GUM

Another GUM article, this time on festivals with illustrations provided by Kira Christine Thomas.

Check out that and the rest of the GUM site!

Treats for Ears and Eyes and Feets

OK so now the dissertation/coursework slog is over, Tara and I have somewhat recovered what once resembled life: as well as drinking copious amounts of tea and supping bottled water through a straw we have also been tip-toeing out into town, conversing with talented friends and stealing ideas for our long-awaited next broadcast.

This Tuesday Laura will return (possibly Tara-less while she recovers from the creme egg sweats in the relative comfort of the parental homestead) with honest to god actual spoken word from the very talented Craig Bayne who promises ‘Kafka inspired’ stories put to tape via the power of cabarnet sauvignon: I personally can’t wait.

There will be much of the unusual and the same, possibly sound-tracked by songs featuring ‘dodgy raps’. We all have our fave dodgy raps, admit it. We can all ‘do’ Blondie’s rapture right the way through. Gen-ius.

So that’s your ear treats taken care of, this coming Tuesday 11am on www.subcity.org, or at whatever time you bloody well feel like via the art of ‘listen again’, but if you want your sights given the same treatment then hunt out and enjoy the stacks of KnockBack magazine stashed in Monorail and Che Camille (level 6, Argyll Arcade): it’s a cutting-of-the-edge-hedge women’s ‘anti-mag’ which blows a big smelly burp in the direction of Cosmopolitan and all that shite.

It’s pretty funny and I have a few extra copies to give away, so if you can’t make it into the city centre (although you should totally try and get to Mono this weekend, I’ve heard a rumour about VEGAN CUPCAKES) or can’t afford a paltry £2 in these tight times then I might even throw a wee GIVEAWAY COMPETITION. It’ll be a Rara first.

Next week I might morph into Sarah Cox, but that’s a risk I’m willing to take.

So that’s:
1) have a good weekend and enjoy yourself, scamps
2) check out KnockBack www.knockback.co.uk
3) Craig Bayne stealing yer stories on Rara this Tuesday

Raaaaaaaaaaaaa!

A Brogueish Character

I went shopping last week. I bought some new shoes. They are very pretty shoes and I fell in love with them the moment I got a chance to hold them in my arms. I looked deep into their shiny patent leather and caught a glimpse of my reflected self: I knew at that moment I had to make them my own.
I invited them into my home, gave them their box their own little corner in my room and introduced them to friends. I thought we were going to be so happy together, happy forever – just like in the movies, right? Turns out my Carrie Bradshaw Manolo Blanhik, happy ending fantasies have turned more Rosa Klebb – and I’m Bond constantly dodging the poisoned blades hidden in the toes. It’s exhausting to say the least; painful at best, crippling at their very worst. I can’t believe I’ve fallen victim to such terror, I’m so ashamed. I should return them to the shop, refuse to take them out with me again, but that would be admitting failure. I’m sure they don’t mean to hurt, it’s probably my own fault…yes…my big clumping size 6s, what was I thinking blaming the brogues!? I’ll just have to continue wearing them until they sand my heels and toes down to a socially acceptable size.

The shoe shopping venture was rather worrying in itself; I’m not much of a shopper, I have to admit. I prefer engaging in activities where I don’t have to interact with other human beings or part with money, so shopping as an activity rarely falls top of my list. It’s been a while since I’ve ventured into the city centre with a purchase on my mind, but venture I did and I was disturbed by what I met. In the shoe store, after I’d found my sadistic slip-ons, I handed my choice over to a helpful young woman of about 14 who seemed to undertake some military routine to find me my size. She first made some quick gesture to the other side of the room, obviously a secret shop employee signal to which an equally baby-faced worker came running. He quickly took note of the style and size I was after and turned to his walkie-talkie to relate this information to the secret shoe-base. After what I felt was an acceptable amount of time spent twiddling my thumbs – about three minutes I’d say – the baby-faced one returned and apologised ‘for the wait’. “S’alright”, I replied, whilst I tried to ram my hammy little stumps into the delicate little brogues. I realised that Mr Baby-Face was still staring at me at this point. After a while his strained smile started to perturb me, until he spoke; “What are the shoes for, anything special?” Uh…no. Just…wearing…” I replied, uncertain whether I’d passed the shoe test. “What are you up to today?” He continued in a nasal drawl whilst I fumbled around with the laces “Well…shopping…”, again dismayed at my below average answer. It reminded me of being at the hairdressers, an activity where I feel it’s acceptable to make up the most henious lies in order to stem the flow of shit conversation. Unfortunately I’d been unprepared for such an interrogation and could only verbally stumble around like a newly-born conversational giraffe.
It reminded me of my own experience in retail where handbooks and pamphlets would advise the workers on how best to approach customers and strike up conversation with them. There was the ‘180 degrees’ method where you’d see someone come into the shop, take an item of clothing ‘over’ to the place they were standing, fix a rail or smooth down a sleeve and smile at them, begin to walk away, but when you’d reached exactly 2.5 feet away from where you were initially standing at the rail, whip yourself ’round 180 degrees and make some comment about the weather, their outfit or your own vapid outlook on life (they asked you to think up your own ice-breakers) and wait for their makeshift response. It was ridiculous. Ever since I got fired from that job (upon refusal to get a fake tan – I claim they are prejudiced against the un-tango’d) I swore I’d never fall for such sales tactics. Unfortunately I bought the shoes for their own merit and in the meantime forgot to berate the staff for trying to lead me down a this conversational route of feined friendliness. I’ve failed myself and the rest of the shoe-shopping world who’ll have to put up with this shit from head to toe. Sorry ’bout that.

