“The rhetoric and treason of saying that I’ll miss you”

Why I Don’t Write About Music, Or At Least Why I Haven’t Until Now.

Well, for a start, I’m not going to compete with entries like this.  I mean, I’m not completely insane.

So yeah, I suppose it’s rooted in an inferiority complex, which is frankly ridiculous.  I don’t feel like an ‘expert’, I don’t live and die by the releases of my favourite bands, and my attitude to music in general is a sort of like a kid at a giant pick ‘n’ mix: I rarely listen to whole albums; there are only a couple of artists I’ve bothered to collect the whole discography for; and I go through phases in such a rapid cycle that even I don’t know what I’m in the mood for half the time.

Which means I’ve built up this weird mental block when it comes to writing about the music (and films, and sometimes books) that have influenced me.  I don’t feel qualified to talk about them most of the time, and though I know the few people who do read me aren’t internet trolls, I have an irrational fear that I’ll be somehow torn to shreds for ill-informed wittering.  Which is ludicrous, because isn’t that basically the foundation of blogging?

The problem with WestEndBitch is that it’s neither one thing or another.  The name is rooted in my love of theatre, a love I rarely indulge anymore.  I still prefer the secure enclave of Livejournal, and find the 140 character banality of Twitter an easy way to keep up with everyone important.  I think for me to use this place more (or at all) I need to stop putting things off-limits, which isn’t a problem so long as I remember to write responsibly.  So yes, this can be a dumping ground for ramblings about the songs I can’t live without, the realities of life on the Tube (when I’m actually driving the damn things again) and most likely a lot of ranting about football, since it’s the overarching love of my life.

Self-censorship is pointless, and I didn’t even realise I was doing it until I tried to find a topic and finally saw how hemmed in I’ve become.  So it’s time for another revolution in the land of Lola.  I can always be insecure and productive at the same time.

“meat is murder”

Good news from PETA – seal-hunting season has come to a close, and while sadly some poor animals were still brutally slaughtered, 3/4 of the seals intended to be killed were actually spared.

That’s a fantastic improvement, but still not quite enough.  Thanks to the EU and the US banning seal products, the demand has fallen dramatically.  Sometimes the most effective way to effect change is by hitting these people where it hurts – in the pocket.

I really can’t bear animal cruelty, and it makes me annoyed at my own prevarication on committing to being a veggie.  I only buy free range meat products now, but it’s still not enough.  The fact that my little freezer is jam-packed with Quorn is a step in the right direction, but still not quite enough.

For health reasons, for my own moral reasons, I really think I have to do this once and for all.  Goodbye, meat.  The sweet hangover cure of a bacon sandwich isn’t worth this guilt.

“There are no tears, just pity and fear”

What the hell, South Africa?

Seriously, can somebody please give me a positive association for this country?  If it’s not car-jackings in Jo’burg, it’s growing up amidst the global embargoes in place because of apartheid.  Not to mention what the accent does to my brain – it really is like tinfoil on a filling sometimes.

Is patriarchal society really an excuse for 1 in 4 men committing rape?  We’re not talking about in the midst of civil war either (and I don’t think rape as a weapon is ever, ever excusable. But hey, it’s cheaper than bullets, right?)

It’s rare in this over-exposed, media-junkie life of mine that a news item can make me feel sick to the stomach.  This managed it from the headline and it only got worse.  I struggle with the blanket ideologies of feminism, but one thing I really feel we still have to fight for is better and more effective prosecution of rape.

I’m lucky to have the life that I do, working in a ‘man’s job’ with nary a comment being passed.  I honestly thought equality was within our grasp and in so many ways it could be.

As long as men can inflict this on women, we’ll never be equal.  That’s as wrong as it is terrifying, and I never thought I’d be in a place to admit that.

“what’s new pussycat is you were once a lioness”

—————-
Now playing: Rilo Kiley – The Angels Hung Around
via FoxyTunes

I understand cause and effect just fine thank you.  I will cause your shredded paper to fly around the room and the

only effect will be you standing around going “awwwwww”.

