Existing

It's as if I'm in a basement.



The four towering walls envelope me in a black coat.

An air that is so thick yet so cold.

There is nothing going on outside of these bricks.

In isolation it is easy to feel alarmed by another being. A fear surrounds me that somebody, a stranger, would open the door above me, and I would look up, vulnerable.

I'd be cuddling my knees like a child, undeniably, helplessly.

Wrapped in an imaginary blanket, and rocking, I'd be floating in a hypnotic state of dreaming.


A creaking floor board underneath me would remind me that

I

am

existing.

Within the darkness I'd find a co-ordinate to focus my my eyes upon. I'd stare so intensely.

Taking sinister delight in how my body clock would fail to work inside my blank canvas.


This is how I feel, this is what I imagine, when I listen to Intro.

Now and then, I have an epiphany.

3-7 years old: After my Aunty Heather took me to Tate Modern with crayons and paper, I was hooked. I drew The Snail by Matisse, "Mummy, I wanna be an artist!"

7-10 years old: After singing out of my window as loud as I could everyday, hoping a someone with a spare record deal contract in thier pocket would pass. I remember thinking girls shouldn't be playing guitars.

10-13 years old: After watching too much Changing Rooms, having been hypnotised by Lewellyn-Bowen's wild hair; "I want to be an interior designer!"

14-17 years old: After battling with OCD and going through numerous types of treatment therapies. "I'm going to be a psychologist". I wanted to understand my head a little better!

18-21 years old: After coming out of music college and realising I'm definatley not up for the music industry.. I decided on TV presenting/radio broadcast etc".

Now, at the grand old age of 22, after reading a selection of comedian's autobiographies and realising that I enjoy nothing better than watching stand up, I've decided I would LOVE to be a stand up. I love nothing more then making my friends crease up in stitches.

I was so overshelmingly inspired that I sat up in bed at 2am last night and started writing jokes and laying down all the 'funny' stories and anecdotes I have in my little indesicive head. The problem is, I'm my own biggest fan. I'm glad to say that now and then I make my friends crack up and am sometimes referred to as 'that funny girl'.... I might be misinterpreting the meaning. Anyway, I'll crack a joke or a one liner (Russian music joke, anyone? Friends will know what I'm on about), and I'll be laughing too hard at my halariousness that five minutes later when I stop laughing my mates are just looking at me in horror.

Anyway, I wrote some daft one liners last night (I'd write out the long jokes I wrote too, but without a live thrusting action, one of the jokes would be lost on you, my dear reader). I'm a huge fan of one-liner comedians like Stuart Francis, Milton Jones (who I'll be seeing live in February), and Tim Vine. So here are some I wrote at 2am in my jim-jams last night. Have a butchers;





"I was asked to draw the curtains. I did my best, but I'm no Picasso...".

"Last night I was invited to a pool party. It wasn't quite what I expected. My chalk got soaked. I took my cue to leave...".

"I once found myself in a massive tin of Heinz Spaghetti... I had to jump through hoops to get out of there...".

"I once performed a song that had several chord changes. The wardrobe department couldn't keep up...".

"My little cousin kept telling her mum, 'I need a wee, I really need a wee!' She loved getting a new games console for Christmas, but she did develop some concerning bladder issues...".

Let me know if they're crap! Ha, I don't deal with that false approval thing very well!

x

Christmas parties, a time to forget your troubles (albeit temporarily!), sing some carols and get down and dirty with your festive self.

Virgin On The Ridiculous

A woman who has celebrated her 107th birthday this week, was also celebrating as many years as a virgin. Clara Meadmore, of Perranporth, Cornwall, claimed that sex appears to be ‘a lot of hassle’. 


Now I’m not one to knock on her door and insist she pop her cherry - I think there’s a law against that sort of behaviour - but I can’t help but wonder why she hasn’t dipped her toe in. After all, she makes 
Steve Carrell’s character as The 40 Year Old Virgin look like a slut. Yet Meadmore is not alone. Across the water, the University of San Francisco discovered in 2009 that 13.9% of men and 8.9% of women in the US have never had sex. Did they consider the act of love making a ‘hassle’ too? They join the likes of X factor failures John and Edward Grimes (AKA Jedward) who made a less than shocking confession to the Daily Star in August. “Yes we are virgins”, John told them. “We have never had, like, a serious girlfriend”. Though of course, this probably isn’t out of choice. 

The question is, does a personal promise of celibacy guarantee you a long life like Meadmore’s? Or is her long and healthy life irrespective of her decisions in love. I can’t think of many people wanting to give this experiment a bang. Sorry, bash. 


The retired secretary told The Metro newspaper that she knew she wanted to avoid marriage since the age of 12, and that as a young woman she wanted to concentrate on making a living. It is fair to say that without a family beneath her, she must be hiding a pretty penny or two under her care-home mattress. 


But imagine a life without a partner, children... Okay, yes, to some of you this will seem momentarily pleasing. Thrilling in fact. Imagine not having to worry about your kids hurting themselves every time you turn your head away. Wouldn’t it also be wonderful to not have to force out a simple conversation with your partner of 20 years?


However in the long term, surely this would lead to a life of loneliness, and a low sense of self-worth. Beyond our worries about partners (are we growing apart?) and children (have I raised a brat?), there is a bond. Such strong relationships make us feel needed and relevant. 


