The North/South Divide!

Part One: Getting into Brizzle Life!

Part Two: Settled?

Horror and Classical music fans check this out... a very entertaining evening!

Review of Bernard Herrmann's Psycho Suite at Colston Hall

Riot! A Play about Ikea... Definitely a different kind of production.

I really enjoyed this peculiar offering from the Wardrobe Ensemble at Bristol Old Vic. Check out my review at

A Musical about Ikea!

Would you like some manners with that pint, sir?

Before I say anything else, I would like to make one thing clear. I am not a mad feminist. I am generally concerned about the usual things women have cause to moan about – gender pay gaps, the fact that us ladies are often written off as old and past it much younger than men (I mean look at poor Moira Stewart. They would never have done that to Trevor McDonald), the unfair advantage given to beautiful women (and men for that matter) in most areas of life, that sort of thing. I also like watching Sex and the City, but despite what most men think, I don’t wish to emulate their shallow consumer driven lifestyle. I’m not even particularly interested in shoes. Wearing sky high heels only means I can’t get as drunk as I would like on nights out, so I’ll stick with flats, thank you very much. However, I do wish to voice a concern that has given me much grief this week. And the concern is men. Not in general you understand, but men in the work place - in my work place to be precise.

This is partly my own fault (and I shouldn’t be the least bit surprised) as I have ended up doing a ‘blokes’ job. I am manager of a group of mainly male employees, which for the most part, they don’t seem to like one bit. I am currently managing a pub, which before me was run by a group of middle aged men, who had all known each other for years and who, despite their little fallings out and disagreements, at least all gave each others opinions equal weight because for all intents and purposes, they were cut from the same cloth.

The other unhelpful factor in my transition is that before becoming manager I worked in the same pub as a barmaid. And everyone loves a young barmaid. Because we sell you beer, look pretty and pretend to flirt with you a bit. However, if we then end up in charge, in a position to throw you out or make business decisions, apparently barmaids just aren’t fun anymore. Barmaids aren’t supposed to understand anything about business, and as soon as they hint that they do, they aren’t to be trusted. And I have managed to get this attitude from all sides. Customers, workmates, and generally any man who thinks he could do the job better. Which is just about everyone. Because they’ve all been in a pub before. And seemingly that qualifies you to run one.

Didn’t Britain used to be full of landladies? You know, those great British treasures in the vein of Peggy Mitchell. Bit of a battleaxe, but good fun and took no nonsense, except off those ape-like sons of hers, but at least they could help her lug barrels about. I used to quite like Peggy Mitchell. But along with numerous other British type traditions, this one seems to have died. And I suppose I am quite young to be taking on such a job, but give me a bloody break! I have so far been patronised, openly bitched about and argued with, ‘advised’ that I am going about things the wrong way, or simply ignored completely. I arranged a meeting with an employment lawyer a few days ago, which the bookkeeper (a man in his forties) decided to sit in on. And they were a well-known reputable firm. Did this arsehole look at me once? Did he bollocks. After his initial poorly disguised shock that I was the manager in the first place, he proceeded to give me a fleeting glance every few minutes, and direct all the answers to my questions to the bookkeeper. I felt like a kid at a grown ups dinner table, to be seen and not heard. I eventually forced him to direct his attention to me by pointing out that I had called him in, and I was potentially going to hire him. I had to be downright pushy, which really annoyed me. I did not hire him, by the way.

It’s the same with the assistant manager. Despite reps, delivery men, contractors, accounts people or anyone else knowing I am the manager, and that I am usually the one that arranged the bloody meeting, they will still refer all questions and answers to the assistant, simply because he’s male. And I think I’m picking up some manly aggression due to it. I now spend practically all my time with men. I work with them, due to most of my friends being connected with work, as most peoples are, I end up spending my free time with them. For Gods sake, I live with two blokes also. I’m starting to crave a Sex and the City marathon and a night out in high heels. And despite my horror at the prospect, it seems you can be as ballsy as you like, but it’s true, the quickest way to get men to do anything is the age old skill of flattering their ego, and making them think it was their idea first, whilst batting your eyelashes a bit. So take note of this fellas. Women are only manipulative because you don’t fucking listen. And, Mr Lawyer, if a woman is potentially paying your wages, look her in the face for Christ sake. We aren’t stupid, and we are perfectly capable of doing our jobs. And the bits we don’t want to do, we’ll make you do, and we’ll make you think it was your own brilliant idea in the first place. And you’ll have no one to blame but yourselves.

In My Life

When I was about seven, I remember sitting in the kitchen watching my Dad cooking dinner. I was perched on the kitchen unit, and he was attempting to make curry, following the strict instructions left by my Caribbean ma, who was currently working a night shift at the hospital. He was listening to the Beatles and I was concentrating intently to the lyrics to all the songs. The song I particularly remember was ‘In My Life’. He said it was one of his favourite songs, and he was singing it with an odd look on his face.
It was the first verse that fascinated me.

