City Slicker

Village idiot

2008-05-02T12:41:00.007+01:00

I am scared. Very scared.

The Mayor of London will be on international display for the next four years - starting at the Closing Ceremony this summer when the Games get handed over to us.

In the red corner we have Rabid Ken squaring up against in the blue corner Buffoon Boris a man who dresses like crunchy the clown and only opens his mouth to change feet. But, still, the best of the worst is still the best.

This feels too much like London's George Bush moment to not be depressed.

If Boris wins it will only expose voter ignorance. Except that under Boris ignorance will no longer be bliss.

C'mon Ken!

The Vertical Hour subverted

2008-01-22T11:28:00.000+01:00

"We'll pay you to be quiet" said an employee of the Royal Court last night upon witnessing my depression drinking in the theatre bar after last night's performance of David Hare's 'The Vertical Hour'. But like a barracuda is to shiny objects a blogger is to threats of silence. So forgive me a few (pre press night) words on the 'The Vertical Hour': the most pretentious play to come out of the Royal Court since the last play they defecated in the name of upholding middle-class values. And I haven't even got to what I really think.

The main plotline is a posing of the personal versus the political, of how you relate your private life to what is going on around you. (Yawn, gaze at navel). The basic plot is of an American war reporter turned academic who travels to Wales with her boyfriend to visit his father. She doesn’t love Bush but supported the war, the father despises Bush and opposed it; she gets louder, he gets the good lines. You expect this tête-à-tête from Hare, who likes to keep abreast of the news and isn’t exactly shy about his lefty politics. But the casting is rubbish and the chemistry is missing. In fact, the leading woman (pictured here) is so ineffectual it’s hard to know what Hare or the director really think of the character or how she’s supposed to relate to the other people onstage.

Hare defines the 'vertical hour' as "the moment at which you are able to recognise the truth about yourself." It's just a shame the play never enjoys one of its own. Notwithstanding, my vertical hour came in the bar afterwards when I realised how pretentious and decadent theatre makes me feel uncomfortable and phoney. As if I was posing to enjoy theatre because I thought it was the right thing to do and not because I really loved it. So that's it for me and the Jerwood Theatre Downstairs. But I still enjoy the honest, authentic new writing put on Upstairs.

I wonder if Dominic Cooke sees the irony in the Royal Court's subversion of the Upstairs/Downstairs motif?

Positive thinking

2008-01-21T16:25:00.000+01:00

Here is a hilarious clip to cheer us up on Blue turned Black Monday, or at least give us a better reason to be in tears. If we had any left. I don't know about you, but I am keeping hope alive today. For the first time in seven years when looking at the light at the end of the tunnel, I don't see a train.

Big girls don't cry

2008-01-11T17:58:00.000+01:00

I don't know about you but I have spent a better part of this week watching the U.S. election results and drinking: the latter mainly to deal with the former. Following campaign coverage can be trying. Especially when the talking heads seem hell-bent on relying on racist and sexist sound-bites in lieu of substantive commentary.

Even The New York Times, the so-called 'newspaper of record' has jumped on the bandwagon with a headline which apparently thinks women are just "perceiving" sexism. No, you media muppets, we're seeing it. Everywhere.

But enough feministing for today. To get us through such hard times, I can't resist sharing an email exchange I had earlier today:

Sarah, friend from NYC: Since I signed up on the Obama site I've received 2 emails from him. The first was titled 'We knew it would be hard' and the second was titled 'Something Big.' I am hesitant to open these at work.

Me: I'm so posting that.

2008-01-10T17:58:00.000+01:00

It's been a while. I apologise and wish I had a good excuse. It's not because I have been somewhere exotic - I haven't left Central London (unless a walk through Rotherhithe counts) in weeks. I have avoided the sales unless a £3 CD spree in Fopp on Boxing Day qualifies. Okay, so I did contract that bugger of a bug that spread across town faster than Russell Brand's STDs. Bet I am now free from the Lemsip/Benylin chains. See you here tomorrow. Normal service to resume.

Much ado

2007-12-05T18:11:00.000+01:00

There is hype and there is hysteria: one is based on promotion the other on emotion. Too often I conflate the two and end up overly excited about something that ultimately under delivers. The mismatch comes from expecting of something but forgetting to consider the capacity of what you are expecting it from (women: think Valentine's Day; men: think European Championship). But that is exactly where the fault line lies: the expectation.

This I found to be true the other night as I meandered through the back streets of Covent Garden clutching my front row ticket to the hottest show in town: Othello starring Ewan McGregor at the Donmar Warehouse. With tickets going for £1200 on Ebay, there was a palpable aura of unfettered expectation amongst the throngs overpaying for pre-show Merlot at the Donmar's bar.

With expectations suitably tempered with slugs of pre-show and interval wine, I would have to agree with today's mainstream (Times and Guardian) 4-star reviews. Ewan was a solid Iago but not as convincing at cunning malice as Matt Damon in Talented Mr.Ripley and somehow, for me, the comparison was inescapable. Ewan is also much shorter than I expected (I'd guess 5'8") which (pathetically) threw my focus from his lines to whether he was wearing lifts. Kelly Reilly as Desdemona was disappointingly weak (that's polite for crap and intensely irritating) which I should have expected having walked out of this year's Piano/Forte at the Royal Court thanks to her performance. Her 'air, hair, lair' affectations are too Keira Knightley meets Rosamund Pike to leave me feeling anything but cold.

But then there is Chiwetel Ejiofor: the sort of actor who is born, not made. If most of the audience was filled with McGregor fans, it was Ejiofor's show to steal. He is an actor who can emote from silence and his brooding presence was perfect at capturing Othello's descent into devastating jealousy. If the Donmar's staging of Othello defies one expectation it's that Chiwetel is no longer one of Britain's greatest black film stars - he is simply one of the world's great actors. And with that alone Othello exceeded all expectations.

Othello
Donmar Warehouse
Until 23 Feb 2008
Sold out; call 0870 060 6624 for returns

Blakey poo

2007-11-28T12:58:00.000+01:00

While Britney Spears may have been the Exciting Crazy Girl to watch last week, I personally think Amy Winehouse is loads more exciting to cyber-blog-stalk. I could sit around all day F5ing gossip pages excitedly waiting for the next Winehouse installment. However, today, I was truly disgusted with what I read about our poor wittle Amy. Doctors have apparently ordered her to cancel the rest of her UK tour and as the " intense emotional strain that Amy has been under in recent weeks" has started to "take its toll". Talk about understatement of the year. Who would disagree that Amy should be taking time off to heal (a lot of time), but Amy's personal statement of the cancellation of her tour was (how do I say this delicately?) pathetic:

“I can’t give it my all onstage without my Blake. I’m so sorry but I don’t want to do the shows half-heartedly; I love singing. My husband is everything to me and without him it’s just not the same.”

Move over Pete and Kate - the co-dependancy junkies-in-love bar has just been risen. So rather than wait for Amy to get over her precious "Blakey" I went hunting for a suitable replacement: enter Ms. Jones. No, I don't mean the other half of Me & Mr. Jones but rather the soulful voice of Sharon Jones and the Dap Kings, a Brooklyn-based band making a name for themselves by recreating the sound of '60s and '70s funk and soul. The rich sound might seem familiar as The Dap Kings were shipped in by Mark Ronson to give Amy Winehouse's album an authentic sound, but who needs Wino when you've got someone like Sharon Jones?

Saint-Angelina?

2007-11-14T17:34:00.000+01:00

Along with being a mother, an actress, and a Saint - Angelina Jolie is now a writer. Oh yes. Jolie was asked to write an article for The Economist for their The World 2008 spin-off issue where the publication makes predictions for the next coming year. Jolie will have a picture and byline to accompany her piece, which describes her as the goodwill ambassador for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. (It did not mention that she gets to shag Brad Pitt whenever she wants.) Surely, it's The Economist’s way of pretending they didn’t use an actress to write about one of the greatest genocides of our time. According to The Guardian, her article will cover, "accountability for the atrocities in Darfur sits alongside contributions from several presidents, an exiled god-king, the head of the United Nations and other political heavyweights".

As for today's other news, Brad and Angie have reportedly purchased a man-made island off the coast of Dubai in the shape of Ethiopia and intend to "intend to use the reclaimed piece of land to showcase environmental issues and encourage people to live a greener life." Because it's so smart and so green to give a country based on oil profits $30 million for a freaking island that’s going to get blown up when Dumbya gets around to invading Iran and the straits get blocked.

Oh, and lastly (or rather ghastly) guess who stars in the upcoming Beowulf adaptation? If you were a cynic, you might think there is no better way to promote a new movie than appearing in The Economist’s The World in 2008, at least for Saint-Angelina. This spin-off issue of The Economist is out today, selling at £4.95, and also features pieces by Nancy Pelosi, the Dalai Lama, and Michael Bloomberg. Get your copy from Odeon, sorry, Amazon.

Secret success?

2007-11-07T15:31:00.000+01:00

It's no secret that Charlie Brooker is my favourite columnist. His latest piece had me slumped in a continuous cackle. In it, Brooker claims to be a sad loser -- a "tragic singleton" -- who's "useless at every single aspect of holidays" and is therefore staying at home. Now, some would make this a claim to virtue -- "Save the Earth, holiday at home as I'm doing!" But that would not only be unBrookeresque, it would be unBritish. Never, ever (if you want British people to like you) present yourself as someone ethical, responsible, admirable, aspirational. Never pitch camp on high moral ground. Assume, instead, the position of a pitiful inadequate. Talk often about "my crushing sense of failure". Drop to your knees in front of your readers, weeping and swearing. Punch your head with a spike, no, two spikes. Beat your breast, shouting about your utter crapness, while spraying mace into your own face and...

Sorry, I'm getting carried away. That's how Charlie Brooker would write this piece. It would be filled with cartoon violence, either against himself or others, preferably both. Take paragraph six of his holiday piece, for instance. It's really an entire short story in itself, and the misanthropy it displays is hilariously psychopathic.

But could Brooker's self-deprecation be just a cunningly-disguised sort of self-love, because (in Britain at least) it never ever comes with promises of self-improvement? Narcissism, negative narcissism, same difference. In love with my virtues, in love with my vices, whatever.

So I guess I do part company with Brooker -- and Britain as a whole -- on this question of the toxicity of all aspiration. Certainly, it can't be emphatically "far better to just sit here and sneer at the lot of it".

Of course, it may be that Brooker just wants to make people laugh -- and that's an aspiration not to be sneered at. But can he really be as miserable as he pretends? Is the secret of Charlie Brooker's unsuccess that he hasn't got any? Is his ultraviolence really ultra-friendliness, a desire to see bitter British faces creased and smiling? And is it the rest of us -- with our self-sustaining self-satisfaction -- who are the true psychopaths?

Mid-week pick-me-up

2007-11-07T14:40:00.000+01:00

If you woke up this morning and were feeling a bit down about work, and started to feel as if you weren't sure what you were doing in life - perhaps this video can help. Behold Sesame Street's "Women can be anything!" song. While they didn't mention that women can be famous bloggers, it still made me feel better. Enjoy.

Trash in bed?

2007-11-05T18:00:00.000+01:00

As a frequent sufferer of insomnia I allow myself the odd trashy celeb magazine purchase. In an effort to stimulate seratonin production some people opt for hot milk or a hot bath while others avoid alcohol. For me there is something about paparazzi snaps of Amy Winehouse running through the streets of London in her tattered pink ballerina slippers, dripping Rimmel liquid eyeliner and blood everywhere that I find soothing.

Soothing, that is, until I opened up Elle magazine the other night to read a writer's account of being sent on assignment to Africa with Bill Clinton. Somehow she managed to stop drooling and quivering to type up her story for the December issue. And whilst she doesn't want you to think that she fancies the pants off him or anything ("The va-va-voom of Clinton's touch has dissipated in the years since I first met him. He appears older than his years. And he knows it.") but the poor woman just can't help herself and blurts out, "He seemed to pulse with pheromones, and a moment's eye contact had been a sexually discombobulating experience." But OH. It gets better. This writer should seriously rethink her career; she'd make a great Mills & Boon novelist.

"At every hotel and every restaurant and on every tarmac, he pauses to press the flesh, and there's always so much to press...His intellectual and humanistic appetites remain voracious, and when his gaze sweeps the dinner table and catches you, you feel as if you have been X-rayed by the eye of Sauron, the flabbiness of your own cerebrum exposed."

Do you feel really heady and uncomfortable, too? Like, you just read someone's explicit diary entry about how they've got a feverish crush on your close friend's father? Yeah...me too. So much for the trash in bed theory. Tonight it's The Economist.

First ladies and babies

2007-11-01T12:51:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the blogging hiatus. But, I am back with a bang: a video clip from The Daily Show that is up there with one of the best things I have ever seen. Apparently Maria Shriver gathered the Presidential candidates wives together for "The Women's Conference 2007", where they discussed their lives, babies, what it's like to be married to men who are seemingly more important than they are and, well, babies. The best bit is when Maria Shriver asks the women if the American public is voting for a couple, or just their husband, and Elizabeth Edwards responds, "I hope they're voting strictly for the candidate." And then Maria Shriver responds, "Then what's your relevance?" HARSH.

I found this whole segment hysterical. I'm sure the women did talk about things other than babies and family life, pot luck and changing tables...I just can't think of what.

And why wasn't Bill Clinton invited?

Why any post is better than no post...

2007-10-25T16:01:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the silence, I will return shortly...

2007-10-09T16:38:00.001+01:00

In Munich, back here Wednesday 10th October.

In the meantime, a display of raw beauty from arguably the best female voice alive today. In vino veritas indeed Amy.

Universal guy truths

2007-10-04T13:57:00.000+01:00

After a few gossipy posts of late, I had every intention of raising standards today. Until I woke up feeling like Amy Winehouse minus the talented genius bit. So I am afraid as a casualty of last night's Shiraz session, the bar (in the metaphorical sense) is going to be lowered even further by perhaps one of the most laughable things I have read in a long time: an on-line article from Men's Health entitled: "50 Things Men Wish You Knew."

If it weren't for my fuzzy head, I would have been inclined to copy and past the entire freaking thing here and rip it apart, item by item. However, I won't do that to you. (Funny how hangovers are a shortcut to efficiency). Rather, I shall share with you only the top 5 "universal guy truths" that "all women should understand":

22. When you get angry over some stupid little pointless thing, I question your intelligence. And when you get all pissed off and cry after your team loses, I question your intelligence.