…Cause Every Little Thing is Gonna Flea Alright…

My review of Marley & Me for The Glasgow Guardian

This was a lot better in my head when I sent it in at 3am the day before deadline, but not as bad as Aniston’s strained maternal instinct. OH BURRRRRRRN! Seriously though, I love Jennifer. Team Aniston all the way.

Ruff Ride

One of my very first cinema-going memories is from the time I saw Beethoven in the Clydebank UCI; a screening which had a fifteen minute interval in the middle where the audience could meet and greet two large St Bernards at the front of the theatre. It was possibly one of the most exciting experiences of my life (assuming the hyperventilation was not indeed allergen-induced), the likes of which I assumed could never be matched by any other dog fronted film.

Homeward Bound 2: Lost in San Francisco came close, Cats and Dogs elevated the canines in the age old war against their feline foes, but what I really wanted was the unity and heartfelt warmth as felt between man and dog. Marley and Me answered all my calls, like a slobbering Labrador to a squeaky toy (and if you’re enjoying that imagery then get in line now).

Marley and Me features the bronzed, blonde Owen Wilson and Jennifer Aniston (like walking, talking paint-charts of golden perfection) as a journalistic couple juggling the trials and tribulations of married life whilst trying to gain control over their troublesome pooch. As the movie’s an adaptation of a book, and the book is compiled of newspaper columns, and the columns consist of glimpses into John Grogan’s life as a dog owner and all-round family man the film can begin to feel rather bitty at parts. It’s basically just the life story of some dude who has some stuff going on, does things, doesn’t do some other things, and all the while has a blonde loved one chew up furniture and pee around his house (the dog that is, not Aniston.)

Despite the film’s occasional dalliance in slapstick jiggery pokery its real-life basis keeps it just on the right edge of sentimental. Minus the chewed up sofas and piles of poo, the themes underlying life with Marley such as family tragedy, the anxieties of growing older and the realisation of missed opportunities keep your eyes brimmed over at just the right parts: the final half hour especially is a tearduct workout for anyone with a soul.

Winter Warmer

Now Spring is quietly creeping up on us and tugging at our thermal undies here is GUM’s Winter edition to provide us somewhat unnecessary warmth.

I feature in the Comics article and in a snippit about Nuts and Seeds, the Glasgow promoters/record company. My good friend Rachel Caunt offered the brilliant illustration alongside my article, although not the garish, pop-art design next to it.

GUM Winter 09

Publish at Scribd or explore others: Other eBooks music magazine

Have a swatch.

You Have Been Watching

I’ve been in London for the past few days, just generally wandering around the city, hanging out and drinking with my good friend Steven – a fellow Glaswegian who made the move dahn sahhf last year when he got a job with the BBC. The Beeb banter has been a riotous opportunity for blagging visitor’s passes, sitting in the staff cafe whilst Jeremy Paxman looks tall and terrifying and (most excitingly of all) getting the opportunity to see Charlie Brooker’s new show being filmed, hurrah!
My TV experience thus far includes:

An audience with Lenny Henry doing some shit where he watched funny crap off the internet (and explained why it was amusing, thanks Lenny, DURRRRRRRR) as well as patronising Scots and affecting annoying accents, as is the way of the Henry. We had to spend three times the length of the recorded pick-ups doing laughter tracks because we didn’t know when to laugh or clap given he’s quite simply NOT. FUNNY.
I noticed – a few months after the experience that he was accusing the British media of being racist because ethnic minorities weren’t being represented in jobs in and around the entertainment sphere. To be fair, black or not, if any act had been peddalling out the same ‘Biiiiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrmmmmingham’ act for the past thirty years I’d probably stop inviting him round to careers day too; not because of the colour of his skin, but because he’s a cunt.

