comedy) couldn't make it onto the stage because he was driving the mini bus that would take the performers back to Peckham, and because they had to clear out the venue so quickly ... Yeah, you've gotta love these small-scale productions and their innocently sweet but honest excuses. :o)

The evening brought up a few feelings in me that had nothing to do with comedy. It got me thinking about ambitions. Performing in London's West End is no doubt something that most actors in the world would be proud of. But after a lifetime devoted to performances and rehearsals, would this be enough for me? According to its website, the Jermyn Street Theatre was once the changing rooms for the staff of the Getti Restaurant (formerly the Spaghetti House Restaurant) upstairs. It's a tiny underground venue that seats 70 people, although it feels more like 30. Last night, the theatre was only half full, and most of the people in the audience seemed to be performers waiting for their turn, or people in some way related to the performers. These people aren't famous, and I can bet you there was barely enough cash to pay for the venue hire, and the parking charges and petrol for their mini bus. So why on Earth are they doing it?

At school, I spent my evenings cramming German irregular verbs and tore my hair out over differential equations and the photoelectric effect. Meanwhile, M. did theatre, played the drums and spent hours and hours searching for berries, bark and leaves to use as natural fabric-dye for her art projects. Even in my early teens, I worked hard because I knew I wanted to achieve something. Yet, I'm sure M. wanted to achieve something too. My ambitions were conventional, hers were not. As grown ups, we both got what we wanted: I don't have to worry about the difference between a Tube fare and a bus fare, but guess who has more free time and more fun.

It got me thinking about confidence, too. When I'm 50 years old, with more than just a few lines around my eyes, will I have the guts to stand up in front of people wearing a frilly dress, an oversized fur hat or odd socks, and make fun of myself? Most likely, I wouldn't know if the audience is laughing with me or at me. I would end up going home alone, drinking too much wine and crying myself to sleep. (Typical Bohemian?)

Pull the Other One is a regular show at the Ivy House in Peckham, offering 3 hours of variety show and comedy for £10, every last Friday of the month.

A thought from the Greenwich Observatory

"Space is for everybody. It's our new frontier out there, and it's everybody's business to know about space ..." (Christa McAuliffe, teacher on board space shuttle Challenger. 6 December 1985)

Towards the end of the work week, inspiration is what I seek.

Chinese New Year 2010: Tigerrrrrrrrrrrr

In case you haven't heard yet, 2010 is the year of the tiger according to the Chinese zodiac. The year I was born also happens to be Tiger (rarrrrrrr), so I hope for great things this year! The world wide web can't seem to make its mind up about whether being a tiger is good or bad. In Taiwan they think it's bad, and the government is urging its citizens to keep procreating amid fears that no one will want to have Tiger babies. In China, on the other hand, high birth rates are predicted for 2010 because everyone wants to have babies who are strong and brave like a tiger! (But I suppose this isn't the only thing that Taiwan and China can't seem to agree on. Now, who's right?)

I'm not a huge believer in horoscopes and similar things, but still they're fun to read sometimes. My mum often goes to see people who read the future from cards or from Turkish coffee and sometimes the things she comes back with are hilarious. (One of these women insisted I am going to marry a sugar daddy and have a good life squandering his fortunes. Me who takes such pride in paying my own bills and being independent no matter what!) So, without further blah blah blah, here are a few more things the Internet has to say about Tigers:

• born leaders
• men and women of action
• daring fighters who stand up for what they think is right
• selfish from time to time in little things but capable of great generosity
• unpredictable, always in a hurry
• usually choose to operate alone
• love adventures, addicted to excitement
• the Tiger needs not worry about money: just when s/he fears the money is gone, more seems to show up
• sensitive, emotional, capable of great love but they become too intense about it
• passionate and romantic

... Bored yet? Bear with me for a little longer. One thing I learnt this Chinese New Year is that in addition to the 12 signs in the Chinese zodiac, each year also has an element assigned. There are five: wood, fire, earth, metal and water. The year I was born is Fire Tiger which sounds pretty scary! How much more grounded would I be as an Earth Rooster or a Wood Dog, hmm?

Oh, and before I forget, here are some photos I took at the Chinese New Year celebrations this weekend. I had to stand on the edge of a fountain in Trafalgar Square to take these, risking a fall forwards onto concrete (and broken limbs + camera lens) or backwards into the freezing cold water (and wet ass + embarrassment). Neither of those happened; I'm just hypothesizing and trying to make you appreciate my effort a little more. Next time I will wear high heels to these gigs so I can just stand in the middle of the crowd and be taller than everybody else.