34. Being good in bed means a) enthusiasm; b) a sense of humor; and sometimes c) patience. So have enthusiasm ("OhMiGod! I can't WAIT to have sex with you!!!"), have a sense of humor, ("OhMiGod! Wasn't it soooo funny when you farted during foreplay"), and have patience. (aka Don't put too much pressure on him if he turns out to be crap in bed. Just wait it out.)

8. No question need ever be asked through a closed bathroom door if I'm inside. I love you less with each syllable you utter. Right. Never talk to a man when he's in the toilet. It's his quiet time and he needs to be alone. In silence...or else he'll get so annoyed he'll love me less. Got it.

30. Spring means baseball and skirts. Doesn't need to be a mini-skirt; it's been a long winter. I'm so sorry you've had to look at me in jeans all this time. I probably should have just sucked it up and wore a skirt during that blizzard.

39. Sure, men stereotypically like to solve a woman's problems. But a woman who solves her own while we watch? Instant erection.What more motivation do I need to solve my own problems than knowing it turns you on?! Perfect!

Hate Mail

2007-10-03T15:46:00.000+01:00

When life feels all too unpredictable I pick up a copy of the Daily Mail. It is one of the few things that consistently provoke the same emotion in me: hatred. Okay, maybe George Bush's smirk could be used to the same effect but I wanted an excuse to link to this.

And there is no getting around the evil in one of their headlines today which reads "Enormous Milla shows what NOT to wear when you are pregnant" and features photos of an eight months pregnant Milla Jovovich wearing a flowing gown to the world premiere of her latest film. The nerve. She must have missed the memo that explains how you are supposed to look as slim as possible when you're just days away from giving birth.

For Christ's sake, she's PREGNANT. She is one of Hollywood's most beautiful women, and she's getting hate mail from the voice of Middle England for looking "too big" when she's eight months pregnant. Some world we live in.

Paris goes down

2007-10-01T15:51:00.000+01:00

I nominate David Letterman as City Slicker 'Man Of The Week'. Why? Because his interview with Paris Hilton on Friday was hilarious. David asks Paris question after question about her time in jail even though she is there to promote her new perfume. I can't decide what my favourite part is, but when he offers to buy her a parakeet if she keeps talking about her time in the slammer is pretty high up there. It looks like her canary head is about to explode. Note to producers: now that really would boost ratings.

Ode to the Enhanced

2007-09-28T18:00:00.000+01:00

I love the Royal Court Theatre. In fact, I love it enough to endure the dreaded District Line to get there. And, yet again, the journey was worth it; this time for The Ugly One, a brilliantly clever and funny new play by one of Germany's hottest young playwrights, Marius von Mayenburg, opening the Royal Court's International Season.

As the play has already been reviewed in the mainstream press, I will avoid a plot rehashing. But, suffice it to say the main theme is society's obsession with plastic surgery and its resulting generic templates of beauty. With so many Botoxed, Propeciaed, Lasiked and breast-augmented around, the suggestion is that all individuality and identity is lost. Think Jessica Simpson. Who? Precisely.

So when the protagonist of The Ugly One turns to a plastic surgeon to refashion his 'ugly face' the implication is that he is breaking a basic human covenant: that we each suffer whatever genetics we were given. The assumption being that the playing field is fair in the big picture, that some of us are born beautiful smart and talented and it somehow gets balanced out by being Michael Lohan's daughter.

But is it really fair? Or rather is there not also danger in conforming to the idea there is danger in conforming? Is redesigning your body any more an affront to nature than wearing make-up or a Wonder bra? Shouldn't it be okay to use technology to compete? Think Barry Bonds. Shouldn't a man who can only hit a home run every once 16 at bats be allowed to hit a home run every nine bats? Or a politician use Botox to beat out a younger wrinkle-free opponent? Isn't that what Jefferson meant when he wrote that whole "pursuit of happiness" thing? Or do you really think the guy was just talking about stamps and tea?

The Ugly One
Royal Court, Jerwood Theatre Upstairs
£10-£15, Until 13 Oct
020 7565 5000

Proof (as if needed) that Paris is an idiot

2007-09-28T16:19:00.000+01:00

Ok, so idiot may be too much of a strong word, but this video from Paris to promote her new fragrance 'Can Can' certainly does her no favours. When there's so many intelligent, interesting women in the world (who actually have things to say other than 'I just spray my fragrance through the day, it smells so good") why does this one get so much attention?*

*Yes I know, I am in fact giving her more attention instead of talking about other intelligent, interesting people. I am also an idiot.

Burn Venus Burn

2007-09-13T11:59:00.000+01:00

I must stop going to plays about men in skirts. I only spend time admiring their legs over their lines. Just last night at the Soho Theatre, under the spell of the mesmerising Tam Dean Burn's performance of Venus as a Boy, I was distracted by thoughts of Kate Moss. Not because Venus and Kate both live cocaine-and-sex sagas or represent the epitome of a kind of cool heavily tinged with London decadence. But rather because they both have spindly bowed legs which look great in skinny jeans. But I digress.

Venus as a Boy is one man's way of infusing beauty into a life that is not the soft landing that a childhood in the hills of Orkney prepared him for. We first meet Venus as he lies dying in his Soho bedsit, turning gold and lamenting that 'true love was never going to be my reward.' The plot then traces his story of loves found and lost and the interminable heartache the cycle induces. Venus tackles the big subjects, the desire to connect with other people, and to long for a love equal to that which we offer up. It made me want to hunt down my exs and exact tantamount revenge. What better use is there for Facebook?

It's such a shame that visually Burn is more a haggard Boy George than gorgeous Orcadian boy. It means that as this book come play is currently being given the motion picture treatment by Film Four there isn't a place for Tam. Even more of a reason to get to Soho before Hollywood polishes off its integral tarnish for the silver screen.

Venus as a Boy
Soho Theatre
Until 22 Sept, £7.50-£20
0870 429 6883

Cumming out on top

2007-09-12T15:00:00.000+01:00

Just last post I wrote that it's not everyday you spend a few hours inside the heads of "theatrical divas immersed in sex..." I should have also added that it's not often said divas are men flirting on stage in wigs and skirts with faces covered in slap. What else should I have expected from a camped up version of The Bacchae staring Alan Cumming, you ask? Fair point.

From the opening scene when Alan descends suspended by his ankles with his bum exposed from under a gold kilt, I understood why the wacky Bacchae was the hit of the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and is now on transfer to the Lyric Hammersmith: Alan is the acceptable (and some) face of sexual ambiguity. Like a naughty schoolboy he can get away with behaviour that is controversial. In this new version of Euripides' tragedy, Cumming takes on the role of Dionysus, the god of wine and ecstasy (as if the two could ever be mutually exclusive) as a hyper-queen and steals the show.

Alan is so spectacular that the show's main fault is that his appearances render the moments without him flat. As the lascivious desk clerk ('a flaming queen who's obviously besotted') fawning over Tom Cruise, he's responsible for the only enjoyable scene in Kubrick's otherwise torpid Eyes Wide Shut. The same pleasure principle applies in the Bacchae: Alan makes a delicious Dionysus. He camped marvellously between comedic prankster and murder-some menace. If Dionysus is the god of theatre, then surely Cumming is the god of Scottish stage?

The Bacchae

Until 22 Sept

0870 050 0511, £10-£27

P.S - In true bacchanalia spirit post-show wine consumption was enjoyed amongst the company of West End Whingers, Interval Drinks and Helen Smith. But we deny any connection with the subsequent indictment scandalising today's binge drinking as akin to 18th century Gin Lane.

All About Almodovar

2007-09-05T11:11:00.000+01:00

It was a week ago yesterday that I sauntered along The Cut to the theatrical adaptation of Pedro Almodovar's 'All About My Mother' at the Old Vic. I have been meaning to write about it here, but I have been shamefully remiss of late. So late that the mainstream papers are already on the case: anathema to a blogger. And, as is often the case, I disagree with the dead white males. Well, okay, I often disagree with the live ones as well but that's academic. And I rarely do so with the West End Whingers whose review, yet again, is more relevant (personal photo ops aside) than the Times, Guardian and Evening Standard.

In short, I thought the play was brilliant. It's not every day that you spend a few hours inside the heads of pregnant nuns, transsexual prostitutes, and theatrical divas immersed in sex, drugs and three untimely deaths (Sunday afternoon sessions at the Vauxhall Tavern aside, of course). Lesley Manville and Dame Diana Rigg offer superb examples of cooling British acting talent which provides a counterpoint to the play's Spanish heat. My only niggle is the girl who plays the nun (played by Penelope Cruz in the movie) is generally excellent but her Spanish accent when she says "Mama" or "Papa" is laughable. It actually sounds Italian (she stresses the first syllable instead of the second one). Ok, it's a detail.

The critics moan that it's a play of a movie which makes it somehow less worthy as a play. I disagree. It's not the movie, but we knew that, it's a play. Does it work as a play? Absolutely.

'All About My Mother' is at London's Old Vic Theatre until Nov 24th. There is £25 'Early Bird' ticket offer through the month of September. Book here.

2007-08-28T12:00:00.000+01:00

Apologies for the radio silence. I wish I had a good excuse. Normal business will resume shortly.

Life after 30

2007-08-16T11:49:00.000+01:00

'Before Elvis there was nothing,’ as John Lennon famously put it. And today on the 30 year anniversary of his death those words couldn't feel more true. As I looked for a suitable clip to put on here today I came across this gem, the only live recording of what has to be one of the best live songs. It rips my heart out every time.

There is a reason he is called the King and that's because in a world where popness has become the measure of everything, we’re all Elvis impersonators now. Elvis was the first. Since him, consumerism and the media have swallowed everything, and Elvis has become the personification of the looking-glass world we inhabit now, a latter-day Narcissus who drowned in his own reflection (on his bathroom floor) - but granted immortality in a universe of surfaces and permanent (shallow) memory.

Elvis’ is Fame’s first name in an age when ‘fame’ is something we’re increasingly over-familiar with. Perhaps this is why in Elvis’ face we can see an angelic/demonic premonition of the faces of so many of those stars that have come after: Tom Cruise, Mick Jagger, Michael Jackson, Jim Carrey, Madonna, Bill Clinton, Diana, Jeffrey Dahmer.

Since his death, the lost lurve-object has been introjected into our collective Unconscious so completely that we don’t have to be lonesome tonight or tomorrow or in fact ever again. His absence has become an overwhelming presence.

Elvis really is alive. It’s just the rest of us that I’m not so sure about.

Who is Observer Woman?

2007-08-08T16:19:00.000+01:00

It arrives once a month. It’s often painful, always annoying. Liable to invoke irrational mood swings and violent bursts of temper. It’s messy, embarrassing and is often known as ‘the curse.’ Yes. It’s the Observer Woman Magazine. Could it be less relevant? Could it be more offensive? 51% of humanity reduced to simpering, bitchy whores of the fashion industry. Nothing to trouble our little minds but hunky men, flashy lip gloss and Gucci gussets. I resent it. I resent it so much I went to all this trouble to type up this blog. And I have a real job. It took a good 30 minutes out of my drinking time.

Maybe you think I am being a bit harsh. And that's fair enough. So let's take a look at last week's cover story:

Gwen Stefani interview. Ooooh, this could be interesting...Oh. It's an article about frocks.

"I'm like every other woman. I'm super-vain. I have issues."

No Gwen, you're not. However you have captured the entire spirit of OWM in two short sentences. For months I have been wondering what devil in Prada OWM is aimed at - and now I know. Gwen Stefani IS Observer Woman.

Hot and bothered

2007-08-03T15:22:00.000+01:00

I don't know about you, but I am confused this week. For starters, why did it take Americans years to see through Bush and Cheney and days to see through Posh and Becks? Surely Dick's fake heart is cause for more unease than Piggy's fake boobs? Then there is Gordon Brown trying to convince MPs to give the police new anti-terrorism powers alongside revelations of the tragic truth behind the Menezes shooting. Surely not. And then the really bad news that pub operator, Mitchells & Butlers, is facing financial disaster because they didn't know the debt markets are closed. Since when did publicans maneuver in the world of interest rate hedging? Isn't that what investment banks are for?

See what I mean? Contradictions abound. Just look outside: could that actually be sun over London? Before things become too unbelievable, let's restore some order with the 37th edition of City Slicker's "Week Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Does the annual media build up to the Edinburgh Fringe Festival make you curse double-booked, priced out accommodation that leaves you stuck luvvie-less in London? React by heading to Zone 2's answer at the Camden Fringe. Etcetera Theatre and Liberties Bar, Monday July 30 to Sunday August 26. For the full programme and ticket information, click here.

2) Has word of this weekend's village fete put on by the Innocent smoothie guys made you want to hurl over a Cath Kidston picnic blanket? React by leaving welly wanging behind and head to the Latina-ised version at the Carnaval del Pueblo. 12-9:30pm Sunday August 5. Burgess Park, Albany Road, Camberwell, SE5. Free.

3) Are you more about the Hawaii Ironman than this weekend's London Triathlon? React with sport in the sand closer to home as Regents Park turns into a top beach volleyball venue. Saturday August 4 and Sunday August 5 . Details here.

Aborted attempt

2007-08-01T12:53:00.000+01:00

I was en route to the Menier Theatre last night when reality hit: I was going to a musical about aeronautics. When had things got so desperate? Well before the interval is the answer, but I didn't know that then. No, I consoled myself with the prospect of drinks and shrieks as I was meeting up with the fantastically fun West End Whingers. And, sure enough, we soon found out that consolation was in order.

If it weren't for the 'misery loves company' aspect to enduring bad theatre with friends, the night would have felt like training in mutually assured destruction . The attackers played by the show's production team intent on undermining necessary conditions of good musical theatre with the audience as the defenders brazenly resisting the relentless assault. Any actor who is forced to bellow: "How can we be wrong? We're the Wright brothers!" must know that the script is flying (sorry) against the wind.