T4 Transmission: we got invited to this one by Channel 4 who wanted me to blog about it. Unfortunately I don’t think they’d read any of my columns before so it may very well have come as a shock to them to recieve what they did after they plied me with free booze, surrounded me with shit bands and put me through the tedium of watching Steve Jones suck the personality out of an autocue for four hours. He is ever so pretty though, like a shiny thermos kept in a specially knitted flask-holder: sigh

My third encounter with the camera came with a filming of The Culture Show at the start of January. I admit that most of the event has been blanched from my memory; seared by the blinding light that emenates from Northern Goddess Lauren Laverne. One memory that will unfortunately be burned onto my memory forever, slowly creeping up on me whenever I get anywhere within a square mile radius of marine life, will be that of Anthony Hegarty, aka: Anthony of ‘and the Johnsons’ fame. We were seated about a metre away from his piano, so when he sat down in preparation for being interviewed by The Laverne we were not sure whether to act like he wasn’t there (given he’s famous, which is the only logical manner to deal with such beings) or to attempt to sympathise with his Laverne induced lip-sweat. The result was that he looked at us with such a sad, defeated, inflated expression that he resembled a slightly philosophical, beached whale – and we, of course, were the sadistic Sea-World workers, witholding buckets of carp and seawater from his withering body. I was also perturbed by the notion that if I were a NY-LON trans atlantic, trans gender goth I’d look an awful lot like him. I might have an image overhaul: fat tranny was not the desired look.

Anyway, this Brooker example was quite different from the others, largely because I am a fan of his work and so was genuinely excited about seeing his new show. Unfortunately twenty-one years of disappointment hadn’t prepared me for the possibility that this might not be ‘like Screenwipe, yeah? But, like, Brooker’d to the max, yeah? Like Misanthropy 101, yeah?’ The premise is Charlie is now hosting a panel show called ‘You Have Been Watching’ in which he discusses the week’s TV with four guests who compete against one another for laughs and points – this time being David Mitchell, Rufus Hound, Jamelia and Terry Christian. It was entertaining in its own right, featuring the sorts of tangeted rants which appeal to my mind’s everyday inner workings, but it felt like any attempt to mock a show’s formula for being lazy and/or calculated was dismerited straight away given that the whole show was a mash-up of pre-existing crappy panel quizshows, like 8 Out of 10 Cats and all that vaguely entertaining and completely disposable waffle. The television related chatter seemed forced in a way which was uncomfortable to Brooker, either that or his earpiece was suggesting he should perhaps try smiling for the audience; I could see either possibility being the cause of his controlled grimace. Fans of screenwipe will probably be disappointed at the back-seat role a largely charming and jovial Brooker takes during the show; fans of TV will probably have seen it before, but be OK with that.

In conclusion: Charlie Brooker in a suit: pro
Lack of puerile mock wanking: total con. This was not part of the deal, Endemol, NOT PART OF THE DEAL!!!

