Jane Bradley

Carl from TwoBob

Whenever I tell anyone that I live in south east London, the response is always the same: a sharp intake of breath and a grimace followed by a sympathetic enquiry as whether I’ve ever been stabbed, mugged or murdered.

Once I reassure the listener that any injuries I’ve sustained in the vicinity were all as a result of my own bumbling clumsiness, their next question is bewildered wonderment at how I spend my evenings and weekends in what they assume to be a barren wasteland. And although I usually bristle at these preconceptions, the sad truth is that they’re not entirely untrue. But whilst Lewisham might not be renowned for its cultural diversity or hedonistic nightlife scene, there is one events promoter determined to make a difference.

 

So, you know how I always blather on and on about how much I love my local boozer? Well, continuing in that vein, I recently interviewed Carl, lord and master of TwoBob events, for The London Word. You can read the rest of the interview here, in which Carl explains all about how it shouldn’t be too tall an order for the South East London masses to see their favourite unsigned bands somewhere nearby. They shouldn’t have to trek all the way to Kentish Town and pay a hideous amount to slurp revoltingly overpriced lager and be jostled by skinny-jeaned fuckwits who over the course of the evening become drooling simpletons from taking too much ketamine. All whilst stressing about the epic quest home if the bands over-run, making them miss the last midnight train southwards from London Bridge. Thus not even enjoying the evening that they’ve paid through the nose for in the first place. Bah and indeed humbug (not that I’m bitter about the number of nights like this I’ve had, honest), but at least with Carl around, Lewisham shall have more than just ambulance and police sirens to soundtrack its drizzly autumnal evenings. Thank God.

Brett Anderson: Best Buttocks in Britpop

Thankfully it wasn’t too long before Brett Anderson time. Many of my schoolgirl fantasies featured Brett’s razorblade cheekbones and shapely derriere, so I was eager to appraise whether the ravages of time and illegal substances had dampened this effect. Joy of joys, he’s definitely still got it.

Stuart Waterman lets me get away with a lot, from accusing Akon of being a spit-roasting misogynist, to dissing The Octopus Project. And this time, on My Chemical Toilet, he's been kind enough to let me review the Jack Daniels' Birthday Set. You can read the rest of it here. Beware: it includes gratuitous Carl Barat-bashing, vomit, fangirl gushing about Brett Anderson, and details of my whooping crush on Rosie Vanier. Don't say I didn't warn you.

My Chemical Toilet

I like the homoerotic camaraderie between the boys in the video. They seem like those homo-repressed types who make a big thing about spitroasting “sexy bitches” together when all they want to do is stroke each other’s hair. And then bum each other.

In a recent post on My Chemical Toilet about Akon's latest ditty, 'Sexy Bitch', the always-hilarious Stuart Waterman profiled some women for their opinion about Akon's choice of lyrics. And included this delightful comment from yours truly. For more reactions from some lovely ladybloggers who are far more witty and acerbic than I am, you can read the rest of the post here. In the meantime, I'll be checking my Google analytics to make sure that reference to spit-roasting doesn't prompt any unwanted correspondence...

The Best Boozer in SE13

I don’t usually write on here with band reviews and the like (although heaven knows why, because since I started blogging on Vox I’ve seen some corking performances, including Jane Birkin, Ladytron, the Prodigy, Brett Anderson and a double dose of the Manics). But lately I’ve been feeling even more love than usual for my fabulous local boozer, the Fox in Lewisham, and their regular live music events organised by the rather wondrous TwoBob.

But before I tell you about the band I saw last night, first let me set the scene. There are parts of South East London, like Greenwich and Blackheath, in which it’s socially acceptable to be seen. Those areas have their own small but vibrant scenes, with cocktail bars, cinemas, restaurants, music venues and all that type of thing. These places are listed in Time Out, or the Metro, and they are considered by many to be a pleasant destination for an evening of well-behaved frivolity. But areas like these are the exception rather than the rule, the few and far between hubs of light and warmth in an otherwise bleak and hostile landscape. And all around them, there are still large expanses of South East London that are nothing but howling wasteland, populated only by mangy rabies-infected foxes, savage, grunting half-humans and the occasional ball of tumbleweed being blown down the dilapidated streets.

Or at least that’s the way it feels sometimes when reading the listings guides.

And that’s why I’m shameless about singing the Fox’s praises. Put bluntly, round my way we’re far from spoilt for choice. But having such a friendly and cheap pub within walking (or stumbling, on the return journey) distance makes a world of difference. Maybe it’s because I’m getting lazier and more cantankerous in my old age, but lately I haven’t got the energy or patience for the epic, Lord of the Rings-style quest across London to be ripped-off, jostled, and given attitude by pilled-up Shoreditch trollops and their limp-dicked, tight-trousered boyfriends in hideous vintage garb that would have been overpriced at 50p from the charity shop it originally came from, but that they probably paid £50 for from a soulless Brick Lane boutique.