There is little in the staging or set to ever suggest the sensation of soaring (or the sensation of anything, really). I spent more time looking for the emergency exits than adopting the brace position. When I wasn't fighting to stay alive (I mean awake) I was distracted by whether the actor playing Lindbergh looked more like Wayne Rooney or Phillip Seymour Hoffman. But that's enough hot air for today, if only because the Menier is such a brilliant young theatre that you can't help but want to scale new heights. And, for me, one valuable realisation did come out of the expedition: Amelia Earheart's costumes made me vow to never wear my Snoopy-style leather aviator cap ever again. And that sort of insight always comes at a cost.

Mainstream reviews here:
Independent (honest) , Guardian (complimentary) , FT ( delusional).

And, of course, one is on its way from my most trusted source.

Priceless!

2007-07-27T15:54:00.000+01:00

They are some things in life that neither money nor Mastercard can buy: Bush posing as O.J. Simpson being one of them. He never ceases to make me laugh when he is not making me wail. As if socks and sandals wasn't the ugliest look ever invented, Dubya has to top the look with Crocs. But what has he ever understood about anything?

If there is one thing that seems interminable beyond this summer's monsoon it's waiting for George Bush to get his comeuppance. Living through the dying days of his presidency is starting to seem like some horror film in which the hero is the country, and the president is this disturbing, pig-headed, oblivious villain who makes things worse and worse and worse. Poor Gordo literally camped up with him this weekend.

On that note let's get thinking about better ways to spend our time with the 36th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction":

1) Has today's news about Asbos made you desperate to misbehave? React by heading to The Queef of Terence, a new play with no manners, from the comedy sirens behind the Bird Flu Diaries. Etcetera Theatre, 265 Camden High St. Sunday 7:30PM. 020 7482 4857.

2) Does the thought of a traditional village fete summon up images of Springfield Retirement Castle? React by checking out the V&A's hipster version manned by 30 designers and creatives (provided they find their way west from Hackney). The V&A, Cromwell Road, Fri 6.30-10pm, Sat 1-5pm, £3.

3) Have you have always fancied yourself a fan of Keats' cockney poetry but never made it to his erstwhile home in Hampstead? React by heading there this weekend before it closes for renovation and in time for a one-hour play, "Keats in Hampstead" about the old Romantic. Keats House, 10 Keats Grove, NW3 020 7435 2062. 3PM Sat + Sun. £3.

What a croc!

2007-07-26T14:40:00.000+01:00

There are women other women love to hate and women other women hate to love. And then there are women other women would love to hate but need a reason: enter Kate Middleton. Sorry but who goes to Mahiki clad in nautical stripes? Perhaps the same press pimping princess who dare be cast under the curse of Crocs. The hideous things look like clumsy rubbery clogs with large perforations. They're called Crocs because they resemble a reptile's snout.

But really I am not that petty. My now overflowing (think Tewkesbury) dislike of Kate M (not to be confused with the beloved Moss) has nothing to do with fashion and everything to do with farce. Lest you forget Toiletgate. From the start their break-up just didn’t smell right. She has always had the look on her face like there’s a bewildered canary fluttering behind her pearly white grill.

Now it's all back on between Kate and Wills and the press is left with egg on its face. Bluff, double-bluff. Just weeks ago Kate was making new paparazzi complaints and today she is the centrefold of a state-sponsored photo op. You didn't for a second think that after the recent BBC fake pictures scandal the meedja would risk printing anything not signed, sealed and photo shopped by Her Royal Majesty, did you?

But maybe I am being harsh. After all, how is a practicing princess to get noticed in today's media scrum? It's not as if she can start flashing her bits around like Britney. No wonder she had to resort to charity.

Bummer of a summer

2007-07-20T16:13:00.000+01:00

It's hard to believe that in July last year Britain was basking in record-breaking heat as temperatures soared above 35C. I know, I know - summertime in England is supposed to be drab and rainy, but not this drab and rainy, and certainly not for this long.

At least we seem to have avoided another hosepipe ban. But, what ever happened to global warming doing what it says? You can say what you like about his foreign policy, but the weather was much better under Blair. Brown needs to get a grip.

But enough condemning our so-called "summer", it's time for the 35th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction":

1) Has today's news about how much we are spending on illicit affairs left you shocked and awed? React with a cheaper "pass the butter"(and I am not talking toast) moment of your own with a Last Tango in Paris. Various times, check BFI website.

2) Has the recent demise of cold war diplomacy left you feeling part of a mutual spitting competition? React by hiding out at the exhibit Paper Baglady and Other Stories. It's the perfect disguised art show for a rainy summer in a jittery country. Timothy Taylor Gallery, Dering Street W1, Sat 10AM-1PM, to Aug 31.

3) Does the reopening of the "shoot to kill inquiry" remind you of the blindness of sectarianism? React with a comedic take on the Troubles and catch Mojo Mickybo, a tale of two boys growing up in 1970s Belfast who fancy themselves as Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Trafalgar Studios, Fri 6:30 & 9PM, Sat (last day) 2:30PM & 7:30PM. From £10.

Some dislike it hot

2007-07-19T18:00:00.000+01:00

Maybe it's because I am American and we are rumoured to be filled with 'unbridled optimism' (feel free to substitute the second word at will) that I tend to prefer reviewing theatre which I have enjoyed not just endured. For this reason you have not seen a review here of Harold Pinter's Betrayal currently on at the Donmar, nor his play the Dumb Waiter back when it was on at Trafalgar Studios. Please don't read any moral overtone to such self-imposed editorial line; it's just, well, I could never compete with the wonderful West End Whingers.

But, as today is press day for the NT's production of Pinter's The Hothouse you will likely be sandwiched armpit deep on the tube next to someone reading an Evening Standard review (or Guardian depending on your train's demographics). And after sitting/sleeping through the performance last night I feel obliged to offer up a disclaimer: there is good reason it was written in 1958 and not produced until 1980. It's just a shame it didn't stay gathering dust.

The Hothouse is not, by Pinter standards, a subtle play. (In this sense, it's the perfect Pinter for Pinterphobes.) It is an unusually antic variation on the usual Pinter themes (you know, Fascism, humanity's inhumanity, the unknowability of people, the slipperiness of memory and language). But the NT's production was everything good theatre is not: forced and unoriginal. Following in the existentialist tradition, in addition to writing absurd characters and situations, sitting through a production of The Hothouse felt absurd in and of itself.

It certainly makes Saint Joan the divine option of current NT offerings. And that has nothing to do with the effigy of a French woman being burned at the stake. I pray thee, nothing.

Saint Joan
National Theatre, until 4th Sept
seats from £10, book here

Back to blog

2007-07-19T14:18:00.000+01:00

To this site's regular readers, I apologise for my absence of late. I wish I could blame it on the need for a personal wino watch. But things have been particularly dry of late (indoors, that is). And who am I to talk. At least Amy has started turning up again, although - at least according to The Sun - not totally successfully:

Regular service resumes from today.

Bored by Beckham

2007-07-12T14:59:00.000+01:00

If Los Angeles' newest sports star makes an impact beyond reality television shows and surreal gossip columns, I will stop using lame movie metaphors to describe him, OK?

But, for now, nothing else comes to mind. David Beckham shows up to join the Galaxy soccer team and meet the Los Angeles media tomorrow, and I have but one thought. Becks, baby, where have you been? Your final game for your Real Madrid team was nearly a month ago. Since then, the Galaxy has played four games, and won one. It will play another game before you actually take the field next weekend. Becks, for $32.5 million, couldn't you have caught an earlier flight?

Baffled by Beckham.

One of the most publicised sports stars in the world shows up tomorrow more than six months after he agreed to the contract, and excuse me if I can't find the chills. He is clearly showing up not as an athlete, but a celebrity.

Beckham is past his best years, and has the sort of subtle skills that rarely fuel revivals, particularly on lousy teams. The Galaxy has won three of 12 games; I predict he won't take them anywhere but to the bank. Did you know that LA's newest sports star has a cologne, called "Instinct?" Right now, my instinct is that it smells like a yawn.

Dead on arrival

2007-07-10T11:37:00.000+01:00

'IF YOU WANT to save the planet, I want you to start jumping up and down. Come on, mother-[bleepers]!" Madonna railed from the stage at London's Live Earth concert Saturday. "If you want to save the planet, let me see you jump!"

You just can't beat that. What else could capture the canned juvenilia of a 48-year-old centimillionaire — who owns nine homes and has a "carbon footprint" nearly 100 times larger than the norm — hectoring a bunch of well-off, aging hipsters to show their Earth-love by jumping up and down like children? I suppose she could have said, "Now put your right foot in / Take your right foot out / Right foot in / Then you shake it all about…. That's what climate change is all about."

Actually, I think the "Hokey Pokey" makes more sense.

But, hey, I don't want to bash Live Earth, which is not to be confused with Live Aid (1985, dedicated to eradicating African famine) or Live 8 (2005, promising to relieve African nations' debts). So with the African continent so well-fed — and debt free! — who can blame the Celebrity Concern Industry for moving on to its next big success?

The avowed point of Live Earth was to … can you guess? That's right: raise awareness about global warming. Considering the energy required to put on the show, the nine Live Earth concerts doubtlessly raised more CO2 than awareness. But such high-minded objections sail over the chief source of Live Earth's lameness. The acts were mostly fine. But the outrage and passion felt so prepackaged you half-expected to hear from the adverts "this moral outrage is brought to you by GE's 'Ecomagination.' "

Indeed, one could say that Live Earth is proof that global warming has jumped the shark, except for the fact that the phrase "jumped the shark" has jumped the shark.

End of a shambles

2007-07-05T17:25:00.000+01:00

Randomly stab a bloody syringe into a tabloid paper these days, and the chances are you’ll skewer at least five pics of my favourite dishevelled rock star, Mr. Peter Doherty. Despite officially making drugs look even less cool than when that idiot from Keane pretended he had a coke addiction but really went to a diet camp for a few weeks, I have a soft spot for Pete.

So I was rather distressed with the news of late. No, not the amusing images of him lighting up on the first day of the smoking ban, it seems that they’ve actually got some genuine Pete news today.

As the piles of blood portraits, guitars and pianos being hurriedly carried into a van outside Kate’s London pad shows, it seems that the rock star-loving pin-up has kicked Pete out for good. No reports on how many kilos of cocaine and heroin the movers transported, but it was likely enough to get the poor saps offed by Colombian kingpins. Now Pete is said to be crashing in a caravan park in North London (pictured here).

Of course, nothing is certain in the world of these two, and I wouldn’t be too surprised if they were papped canoodling in some trendy spot before the end of the week. But with Pete, according to newspaper reports, cheating on Kate with another model (cheating on a model with a model, alright for some, eh?) and being forced into rehab after his latest court appearance, there does seem to be an edge of the “final” to the whole shebang.

And I must say I’m upset. Heck, the two have dated off and on for two years, forming a great, perpetually drugged-up couple in PeteMoss.

But no longer, it seems. Gentlemen of rock ‘n’ roll beware – the tiger is loose!

Blair which?

2007-06-27T09:13:00.000+01:00

"Tony is a very talented man, for whom I 've got a great deal of respect," Dubya told the Sun today. "I've heard he's been called Bush's poodle. He's bigger than that." Well don't ask me. An underdog, perhaps, but not a poodle.

And the phrase is flawed on yet another level. I have known several poodles, all of whom have assured me that the poodle is certainly not an obedient lap dog. No, the poodle is a strong, athletic dog with a very large mouth full of razor-sharp teeth, a quick mind and a rather impressive turn of pace. When he wants to be, the poodle can be a disobedient, riotous brute. Poodles offer stout companionship and scrubbed independence.

They have been the dog of choice for some of history's greats, among them John Steinbeck and Winston Curchill. The poodle goes with great men as it has the independence of spirit to be worthy of them.

It is most certainly not a cowering wimp. In short, to call Mr Blair "Bush's poodle" is an insult to poodles.

The Real 'Simple Life'

2007-06-25T10:05:00.000+01:00

Paris is set for release tomorrow after serving 23 days of her 45-day sentence. Yet, it seems that the entire hype about her first post-prison interview may not materialise into anything. But we are not bovvered because we have our own unofficial update to the Paris Hilton Prison Diaries:

Day 9: Mail today. One piece. A small note from Nicky. She wrote, "Ya know that band from a long time ago, 10,000 Maniacs? There were only, like, five people in that band."

Day 15: What is time? How do we measure it? What does it mean? I find these questions on my mind more and more, especially since someone stole my Audemars Piguet watch. Shame.

Day 19: While walking in the yard today, I was put in the mind of Rilke's "Requiem for a Friend." "For somewhere an ancient enmity exists between our life and the great works we do." This, I feel, is my plight. My life is in a constant struggle with my works: my "works" being staying out late and buying stuff. Also the word "enmity" is a hard one and looks misspelled to me.

Day ??: I have stopped counting the days. I live in the now.

What is freedom? It's not free, that's for sure. It's "free" with "dom." And that seems right to me. I feared prison once. I see it now as a great gift. Once, I wondered if I would have to wait in a chow line. Is there a way around it, I wondered? A kind of "chow bouncer". How funny to think back. Because there is a chow bouncer. And her name is Brick. And she hates me.

Lately I'm identifying with the Jews and all the horrible things that happened to them during Vietnam.

Brick said to me today, "Ya know, I stayed in a Marriott once. And truth be told, I'd rather stay in prison."

We both laughed. And then she beat me up.

Floodgates are open

2007-06-22T14:55:00.000+01:00

No question all right-thinking people in London this weekend are praying for rain. You can see people enacting ancient Indian rain dances in Camden back gardens, chanting through gritted teeth; "Must... make... Glastonbury.. a... mudbath". And I understand, I really do. Anything to avoid those Monday-at-work "oh, you didn't go" conversations.

But, if God doesn't heed our pleas, we should at least make the most of any good weather in the Big Smoke whilst praying for rain in the West Country. On that note, let us mark the long overdue 34th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weeekend Reaction."

1) Alarmed to learn that some people have been calling emergency services after confusing the life-size Gormley statues for attempted suicide missions? React by searching out alternative outdoor art appreciation with the National Gallery's Grand Tour where 30 favourite masterpieces are dotted around the West End. They make Gormley look so last week. Various West End locations, map here, Free.

2) Have the record sums paid at Sotheby's art auction this week made you wonder if there are any great works left in the public domain? React by ensuring your favourite will be committed to memory by embodying it yourself before it's too late (think Fahrenheit 451) at the Charade exhibition. Sunday 24 June, Trafalgar Square, 3-5PM, Free.