Friday to-do list (of people)

I have a new idea for rating bars / restaurants / clubs. The whole "how many stars out of five" or "how many points out of ten" thing doesn't work for me. It's too subjective; I change my mind easily, I sit on the fence, I oscillate between 4.5 and 5.5 out of 10. The alternative I propose is clear cut: How many drinks are necessary for me to start having a good time in said place? Needless to say, the scale goes from zero to infinity measured in DV (double vodkas). The first establishment I hereby subject to my new rating algorithm is Abacus, a bar on Cornhill, not far from the Bank of England. The score: 3.5 DV, which I consider fairly high. (In fact, I drank plenty more that night, ending up oblivious to The World and everyone in it, but half way through the fourth was when I started to vaguely enjoy myself. )

The trouble with Abacus started early on. We were not on the guest list, despite previous reassurance from dear friend V., who was already inside and conveniently not picking up his phone. "I will put you girls on about ten guest lists for tomorrow night," he said the day before. Aha. Not this one. Did I mention it was freezing cold outside as well? We queued in the Not On Guest List queue for 20 minutes. Why do these places have queues anyway? Is it just to make them look more desirable? Give me a break.

Inside, it was like a ZOO in the middle of mating season. Crowded, desperate, and full of people out to get laid, or those who can't get laid and come here to at least succumb to alcohol-induced unconsciousness. The crowd didn't feel right at all. Abacus, you are not my scene. You. Are. Not.

Dear friend V. noticed and tried to whip up some excitement in me, "Come on, Lucie, cheer up! There are sooooo many good-looking guys here." I looked around. Undeniably, he was right. Many hot guys who doubtless have a gym membership and good genes. But ...

I suspect their morning routine goes like this:

1. iron shirt

2. apply hair gel

3. inject testosterone

4. remove soul

So that didn't work. Dear friend V. refused to give up and offered me a back massage. "You are so tense!" Oooooh. Aaaah. Massages! Even when they're quickies, they're good.

"We are not staying here too long, are we?" I asked him while he rubbed my shoulders.

"No, there are about 7 or 8 options for clubs we can go to afterwards. Where do you wanna go? Any preferences?"

"No hookers," I said with the stern look of a moralist. (I have not forgotten about Mayfair Bar!)

"To be honest, Lucie, I think about 80 percent of the girls here could be described as hookers," he conceded.

"Is it normally this crowded?"

"Yeah, all the bankers and all the PAs from the City come out here on a Friday."

Ehm, excuse me! Did I just hear what I think I heard? Why do guys get stereotyped as "bankers" and girls get to be "PAs"? Penis = Career Success? Hellooooo, anybody home??? This is twenty first century knocking on the door. Let me in!!! Why aren't we over that crap yet? This painful truth, this realization that we are not equal, and that ignorance is still alive and well, took another double vodka to swallow.

Which takes me onto ... the crowd. Again. Abacus is full of guys standing around, pointing at girls and whispering something to their mates. Something like "I'm gonna fuck that girl tonight." Or shag, or screw, or do, ... I doubt the boys refer to a Thesaurus for possible ways of paraphrasing. The girls were on par; all looked like social climbers. Pretentious, tons of orangey make-up, fake tan, fake eye lashes, fake blond hair (straightened). I hate all that shit. Polyester will never cashmere, and those cheap earrings from Primark will never be gold. So why even pretend.

Now onto good points ... As a Libran by star sign, I do like to give a balanced account of everything and stay objective and weigh up the pros and cons before arriving at my conclusion. The decor is nice. The DJ was good. He seemed like a nice guy, and the music was alright as far as I remember, although after so much alcohol ... you never know if you can really trust your judgment. But what cheered me up most was this one guy wearing a t-shirt that said "I am not on Facebook." Yeheeei, somebody with an opinion. Somebody with a soul! What a shame he is not on Facebook, though. I would have added him.

Happy Today: 14 Feb

Today is a holiday invented by greeting card companies to make single people feel like crap.

For once, this isn't my own sarcasm, but the classic opening line from the movie Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. "Think positive! Statistically speaking, half your friends in relationships will be splitting up or getting divorced eventually," my friend J. said today. Is that how one thinks positive? If so, perhaps I'm not the cynic I thought I was.

In fact, my single Valentine's Days have always turned out better than the ones when I was all coupled-up. I had no expectations, and full control over my day. And London is a great place to be single, because there's always so much to do. Here are ten happy things I did this weekend:

1. Re-watched the Czech movie Kolya, which had won an Oscar in 1997, but back then I was too young to really appreciate it. I almost cried when little Kolya sits in the bath and uses the shower head to call his dead grandma. And I almost cried with laughter when Louka uses the same pick-up line (a very poetic one at that) every time he calls up a woman, any woman. The camera work in the movie is beautiful. The English subtitles aren't much, though, and don't really translate the finer nuances of the movie's bittersweet humour.