And the band I saw at the Fox last night completely reaffirmed my conviction that I’m not missing out with my xenophobic, witch-like reluctance to cross the river into North London.  David Goo and his seven-piece band were a frenetic whirlwind of howled vocals, violin, cello and guitars. Sort of like Gogol Bordello, except louder, faster and much more hypnotic. The last thing you want from an audience is that statue-still, folded arms pose, usually accompanied by a cynical stare and a sneer. But with David Goo onstage, the entire audience was laughing, singing, dancing and cheering, and even bowed down to the bassist during their grand finale. But whilst they’re hugely entertaining, they’re definitely not a novelty act. With eight people on stage, it could have easily been a shambles, but they were so tightly rehearsed that their set was a slick, storming celebration. Even Z, ever the stalwart cynic, loved every second of it. So bravo to TwoBob for putting on another brilliant night. It’s a dirty (and I’m sure at times massively frustrating and stressful) job, but someone’s got to do it. And I’m glad it’s them. I depend on them for my cheap liquor and weekend entertainment, and they’ve never yet disappointed.

Cake & Neave causing chaos in Hackney...

But despite a continuing fanaticism about Lego in all its forms, these days Cake and Neave’s artworks involve other just as unconventional materials, including knitted toilet roll dolls, Scalextric track, Tube maps, Smurf figurines and papier mache masks. Although in the UK they often face scepticism, elsewhere they’ve proved far more popular, with exhibitions this year in Paris, Berlin, New Zealand, Singapore and Beijing.

This is an interview with my handsome housemates, Cake & Neave, who kindly agreed to let me grill them for The London Word. You can read the rest of the article here.

At the end of August, Z and I travelled to Amsterdam. Our two favourite tattooed ladies were there at the same time, which was the main reason that we went. The adventure we’d planned had had to be cancelled, so Amsterdam was a last-minute decision, one we only booked our flights for three weeks in advance.

Bicycles, canals and sunsets...

There were bikes everywhere, and my being so scatterbrained and inobservant meant I was almost knocked over at least twenty times a day. The most surreal tourist attraction I’ve ever seen was the Kattenkabinett, a baroque former ballroom with chandeliers, rococo furniture, ornate furniture and cat-themed paintings, photos, ornaments and posters on every surface. There were real cats snoozing on the dining table, cabinets, and velvet-covered chairs. The bathroom looked like a mirrored confessional booth, and the toilet paper was printed with pictures of dogs. It was such a weird and whimsical concept, and I was completely besotted, and pestered Z about going back every time we were at a loose end.

Kattenkabinet

I’ve never been anywhere like the red light district, and that alone was enough for it to intrigue me, despite the tourists and the students and the stag parties. It was an uncomfortable mix of voyeurism/horror/fascination, despite my love of neon and sluts in platform shoes. We stayed in the cheapest room we could find that didn’t have horrific reviews. It had a piano, two armchairs and a sofa, but no toilet or sink. We pushed our twin beds together and every day the maid moved them apart again.

The highlight of the entire trip was De Taart van m’n Tante, an amazing tea and cake parlour where I had amaretto apple crumble and Z ate cheesecake with blackcurrant sauce with glitter in it, and we shared a pot of peculiar green tea. The sun shone most of the time we were there, but by the time we landed at Gatwick it was 11pm and much too cold for my attire of bare legs, cardigan and no coat. The train from Gatwick airport into London had blood splattered all over the floor. The Londoners just sighed and ignored it, the other passengers gawped at it and shook their heads, competing for space on the luggage racks so that they wouldn’t have to wheel their expensive suitcases through it.

I want to go back to Amsterdam, but maybe not until the weather’s warmer. From what I’ve seen I bet it’s beautiful in spring.

(Sunset and cat museum photos by joiseyshowaa and ECOgarden)

On the buses again...

Towards the end of this month, thousands of students will be trundling off to university for the first time. But, what about when they want to travel back for a few home comforts (y’know, like clean sheets and underwear, or an evening meal that doesn’t consist of pot noodle and pick’n’mix from the nearest newsagent)? According to news stories earlier this year, train travel in the UK is the most expensive in Europe. And to make matters worse, a recent report found that poor advice from staff at stations means passengers are often paying more than twice the cost of the cheapest available fares. It sounds like a headache, but there are ways to save. You just have to know where to look.

This, my dears, is my latest engagement; blogging for Kublax, an online banking aggregator. That might sound complicated (or at least it did to me), but Kublax's service is actually very simple and easy to use. And as a cheeky bonus, it's really useful too, because it lets you keep all your online bank accounts in one place, analyses your cash-splashing, and lets you set budgets for every category of spending you could possibly wish for. Perfect for these credit-crunched and troubled times, eh?

It was out of necessity that I ended up developing something of a talent for sniffing out and snaffling up cheap train tickets and other ways of getting across the UK for less than the small fortune usually required to travel any susbstantial distance. But now that I live in London, and no longer spend almost every single weekend hurtling along on the Virgin Pendolino service between Manchester and Euston, it's time my tips were shared. You can read the rest of the article here.