3) Are all the authoritarian messages aimed at schoolchildren making you long for the days when Middle England was silenced? React by catching the classic Brit film ,If, which if released today would cause a Daily Mail outcry against its glamourisation of guns in school. NFT, 3.20PM Sat 23 Jun, 8.40PM Sun 24 Jun. £8.60

A Painful Scratch

2007-06-21T14:49:00.000+01:00

Go figure. A play finally comes to LDN from NYC that I have looked forward to with baited breath (obviously unrelated to Matthew Macfadyen's starring role - oh c'mon, what woman isn't looking for her Mr. Darcy) and I am left crestfallen. The following evening, on the hunt for a bit of rebound fling (I mean fringe) action, I find myself immersed in the world of a mother who is accused of murdering not one but two babies and feel sanguine. The first being the 'Pain and the Itch' (in previews) at the Royal Court and the second being 'Taking Care of Baby' (closing Saturday) at the Hampstead Theatre.

The Pain and the Itch, hyped as 'liberal-baiting satire', aims to expose the progressive middle-class left-wing as just as angst-ridden money driven and hypocritical as their right-wing counterparts. The sort of conclusion one comes to after a dinner party of champagne socialists in Nappy Valley. The only problem is that at the theatre you have paid to feel possessed by a painful itch to fling yourself in their midst and knock heads together, or at least take one of the set's available golf clubs to its flat screen TV.

The harshest satire comes not from the stage, however, but from what the Royal Court failed to achieve. The theatre's new direction is ostensibly aimed at 'discovering the middle-class hero' - in short: people like us. But what we actually see on stage are people you wouldn't want to know. The whole idea of satire as a mirror to the audience is lost. Give me an extraordinary, moving and ethically worrying docudrama put together by the fast-rising edgy playwright Dennis Kelly (of last year's brilliant 'Love and Money') any day. It's just a shame any day ends Saturday.

Cheap Ticket offer:
£7.50 seats available for 'Taking Care of Baby'
22 June (tomorrow night) performance only, 7:30pm
Call 020 7722 9301; quote £7.50 offer

Blame Canada

2007-06-20T17:08:00.000+01:00

I have spent today digesting the 'subtle' signal from Mike Bloomberg that he might be running for President. This is supposed to be a sharp-eyed businessman with a keen sense of what works: Does he really think America wants a Ross Perot with less crazy but more Jew? No chance. But that lapse of judgement pales against Hillary's choice for campaign song: a Celine Dion number written by a Canadian for an Air Canada commercial. Irrespective of taste, why pick a song to begin with? The U.S. is electing a president in 2008, not an alderman in 1956. Play music at campaign stops if you want, but this just seems old-fashioned and small-time, while the world burns. I am growing to think Hillary is a bad candidate for anything. Unless, maybe, you need a really scary dead-eyed woman to chair your garden club.

For the Love of Art

2007-06-19T14:46:00.000+01:00

Damien Hirst. His now famous diamond-crusted skull on show at the White Cube gallery (with a £50 million price tag) is the talk of London. The work, by the way, is called "For the Love of God." Indeed. At another time, such a sum might seem excessive, the triumph of a fat wallet over good sense, but in the London art market right now, it seems there is no limit to what people will spend. Someone paid £27,000 for a drawing done by Hirst's two-year old son for goodness sake.

If sold, Mr. Hirst's skull will be the most expensive new work of art ever made. Now that's the stuff of headlines. I don't know about you, but I really love to hate him and hate to love him. Two sides in constant struggle. What follows is a record of one such battle:

-- This guy doesn't even make his own work. He hires a team of assistants to do everything for him and then he comes by and does a little touch up and signs them as his. What kind of artist doesn't even do their own work?

-How about an Architect? They don't build their own houses. What about Beethoven? He doesn't run around and play instruments hundreds of years after his death but we still call it his work. What about a movie director? He just sets the stage and direction and lets the pieces work. Isn't that what Hirst is doing?

--Yeah but a painting is supposed to be painted by the artist. How is it a "Hirst" if he didn't paint it? How is a sculpture of his really his? Did he catch the Shark? No. How can they call him an artist?

-Ok that's a low blow - no one is saying he makes the best art in the world and no one is forcing you to like it at all.

--Using shock tactics to sell art is commercial and wrong. Isn't greed a bad thing? A skull covered in diamonds? Isn't that level of ego to much for anyone to bear? Isn't it almost silly?

-For the love of art, yes.

Damien Hirst
White Cube Mason's Yard
Until 7th July
Tue-Sat 10am-6pm

One Slick of a Year!

2007-06-18T12:00:00.000+01:00

Yesterday marked CS's first birthday! But, for a change, I decided to keep a low profile. Largely because I was in rural France behaving more like Renee Zellweger in Cold Mountain than Kate Moss in Primrose Hill (certainly not strategic brand or cred promotion for a blog called City Slicker). But also because isn't there some dignity in humility? Never mind that by definition a blog exudes enough shameless self-promotion to make the Beckhams blush. Patrick Marber put it best:

"Some hairy bastard scratched a donkey on the wall of his cave, he saw it, he drew it. A million years later: 'Hello, welcome to my blog. Today I bought a plum.' You cunt. You silly, dozy twat, you've forgotten HOW TO LIVE! Darwin was wrong, man didn't evolve, he got nicer tools! From a lump of charcoal to the Apple Mac - whoosh - history! (Don Juan in Soho)

Thanks to all for your year of loyalty.

Capital L

2007-06-14T17:13:00.000+01:00

Dear Mayor Ken,

It was a pleasure commuting with you on the Jubilee Line this morning. I was the Metro reading, Ipod blasting woman sitting to your left who made the quip about Bob Kiley which, incidentally, wasn't fair on further consideration. Find me one American in London whose alcohol consumption doesn't career out of control in Binge Britain. Ahem.

No, my case of dry heaves aside, what I really wanted to ask you was why the sheer lack of competence in London's PR circles these days? And, no, I am not talking about the fiasco that was the Olympic logo - which incidentally I am finding to be a grower. Just last night I was mindlessly reading a copy of London Lite and I found myself warming to the pink cubist version of a shot putter. Or even if you reckon it's closer to a Yorkshire terrier or Boris Johnson's hair it's better than Beijing's chronic dancer.

The PR debacle I am talking about is Capital Radio's Lights Out London campaign. You know the publicity pimped event you are supporting which will involve getting people to turn off their lights and other non-essential domestic appliances between 9pm and 10pm on June 21st. Er, did you miss the minor catch? June 21st is the longest day of the year so it won't even be dark at 9PM. Most lights won't even be turned on in the first place.

Such stupidity deserves a capital L for Loser not London.

Yours,

City Slicker

2007-06-08T16:14:00.000+01:00

Within 24 hours, no primate on the planet will be unaware of Paris Hilton's transfer from the pokie to the ankle bracelet, but it is a safe bet that within weeks or even months, relatively few of us will know the big news going down now in Iraq.

And so to document spring coming early for Paris, below is an unofficial diary of Heiress Hilton's 5 day prison stay:

Day 1: Arrived late Sunday night. So tired. Asked if I could check into my room immediately. Quite possibly the rudest concierge I have ever met. I told him he was fired. Not the effect I'd hoped for. And no, I did not register under the name "Little Miss Whore." What kind of hotel forces you to strip and delouse (maybe Marriott?). Although instead of a robe I got a fabulous orange jumpsuit with a cute number on it. Nothing to do at night. I'm told (as there was, like, no information in my room) that there is no bar or lounge area. I wish I'd brought flats.

Day 2: My room is insane! TINY! How is it even possible that I got a room without any view? A tiny stainless steel toilet. There is an incredibly thin mattress. If I didn't know I was in prison I'd think I was in an Ian Schrager hotel.

Day 3: So that's what a bitch slap is. Wow. Just … wow. MUST remember not to make that sarcastic face again anytime soon.

Day 4: Gandhi went to prison. So did Martin Luther King Jr. So did Robert Downey Jr. and Martha Stewart Jr. and I think Nelson Mandela Jr. Mandela was imprisoned for, like, 50 years or something for being black and also for driving an uninsured vehicle, if I'm reading Wikipedia correctly. Nicky often mentions me and Gandhi and how incredibly thin we both are and how she wonders if he used bronzer.

Day 5: There is no TV, no iPod, no cellphone. Just — I hope I'm spelling this right — "boks" or maybe "bowks." Whatever. I took a few from the cart and have been looking at the covers. Then, last night, I looked inside and there are, like, a million words, page after page. Are these new?

City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction" to resume next week.

D'oh!

2007-06-07T12:16:00.000+01:00

I must say I am thoroughly enjoying the massive public response to the 2012 Olympic Logo. What a well-deserved pushback to the ludicrous hype with which the thing was launched. What a heartening demonstration that Brits have a brain and aren't going to swallow whole the spin and hype of the branding browntongues.

What really provoked me was not so much the logo itself as the organisers' smug predictions of what it was going to do for the games. How patronising was the notion that this would appeal to young people. Especially when it was so obviously designed for young people by old people who know nothing about young people.

There's a great scene in an old BBC adaptation of The Mayor of Casterbridge. The doomed antihero organises a huge party for the town people in an effort to glamorise himself. But it pours with rain and no-one shows up for this lavish but soulless party. Meanwhile his rival organises a rough and ready dance in a barn where everyone has a great time in each other's company, with none of the grand expense. Henchard eventually arrives at the barn but can't really conceal his bitterness and dismay at everyone having so much fun.

Wouldn't it be great if Seb Coe had the humility to admit to a mistake whilst applauding our exuberant irreverance? But more likely he'll take cover like Henchard. In any case, won't we really remember the logo for bringing lil' Lisa to her knees? Not a pleasant image but, nonetheless, a statement.

Intimation of gentrification

2007-06-05T12:30:00.000+01:00

When do you know that your old neighborhood is dangerously close to becoming yet another hypergentrified hellhole?

The day you find a flyer offering a “Big Reward” for a stolen Dutch Modern chair, that’s when.

Just back in LDN from NYC's East Village and I can't stop wondering "are New York's hipsters really dead?"

2007-05-31T15:41:00.000+01:00

Sorry for the disruption in service.

Back here from 4th June.

From NYC with love.

Top of the heap

2007-05-25T11:09:00.000+01:00

"I...wonder what it is in the New York air that enables me to sit up till all hours of the night in an atmosphere which in London would make a horse dizzy, but here merely clears the brain." James Agate

Greetings from NYC.

Back blogging next week. Have a good one.

Banksy unveiled

2007-05-23T15:05:00.000+01:00

Until now London's (and Brangelina's) favorite graffiti artist Banksy was known only through his tongue-in-cheek stunts and his vaguely anti-establishment stencils. But thanks to some legal gymnastics, Banksy is finally revealed. And surprise! He looks just like an Average Bloke. Now this is either good news or bad news. If you like your artists quirky, say like Dali, that such works as a painted elephant emanated from such a jejune fellow is bound to be disappointing. However, if you're a fan of Jeff Koons and Gerhard Richter and other boring-looking artists, you might find it uplifting that such work flows from such a bland container.

Hey You

2007-05-21T14:38:00.000+01:00

Sex romps, reinvention songs, and club anthems be damned — it doesn't take a die-hard Madonna fan to know and love her soft and sappy side. ("Crazy for You," anyone?) So it's not necessarily a bad thing that you can't krump to her new single "Hey You," a Live Earth–inspired track that's free to the first million downloaders before she sings it live at Wembley Stadium.

But this isn't one of Ms. Ciccone's classic party's-over ballads. With guitar plucking that sounds cautious enough to be M's own, a ra pum pum pum drummer-boy beat, and requisite string-orchestra swells, "Hey You" reinvents you-know-who as … a girlish camp counselor wearing a red-string bracelet. The chin-up platitudes here are too vague for Kabbalah propaganda, though. The sole innovation is a Möbius-strip lyric that could be used at Gitmo Bay: "First love yourself then you can love someone else / if you can change someone else then you have saved someone else / but you must first love yourself if you can change someone else / then you have saved someone else but you must first love yourself…"

I am left wondering if the daisy chain I just wove is strong enough to hang myself?

'Hey You' is free from MSN here.

In this corner

2007-05-17T15:22:00.000+01:00

Today we have another inexplicably well-publicised Lily Allen sponsored gloves off in the music pages. Whereas yesterday she was thinking about gastric surgery and feeling fat and ugly, today she’s revealed its Cheryl Tweedy-Cole’s fault - you know the Girls Aloud singer that moonlights as a preening, self-absorbed wife of a middling footballer. Ding ding - corners please. It is time to take sides and pledge your support because the war of Girls Aloud Vs Lily could last years.

But, thankfully, London is blessed with a new contender and this one is outside the ring: 23 -year old Remi Nicole who has lived on the sunny side of the Thames all her life, flitting between Holloway, Islington, Highgate, Tufnell Park and presently residing in Highbury.

Her first single "Fed Up" is out this week on Island Records. She started gigging with Mr. Hudson and the Library a few months back and is now set to open for Amy Winehouse later this month. Just the thought of what's in store for her makes me smile - dare I say, Lily Allen-style.

Check out Remi's myspace page.

Critical mess

2007-05-16T10:14:00.000+01:00

Is anyone else weary of the current media frenzy feeding off of Lily Allen's insipid moan (read PR stunt) about being "fat, ugly and sh**er than Winehouse?" Er, personally I think her issues stem more from dressing like like a 50’s housewife meets pep rally cheerleader than her body image or lack of talent. But, enough of that, there are far bigger drama queens to concern ourselves with this week. Literally.

Over on the Guardian website, Nicholas Hytner's (current NT Director) blast against 'dead white male theatre critics' seems to have provoked some washing of dirty linen in public, with No 1 drama critic Michael Billington and No 2 drama critic Lyn Gardner lobbing overpriced icecreams at each other from the back of the stalls. And as any NT goer worth a £10 Travelex seat will know, there have been a few duds recently at the National, but I still thought Hytner's comments a bit churlish.