There are places I remember,
All my life, though some have changed,
Some forever not for better,
Some have gone, and some remain,
All these places have their moments,
With lovers and friends, I still can recall,
Some are dead and some are living,
In my life, I’ve loved them all.

I think that to me, having no sense of any relationship with friends or places that had any longevity (being seven and all) the lyrics seemed incredibly sad. But my dad was singing along looking strangely happy. So I asked him about it. I remember saying that I didn’t understand why he liked the song, or why it made him happy. The man was singing about his friends being dead, and that should make you sad, not happy. I proclaimed that I didn’t like the song, and I thought it was depressing and we shouldn’t listen to it anymore. My Dad looked very amused, which annoyed me even more, and told me that it was a lovely song, and that he thought I would like it very much when I was a bit older and understood what the words meant properly. He then asked me to taste the curry, and tell him if I thought my mum would like it. He said he couldn’t really cook before my mum had taught him, and that he had learned a lot of things from her. Then he put yellow submarine on for me, and I liked that a lot better.

The reason I was thinking about this is because I went to a funeral on Tuesday of a man in his fifties with whom I have worked for the past four years. When I started he was in charge of the entertainment, and had been for some years. He, the manager, his wife, and the owner had all started the business together a good number of years ago. He had been in lots of bands, and knew many musicians. Obviously I had only known him in middle age in light of a working relationship, but we had got on well and I was very sad about his death. The funeral was packed. There were hundreds of people, mainly musicians who he had met in England or America, at festivals, parties, bars and anywhere else you meet wandering creative souls. It was obvious they all loved him dearly. The fascinating thing was to see the innumerable ties, connections and memories that all these people had with one man, and the overarching and beautiful relationship he had had with one woman throughout the entire time. They all knew a different part of the same person, and she had known him throughout it all.

She remained calm and dignified during the whole thing, and I could only wonder in bemused awe at what a connection like that, that lasts so many years would be like. It made me wonder, as funerals do, about my life so far, and the various and varied relationships I have had over the years. About the parts of my own character and life I have shared with different people, who will most likely never meet each other, and who I cherish deeply and always will. There are some who have died, and there are the friends who remember them, and who I rarely see any more, but who are all bound by shared memories. There are newer friends, who don’t know the old, but mean equally as much to me. It is all these people, and the connections to them and the places you met that make up a life.

But the thing that struck me most of all was the desire to have someone who stays with you for the most part. Who can know you better than anyone else, and will love you unconditionally, and who will let you love them back. It made me both happy and sad to know that he was lucky enough to have had that on top of all the other fleeting but beautiful connections that someone makes in a life. And as indescribably sad as his partner must be, she must also feel blessed.

So thanks Dad, I do understand the words properly now, and I do like the song very much.
I’m also glad one of my many fond memories is getting so annoyed with you about it!

And to Chrissie, I’m so very sorry for your loss.

Job Interview? Good Luck...

What happens to logical, otherwise articulate people in job interviews? I assume it isn’t just me that has this problem.

Getting an interview is not the issue. On a CV or covering letter you can sound like a normal, functional person. The same goes for when you actually manage to get the job. Once in, you’re often just as good at it as you said you were in your logical and articulate CV (or pretty damn close). However, no matter how much experience you have, or how capable you know you can be in the role, as soon as you walk through the door and are confronted by a boardroom and a suit, you suddenly transform into some kind of rambling idiot who is more akin to someone who has been let out on day release than a potentially capable member of whatever company it is you’re applying for.

I am still plagued by the ongoing and unsolvable problem that during my day-to-day life, whatever it is I’m doing (be it checking into Hotels or doing the payroll at work) I still feel like a big kid playing at being an adult. However, it’s only when I walk into a job interview that it feels like I’ve truly been rumbled. As soon as I see the suit looking back at me, I get that long forgotten feeling of being hauled into the headmaster’s office. I can already hear the line;

‘We’re very disappointed. Now I’m afraid we’re going to have to call your parents’.

The only upside is now that I’m a proper grown up, I can choose not to inform my mother that I’ve behaved so disappointingly, and can hide the fact that I still have no idea what I want to do with my life, and therefore avoid the lecture about ‘applying yourself and having a little direction’.

This has all sprung freshly into my mind as I recently got an interview for a job a genuinely think I would enjoy, and be very good at, thank you very much. However, the interview was yesterday, and I spent most of yesterday afternoon reliving the horror in those short sharp bursts the re-enter your consciousness like a malicious pixie poking you in the head and laughing, reminding you what a useless berk you are, despite the fact that you’re doing your best to lose yourself in red wine and conversation. The interview was for a part time journalist position with a lovely little company who want to help the community, and when I read the job spec, I was really excited. Not only did it sound like something I could do, but something I would enjoy, whilst simultaneously appeasing my social conscience a bit. The initial panic set in when my interviewer mentioned he was the financial director of a company. There go the alarm bells. I forgot instantly that I am actually a manager, and I can do my own finances responsibly (well, unless I see a really nice dress or something, but hey, I’m female, that’s standard). My first thought was ‘Shit. He’s a proper businessman’. Good start. Second pitfall of the whole debacle was the mention that someone else running for the post was currently working at the BBC.

