What I would like to do here is play it cool. So I am not going to tell you about the development of any sort of massive crush, the compulsive purchase of all of his DVDs, finding other versions of songs on YouTube (“these lyrics reference Australia, but those lyrics reference the UK!”), tracking down a copy of the documentary that charts his early career, or standing outside a theatre for ages waiting to meet him for a quick hug, photo and his signature on my programme.
Tim Minchin at the piano Image: Matt Brown About 5 years ago a friend (a member of the Squeamish team in fact) asked me if I had heard of Tim Minchin, and made me watch his live DVD when I said I only vaguely recognised the name. 'He's amazing, I want to run off with him and have his babies' is a massively approximated, family-friendly version of what she said to me as she pressed play. Halfway through the disc, after making her press pause so that I could stop laughing long enough to catch my breath and wipe the tears off my face, I turned to her to insist that she had to share. We could both run off with him, deal?
What I would like to do here is play it cool. So I am not going to tell you about the development of any sort of massive crush, the compulsive purchase of all of his DVDs, finding other versions of songs on YouTube (“these lyrics reference Australia, but those lyrics reference the UK!”), tracking down a copy of the documentary that charts his early career, or standing outside a theatre for ages waiting to meet him for a quick hug, photo and his signature on my programme.
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Image: Apol3 When my friend suggested we go to a beer tasting, I had a little condescending chuckle but said 'Why not?' This cheeky chuckle was actually an insult to beer. I understood the concept of a wine tasting, I've been on wine tasting courses. People talking about the subtle nuances of this flavour and that nose as they snorted and sipped a full bodied Bordeaux. But beer? I like mine cold, pint sized and sometimes, when I am feeling prosperous, Guinness flavoured. I didn’t think it warranted any further exploration but as I liked it so much I thought it might be fun to taste one that wasn’t cheapy Fosters. [SPOILER ALERT just to assure you Squeamish Nicola does learn by the end of this that Fosters isn't beer – Squeamish Kate] On a very soggy and windy Sunday afternoon we headed to Hoxton in search of the pub hosting The Craft Beer Social Club tasting. Easily found, we resisted temptation and didn’t order a pint there and then. We decided not to taint our palates; we were giving ourselves wholeheartedly to this new beer experience! My Mad, Fat Diary Last night, I wept. I wept in relief, in elation, in shock. I wept as I inhaled bourbon biscuits and sloshed red wine all over my dressing gown. I wept to a soundtrack of Madchester and wondered how on earth I’d reached my mid twenties and lived so ignorantly content, having never felt this kind of connection before. When most people recount the moment they fell in love, they speak of eyes meeting across a crowded room. Of lingering stares. All that shit. I’m about to tell you how I fell in love. Because last night, yes I wept. I wept because I’ve met my soul mate. Her name is Rachael Earl. And she lives in my TV. The Snowmen There's one Christmas activity that families across the land can all agree on, regardless of age or religious beliefs, and that's watching the latest Christmas episode of Doctor Who. This year's was a cracker (pun, as always, intended). Sure the pacing was off, Richard E. Grant and Sir Ian Mckellen were hideously underused and some of the CGI wasn't as good as it could have been. But it was a magical fairytale of an adventure, featuring a new monster that will terrify children for years to come and the return of a little-remembered classic series villain. The Great Intelligence, a disembodied Elder God who, to the best of my recollection last featured in a Patrick Troughton story where it tried taking over the London Underground - making this a prequel to that story. Best of all the new credits feature the Doctor's face, the lack of which has disappointed me since the 2005 revival. The set of Scales! image: Future Atlas It was a soggy Sunday night when I agreed to meet my friend Rick in Angel for a pint and instead a packet of crisps, some improv. When I got the The Old Red Lion. It looked like a good hearty pub. Footie on the flatscreen, fruit machine blinding me with its flashing lights and a box office booth next to the men’s toilet. It was a bit of a David Lynch oddity, with a little smiling man with a clipboard nesting inside. We picked up our tickets and right before we ascended the stairs I asked, “So what’s this all about then Rick?” He replied “We’re going to see Music Box they perform improvised musicals.” Oh dear, I thought, oh dear. I was