The larger crisis in theatre today certainly isn't the critics, but rather a shortage of good new plays. There are plenty of mediocre ones around, and over-praising them isn't going to help anyone. But, thankfully, under praising doesn't have to kill them. Just take the Guardian's two-star bashing of the Royal Court's subsequent storming sell-out 'That Face'. The point is that sometimes, when half the critical world is up in arms, and the other half in rapture, then you could be in for a treat. Rather than pan the reviewers Hytner-style, isn't it better to get a sense of the individual critic's aesthetics and orient their taste in relation to yours? Thus one can formulate, in time, simple rules, such as (hypothetically of course): "If Lyn Garnder of the Guardian hates it, then I will love it."

A pretty penny

2007-05-14T15:57:00.000+01:00

Are the Euros trumping the Yanks? Half a billion dollars in art sold last Tuesday and Wednesday in New York, but for the first time in decades, American buyers didn’t win most of the masterpieces at the big spring sales at Sotheby's and Christie's. This not only means some great art is leaving the U.S. but also that other nations are calling what's hot.

Christie's auctioneer Christopher Burge said only 29 percent of the buyers last week were Americans; about half were Europeans and Russians, and the remaining artworks went to Asians and a group dubbed “others,” which covers Middle Eastern billionaires and Latin Americans. (Sotheby's reported a similar breakdown Tuesday night.) Suffice it to say when Monte Carlo billionaire David Nahmad outbids Larry Gagosian for work by obscure Italian futurist movement painter Marino Marini, art history winds have shifted.

Artists with Euro followings — Feininger and Kirchner — also went thought the roof. Is it the weak dollar? The booming Berlin art scene? The fact that more and more Russians are pouring their oil, metal, and vodka fortunes into art? Whatever the case, Sotheby's raised $280 million on Tuesday, with 90 percent of the artworks sold. And tomorrow the fireworks begin in contemporary art. Sotheby's is offering "White Centre" (pictured here) by Rothko that has inspired a cult. Expect upwards of $50 million. But not to worry. If such a sum is beyond your budget, there is a second Rothko in the sale, a smaller work on paper. At an estimated selling price of between $1.5m and $2m, it’s a steal.

Sotheby's sale of contemporary paintings is to be held in New York tomorrow. Catalogue available here.

Art for all?

2007-05-10T12:51:00.000+01:00

It was on leaving the Gilbert and George retrospective at Tate Modern that I was washed over with that slightly annoyed-with-myself sensation that you get when you leave an exhibition of high art feeling you have endured rather than enjoyed it. I felt rather outraged by it all. It was full of infantile humour about bodily functions that was neither intellectual nor fun.

And therein lies their artistic hypocrisy. When Gilbert and George began making art in the 60s, they fashioned a manifesto. They wanted to make "art for all". In this, I would say, certainly on the evidence of last Friday evening at the Tate, they have failed. Walking around the exhibition, a sense of foreboding heaviness hung in the air, as tends to happen when the middle classes coalesce in an art gallery with the main purpose of agreeing on something. There is a vaguely funereal air to the hushed reverence that accompanies this sort of art seen by this group of people.

What is art for all? And can high art of this type ever hope to achieve it? Beyond Damien Hirst, whose spot patterns have appeared in diluted form everywhere from Cath Kidston teacups to Paperchase stationery, of course.

Nevermind because for a few hours longer (until 11:30PM tonight) we can all have our own Gilbert & George artwork on-line for free from the Guardian website here. But if this is what Gilbert and George call "art for all" it's another joke and no funnier than their others.

Bruce on the loose

2007-05-09T12:45:00.000+01:00

It's been almost two decades since Die Hard blasted into the action-movie stratosphere, rocketing Bruce Willis into big-screen orbit and launching a franchise that has grossed nearly $1 billion worldwide. In Live Free or Die Hard, which hits theatres in late June, Willis plays John McClane for the fourth time.

And if all this excitement is tempting you, like it did me, to pick up a copy of this month's Vanity Fair, the one with Bruce on the cover, let me spare you the £4.50 by revealing here first the two best quotes from his interview:

1. "I am for stopping world aggression. And sometimes that takes punching guys in the face. And keep punching 'em until they don't get up anymore. So the president didn't say the right thing. Who cares? Politicians misspeak and make mistakes all the fucking time. He said the war was about weapons of mass destruction. But because they didn't find all of them, it was bullshit? Not really. They know for a fact that Saddam had weapons of mass destruction, chemical-gas agents. They could be buried somewhere in the desert. He could have moved them, overnight, across the border, into Syria — and we can't go into Syria."

2. "Have you heard anything useful come out of an actor's mouth lately?"

The planet's boob tube?

2007-05-08T15:52:00.000+01:00

English version is here. I’m posting the French for the sheer novelty value as a show of solidarity with our new friend in Paris. And there is a news angle here, believe it or not: 10 Downing Street just opened its own YouTube account, making Blair the first world leader to embrace online video.

If it weren't the twilight of Tony Blair's political career, you'd think this was just a pander-to-youth-voters stunt, the contemporary equivalent of Bill Clinton visiting Arsenio Hall's show to play the saxophone. But Blair's new YouTube video congratulating the French and their President-elect Nicolas Sarkozy instead seems to signify something more meaningful: a recognition that giving a speech anyone can access, e-mail or post on their own Web site is a powerful means of communication.

Bush will probably be next, but this sort of thing is much more useful to someone like Ahmadinejad or Chavez. It’s a freebie propaganda pipeline to the west, it’s more intimate and therefore humanizing than a televised speech, and YouTube is positively crawling with Truthers and various other useful idiots who’d be receptive to their message.

Sure, American politicians and special interest groups already use the site to great effect, but when international leaders move onto the platform, something bigger is happening. Is YouTube officially the default TV network of the planet? Blair’s channel would seem to argue the affirmative.

Join the queue

2007-05-04T14:42:00.000+01:00

What a week this has been for England's favourite pastime: queuing. First it was 4AM queues for a £5 "I'm not a plastic bag" bag , then it was night-long queues to look like a knotted venus, and today it was wrinkles at dawn for Boots latest anti-aging 'miracle' serum. But since when did anything warrant such strange activity at such unusual hours? And is the attraction really the purchase or the desire to take part in any kind of exciting group activity? Are we all just yearning after something with an "atmosphere" nowadays that we will settle for anything?

No doubt Bill Bryson, England's new countryside champion, is brimming with social commentary on the recent hysteria. He has taken the piss out of the Brit's penchant for standing patiently in orderly queues for ages. And his fascination is not unique. Have a look at the standing in a queue blog. But this is a bank holiday weekend: time for pandemonium and the 33rd edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Fancy celebrating all things Liverpudlian after this week's sensational Champions League match? React by heading to a masterpiece of Scouse cinema, 'Different Voices, Still Lives' at the new swanky BFI. Southbank, SE1. Until 12 May.

2) Si hombre, it's Cinco de Mayo time again, but you can't think of a single decent Mexican joint in London? React by heading to East London's veritable casa de tequila, Green & Red, for the party feeling and cheap tacos, beers and tequila cocktails. Sombreros encouraged. Saturday. 5:30pm-1am. 51 Bethnal Green Road, E1.

3) Has the reality of 10 years under New Labour left you more jaded than jubilant? React by heading for topical spoofs of the week's news at the long established Newsrevue comedy show. Canal Cafe Theatre, W2. Fri, Sat at 9:30pm and 9pm on Sunday.

The royal treatment

2007-05-02T16:51:00.000+01:00

John Lennon appeared naked and Clint Eastwood was bound with ropes, but Leibovitz opted to have her subject in full evening dress for this official portrait (unveiled today) marking the Queen's upcoming six-day visit to the U.S. And whilst the critics seem largely impressed, I think the photograph has all the personality of a marble bust. There must be a line of people having to wait to have their picture taken in the same chair, the same costume, perhaps one of those little cut-outs you stick your head through.

But my main gripe is that there is tradition and there is transition and the two don't have to be seen as adversarial. Just look at this picture of Queen Charlotte that hangs in the National Gallery and also portrays an elderly Queen seated at a window looking out on a chilly English landscape. Has so little changed within the monarchy that Queens are indistinguishable? Does the monarchy have to equate with melancholy?

Remember Queen Charlotte had reasons to be down. She had seen her husband, George III, lose his reason, their son seemed to offer the monarchy a poor future, and she was worried the revolution in France might spread. But why does modern Queenie have a face on?

See That Face

2007-05-01T15:43:00.000+01:00

Just occasionally there comes along a piece of new theatre that is so astonishingly spectacular it makes me go reeling into the night. And when the writing is a debut by a 20 year old playwright, who was 19 when she wrote it, you can't help but wonder if the Royal Court is around these days just to make you feel old. Following in the wake of 24-year-old Alexandra Wood's extraordinarily assured debut, The 11th Capital, comes the incredibly emotionally mature drama, That Face, of affluent yet dysfunctional family life from Polly Stenham.

It is a ninety minute piece full of the powerfully observed horrors that transpire when children become parents to their parents. This rare, raw tragedy is set around the double bed of an alcoholic mother and her children. Stenham writes about pain with a welcome degree of wit and warmth and, best of all, engaging compassion. Anyone familiar with life as martyr in a family will leave nothing short of powerfully affected.

Who knows where it will go next. But it is, I think, quite simply the best piece of new theatre I have ever seen. Miss Stenham is clearly one to watch. As is the entire cast. If I were a betting blogger I would head to Ladbrokes and ask for odds on Matt Smith (from the 'History Boys' and 'Party Animals'), who plays the son, winning an Oscar in the next ten years. I told him (and his deservingly proud mum) as much in the theatre bar after the show. And if you can catch a ticket while you can, I'd also wager that you'll agree with me.

That Face
Royal Court Upstairs
Until 19 May
Returns only, Phone 020 7565 5000

K Day for Topshop

2007-04-30T16:14:00.000+01:00

Kate who? So far it's business as usual for Topshop. Well, it is for these fellas, at least. I passed by Topshop at lunchtime today and checked out what was happening - and it wasn't quite the same as the Oxford Street Primark frenzy. Or even the 'I'm not a plastic bag' frenzy. Quite surprising for what is the biggest British fashion event of 2007.

Could this mean that Miss Moss is no more à la mode? Her collection is due to hit Manhattan's Barney's, an upmarket department-store chain, next week. And it has already attracted some criticism in America: New York magazine accused Kate of simply "copying all the crap already hanging in her closet." This is, as it happens, an excellent business plan. You don't need to be Phillip Green to see the cult of this particular celebrity. Just think of all the muffin-tops squeezed into skinny jeans and you know Topshop tills will be ringing.

And rumour has it that Kate is appearing, mannequin-like, in the window of Topshop tonight - just ahead of doors opening and the stampede of Mossionistas being let in to buy her designs. Although as Kate's appearance is due to take place after an hour-long, in-store cocktail party for her and her coked up mates, I do have a rather lovely image of her staggering onto the stage in her newly designed Little Black Dress, fag in one hand, glass of champers in the other. Beautiful but damned. Just like I like her.

Message in a bottle

2007-04-27T14:54:00.000+01:00

Oh, Becks, no. Just when I decided to cut you and the stick insect some slack and wish you well in La-La land, you have to go and reinvent yourself again but this time as Sting. Or is it platinum Brad post Jennifer break-up? If you really want to try something different, grow out a beard braid, slap some beads onto it, and have a nervous breakdown.

But enough of that. This is starting to read like Metro which is the new unspeakable. Rather, it is Friday and frivolity is in order which is our cue for the 32nd edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction":

1) Are you pleased to hear that Sloane Square is being saved? React by paying your dues en route to check out the hottest show in town: 'That Face', a hit debut from a 20 year-old playwright. Yes, 20 and no I promise it's not Lily Allen. Book now, limited availability. Blinding reviews here. Tickets £15. Royal Court Theatre. Sloane Square, SW1. 0207 565 5000. Until 17 May.

2) Has the Kate and Wills split left you worried the British Monarchy will forever be determined by breeding? React by taking this idea one step backward with a controversial performance of the re-enactment of Prince William's conception - literally. It should put those ill-fated Woolworth collector items into perspective. Guy Hilton Gallery, 35 Fournier Street, E1. 0795859 5033. Sat. 5PM. RSVP essential. Free.

3) Are April's record temperatures making you frisky for the wild outdoors? React by catching the last weekend of the always inspiring Wildlife Photographer of the Year annual exhibition. National History Museum. SW7. Sat-Sun 10AM-5:50PM. £6.

Hugh bastard!

2007-04-26T10:12:00.000+01:00

It's not every day that I wake up railing against some member of the media like a spoilt, self absorbed prat. But today I feel like Hugh Grant did yesterday minus the baked beans. Because after a month of gruelling suspense over those Best of Brit Blog Awards, Metro (never trust anything free) has decided to bestow the Arts & Entertainment award on a self-described "web magazine"called Hecklerspray.

And therein lies my (not so) repressed anger: I thought I was in the ring with other gritty blogs not shiny magazines. A blog: the thing you write at work that isn't your work. A magazine: the thing you write at work that is your work. Over at Hecklerspray HQ they are seven writers strong, including the luxury of a full-time editor. That is hardly riding the personal diary revolution. But anyway, winning is a lousy teacher. It seduces you into thinking you can't lose.

And I am taking it in stride, can't you tell? The result was to be expected, really. Alan McGee, our category's judge, is a red-headed monster with a reputation for being one of the music business's biggest bastards and the person who made boy bands wear leather trousers. What does he know about unlocking talent? Never mind that he is legendary for foisting Oasis.

Kiss of the Spider Woman

2007-04-25T15:41:00.000+01:00

If you aren't curious about what happens when a gay, film-loving window dresser and a straight Marxist guerrilla are thrown together in a Latin American jail than today's post is not for you. But if you are than I suggest you book now (press night is tonight) for an evening of 'Kiss of the Spider Woman' at the Donmar.

The play involves two actors who deserve to be heralded pleasures of current London theatre: Will Keen as the flouncing, mincing, prancing yet astonishingly heart-breaking Molina and Rupert Evans as the politically possessed and defensive Valentin. The plot centres around the two men locked in a cell with Molina passing the time by recounting memories from one of his favourite films. He weaves the characters into a narrative meant to comfort Valentin and distract him from the harsh realities of political imprisonment.

Molina reminded me of the father in 'Life Is Beautiful' who lives in his own romantic fairy tale world, but must learn how to use his fertile imagination to help his son survive their internment in a Nazi concentration camp. It is that absolutely pure thing of the collective imagination: two people in a room listening to the glamorous fantasy of a story. For me the play was all about where the mind can take you - two men shut inside a room like we, the audience, are shut inside the theatre.

