The Prodigal Escapist Returns

OK, I dropped the ball. Apparently, I needed escapism from my blog about escapism.

I'd love to say that the absence of blog posts has, in fact, been the ultimate tribute to my subject matter... an ironic and postmodern exploration of escapism, if you will. But while that does me more justice than I deserve, it's not too far off the mark (however unintentional). Quite simply, I've been busy escaping!

January is often maligned as a dreary, long month of scrimping, saving, dieting and generally dealing with the fairly horrifying return of the full working week. But in retrospect, mine was OK. Largely thanks to friends, food, prosecco and my Christmas presents of box sets and an electric heater, I'd even go as far as to say I rather enjoyed it.

Fig and goat's cheese tart at the Imperial, King's Road

With the exception of the 5:2 diet, which only requires willpower for around a third of the week, I haven't really stuck to many of my half-hearted new year's resolutions (which included 'blog more'). And you know what? I'm not even sorry!

Here's what I've been doing instead so far this year, thus evading the January blues:

1. Blasting away the last of the food-induced lethargy with a walk on Holkham beach in Norfolk

 

2. Discovering the joys of Game of Thrones, Girls and, um, What Happens in Sunny Beach

3. Revelling after work at the new Piano Smithfield bar - then (regrettably) pestering the pianist for not taking my requests. 'Hey Mr Pianist, I've asked you three times....'

4. Playing endless rounds of Would You Rather... with my housemate (marrying the delightful 'Nips' from Sunny Beach features in rather a lot of these unthinkable dilemmas)

5. Discovering QuizUp, a highly addictive app that allows you to challenge your friends in any subject under the sun: so far I'm faring particularly well at Harry Potter, internet slang and, surprisingly, general knowledge. I am performing less well in the fields of botany and flags of the world. Challenge me if you dare!

6. Gazing awestruck at the incredible images at the Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition at the Natural History Museum.

Image: Essence of Elephants, Greg du Toit, Wildlife Photographer of the Year 2014

7. Learning a lot about how to - and how not to - casually interrupt celebrities' conversations at the National Television Awards. Bridget Jones' classic 'Do you know.... where the toilets are?' is a fail-safe.

8. Listening to my friend's rather lovely Spotify playlist, What Love Feels Like, including John Legend, The Wannadies, Audrey Hepburn and lots more.

9. Beating my terrible habit of avoiding life admin:  Proud moment #1, we finally took down the Christmas tree on 26th January, and even prouder moment #2, put up curtains in my bedroom after eight months without them (sorry, neighbours - show's over).

10. Reading Philomena for Book Club. It's the heartbreaking true story of a troubled Irish boy whose mother was forced to give him up, and the eye-opening future that awaited him in his new life in America. So, so good. And not at all like an episode of Long Lost Family.

11. Using my new Taste Card to get 50% off at all manner of random restaurants. Then thinking, screw it, and blowing the budget with fabulous (and very much full-price) dinners at Foxlow and the Modern Pantry - both in Clerkenwell and come highly recommended!

12. And while we're on food, I must mention a recent Saturday brunch of sourdough, grilled halloumi and crushed avocado, and the most refreshing orange juice ever squeezed, at the Imperial in Chelsea  followed by an epic riverside walk past the fairy lit Albert Bridge. Let's just ignore the sore feet and thunderstorm that followed.

13. Catching up on awards-season movies. The Secret Life of Walter Mitty in particular is perfect for the 'new year, new me' mentality, although beware - it may make you want to sack it all in and go on an adventure.

14. Speaking of which, much of the month has been spent planning imaginary visits to friends in New York, Africa, Dubai, New Zealand, Spain and Paris (chances of me affording to go on all of these said holidays? Zero).

15.  Wearing my friends down until they join the Anthony Nolan bone marrow register - and joining it myself of course. Genuinely, this is the most worthwhile thing I've done so far - if you're 16-30, go for it! Simple way to do your bit and, maybe one day, save a life.

16. Saying 'I feel like 2014 is going to be a good year!' A lot. And meaning it.

Image: Pinterest.com

So that's one month filled, eleven to go. Not all very inspirational or virtuous I'm afraid, but we've survived it - January is DONE.

 

But wait, what? It isn't spring yet? (Sorry, the premature blossom in Holland Park isn't fooling anyone). We've still got months of no-man's land, that void between seasons, before the daffodils, chicks and Easter Eggs arrive to make everything better again.

But on the plus side, we've got a brand new calendar to populate and endless possibilities of how to do it. And fortunately, we have the best city in the world to keep us entertained.