2. Went to see the exhibition Where Three Dreams Cross: 150 Years of Photography from India, Pakistan and Bangladesh at Whitechapel Gallery, next to Aldgate East station. Good pictures, but absolutely swarmed with people who can't help but point at everything and say, "Interesting." Thank you for your interesting and insightful comment; I don't know how I would have been able to come up with anything like that myself. I didn't even get to see all of the photos; there were that many people. A lot of the prints were rather small, and I can't say I'm a big fan of that. I prefer large sizes at exhibitions -- it's more powerful.

3. Went to see the Deutsche Börse Photography Prize 2010 exhibition at the Photographers' Gallery in Soho. No entrance fee, large prints that you can look at from a distance and go "hell yeah" (in your head), and an audience that didn't feel the need to find everything interesting. Success!

4. Spent lots of time in the kitchen, resulting in coconut-filled pancakes, tom yam soup, and Wiener schnitzel with potato mash, among other things. My belly had a good time, and cooking is such a relaxing thing to do when you have the time, the energy and the inspiration.

5. Took a shower with my new Nivea Happy Time shower creme. I like products with cute names like that. My fabric conditioner is called Barefoot in the grass (by Lenor).

6. Read the novel Signed, Mata Hari by Yannick Murphy and spent hours afterwards daydreaming about Java, about the sound of a gamelan orchestra, about smoking volcanoes, about the humid air and mist rising over rice fields surrounded by dark green mountains, about long train journeys that cleared my head of all thoughts, about the puppet master concentrating on moving his 200 wayang kulit puppets to recreate a story from the Mahabharata, about the nasi goreng I ate everywhere, about the good people who smiled for me, about the man I met at a train station and unexpectedly followed him to Bali for a spontaneous night of kissing on the beach ... Indonesia, it's been 8 long months, and I can hear it calling me again, louder and louder.

7. Watched a family while waiting for a Victoria line train at Oxford Circus: mum, dad, sleepy daughter in a pushchair. "You're grumpy because you've just woken up," the dad said and took his daughter in his arms, stroking her hair and trying to comfort her. They looked so sweet, I wanted to ask questions. Where did you two meet? How did he court you? How long have you known each other? How did he propose? Does your house look like a family idyll from Country Living magazine? ... but instead I smiled, and didn't say anything.

8. Spoke to my mum on the phone after three long weeks. She's well, I'm well and no news is good news.

9. Sat down to do some long-postponed writing. It's going slowly, but slowly is better than not at all.

10. Bought a steamed chicken bun in Chinatown for lunch. Yum.

Feeling so blue, so good

My friend P. (the same one who dragged me to Buddha Bar some time ago) was back in town last week, and thanks to her I accidentally discovered a small gem in the West End. A very small gem, in fact, but all the more precious. Her friend / Romantic Interest was playing the guitar at this hole-in-the-wall place called Aint nothing but ... The Blues Bar, so we went to eye him from a distance without telling him. (A romantic hit-and-run of sorts.) I don't think P. was having a very good time, since said Romantic Interest had pissed her off the day before, and since the bar was really not her scene at all. But the music instantly clicked with my ears and my soul, so I persuaded her to stay for one drink ... and then another one. It was my first time at a blues venue. From what I had seen in movies, I always imagined a blues bar as some place where lonely people go to drown their heartaches in whisky, and where you eventually end up asleep on the table at 4am, and the barmaid will politely try to wake you up because she has kids waiting for her at home and really needs to close. Well, it turns out, The Blues Bar isn't like that at all. It was lively, happy and I instantly relaxed my shoulders, swayed my head with the rhythm and forgot about the stresses of my world outside.

The music rocked and the crowd consisted of the sort of people who really, really don't give a fuck about things. The barman wore a Rastafarian-style hat, high-fived the regulars like they were his long-lost friends, and smiled at me without being sleazy or flirty, because he was just too cool to be any other way. It made my day. The décor gives the Blues Bar a suitably chilled-out backdrop, with exposed brick, blues music scores for wallpaper and a bit of old-fashioned neon here and there. You don't expect such a homely atmosphere to be freely available (without an entrance fee!) just around the corner from the über-pretentious Regent Street.

I was a little apprehensive about using the loo at the Blues Bar, because I suspected it would be dirty, and even though I have survived worse (squat toilets at Indian bus stations), a girl just never really fancies taking a pee in smelly places. But I couldn’t hold it … soo … aah, better than I thought. Clean! Yeiiii! Plus, I discovered a whole world of literary non-fiction down there. See for yourselves …

Dear Blues Bar, I will be back soon. Dear London, give me more places like this, please, please, pretty please!!! My love for you is back.