The world of the prison is a wonderful metaphor for how people try to disengage from life. Similiar to the world of the pub, in many ways. Thankfully, with a ticket price of £15 my evening afforded disengagement in both.

'Kiss of the Spider Woman'
Donmar Warehouse
0870 060 6624
Until 26 May

Hey, hey we're the monkeys

2007-04-24T11:50:00.000+01:00

It’s that time once again. The wisecracking kids from Sheffield are back with their sophomore album. So get on your dancing shoes, you trendy little Arctic Monkeys fan. And that means you too over at HM Treasury. If only to show you a successful succession.

And making no bones about it: 'Favourite Worst Nightmare' is a brilliant album. What I found most striking is the amount of emotional depth injected throughout. I get the feeling that Arctic Monkeys have tasted the bitter fruit of life and their response is to smash the pulp right out of it. 'Do Me A Favour', a dusty, almost Americana style number about a broken relationship is devastating, a tale of "tears on the steering wheel dripping on the seat" which by the ending line of "perhaps fuck off might be too kind" left me weeping.

Another belter is 'Fluorescent Adolescent', possibly the catchiest thing they've ever written. It's a song of an aging harlot who is bored with life in a steady relationship (“You used to get it in your fishnets, now you only get in your night dress”). It reminded me of Morrissey and Kirsty MacColl's chronicling of slightly sad English lives. What’s more, it contains the best euphemism for a lacklustre sex life I’ve ever heard: “That bloody Mary is lacking in Tabasco.”

Did you know there are only five months until this year's Mercury Prize ceremony? I'll see you at Ladbrokes.

'Favourite Worst Nightmares' was released yesterday across the UK.

A Maternal Girl?

2007-04-23T14:59:00.000+01:00

Madonna is famous and infamous for her sinful buffet of personas. She's been a geisha, a virgin, and a dominatrix, but she's always been an original. Which is what's so troubling about her latest reinvention. Why is she trying to be Angelina Jolie?

Madonna's current, hugely publicized trip to Malawi — the native country of her adopted son, David — is torn from the pages of The Canonization of Angelina. Bravely, Madge has scrubbed the makeup from her face (see Jolie, Angelina, Vanity-Free Goodwill Missions Of), visited orphanages (see: Jolie, Angelina, Demonstrations of Compassion for Orphaned Children By), and taken David to see his father (see Jolie, Angelina, Frequent Trips to Cambodia to Help Maddox Understand His Heritage Mandated By). But in striving to remind us she's really just a Maternal Girl at heart, Madonna's treading territory that feels très Jolie — and that "been-there, done-that" feeling is unusual when we're talking about a woman who put herself on a crucifix every night of her last tour.

But subtlety was never Madonna's strength. Though that's great when you're prancing around a stage in a leotard and top hat, the blatant approach doesn't work when you're peddling a softer, gentler side. And, really, she shouldn't be begging for people's regard like this in the first place. She's freaking Madonna. She's not supposed to be making plays for public affection, and she's certainly not supposed to be walking a trail someone else forged first. The Madonna of yore would want to slap her silly. And that we'd certainly tune in for.

Clowns to the left

2007-04-20T11:43:00.000+01:00

It's that time of year again - London Marathon weekend. To think it started as a sacred, elite sporting event attracting world-class athletes. Until one day when somebody decided: "I know what, I'll go dressed in a tutu" and it fast became a runner's Brazilian carnival.

But the large number of costumed runners also means it is the world's largest fundraising event. Which is odd because generally the Brits give far less to charity than other countries. So what is it about a Justgiving.com page (a sort of fundraising MySpace) that encourages such generosity?

And whilst we ponder that British peculiarity, let's also race on to the 31st edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Shocked at news that a famous Banksy has been painted over by Transport for London cleaners? React by embracing art's inescapable commercial intent with Andreas Gursky's powerful images of capitalism's grandeur. White Cube Mason's Yard. 25-26 Mason's Yard, SW1. Until 5 May. Tues-Sat 10AM-6 PM.

2) Disheartened to hear that one of the best music venues in London, the Spitz, will close its doors in less than 6 months to be turned it into yet another gastropub? React by first signing the petition to save the Spitz and then booking up for a gig at this weekend's Festival of the Blues. 109 Commercial Street, Old Spitalfields Market, E1. 0207 392 9032.

3) Missed Pete Doherty's secret Camden Crawl gig? React by enjoying a good knees up at an unpretentious indie/ disco/ house music night in Vauxhall - expect everything from Chicks on Speed to The Klaxons, and, er, Chas n Dave! Saturday. 9pm-6am Secret location. Vauxhall, SE11. £5. 020 7701 1500.

Femail

2007-04-19T17:13:00.000+01:00

Every now and then the Daily Mail prints something not about a) the evils of career women b) death by the NHS c) the Royals in crisis. Women, Germaine Greer once said, have no idea how much men hate them. But given the avid female following of the Daily Mail, despite its lamentable portrayal of women, you can't help wondering whether they hate themselves even more than men do.

The paper seems locked into a conspiracy with the reader to lament the modern independent woman. It assumes the role of watchful neighbour, sniffing disapprovingly as it leans over the garden wall to share malevolence disguised as concerned gossip. It constantly harks back to a kind of mythical golden age in which women knew their place. It's a Stepford Wife picture of the world.

And sadly nothing was different about the "Are you ready for extreme dating ?" article in last Sunday's paper. Guised as a piece on the 'world of romance New York-style,' it was little more than a Middle England version of The Rules. It includes lines such as "the more attractive a man is, the less available you ought to be." Inspired.

But there was one bit I did rather enjoy. The article suggests there are three levels of problems one comes across in a relationship: glitch (minor annoyance), core challenge (tough problem) and deal-breaker (it's over). The key being to find out what yours are, so you know what you can and can't live with. It was then that I realised mine would be if he hates Elvis, loves PlayStation and reads the Daily Mail. What are yours?

Treat yourself

2007-04-18T16:20:00.001+01:00

I have been meaning to recommend 'Treats' for weeks now. But it took an offer in yesterday's thelondonpaper for £15 seats to remind me.

The story evolves around three very ordinary people bickering their way in and out of love. There is Anne (Billie Piper), an indecisive woman who can't help falling for the wrong men; Dave (Kris Marshall, who will forever be remembered as the geeky guy from 'Love Actually'), her dominating and abusive ex; and Anne's nice-but-dull current squeeze, Patrick (Laurence Fox, fresh from 'Becoming Jane' fame).

Christopher Hampton wrote 'Treats' in 1975, apparently as a response to Ibsen's, 'A Doll's House', reasoning that there were as many women trapped in destructive relationships in the 1970s as there had been in Ibsen's 1870s. And while the theme is a bit tired, it does make points about our addictive and self-damaging habits.

The script is the high point including some great quips: Patrick is shamed as "a bore of international reputation." But it was Billie's character that I most enjoyed. Both in her own impassioned attack of her bully-boy ex: "Well, what's there to say? Except that for two and half years you bullied and terrorized me to such an extent I could hardly open my mouth. I didn't dare to have an opinion you hadn't approved about anything. My friends pitied me and your friends despised me." And in his attack of her obstinacy: "It's possible to disagree with someone about the ethics of non-violence without wanting to kick his face in."

As all three actors have come from television roles, it ends up playing the closest theatre gets to soap opera. But I would recommend it to anyone curious about self-damaging relationships: if, in fact, damaged is not our collective experience. One of the many things I pondered long after the curtain call.

For best available tickets @£15:
phone: 0870 890 1104
quote: thelondonpaper offer

Garrick Theatre, until 26 May

Make sense, not art

2007-04-17T11:31:00.000+01:00

I like to believe in the power of words to make sense of things. Don't we all? For if they bore no consequence, why would Blair be troubled by what he calls the 'war in error' these days? Oops sorry, but see what I mean? Precision of usage can change everything.

Which brings me to today's topic: what in the devil is Tracy Emin on about now? As of last Friday, the heart of London's Southbank boasts her latest shock n'awe image: swimming sperm on a (21 ft by 15 ft) flag that reads, "One Secret is to Save Everything."

Hayward Gallery director, Ralph Rugoff, praised Emin's "precise sense of paradox and ambiguity in subverting what might be a reassuring formula for happiness." Now maybe I am just not artistic or spiritual enough, but is this guy or Emin's piece trying to suggest that saving sperm is the key to happiness? Surely, Monica's famous blew (sorry blue) dress proved otherwise?

But maybe we should be grateful for any lack of sense. Sometimes the less direct the better.

As the second in a series of artworks commissioned by the Southbank Centre, Tracey Emin's flag is at Jubilee Gardens until 31st July.

The Royal Split

2007-04-16T17:05:00.000+01:00

It's all over the news - Kate and Wills have split. I haven't been this shocked since Brad and Jen. What went wrong? They looked so good on the Woolworth commemorative mugs. She invested five years of her life into the relationship. Not to mention all of time we wasted speculating. And for what? Didn't we deserve a happy ending?

Typically Clarence House remains tight lipped. We'll never know the true reason and many trees will fall in speculating. Did William feel up one too many drunken blondes? Did she show too much spunk with the media? What, if anything, did Camilla have to do with this? The questions and possibilities for spin are endless.

Our first instinct might be to feel sorry for her. After all, now that she no longer has to save the monarchy, she has time to think about her future. But don't feel so bad, she has several options before she becomes a royal footnote:

She can write her autobiography. Nothing eases the pain like cashing in.

She can become a motivational speaker, holding seminars on 'How not to become a princess'.

She can do tearful appearances on Oprah. And make the cover of Hello magazine looking despondent.

She can appear on reality shows eating questionable animal parts with Paul Burrell.

She can become a contestant on Dancing With the Stars.

If she's feeling charitable, she could go out with Kev Fed.

She can become BFF with Paris Hilton.

And most importantly:

She can get on with her life.

Freaky Friday

2007-04-13T12:11:00.000+01:00

So London's big gig of this week was A Night with Pete Doherty at Hackney Empire. Is it just me or is he looking less like Cherie and more like Kate in drag these days? And for pete's sake (sorry), why hasn't Freddy Krueger rung him up and asked for his clothes back? Surely, now that Pete's engaged to TopShop's hottest designer he has no excuse? But then again he is a wack job.

But enough freakiness for this Friday the 13th. Let's get out and enjoy London's 24°C weather, armed with the 30th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Do you admire Red Ken's ability to link gangsta rap and Margaret Thatcher in the same sentence? React in kind by learning how to link music, film, fashion and art with one word: camouflage. It has impacted far beyond the battlefield. Imperial War Museum, SE1. 10am-6pm Sat-Sun, £7.

2) Relieved that the threatened three-day tube strike has been called off? Celebrate with Coco Rosie - the part folk, part electronic, part nutty pop but spookily powerful band of two sisters. They are good. Catch them before they disappear to be lesbian welders in New Mexico. Shepherd's Bush Empire, W12. Sun 7PM. £15

3) Is next week's opening of "New York Fashion Now" at the V&A leaving you wondering if the idea shouldn't be more about getting clothes on living bodies before they end up on mannequins? React by heading to the London Vintage Fashion, Textiles and Accessories Fashion Fair. Hammersmith Town Hall, King St, W6. Sun 8am-5pm. £5.

Long live the Kings

2007-04-12T11:05:00.000+01:00

Last week I had the privilege of meeting the editor of Mojo at a party. And there is something about the company of someone who is by definition "cool" that can make you feel by derivation not. Don't get me wrong -I love music. But when faced with a member of music's intelligentsia that is precisely my cred killer. Music elites love to hate. They thrive on labelling artists as "pretentious" or "a sellout" or "a hack." Music elites like the stuff that normal people don't know they hate, but would likely hate if they ever heard it (which they probably won't).

But I was desperate to ask Mojo man what he thought of Tennessee's Kings of Leon. A band of three brothers and their cousin they squirm free of the "southern Strokes" pigeonhole and completely obliterate every expectation one could have of them. And I am currently addicted to their new album's first single, "On Call" (click here for the video). Not since Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" can I remember a song that's simultaneously sad, haunting and powerfully uplifting. It captures that longing sensation from John Cusack's boombox scene in "Say Anything." I did tell you I was uncool.

And true to expectation, Mojo man wasn't keen on the Kings. He gave a considered answer which I think included the term "chart-friendly", but was lost in my hangover haze. But I remain a staunch fan. Because the need for rock n'roll bands to declare war on clichés has been evident for ages. If you like your Americana raw and passionate, look no further.

UK Tour kicks off Saturday (14 April)

Website

Myspace

Sickly green

2007-04-11T11:13:00.000+01:00

What is it with the 'in' crowd and saving the planet? And, no, I am not talking about news that Madge will be fronting London's Live Earth (the noughties answer to the eighties Live Aid) concert. Rather, I am talking about how London's metropolitan elite no longer cares about social justice. On the contrary, all their political energies have been diverted to the green agenda - and, in particular, the politics of food.

And nowhere is this more apparent than Marylebone. With local residents including Madonna and Noel Gallagher, it is one of the trendiest postcodes in town. That is, until you stroll into the local Waitrose and find the so-called 'trendies' subscribing to the dogma of fresh, local and seasonal. Why on earth should they care about how many 'food miles' a punnet of blueberries rack up when it makes little difference to global warming? As Tony Blair pointed out, if Britain reduced its carbon emissions to zero, the benefit to the environment would be wiped out by just two years of growth in China's emissions.

For a food fascist to imagine that their buying habits is making a difference is like saying they are combating poverty by donating to Oxfam. And on that note, why doesn't their obsession with provenance extend to recreational drugs as well? Certainly cocaine is as un-green as it gets, but these same trendies have no problem snorting it- organic or not.

As for the ammunition behind today's rant? The imminent opening by Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall from River Cottage of London's first Natural Kitchen store in Marylebone which "will sell and serve local, regional and seasonal organic food of the highest quality, in a lively and vibrant environment that will lead the way in natural food retailing."

As if the area isn't sickly green as it is.

The Natural Kitchen
77-78 Marylebone High Street
London W1U 5JX

Opening late April.

And the award goes to...