A fine Eggzample

I was in Iceland the other day, queuing up ready to buy some creamed cheese and soy milk whilst considering my fake vegan status: should I pretend to be in one state of veganism or the other and explain that either the milk or the cheese was for a ‘friend’ if the checkout assistant (probably called Jacqueline, or at least this is now her name as dictated by my imagination) should throw me an enquiring glance? I was caught between pretending to be ‘the vegan one’ or ‘the dairy-eating but-still-quite-kind-when-it-comes-to-running-errands-anyway’ friend, and also a little bit just wondering if Jacqueline would care about any of this at all. Probably not, is my guess.
It was around this point that I noticed a special deal on Creme Eggs, Mini Eggs and other egg shaped confectionary, the kind which usually appear on the shelves just before Easter. I admit for a second or two I did wonder how many weeks or months my internal vegan debate had being going on for, but no – I’m pretty certain it’s still January and there are novelty chocolate eggs for sale.
This isn’t going to turn into some Mummy Barbrawl type of Christian debate about ‘taking the Christ out of Christmas’ or ‘the commercialisation of the resurrection’, but a concerned thought for the poultry out there; they’ve only just survived the Christmas genocide – miserably picking through the feathers and straw in the now silent pens of their late loved ones – but now they’re being pressured into thinking about procreating and to get into the spirit of Spring. This pressure isn’t restricted to chickens, oh no, any observant single man or woman able to make the connection between eggs and fertility will be feeling the solitary strain. I thought we had until at least mid-February, but after the joys of spending Christmas alone we don’t even have the month of January to lick our slightly plumper wounds without being reminded we should be coupled up, cooing sweet nothings and sharing jumbo packs of pastel coloured cutey wootey tiny likkle eggy weggs. My first reaction was to head down to the local tattoo parlour and demand ‘do not disturb’ in fancy italics across my ovaries, but remembering my New Year’s resolution – to stop reacting wildly and violently to the standards I imagine society trying to inflict upon me – I thought I’d try considering the whole ‘couple’ thing.
My first attempt wasn’t very successful as I realised the boy in charge of packing the carrier bags in Iceland was not for wooing, but I have high hopes for my second method of attack on the male half of the species: parship.com. A free personality test? Brilliant: free therapy! The chance to meet somebody physically and emotionally engineered to be an adequate match to myself? Well, that’s just a bonus!
Halfway through the personality test (which I soon realised was being turned into a dating profile, those cheeky monkeys!) I realised I’ve been asking all the wrong kind of questions throughout my dating career: I’ve been wasting time asking about preferences in culture, entertainment, drinking establishments, etc Apparently the way to go is to ask how they’d prefer a room to be heated: would that be cold, cool, comfortable or warm? I also should have a pre-prepared flip chart of 3D shapes and ask them which shapes seem more appealing in their eyes. I’m sure this will be valuable in the comfortably heated future we’re going to have together in our spherical existence. Apart from realising the error of my ways (as in my lack of adequate clipboard action in date situations) I immediately notice a problem with this form of dating site: if they’re attracting new members like me with the promise of a personality test then they’re essentially going to amass the kind of vain creatures who set out to answer questions about themselves rather the kind of people who have an actual, genuine interest in other human beings. Unfortunately for my five possible matches (the closest of whom lives in London, is 19 years old and barely male) I only wanted somebody else to help me finally put an end to the dilema of my vegan status for me; the rest just seems a bit too much like hard work. To vegan or not to vegan; that is the question I really should have proposed to parsnip.com: maybe next time, eh.

Letters’ Page

“Dear Glasgow Barbrawl,
I have been a close follower of your blog for these past few months. I have often looked to you as the pinnacle of today’s feminist viewpoint and so was justifiably shocked at your recent entry entitled: ‘I am a Superhero,’ how is this in any way representative of the forward thinking modern woman?? I notice your character was assigned superhuman strength whilst adhering to the masculine notion of the heroic, but when succumbing to mortality died ‘like a Victorian Heroine.’ I am disappointed that such a frontrunner in the feminist revolution could succumb so easily to such antiquated notions. Needless to say I am withdrawing your allowance – you will just have to find some moneyed male figure to keep you furnished in the style you have become accustomed to – a change I imagine that will suit you well, you snivelling little sell-out.
Yours disappointedly
Ms Jermaine Jeer.”

I am sorry that my article has upset you so, Ms Jeer. I am doubly upset that a woman of your reputation and intelligence should miss out on the all too obvious irony of the passage. However, I do admit that such subtle jests should perhaps be withheld until the gap in pay between genders has been rectified: so much has still to be done before we can poke fun at the differences between ourselves and our male counterparts!
In order to rectify the situation and regain my social standing amongst my fellow third-wave, post-irony, post-post-feminists I’d like to present an in-depth interview with myself where I ask and answer gruelling questions from me about my own feminist ideals.

Here we go, Barbrawl, would you call yourself a post-feminist?

Well –

-Let us put it this way: do you drink pints or shots?

Well… I will drink a pint, but of cider rather than beer because of the wheat, of course. Depending on the brand I will ask to add some blackcurrant – ironically, I guess -which makes it a glorious shade of pink/purple. I’m sorry, what do my drinking habits have to do with feminism?

I’m asking the questions round here.

OK, sorry. What’s next?

What did I JUST tell you??

Sorry.

Are we finished?

Mmm hmm.

Thank-you. So, who would you call your favourite female public figure/icon?

Well, I don’t think I have icons as such, but from a modern perspective I’m really counting on Suri Cruise to make a big difference in the world. I feel like she’s a spokesperson for the youth of today: she doesn’t resort to revealing outfits or wild nights out in order to grab headlines – she lets her talent speak for itself and I really respect that. I feel like she’ll perhaps go for more sensible roles whilst her peers, like Shiloh Pitt and the rest of the Bratz Pack, will burn out in the limelight as they prove themselves the flash in the pan celeb spawn we suspected them to be. Of course, Madonna will always be a big part in my life, like an ex-spouse or religion. Some days I might not remember she’s there, I become too caught up in my own life, cavorting around with my new lovers or worshiping some false Gods, but should I catch a glimpse of a purple leotard or some worryingly muscular arms it all comes flooding back to me.