When will scientists ever learn? There is no point doing psychological testing on cats because they are smarter than humans, never mind dogs.  Why on earth would they bother choosing between two pieces of string when they know that by simply looking cute they’ll get whatever is attached to it eventually anyway.

There is no disdain like the haughty disdain of your average pet cat.  This psychologist was just on the receiving end of 15 doses of it.  (The cat who got everything wrong was clearly a close relation to my beloved Orlando)

“The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks”

“The violets in the mountains have broken the rocks”

It’s a gorgeous sentiment, from a beautiful and talented actress.

It almost feels like the tide might be turning, like those ridiculous hate-filled arguments against gay marriage are finally being exposed for the small-minded poppycock that they are.

I count my blessings, not often enough, that here in the UK Civil Partnerships became a fact of life with little more than a few placards at Parliament and some snippy opinion columns from the same people who hate anyone who isn’t straight, white and morbidly dull just like them.

We managed that, and the hippy-dippy state of California was thwarted by the rich, white old people in Orange County (and their ilk) and uh, the Mormons.

But it’s going to be okay, because you’ve got Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, New Hampshire, Vermont, and Maine already on board. As Mark Morford notes in this article, the tide of ‘what’s the big deal?’ is getting bigger and will eventually sweep aside the bigotry and disgusting intolerance of the past.

If, as Patricia says, this truly is the age of Obama, it would be nice to see his administration spending less time defending DOMA and more time actually implementing that change we’re supposed to believe in.

“I’m a woman and proud of it..”

If I haven’t mentioned it before, let me say it now… I love the Donmar. Not just because of its original and often groundbreaking productions, but the vibe of the place itself. It’s like watching a play in a classier, upscale version of your primary school gym hall.

Some of the biggest names in theatre, film or television will perform in a setting so intimate you can see the cracks in their greasepaint and the sweatmarks on their dresses. A few months ago I saw a fantastically raw production of Piaf with Elena Roger and this Saturday gone it was Gillian Anderson’s turn to wow me.

Happily, my original TV girlfriend did not disappoint.  One thing we remarked on at the interval is that although she’ll forever be known for the X-Files, as the attendant there-but-for-the-Grace-of-God Society proved, she has the poise and discipline of a quite marvellous stage actress.  I’ve always thought the best performances I’ve seen have been like watching someone try to cross a canyon on a tightrope: they weave hapharzardly from charming to irritating, never falling into one or the other, always keeping you enthralled.

Nora isn’t perhaps the most likeable character in literature, but she is sympathetic.  You root for her to save her marriage in one moment, the next you’re cheering her sad but clinical decision to end it.  Like the great heroines, she is as strong as she is weak, locked in a continual battle between what she is, what she was, and what she ought to be.  When the entire theatre is hanging on your every word, you must be doing something right, so brava Ms Anderson.

The rest of the cast was actually quite enticing from the programme – Christopher Eccleston being the only thing I’ve ever liked about Doctor Who, Toby Stephens a magnificent actor who used to rehearse his sword-fighting in leather trousers every night when I worked Front of House at the Haymarket.  While the former disappointed with his shouty acting and awkward stage presence, the son of Maggie Smith did the family dynasty proud.  At the play’s dénouement, I felt compelled to look away from his raw tears, but only because they were so painful that they were too close to real.  It takes a lot to make me do that, and his turn as the favour-seeking politician was the perfect counterpoint to Nora’s moral journey from start to finish.

The supporting cast were capable, and even the child actors managed to stay on the right side of grating.  A restrained but beautiful production, and thankfully, the perfect birthday present.

A Doll’s House plays at the Donmar Warehouse, London until Juy 18th

—————-
Now playing: Aimee Mann – Nothing is Good Enough
via FoxyTunes

Susan Boyle – Singer – Britains Got Talent 2009

I don’t do reality TV, and it’s not just snobbery, I genuinely don’t enjoy it.

Every year I get roped into watching the X-Factor final, occasionally I like the person who wins, but it’s also my chance to back and see the criminally bad from the first few episodes. I mean, come on, everything between the delusional and the final three is pointless, right?