2007-04-10T11:54:00.000+01:00

Thank you all for reading and voting! As announced yesterday, City Slicker has made Metro's 'Best of Brit Blog Awards' Shortlist. And we have been moved from Politics to the Arts & Entertainment category. I wonder if that has anything to do with my likening the current Tory leader to a simpering, moon-faced parrot with about as much sex appeal as a battered saveloy. Regardless, I think A&E is where we best belong. I will keep you posted on the result later this month. Thanks again!

Click here for the complete shortlist.

Crack on

2007-04-05T11:06:00.000+01:00

What is it about Easter weekend that the lead-up feels like the longest week of the year? Since Monday have you not lost all work-life inspiration? But this week is not the time to ask yourself "what would Jesus do?" He certainly endured his share.

So roll on Thursday's close of play, and welcome in Easter or Christmas-Lite. The weekend when everyone is cooped up at home eating Green & Black's chocolate eggs. But what if you indignantly ignored this week's fear campaign: twinning London with Chernobyl? Join me in inhaling the Big Smoke and rolling on as usual with City Slicker's 29th edition of "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Did this week's PeteMoss video make you nostalgic for the old Primrose Hill set's truly rock n'roll ways? React by heading to the Lost & Found Egg Roll where teams (chicken and egg) come dressed accordingly to answer that age old question of who really did come first. 2pm Friday April 6. Primrose Hill, NW1. Free.

2) Half inclined to check out the 153rd Oxford Cambridge Boat Race but can't face the Putney packrats? React by heading out of town for some sporting action at Kimble's point-to-point racing. Horse racing minus the mwah-mwah brigade. Little Kimble, Buckinghamshire, HP17, 1 hour from London. Saturday April 7. First race 1:30pm. Cars £20, pedestrians £3.

3) Feeling sympathetic to the graffiti that adorns the H&M Madonna range posters on Old Street? React by celebrating the opening of London's first Primark superstore. Show them you like cheap, but not from the Material Girl. From 10 a.m. today; then Mon.-Fri., 9 a.m.-9 p.m.; Sun., noon-6 p.m, 499-517 Oxford St.

Happy Easter! Back on Tuesday.

Charlie, my chaplain

2007-04-03T12:13:00.000+01:00

One clear sign of getting older is the writing of letters. And I don't mean the kind of letters you used to compose under duress to your grandmother to compensate for not visiting the poor dear. No, I mean letters to strangers. You know those people you have not known or met before but who can still stir a reaction you feel compelled to document. Like a James Blunt "You're Beautiful" moment except you aren't soft: you act firmly on principle.

Let me give you an example. In yesterday's G2 section of the Guardian was this peerless article by the columnist, Charlie Brooker, pillorising David Cameron. Now it doesn't take much to get me cursing the man whose smirk has allowed us to hate the Tories again. For years they were a ramshackle organisation comprising merely of the Parliamentary equivalents of the shouty bloke on the bus who smells of wee and with whom one should not make eye contact, but recently it's become easier to dislike them.

This is down, in no small part, to the fact that if you were to venture down to Portcullis House you would find yourself knee-deep in chinless aspirants in Daks suits attempting to air-kiss the bejesus out of each other and braying so much that you would get confused as to whether they are in the Dispatch Box or a horse box. But, don't take it from me. Charlie is the man.

And so beguiled am I with his column that I wrote to him this morning with the proposal of marriage. What? Surely I am not the only one? Some of you must write fan mail to journalists? Oh no, have I just shown my age?

Glastonbury everyone? Not this one!

2007-04-02T16:24:00.000+01:00

Glastonbury is a peaceful festival. I'm a peaceful person, trying to get tickets to that peaceful festival. But right now there is a woman whom I would cheerfully strangle. I don't know her name but her voice will be the stuff of my nightmares for weeks to come.

"Welcome to Aloud ticket agency. The lines are very busy, please call again later or try our website," she chirps on the rare occasion that I get anything but an engaged tone. But I have been trying the sodding website, since 9 o'clock yesterday, the moment the tickets went on sale. I have hit back and refresh so many times I have got a frozen shoulder and what must be RSI in my right arm.

"Error the requested URL could not be retrieved," it says. Or "the service is currently very busy, please try again a little later," or sometimes it tells me I have entered too many tickets (two) for the number they have left, please enter a smaller figure.

It feels like I could stand more chance of getting a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory.

But then who needs Glastonbury anyway? Only Kate Moss can be rock n'roll in wellies. No, if you are anything like me you would prefer browsing round a live tattooing, exploring unseen parts of the London Bridge vaults and witnessing a live video installation unroll on a naked body. Maybe we’ve got spring fever and, frankly, need help or maybe we’re just due a visit to SPILL, a brand new festival of experimental theatre and performance taking place over 3 weeks (from TODAY) at the Barbican, the Soho Theatre, South Bank Centre, Shunt Vaults and Toynbee Studios.

Find out what it's all about here.

And throughout SPILL a festival bar will be running daily at the Shunt Lounge, set deep in the tunnels under London Bridge Station. See you there!

Naming and shaming

2007-03-30T16:45:00.000+01:00

The Middle East is at war. Brits are being held hostage in Iran and 100,000 more children are falling into poverty. But significance is over-rated on Fridays. And Becks has a new haircut: the retro-style quiff. Which given his history of cornrows and Mohicans lands pretty low on this week's shameless-and-proud scale. Even lower than Midd's well-staged media tantrum. Will somebody please tell the Royals the Queen is dead.

Tittle-tattle about ordinary folk is so much more colourful. Which is why this week the scales were tipped (literally) by the drunk student who fell through a skylight and thought: "I'll sue my landlord." And on today's frivolous Friday note, let's indulge in the 28th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Did the crash and burn of the affluent-targeted So London rag leave you less than surprised? React by heading to the Museum of London for an exhibition on the real Great Fire and learn how it shaped the city we have today. Find out more here. Until 29 Dec.

2) Emboldened by news that the founder of the Big Issue plans to run for London Mayor? React by heralding human determination and head to "The Art of Survival" at the Crisis Skylight centre, an exhibit of 30 homeless artists whose work is being exhibited for sale. 66 Commercial St, E1. Until Sunday

3) Fancy a trip to the National Theatre but not enticed by the current offerings? React by heading to the Performing Arts Book & Ephemera Fair there this Saturday where 15 dealers will be selling wares from the world of entertainment. Sat 10:30am-7:15pm.

MC Rove

2007-03-29T15:58:00.000+01:00

Just when I started to fear London was ridden with disturbing Americans, came Karl Rove - the deviously dorky architect (think Satan not Jesus) of Bush's two campaigns commonly dubbed "Bush's Brain" or as Dubya calls him,"Turd Blossom," a Texas phrase describing a flower that grows in manure - breaking it down with the improv maestros from Who's Line is it Anyway? at a banquet in Washington last night. For once I am speechless:

Relationship journalism

2007-03-28T11:45:00.000+01:00

Having started the New Year with a cultural detox, I now lurch from my perch unabashed. Today I surrender to a yearned for dalliance.

Plastered across the Daily Hate Mail on Monday were photos of Hugh and Jemima accompanied by a headline as to their rekindled romance. Now you don't need Martin Bashir to unravel the politics of their relationship: just look at the body language. Their on and off relationship should only ever be off.

And you can do the same the sleb set over. Just look at Wills and Midds. Did this week's "colourful copy" threaten anything? Of course not. For exactly the reasons that Hugh's and Jemima's did. We have seen them together enough to know it has only ever been on. Call it insipid but Hello and OK!'s thriving business models rely on it: relationship journalism and its appeal is pretty easy to fathom. In today's Bowling Alone society, rumourings about Lindsay Lohan's lurkings are as good as we get to village gossip. And I would argue it's healthy.

So what if we delve more into vapid stranger's sordid habits than our own? It's nothing new. The News of the World which gleefully reported aristicratic sex scandels in the 19th century, first appeared in the same year as Dickens's A Christmas Carol. Surely life can't be all reflection and no deflection?

And on that note, today marks the opening of celebrity childhood dreams portrayed at The Hospital's When I Grow Up exhibition. 10am-7pm. 24 Endell St, WC2. Free

Communication Breakdown

2007-03-27T11:37:00.000+01:00

Today's image is a shrapnel of irony in the wake of historic news from Northern Ireland and images many thought they would never see: Ian Paisley sitting with Gerry Adams to embrace devolution.

This landmark agreement is said to be the crowning achievement for Blair’s 10 years in office and the fulfilment of a crucial objective for his legacy. While George W. Bush threatens to expand his warmongering into Iran, in Northern Ireland the Good Friday Accord bears fruit. The “immoral” president makes peace. The “man of God” makes war. Irony is dead.

Does this mean Blair is no longer Bush's poodle but an Irish setter? Sadly, it may well be too late. However, as someone who once supported him and has since become one of his many critics, I am pleased to concede that, at last, Blair has something on his legacy that does not say "Iraq."

Afghanistan: one story the U.S. isn't buying

2007-03-26T10:51:00.000+01:00

Stella Artois beer is Belgian. In Belgium it is so cheap and plentiful, they could refill the canals of Bruges with its gaseous flows.

In the UK, it's marketed as an expensive and sophisticated Gallic brew - the kind of thing one might order to impress Emmanuelle Béart. It's an old trick: same product, different markets.

From left-wing America's on-line bible, the Huffington Post - a tale of two magazines, Time and Newsweek - worldly to the world, homely to the folks at home...

London vs New York? Bovvered?

2007-03-22T14:02:00.000+01:00

As a London born ex-New Yorker now living in London you can imagine my orgasmic (how unsexy is that word when used out of context?) and unbridled excitement for the cover story of this week's New York magazine: London vs. New York. In mere column inches the 21st century's clash of culture capitals was to be decided.

As any Londoner worth a £3 a minute cab ride will tell you, London 2007 is as good as it gets. From the Tate to Topshop, the Southbank to Spitalfields, the Olympics to the Old Vic - London is a helluva town. And New York magazine is at no pains to recognise this, going so far as to ingratiate us with "in short, New York is cardiganed Woody Allen, and London is party-dressed Lily Allen." Now, doesn't that just make you smile? Except I was thinking New York is more tough talking toreador Tony Soprano and London is S&M Willy Wonka Russell Brand. Surely?

So what did New York magazine actually decide, you ask? Let's just say the coin was definitely weighted. In today's age of die another day magazine sales a publication entitled New York was always an unlikely bedfellow for bigging up Blighty's bonanza. And as for what I think? I just hope that today's opening of London's first Abercrombie & Fitch store isn't an indication of direction. Certainly chinos are for daytime golfing in the burbs, not all-night boozing at the local.

So, is it London or New York? You decide. I love both equally and individually like children. Or like a parent I convince myself. No, forget column inches on the subject. The next time somebody posits the two all I need is one word -"bovvered?"

For New York magazine articles click here

Abercrombie & Fitch
7 Burlington Gardens, W1
Opens Today

PUSH

2007-03-21T12:50:00.000+01:00

Heading out for an evening at Sadler's Wells yesterday, I was hardly expecting to fall in love. I was simply trudging along to join the masses of Guardian touting Islington Blairites to what was reputed to be the wonder dance bill of the year: PUSH. And did it deliver.

Sylvie Guillem is an extraordinary dancer and Russell Maliphant one of Europe's trendiest choreographers. His work challenges her body and her brain; therein laying the root of my newfound love for the pair. There's a solo for her, a solo for him, another solo for her, then a duet. No sets, no live music, no special effects other than lighting, yet the cumulative effect is as sophisticated as one could wish. This is intimate stuff, even in the vastness of Sadler's Wells. People were jammed shoulder-to-shoulder and all you could hear was a holding of breath (and slurpings of Sauvignon).

The climax comes with the finale - the duet. In the rapt opening moments it's clear the mood will be proud and sensuous, a meeting of strangers as equals. Guillem crouches and uncoils her body down the length of Maliphant's back, and just at that moment the sound score hints at an ancient world, and I suddenly saw the pair as Helen of Troy and Paris.

If there was ever a time appropriate for the word 'sinuous', this was it. The potent duet that suggests many kinds of relationship - marital, artistic, sacred - lays bare the elements of trust both physically and emotionally that all relationships require.

As Annie Lennox sang: "Sweet dreams are made of this."
Who am I to disagree?

Push
Sadler's Wells
Until 25 March
Book here, Tickets £13-£40

The Glass Curtain

2007-03-20T11:39:00.000+01:00

Ask me who wrote the play I saw this past Saturday and her name will likely mean very little to you. For now. But I will tell you it because Lucy Caldwell (pictured here) is clearly a name to watch. And a name I would like to thank, for alongside Georgia Fitch I have cause to believe in young women again. Okay, maybe Amy Winehouse deserves a mention but that is more a schadenfreude-inspired ode to my drinking habits than any enduring creative mantle.

No the big and, as yet, largely untold story of London's theatre world is that the playwrights who are most interesting to read and see now, the ones who are really pushing the work forward aesthetically, are largely women. And there is no better evidence than Belfast-born Caldwell's play, 'Leaves', currently playing at the Royal Court Upstairs. But don't just take my word for it. As if! 'Leaves' was sold out this past Saturday evening which was both before press night and on St. Patrick's Day: a double whammy that should have quashed ticket sales. Which either means the twenty-five year old (anybody else feel like a dud?), award winning playwright's reputation stands before her, or Saturday nights in London are suddenly about imbibing theatre not Guinness. I know where my suspicion lies.

'Leaves' is a family drama that sees three teenage girls struggling to define who they are and where they are going. Set against the backdrop of The Troubles it begs the question of how far our place of upbringing impacts on our lives. As such, it was with delicious irony that I stood next to the forlorn Lord Archer of Weston-super-Mare in the box office queue.

Leaves
Royal Court Upstairs
to April 7
Book here; tickets £10-£15

Comic disbelief

2007-03-19T11:57:00.000+01:00

Was anyone else unnerved by just how well Blair managed to act out his part, in the "Am I Bovvered" diatribe to Catherine Tate on Comic Relief? Does it not raise questions over just when he is acting the rest of the time? Still, seeing his smug, self-congratulatory smirk as he joined in the frolics, I couldn't help but think of his potential response to public opinion against his policies:

"Am I bovvered? Thousands dead and social chaos after unjustified imperialist invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan? Bovvered? Millions lobbying against Trident? Face – bovvered? Reform of the House of Lords, telling the nation when I'm actually stepping down rather than stringing you along like brain-dead drones, student tuition fees, the disintegrating NHS,...Voters…bovvered…public opinion… I ain't bovvered!"