a bit dubious of the whole musical theatre improv thing, I like songs and, hell, I like theatre too. But I am not a fan of awkward silences and narratives that fall flat on their face before they even get to their feet. I was preparing to cringe; Music Box's primary coloured outfits and beaming smiles were already setting off my ‘Glee’ alarm bells. You remember the whole Stitch n’ Bitch knitting wave of 2005? Well that was a long time ago and while I will be getting my knitting needles out soon enough, I don’t think the wonky scarf I’ll turn out will be enough to keep me warm. I want hot food and a nice glass of something mulled to warm my cockles this winter. That’s why when my friend Clare invited me to her very first Bitch, Bake n’ Booze evening I said: “Hell yeah I’ll come to that!” Patisserie chef Clare had many a culinary delight up her chef’s uniform sleeve but decided to start us off on something homely and useful - we were going to master the art of making olive dough! The 8 of us were ready for the boozy baking to commence. Before we had even washed our hands, we were poured a glass of wine and were escorted to the bedroom…where we watched a DVD about making dough. Exploring Michael Coins's wares Squeamish Bikini has our fingers on the laptop, our eyes on the prize and our ears finely tuned to Radio 4. Well, not all the time. Sometimes we venture out of the house to listen to some music sung by talented singers and played by a tight band just like Izo FitzRoy & The Royal Bastards. Izo is a woman with a mission to bring you soulful and energetic piano grooves unlike any of the sorts you have heard before. Her self penned lyrics house nothing but the most fanciful of lies and for that reason are a real treat! From lepers in leotards to drug addled Jewish boyfriends, you’ll hear tales of many people you may never wish to meet, apart from Jon Snow of course. Image: William Warby I love horror movies. I enjoy the creepiness, the faces I pull and even hiding behind my hands - just a little bit. My favourite cinema in London, cult movie mecca, The Prince Charles Cinema, already had one Horror pyjama party that I missed, so when the John Carpenter All Nighter Came along – my chance to sit back and scream had returned from beyond the grave! Weirdly as a horror fan, John Carpenter was unknown territory for me, I had managed to miss all the monster movies (is The Fog a monster?) and Kurt Russell laden action he’d had to offer over the years. Halloween was nearly scrapped from the line up and that ultimate teen slasher movies absence was enough to make me wonder: “Do I really want to risk deep vein thrombosis for films I don’t even know?” But I’ve always liked turning up to a film when you don't know too much about it – you don’t know what to expect, a bonus in the horror genre. When Halloween was reinstated to the line-up, opening the night’s event, it was a done deal. Let’s see if I can survive 10 hours in a chair in a red velvet lined basement with my pal Pete as my trusty sidekick. Here is my Horror Movie Marathon Survival Guide... Tracy Dodd wins Miss Great Britain There are a few things I would never do – I would never bungee jump for instance. Nor would I go on a hike (not for fun anyway. Sickos). I most definitely would not enter a beauty contest. Not just because I am well ensconced in my 20s and therefore 'too old' but when I came of beauty queen age it was the 2000s, unfashionable, my personal politics didn't match up and I had a mild case of The Acne. Colour me a little red and DISQUALIFIED. In Monday night's Wonderland I Was Once a Beauty Queen Hannah Berryman interviewed former beauty queens from the days when the BBC still broadcast the pageants. 30 years has passed since such pageants were broadcast with a straight face. Now child beauty pageants are presented as freak shows of pushy moms and lacquered brats. Poise and a lovely laugh can go do one, tantruming toddlers in tiaras is where it's at now in the world of pageantry. Alone again, naturally Well that's the end of Doctor Who for this year (except for the now traditional Doctor Who Christmas special) and what a way to go (both the series and the Ponds)! After 5 enjoyable (if sometimes flawed and rushed) episodes the series ends with a stand-out classic. Steven Moffat has written another episode that ranks right up there with his best (not as high as Blink though, but then I doubt he'll ever top that). BBC America (a separate company from our BBC across the pond) providing funding so they could really shoot in Manhattan was a plus. Actually showing the city was one of the myriad reasons why this was so much better than the last episode set in Manhattan – the execrable Daleks of Manhattan (personally I'm hoping that the paradox-forming actions of the Ponds has also erased that episode from history). |
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