So when I saw this linked on a musicals comm I use on LJ, I’ll be honest and say I only clicked because I’m in bed sick and have literally nothing else to do.

Watch the clip, stick with it past the cringeworthy intro stuff that these shows are built on.

This is a lesson in confounding expectations, and since I’m one of the most judgemental people ever, think how it affected me.

Also, well done Susan Boyle for namechecking Elaine Paige. That’s going to win me over every time.

“all of this could be yours if the price is right”

365:88

Originally uploaded by Lolie Smith

Wow, what a weekend. Finally I’m learning how to make the most of my time off. It helped to have the lovely Scho for company, and we had a fantastic time.

After various landlord irritations, I was off to St Pancras with still-wet hair. For variety’s sake, or perhaps just on a whim, I treated myself to Starbucks and the overhead train into Kings X, something I usually resent since all my travel is free apart from that. I’m still impressed with the clean-and-pretty of St Pancras, though we didn’t linger long once I met up with my favourite Frenchwoman.

The lack of Vic line gave me the two days of freedom, but it made the journey slightly slower. Still, using inferior lines we made it to Borough for the most delicious Eggs Benedict and fruit juices, then onwards to Lambeth North for some SERIOUS EDUCATION AND CULTURE. We are that classy.

Honestly though, I was kind of blown away the Imperial War Museum . I’ve been saying for years that I wanted to see the Holocaust exhibition, the one part of history that never fails to compel, terrify and sadden me with every new piece of information. It was as vast and comprehensive as it was shocking. Incredibly sobering to realise what humanity is capable of. The real sucker punch came at the end, the video footage of survivors played against the giant text of Edmund Burke’s “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing” quote. It’s impossible enough to wrap the brain cells around the cruelty, but even those who did escape of survive have lived decades with nightmares and guilt over those who perished. Heartbreaking, truly.

It’s another redeeming feather in the cap of British tourist attractions/public institutions though. The Secret War exhibit kind of kicks the ass of the International Spy Museum in DC. Similar principle obviously, but the very British tone of it all, the greater access to now released documents and artefacts, it all felt more real. Plus, it ended with a really wonderful display about the role of the SAS and civil liberties vs security. Bloody well done I say.

The evening was fuelled by Absolut and beetroot crisps. No honestly, that’s a thing. ‘How to Lose Friends and Alienate People’ finally got an airing, my love of Gillian Anderson meaning I sat through another sub-par cinematic offering. At least it was mildly amusing, with bitchy commentary making the whole experience.

Sunday was silly indulgence day, a 3D screening of Monsters vs Aliens which had that predictable ‘haven’t we already done this?’ feel that all Dreamworks productions seemed to be tarred with, but I’ll overlook anything for Hugh Laurie and Amy Poehler.

Home via Nando’s and their cracktastic mango marinade for a further Amy fix in the form of Baby Mama. I reviewed this when I first watched it, but it stands up well on a second viewing.

I have, however, had about three hours sleep since Friday. Trying to keep up with young whippersnappers makes me feel every one of my 26 years and then some.

“I don’t go to therapy to find out if I’m a freak”

It’s astounding to me that this can still be the case, but there are therapists out there in Blighty still attempting to “de-gay” people.  Even the expression ‘treatment for homosexuality’, as this article phrases it, fills me with a kind of cold dread.

Saddest of all is that people even in our ‘enlightened’ age can be made to feel that being homosexual is an illness, that it’s something so wrong or shameful that they simply have to have it exorcised, like some form of perverted demon.  While I have had the occasional bout of questioning, of musing over how much easier my life would be if I just stuck to dating men, ultimately it comes down to biology.

When I see an attractive woman, the relevant departments wake up and make their individual contributions to a physical ‘zing’, and all the well-intend chatting in the world won’t stop that from happening.  Similarly, although there are a great many men I find to be handsome and witty and brilliant, I don’t get that ‘raaaaaaaawr I’m gonna jump him’ feeling at all.  (Fernando Torres being the exception, but as I keep reminding everyone – he looks like a girl!).