At her impressive age, she must be watching her friends pop their clogs one after the other. I believe that the facts about Meadmore’s age and sexual preferences are of no relation. It’s a well known fact that people who marry are more likely to live longer than if they remained single. Health website ASB.net released a study in 2008, stating that this trend begins when people hit the age of 40. Yet it hits its’ peak between the ages of 70 and 84, “where the death rate for single people is almost double that of their married friends”. 


With 107 years of celibacy under her belt, it causes me to think that the old lass has never let her self go. What a pity. Still, it’s never to late…

Out performed by a fan? Gig review: The Outcast Band, The Temesis.

The Outcast Band provide an interesting venue for new tracks and old favourites, but after the show, the audience may have been more memorable. 




Climbing into a small boat on the Thames to see catch a folk band’s album launch party, you don’t expect to be battling for space at the front with a highly excitable hippy-mosher. As a night of unusual quirks, there were two atmostpheres. One  was spilling over with anticipation and excitement. The other was one of unknowing. Firstly of what the night will bring. Secondly, of who the hell this band are that harldy anybody seems to have heard of. 




Celebrating the release of their third album, The Outcast Band were supported by Richard James - a singer-songwriter notably inspired by Dandy Warhols and Beck - not in fact one half of Aphex Twin as few attendees wrongly hoped.  Although the set consisted of inoffensive sing-a-long folk-pop tracks, the crowd were more excited about reaching the bar than the stage. 


Docked on Albert Embankment, Vauxhall, the anticipating crowd began to tuck themselves in tightly as they awaited their musically-underground treasure. A mix of fans, special guests and the band’s family members filled the creaking venue to hear songs, new and old. Following on from their bubbly opening track, The Devil’s Road, the audience were treated to their first snippet of the new album - produced by Phil Tennant (Waterboys, Levellers) - with an animated recital of To The End. Fiddler Paul Godfrey played a key role, leaping excitedly to and fro in front of the intensely close spectators. Unfortunately, most of this too-ing and fro-ing was conducted shyly with his back to the audience. 


The punk-folk rockers proved that they aren’t shy of experimenting with unusual instruments. Vocalist Damien Kay brought out his megaphone during an energetic performance of Garden Song, despite the audience stepped away from his direction to avoid the spit path. Guitarist Tom Price introduced to us his electric mandolin for a dazzling rendition of ballad, Be Someone. As a highlight, it would have been a raise your lighter in the air moment, if it weren’t for the wooden boat. Finally, a song that our hippy-mosher friend couldn’t hop around to? No, afraid not. The crowd joined him in lively dance, before he smashed his flailing arm into a waitress running in front of the congrgation. The result? A spilt plate of chips and burger in front of the stage. It became mashed potato by the end of the track. 


New track Don’t Go Home was welcomed with a power cut (were the trying to hint something?). Not so much a hindrance though, Kay entertained us with witty dialogue whilst other members of the band wondered about stage as humorously-confused as the audience. It was only a minute until the tune returned with a punk-ho down for a middle eight. 


Ending the set with Shelter Me and upbeat new track Longest Mile, the performance couldn’t help but conclude with a desperate thankfulness. 


The Outcast Band are benefiting from a folk revival. Having reached public awareness (just about) in 1991, they were ahead the trend. It seems however, that the trend may be continuing to evolve without them. The Outcast Band promise little hope for mainstream success and arena tours. But as far as folk-punk ho-downs on boats go, they’re unbeatable. 

Fool's Timing

Stiffened and a little embarrassed, a redhead stands alone in front of the mosaic wall. She looks quirky, yet with not enough confidence to pull it off as an effortless attempt. Perfectly round glasses frame her hazel eyes, as they scatter left and right. Perhaps she’s meeting someone here? 


A suede-gloved hand encases an almost-empty glass, almost too tightly, whilst the other fiddles furiously with her phone. The lady stands unnaturally and with anticipation, like a sprinter waiting for the whistle. A final nervous swig. She allows the alcohol dance upon her palette. She’d made it last for a distressful 37 minutes. 


The young woman’s ribcage rises abruptly, and down again, while her chin quivers subtly. The clink-clonk of her high heeled boots make a hurried rhythmic escape for the door. 


And so another broken heart begins its’ lonely walk home through London, as a young man, eyes wide and searching, makes his entrance into the Macbeth. He’s happy with his timing. He’s 20 minutes early. 

The Dance

On Carnaby Street, we do a dance. 

Hope, skip, click of our shoes.

We’re unaware of the story we’re telling. 

The street is alive as we merry our way to our destinations.

Possessed with generous anticipation.

The air hums as we revolve around one other

Shoulders clashing, pick-pockets snatching.

We twist and twirl as we weave and waver in and out of each other’s way. 

Some of the dancers journeys are not as important as others. 

We scurry and hurry our performance along the street. 

The pricey shops and polished pubs make for a wonderful stage. 

But waltzes become stumbles, and foxtrots become shoves.

Our show is coming to an end.

Darkness creeps in as the curtains fall, the pitter-patter dissolves. 

I curtsy to my fellow unsuspecting dance partners. 

They’ve removed their dancing shoes, the pantomime is over.

 The next unknowing cast sift their way through the paths.

Their cabaret begins, subconsciously and unknowing.

The stage of Carnaby will be filled, infinitely

The dance is never ending.