‘Not the Beeb! I can’t compete with a proper jouro from the Beeb.’

And that was it, thus began the comedy of errors. I proceeded to madly flap my hands about in a show of gesticulation closely resembling semaphore for the alphabetically challenged. The manic nervous laughter kicked in. Closely followed by forgetting my interviewers name shortly after mentioning how good I am at remembering names, which, incidentally was one of the necessities of the role. It is as if your mind has an evil, or at least playful, side with a very bad sense of humour. It’s the side that normally laughs under its breath at other people’s humiliation. I suppose it’s probably karma for laughing at the woman I saw running to catch the bus and who went full pelt into the Perspex bus stop last week. Anyway, I digress.

Basically, the result was that after doing a very convincing impression of someone unable to perform any requirements of the role, a role which I had entered the room thinking I would be perfect for, I left feeling like a small child having who hasn’t worked hard enough, and is letting no one down but themselves. At least I didn’t get a letter home. However, my little sister had informed my mother that I had an interview. She called just I had got to the pub with a consolatory glass of red to see how it went. And the conversation began thus:

‘So it didn’t go very well then?’
‘Well, I’ll wait to hear ma’.
‘You should have done more research’.
‘Yes ma’
‘And where are you? It’s very noisy. Are you in the pub? You’re not drinking at this time of day are you Natalie…’

I might just skip the middleman and say I’m grounded for a week so I don’t have to go outside and deal with anyone. Better luck next time?

Here We Go Again... 2011!

Well the hangover has finally worn off and having now emerged bleary eyed and hopeful, 2011 seems to have kicked off to a spectacular start. Once again, any faith in the New Year improving on any of the nonsense the previous year had to offer has been totally unfounded. Naïve I know. How are we to expect anything better, given the sorry state of affairs that reached its culmination but a few short weeks ago? The year kicked off with a political and economic situation so fucked to present as a solution not one, but a momentous union of two absolutely feckless upper class moron leaders who inspire, at best apathy, and at worst the desire to massacre the pair of them. Or at least cut off their expense accounts and make them go and live with the poor people. God forbid. The best hope we have so far is that they’ll manage to raise education fees to the extent that eventually no one will be informed enough to understand the intricate and self serving motives behind whatever it is they manage to screw up next.

It also seems to be a year in which everyone has lost faith in any modern relationship having even a hopeful and underlying chance of survival. Monogamy and lasting love seem to be a quaint fifties notion, cemented by the fact that most couples had to stay together bonded by financial necessity. This is a situation the current government seems keen to replicate by economically penalising those who mess up their relationships. To err is human. To financially castrate is divine. Apparently.

But hey, it’s not like any other applicable solution seems to have presented itself. Why not look backwards with rose tinted glasses (the modern addition may now be rose tinted 3D specs, although the fifties also had the 3D cinematic phenomenon sorted I believe) if the only alternative is to look forward into a world where having failed to distract ourselves with nightmarish fairy tales of potential terrorists lurking around every corner, the only distraction we now have is watching ‘celebs’ eating kangaroo bollocks in a fake jungle setting or the X Factor. I mean, who cares about relationships or politics when we can ponder whether or not Cheryl Cole will get her tattoos removed or if she’s screwing some dancer.

We can’t even afford to drown our sorrows down the pub anymore. So down to Tesco for some tinnies and back to the sofa it will have to be. And what are we urged to do in order to change this situation? Get famous. No one gives a damn how. Get your tits out maybe. Sing Over the Rainbow. Tell the Sun just how much Meow Meow messed up your life. Or ketamin messed up your kidneys. Or seek out the next fashionable drug to sweep the streets, name it something catchy and ban it without bothering to listen to any researchers on the matter. Just make sure the sensationalist media is listening. We don’t need research. Sod investigative journalism. We have Wiki Leaks or the anonymously tipped rumour mill to keep us going. Maybe try and catch some callous nutter chucking a cat in a bin on CCTV. Everyone will quickly forget about the larger tragedies and corruption the world.

The moral to 2011 seems to run thus; Don’t think, don’t expect anything to last, and for God’s sake don’t expect any of it mean anything. It’s not the modern mantra to strive for any substance. Unless a token glance into some Eastern spirituality will ease your conscience and give you a fleeting sense of purpose – do yoga or a meditation class for a couple of weeks. It is January and therefore time to resolve to try, and the rapidly fail at committing to something after all. We just need to keep chasing our fifteen minutes. Or money. Or just buy something. Or try for better looks. That’ll make us happy. And we can chase the dream for longer now that we can fill our faces with botox. No one will know the difference. If you pick that route they wont even see the frown lines or the pain and emptiness in your eyes at having failed so miserably to achieve a goal that was an ephemeral fallacy in the first place.

We’ll all be so beautiful that you wont even notice the pointlessness of it all.