I see. Earlier you mentioned the gap in pay between genders, how do you stand on issues such as these and others affecting women such as the pro-life/pro-choice debate?

Well, with regards to the gender pay-gap I’m not very bothered. I mean, if I’m getting paid zero, and my male counterparts are getting paid zero, then we’re on an even footing: what’s the gap between zero and zero? Exactly; that’s just physics. As for abortion, I’m all for the woman’s right to choose but, speaking as a more-often-than-not single woman I feel I have about as much right to comment on the matter as Anne Widecombe. This is an interview, right?

Yes.

I suppose you’ll be wanting the obligatory, question-related, witty personal anecdote then? Let’s see… Right, OK. The last time I was at my doctor’s she asked me what my method of contraception was: I replied with ‘my face,’ followed by a hearty laugh. She then looked at me with a stony expression and then asked again, but this time more seriously. I mirrored her grave expression: ‘seriously? Ok… my sense of humour, hahahahaha!’ after which she asked no further questions.

That’s funny.

Thanks. I’m glad I think so.

Depressing Festive Flick Fest: #1 The Family Stone

This year I entered into my Depressing Festive Flick Fest rather prematurely – and somewhat unwittingly – with The Family Stone. Its opening credits are charming and kitsch; the sort of pop-up Christmas card nonsense which should pre-empt a fuzzy, feel good Meet the Parents type comedy. You know, the kind where the outsider enters into the closely knit family fold, tries to impress and inevitably ends up in a series of hilarious scrapes which bewilder onlookers into loving them just for the sake of a quiet life. The movie’s cast even backed up such expectations: Diane Keaton reprising the ‘quirky mom’ role she’s been airing out since the early 90s; Sarah Jessica Parker as the awkward yet sweet love interest, Meredith, to the brooding, dark elder son of the family, Everett; and of course a Wilson brother (Luke in this instance) as the obligatory, slightly outlandish provider of slapstick japes – and by God do we need those japes.
As it turned out what I had expected to be a warm fuzzy introduction into a middle-class, White American Christmas turned out to be a torturous exercise in watching a family systematically alienate and destroy the figure of Meredith. Perhaps it’s Parker’s slight frame or her character’s habitual throat clearing tic which make her seem like she’s twitching at the curtain to the next world, but we should immediately empathise with her – talkative though she may be – whilst she is emotionally abused by these jumped-up, liberal dickwads.
The problem with The Family Stone is that it doesn’t know what it wants to be: is it a mature family drama? The inclusion of a bi-racial, deaf gay couple and a terminal disease suggest so, but the plethora of interesting family members leave them battling to assert themselves as anything more than a bunch of two-dimensional sob stories. Is it an unconventional rom-com? The trio of couples formed by the end indeed emulates the classic comic formula, but the eventual pairing of Everett with Meredith’s younger, prettier and more confident sister seems so unlikely, unbelievable and unfair to poor Meredith that I couldn’t help but wish that in the culminating ‘will they won’t they?’ chase scene the capricious and altogether shallow Everett would be flattened by a large and unforgiving truck. Somewhere in this genre confusion The Family Stone loses something it could have achieved if it wasn’t striving for a feel-good factor which was way beyond its abilities. Perhaps The Family Stone, the bastardly Everett in particular, should have embraced the true spirit of Christmas and forsaken personal happiness for the misery embedded in the effort it takes to survive a family gathering largely unscathed: surely that’s the real spirit of the festive season. God knows I’d have been happier to see remnants of his smug face being shovelled up from an A-road: after all, t’is the season…

I am a Superhero

I am a superhero.

I have superhuman strength, no disease can touch me.

I have been given the power of antibodies.

One day Dr McDevitt was experimenting with the use of antibiotics against adult acne. That same day an old school on St George Street burst into flames, sending the burning particles of long forgotten chemistry sets down Byres Road and into a slightly ajar bedroom window. The particles mingled with the dormant antibodies in LJ’s system and when she awoke she was a master against all disease known to man, or at least so she thought. One day whilst battling the evil overlords of childhood obesity and laringitis with her usual ease, her extreme sense of hearing picked up on the dull faraway buzz of an approaching aircraft. Her Cider senses tingling she felt that all was not right ‘BUT WHAT COULD HARM ME!? FOR I AM SUPERHUMAN!’ She scoffed to herself.
The aircraft passed over her releasing thousands of used tissues: ‘NO! NOT MY ONE WEAKNESS! THE COMMON COLD!’ She cried, and after becoming overcome with the virus was bedbound for weeks before passing away silently like a Victorian heroine.

FIN