My Chemical Toilet

While they’re battling the waves, with the dinghy singing a jaunty ditty about their predicament, on dry land there’s a dollybird doing semaphore. Which would make a sort of tenuous sense, except for the fact that she’s flanked by bizarre green “monsters” attired in the kind of panto costumes that would make most school nativities look like they’d been kitted out by the wardrobe mistresses of a big-budget West End musical.

Look! It's me on the wondrous My Chemical Toilet, reviewing a rather bizarre and twee video by The Octopus Project.Go here to watch the video and read the rest.

In other news, Z and I went to Amsterdam last week, and this weekend I'm trundling back to Yorkshire for Eat Yr Make-Up. There'll be photos of both next week, but I can't promise they'll be pretty. I can, however, promise that they'll probably involve glitter,backcombing, drag-queen make-up and a vomit-inducing amount of gin.

This old-fashioned laptop isn't making things any easier...

I know I’ve been quiet on here lately, but for once it’s not because I’ve been neglecting my Vox blog for the sake of dashing about like a loon and spending every waking minute rattling away at my laptop on other more pressing projects. I have been doing both those things in abundance in the weeks since I last wrote on here, but that’s not why I haven’t updated. I’ve been hiding from you. Mainly because, these days, I’m reluctant to indulge too heavily in online navel-gazing. It never used to matter to me; ever since I signed up to LiveJournal almost ten years ago, for the majority of that time, I couldn’t care less about telling the whole entire internets who I had kissed or who I was courting, the time I was sent home from school covered in blood and in hysterical tears because my best friend had slashed her wrists in the toilets, or what train station I’d had to sleep in after “running away from home” to see my favourite band. (I always slunk back the next day, sheepish and guilty about having made my Mum worry; grubby and tired with torn tights and lovebites, and neurotic that I’d end up failing my exams because I’d spent too much of my time that should have been spent on coursework or revising on chasing my favourite musicians around the UK, smooching maniacs, talking to strangers and vomiting neon alcopops all over my shoes.)

I don’t mind owning up to those times now, mainly because enough time has trickled by for it to feel like those memories belong to someone else entirely. And although at the time there was nothing romantic about the hours we kept or the way we behaved, in retrospect it’s easy to fetishise the way we were, and to get nostalgic about a much-edited and romanticised version of the past.  But the present is another matter altogether. Although as a reader I love tell-all bloggers that disclose every voyeuristic detail, as a writer I find it difficult and unnecessary to be that open, honest and truthful about the things that matter.

(Just to clarify, I don’t in any way intend this to be interpreted as a criticism of those that can and do wear their hearts on their digital sleeves. I can completely empathise with writing as a form of catharsis and confession; it’s just that I personally find it too difficult until I’ve had a healthy dose of time and distance.)

Times are tough for everyone at the moment. And, if I’m sensible about it, I can’t and shouldn’t complain. More than anything else, I’m tired. That’s all. Turns out this enthusiastic but scattergun approach of mine can be problematic at times; although you have several sticky fingers in lots of lovely pies, you can end up spreading yourself so thinly that by the time you’re done, there’s not much left. That’s how things are at the moment, and although it’s exhausting, I know that all the working weekends, scrimping and saving and squirreled away time and effort will be worthwhile. In the meantime, I’ll try not to bore you too much with my bitching about being a social recluse and never having enough time/energy/money (delete as appropriate) to do the things I’d like to. So if it seems like I’m avoiding you, little blog, it’s not because you’ve been forgotten or deliberately ignored. It’s just because, at the moment, it’s taking all my time and concentration to repress insecurities, stay tenacious and keep chipping away at the other million and one tasks demanding my attention. Normal service will be resumed soon, and I’ll be back to rambling about Patti Smith, Patrick Wolf, books, frocks and everything else. In the meantime, please be patient. I’m doing my best.

Someone Once Told Me...

By now you’ve probably already heard of Someone Once Told Me, the photography project by Mario Cacciottolo. I first found out about it late last year, when he photographed Sian on a carousel on the South Bank. I went on the website, became besotted by the project, and knew I had to be a part of it. (I’m narcissistic and demanding like that: if I see something I like, the first thing I want do is get my grubby mitts all over it.) Then, a few months later, Michelle Tilley wrote about SOTM on BitchBuzz, at around the same time I emailed Mario to see if he would be kind enough to take my picture too. After some to-ing and fro-ing, we eventually met up, and this was the result.

Although, from the looks of things, no one ever told me to keep my mouth shut. (Disclaimer: If the truth must be told, I have actually been told this at some point or other by almost everyone I’ve ever met. But I just don’t seem to listen.)

If you want to take part in Someone Once Told Me, you can email Mario, or upload your own images using the website. I was shy about getting in touch with him, but it turns out he’s very friendly and charismatic, so there’s no need to be intimidated by his slick photography skillz.