Ultimately, if people seek ‘treatment’ for whatever reason, therapists can’t simply ignore them or pretend it isn’t an issue.  I really can’t see an alternative course to helping those affected to rationalise and accept their homosexual feelings, any attempts at a ‘cure’ just simply don’t work.  Offering the impossible would be unethical at best.

In further sex-sex-sex news, the Committee of Advertising Practice (judging by some of the adverts lately, there’s an R missing from that acronym) is considering a relaxation of the rules on advertisements for abortion services and condom/STD ads before the watershed.  To which I say, about bloody time.

In the many snippets on rolling news channels that I was half-paying attention to, a seemingly educated gentleman made the point that these are all perfectly legal services, and why therefore should they be subject to restrictions?  I couldn’t agree more, because this country needs more sex education and not less.  The problem is, with everything from Hollyoaks to the Pussycat Dolls (oh, get your own ‘yoof’ terms, I’m on the march to 30 dontchaknow?) that teenagers (and younger) are being presented with the fantasy of sex.  What they need is a large dose of reality – including consequences like STDs and pregnancy.

Speaking of which, here’s an absolutely terrifying report about the irresponsibility of 16-24 year olds: 68 freaking percent admitted they don’t use condoms.  What the hell?  Are you really saying that in a huge metropolitan place like London, with all the access to the internet and everything else that so many people can think that sort of behaviour is safe?  The comments of sheer ignorance regarding HIV made my jaw drop when I first read it on the Tube tonight.  Not getting AIDS because you’re “not gay” or too young, or the disease isn’t as fatal and life-wrecking as it used to be?  While I accept that advances in HIV drug therapies have made it livable, this is not a lifestyle change you want to make voluntarily.  I feel like I’m in a flashback to the 80s (though of course I was only a nipper then) and any minute now there’ll be a press conference with Ronald Reagan not even saying the word.

Are we really back there?  The misinformation, playing Russian Roulette with every ejaculation?  I really don’t know what to say about this anymore, but if ever there was a sign that we need to ramp up the accurate information being given out to these morons, I think we just received it loud and clear.

“sing for the damage we’ve done and the worse things that we’ll do”

April is fast approaching, bringing with it the 20th Anniversary of the Hillsborough Disaster.  There will be more moving tributes already in print than anything I could ever say, and this piece in the Observer is particularly vivid.  I thank the Footballing Gods that UEFA saw sense and didn’t force Liverpool to play on the anniversary, and hope that instead we’ll lead into it by having spanked Chelsea at the Bridge (for the second time this season!!).

The club, massive though it is, has always retained a sense of community.  Sure, it’s hard to get tickets a lot of the time unless you’ve had a season ticket since nineteen canteen, but I’m sort of proud that so many of the club’s former greats are still involved in the daily running of the club, and that every major issue on Merseyside, from Michael Shields to James Bulger has access to the immense platform that LFC provides.

So the new recording of “Fields of Anfield Road”, to raise awareness of Hillsborough and raise money for the Hillsborough Families’ Support Group is really quite moving.  It’s sort of adorable to see Kenny Dalglish blush as they sing about him, in the words of the song that rings out around Anfield at least once every home game.  You can watch the video here, with the familiar first verses for Shankly and Paisley (because this club never forgets its history, at least we have one, eh?) and a new verse in tribute to those 96 people who lost their lives.  They lost their lives due to the mistakes of others, and those responsible have not yet been held to account, not even close.  Anne Williams and her case in the European Court for her son Kevin remains the last hope of getting the arbitrary (and convenient) 3.15pm cutoff from the original 1991 enquiry overturned.  That limited time period allowed the verdict of ‘accidental death’, one of the biggest whitewashes in British legal history.

While justice has still not been done, fans and non-fans alike can take a moment on April 15th to remember those who died simply because they wanted to watch their team and the system let them down.

An even better tribute might be to win the League and European Cup double this season, but like all sensible fans, I won’t get carried away.