Saving Mankind

2007-03-15T11:17:00.000+01:00

Seb Coe has announced the first official sponsor of the 2012 London Olympics - a race of globe trotting children known only as Brangits:

"Since first discovering that the Brangits had populated on Earth and promised to be nothing but helpful to the cause of London's 2012 Olympic bid we have kept things under wraps. We were of course initially wary of the intentions of such a highly advanced breed", Lord Coe told a murder of shocked journalists this afternoon.
"But even the most skeptical among us (Steve Cram) are convinced of their peaceful intentions now that Olympic codebreakers have begun to translate one of the Brangit's colouring books, promisingly entitled Saving Mankind along with a smaller pamphlet, Hunger as a Side Dish.

Further more the Brangits have promised to share their advanced technology. Although they suggested to eradicate hunger, disease and the need for warfare, we on the 2012 committee decided that the first priority should be... erm... me winning a gold in the 1,500 metres."

Actually that's rubbish. It was really Lloyds TSB, but that's just dull.

Normal service resumes Monday...I am currently in Cannes working at the London Stand of the MIPIM conference.

Whimpering Heights

2007-03-12T17:27:00.000+01:00

"I am at a loss to understand why people hold Miss Austen's novels at so high a rate, which seem to me vulgar in tone, sterile in artistic invention, imprisoned in their wretched conventions of English society, without genius, wit, or knowledge of the world..." said American writer Ralph Waldo Emerson in 1861. But hey, what did he know?

Jane Austen had already been dead for 44 years when Emerson took it upon himself to slate her. If he was fed up of her back then (and he was by no means the only detractor), imagine how he'd feel at the knowledge that nearly two hundred years after her death, she's as popular as ever. Perhaps more so.

So just how have her six stories from the early 19th century continued to find an audience? And why aren't we bored of Jane Austen yet?

Handsome, privileged and/or emotionally stunted men; beautiful, witty and/or neurotic women; the middle and upper classes at play; a materially-obsessed world; the underlying rituals of the mating dance; husband-hunting mothers, daughters and friends; love, romance…I could just as easily be outlining an average episode of Sex & The City. And therein lies Austin's chief appeal; she has transcended time. The day we become bored of Jane Austen is the day we become bored of human foibles, frailties and the frustration of relationships, both familial and romantic.

As such, I raced to see Becoming Jane at the weekend. And while the film is beuatifully shot and delivers a potentially devastating emotional crescendo it failed to break my heart. Rather, I emitted a faint whimper that a writer of Austen's calibre would have found most disagreeable.

Watch the trailer here.

Read Germaine Greer on Jane Austen in today's Guardian here.

Ready (or not)?

2007-03-09T16:27:00.000+01:00

Mind the budget gaps as London is drowning in construction costs. But with this week's long awaited completion of Wembley and next week's NFT unveiling, you would have thought hope was in-store. But then there is always Crossrail's future to condemn. And the ever deafening chorus of Olympic discontent: from Simon Jenkins to Seb Coe and ending with Ken.

It is little question that with such double-dealing, we yearn for simpler times. Or at least a bit of reliability. So, on that note, let's roll on as expected with the 27th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Unaware that this year marks the 200th anniversary of the abolition of slavery in Britain? React by commemorating history at the brilliant Slave Britain: The 21st Century Trade in Human Lives exhibit at St. Paul's Cathedral. Until 29 March, Open 8:30-4 Daily, £9.50

2) Find yourself stuck yet again in search of a new Friday night boozer? React by heading to territories new with tonight's launch of Kilburn's latest gastropub, The Westbury. Owned by the same creative brains behind super-club Fabric, it doesn't need much promotion. 34 Kilburn High Road, NW6 , 020 7625 7500, Open 7pm-2am this Fri & Sat.

3) Jealous of New York's legendary Restaurant Week? React by taking part in the Big Smoke's answer, London Restaurant Week, with price slashings on top tables. 9-17 March.

Femmes fatales

2007-03-08T17:56:00.000+01:00

Rather than engage in the usual navel gazing that a topic such as today's celebration of International Womens Day would invite, I am going to surprise you. Today I suggest we play men at their own game: shameless self promotion.

And did you know that while women may hold up half the sky, less than 10% of film directors are female? The Birds Eye View Film Festival sets things right, however, by showcasing the stunningly different work of female filmmakers from across the globe. Kicking off with tonight's star-studded opening party, the programme includes the UK premiere of Sherrybaby (featuring Maggie Gyllenhaal) luminaries such as Tilda Swinton and Julie Christie, alongside new work from directors in developing countries. Music also plays a key role, with such films as Shut Up and Sing — a profile of controversial country gals the Dixie Chicks — and silent films that are accompanied by live musicians.

Inspired and inspiring. This game is easy.

The Birds Eye Festival
Thur 8 - Wed 14 Mar
ICA, The Mall, SW1
020.7930.3647
£6-£15, book here

I Like Mine With a Kiss

2007-03-07T13:03:00.000+01:00

Before we go any further today - pick up your phone, dial the Bush Theatre, buy a ticket to see 'I Like Mine With a Kiss', and thank me later. Because if you don't, you will miss a brilliantly funny play in a wonderfully mini theatre about the 'modern woman who wants it all'. And, no, it's not about Victoria Beckham.

Georgia Fitch's new play is an hilarious, thoughtful, inspired, jaded, and above all brutally honest look at what the cult of child-bearing does to women. Two best friends have one night stands at their 40th birthday party, get pregnant, and set the stage for the clash of wildly differing takes on womanhood. Both lacking stable relationships, they begin to question the meaning of their lives, as man after man disappears looking for something that they cannot or will not offer.

The acting was superb across the six person cast. And I fell in love with Louise, a half drunken slapper and half successful teacher, as played by the magnificent Michelle Butterly. Think Dorothy Parker meets Sarah Jessica Parker: Louise is a fiery character who likes a drink or twelve and covers her internal weakness with noisy bravado. Rarely does an actor/actress play a role so convincingly you are desperate to meet their real persona. So I did. After spotting one of my favourite modern playwrights, David Eldridge, in the audience I stalked him into the pub next door to find all of the cast. We celebrated their brilliance and the injustice that after next Saturday the show won't go on.

Drunk talk aside, I vowed to spread the word.

I Like Mine With a Kiss
Bush Theatre, Shepherd's Bush Green
020 7610 4224
Until 17 March

Buyers beware

2007-03-05T17:49:00.000+01:00

Monday's antidote to Sunday:

Bricks and stones

2007-03-02T12:59:00.000+01:00

A bête noire to London drivers, this week Old Street roundabout made headlines with word of Will Alsop's proposed new pop art tower (as pictured here).

And that was just the start. With a 30 ft high light halo announced for Oxford Circus, demolition plans for Portland House in Victoria, and an increasing likelihood of a Helter Skelter skyscraper, the real estate world is abuzz. And the celeb circuit was not excused with news that Madge's Marylebone house is on the market. But, less progressive things are happening for London's immaterial girl, Lily Allen, who claims to be homeless. Why does that make me smile?

So that was all bricks and stones, let's stick with words and the 26th edition of City Slicker's "Week's Action, Weekend Reaction."

1) Unimpressed by the latest bone pickings of Tony Blair and David Cameron? React by celebrating this capital's better half at Capitalwoman 2007. Westminster, Storey's Gate, SW1 Sat 10am-5:15pm. Free.

2) Fed up with trolling with tourists through Borough Market for your comte? React by heading to Taste East, part of a six day celebration of all that East London has to offer. Crispin Place, E1, 12-8pm Friday, 12-5pm Saturday

3) Concerned for London's future under Green Ken? React by sailing away from this sceptred isle after heading to the RYA Dinghy Sailing Show at Alexandra Palace. For all ages and budgets. Sat 10am-6pm, Sun 10am-5pm. £12

Comedy or Tragedy?

2007-03-01T16:14:00.000+01:00

Poor David Cameron. It seems as though his charm with children needs some pointers from the Michael Jackson School of Persuasion. But, I doubt he is too bothered - they don't vote. And, all smirks considered, things are going swimmingly for the boy from Notting Hell.

But what about Gordo? With yesterday's vision2020 announcement from Milburn and Clarke he is no doubt feeling his ascension to the throne being challenged. If only Shakespeare had written soap operas he would have found in New Labour's power struggles abundant material for the pen that never blotted a line. He would have sussed out the coronation prospects in no time: "They that stand high have many blasts to shake them. And if they fall, they dash themselves to pieces."(Richard III, Act 1 Scene 3)

I, personally, prefer blackmail from YouTube:

David Milibland's Miliblinking Gordo gaffe

Pinteresque

2007-02-28T11:33:00.000+01:00

Hackney born, Harold Pinter, is to London's theatre world what a bottle of Amarone is to mine: peerless. With the recent success of Pinter's People, recognition as the greatest living British writer, the current hit Dumb Waiter (Trafalgar Studios) and next week's opening of The Caretaker (Tricycle Theatre), he is showing us who is boss.

But public ego rubs aside, there can be no greater respect for a writer than imitation. As such, the legacy of Harold Pinter is also being bigged up at The Young Writers Festival at the Royal Court where newbie Alexandra Wood's play, The Eleventh Capital (cast pictured here) has just opened. The plot centres around the dynamics of power in relationships and is very Pinteresque: obscene rage and deft silences. You can read a plot review in The Guardian today (here) or The Evening Standard (here.)

I found the 60 minute piece captivating, and left the Royal Court with a pre kick-off level of anticipation about theatre's life beyond Harold Pinter. Not to mention, the audience was young, trendy and very London. Not old, Tory and from the Shires. Could the future look any brighter?

The Eleventh Capital
Royal Court Theatre, Jerwood Theatre Upstairs
Until 10th March
£15, book here

One helluva trip

2007-02-27T10:59:00.000+01:00

There is no surer sign of age than when you start referring to yourself as young. This occurred to me at the weekend when a mate called someone of thirtysomething "old" and a chorus of us shrieked, in ever revealing unison, "thirtysomething, but that's so young!" We would never have said that at nineteen.

And today's subject of age was brought on by enjoying the Oscar coverage this year; not for the fashion (definitely not for the fashion), but because I recognised most of the faces. Move over London Lite lushes, and bring on talent and achievement. For a brief moment older women are being appreciated as being able to contribute in much the same way as men have for years now.

Owing to the current hyper-publicity surrounding the likes of Hillary Clinton and Helen Mirren (and her grey haired co-awards nominees including Meryl Streep, Judi Dench and Annette Benning) wisdom is proving more popular than youth. Perhaps, just perhaps, this year's older leading ladies will actually have a positive - and more to the point, lasting - effect on a society obsessed with youth?

Either way, with Dame Helen it's always one helluva trip:

Londoner's lips

2007-02-26T17:39:00.000+01:00

It's Monday. It's February. Trains are crashing. We need distracting. And thankfully London's hippest new social interaction tool, Friday Cities, has come to our rescue. And its concept is rather simple, really. You just ask a question about life in London and other members answer it. Like a London version of Ask Jeeves. And answers come quickly which makes it addictive. Questions range from:

Who owns the weird silver box thing at Elephant & Castle?

The Naughty North or the Sexy South?

Where can I go to have my colon irrigated?

In a city not known for strangers talking, this has to be a beautiful thing. Dare we say, the stiff upper lip is quivering?

To join visit Fridaycities and enter the Invitation Code: j9pj5d7m054e

Carpe diem

2007-02-23T11:04:00.000+01:00

Another one bites the dust. Another week that is, not a morbid reference to Prince Harry's fate now that he is off to Iraq. Although am I alone in wondering if he has confused Boujis with Basra? But this is hardly the time to make light of Iraq. Because with today's news of an impending US-UK sponsored 'Son of Star Wars', who can actually believe promises of a British endgame?

This week the future (of the world, not Britney again) feels horribly tenuous. Which is why we should live for the moment (or at least the weekend) and celebrate the 25th edition of City Slicker's 'Week's Action, Weekend Reaction'.

1) Incensed with rage over the determined military build-up and unjust war against Iraq when it is actually Al-Qaeda we are after? React by heading to the National Demonstration: No Trident/Bring the Troops Home. Because isn't silence acceptance? Assemble @ Speakers Corner, 12 Noon. Rally in Trafalgar Square 2:30PM. Saturday

2) Always fancied checking out the Barbican but needed a reason? React by indulging in its 25th birthday celebratory programme with an exhibit on Finland's master modernist architect Alvar Aalto or a show by Ireland's Fabulous Beast Dance Theatre. Worth the trip to Moorgate. Runs until 13 May and 3 March, respectively.

3) Secretly pining for a try at Wii with news of their market power? React by catching the last weekend of the Game On exhibit at the Science Museum. For a small fee you get to play 120 classic and modern games for as long as you like, including Space Invaders and Pacman. Who knows when you will get another chance? Until Sunday. £8.50.

Best of Brit Blog Awards 07

2007-02-22T18:48:00.001+01:00

I trust you are all too busy voting for City Slicker in the Best of Brit Blogs 2007 Awards, so I will leave you in peace. And I would give you a spiel about voting for the best blog which doesn't have to be this blog, yada yada yada. But that would be about as sincere as Britney is dry. So please nominate this blog here. Because if I lose, I, too, will stage my comeback from rehab. Just think of your guilt.

Nomination period ends 22 March 2007.

London 2.0

2007-02-21T18:32:00.000+01:00

Just when I thought as a blogger I was riding the crest of the Internet's future (c'mon, it's hump day and I need a motivational boost), comes along news from Wired magazine that London is hot again. Tech hot, that is. Not global warming hot. Climate chat was so January. No, now it's nearly March and London is unashamedly burning it up on the global stage as a new media giant. And they are calling the revolution 2.0. Or in less geek, more jock terms: London 2 Point 0.

And with the Future of Web Apps conference going on this week (FOWA) at the Kensington Conference Centre, there is no time like the present to practice saying "London 2.0" and make like you know what user-generated content is. Or, if you are really keen you can watch this brilliant screen tutorial. If only all blagging (and blogging) were this easy.