 

The parties I wish I'd gatecrashed

The Great Gatsby, Warner Bros (Picture: metro.co.uk)

The festive party season is officially in full swing. The concept of throwing a party is as old as time itself, bringing together potent combinations of friends, acquaintances, rivals and strangers for the sole purpose of pleasure and amusement, often with explosive results. 

That's why The Party often sets the scene for pivotal moments in history, literature, movies and of course every single episode of Gossip Girl, not to mention real life. Just imagine how many friendships and relationships have begun or ended at an office Christmas party or a wedding...

What makes (or breaks) a party?

The truly legendary parties are more than a sum of their parts; the guests, music, free drinks and frisson will only get you so far. The only thing really necessary for a good party is a good mood - check your inhibitions at the door together with your coat, otherwise a party will almost certainly fall flat.

Case in point: Truman Capote's famously lavish Black and White Masked Ball of 1966 brought together all of Hollywood, royalty, fashion, politics and the art world, and is nostalgically referred to as the Party of the Century. But how much fun did the herds of A-list guests really have? Was the Majarajah of Jaipur dancing on the tables with Sammy Davis Jnr.? Did Tennessee Williams watch the sunrise with Mia Farrow and Andy Warhol?

Er, apparently not. Despite its now mythical status, the actual gossip from that night seems to be fairly thin on the ground. There were no tales of dramatic showdowns, drunken debauchery or uninvited guests. The mood is said to have been bitchy and self-conscious, and despite Capote's loud protestations, Frank Sinatra and his cronies slipped out early in favour of a nearby bar - effectively shutting down the party.

Frank Sinatra and Mia Farrow at the Black and White Ball, Plaza Hotel, New York, 1966

Likewise, Gatsby's flashy New York parties of the roaring twenties may have been beautiful, but would they have been any fun? I'm not saying I'd have turned down a coveted invitation from the enigmatic Jay Gatsby, but behind his decadent garden parties, where "men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars”, there was... nothing much. Women who didn't know each other's names chattered away falsely over cocktails, husbands flirted around while their wives hissed in their ears, and all the while, Gatsby kept himself isolated from the action, barely recognised by his own guests.

But sometimes, for whatever reason, all the elements just come together to form the Perfect Storm of Parties, creating something that will be talked about for years. Here's what went down at the parties I wish I'd crashed... 

The Mad Hatters Tea Party

Alice in Wonderland (2010),Walt Disney/Tim Burton

Where else but Wonderland could you find yourself at a trippy tea party with a Mad Hatter, a March Hare and a Dormouse? Well, quite a few places dotted around London these days - including the Sanderson Hotel which runs a signature Mad Hatters Afternoon Tea, complete with 'Eat Me' labels, lollipops that turn your mouth from hot to cold, and multicoloured sandwiches. However the original literary version remains the most random and brilliant, inverting the traditional social convention of 'taking tea' into something curiously psychedelic.

The Great Cheese Party of 1837

In 1837, the President of the USA took out a newspaper advert inviting members of the public to come to the White House and share his 1,400 pound wheel of cheddar. The result was a feeding frenzy.

A year previously, a New York farmer had presented President Jackson with the giant cheese, which weighed the equivalent of 10 x Barack Obamas (probably). Jackson let the cheese age for more than a year in the White House, before holding the Great Cheese Party just before he left office. It was said you could smell cheese from half a mile in every direction from the White House; quite the legacy for his successor.

Ten thousand people swarmed to the White House for a slice of the action. Two hours later, all that remained of the cheese were the crumbs that had been ground into the carpet and smeared on the silk curtains. 

Why Cheese Day hasn't turned into an annual American holiday is beyond me. Sounds like a brie-lliant excuse for a party! (sorry).

The Hangover

The Hangover (2009), Warner Bros

When an evening begins with the ominous toast: "To a night we'll never forget," you're just asking for trouble. But luckily for Bradley Cooper et al, it turns out that pulling out your own tooth and stealing a tiger from Mike Tyson can actually have a life affirming effect on your friendships and relationships.  

Every group has it's own 'Alan'. If you think yours doesn't, it's probably you. But don't worry; the ultimate loose canon Alan was the reason that this particular Vegas stag do has come to define a generation and is now the yardstick by which we measure the epicness of all parties - despite none of us actually witnessing it. The less you remember of a party, and the more random props/animals that turn up the morning after, the more successful it surely was.

Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens

Image from vauxhallgardens.com

Its hard to believe that ugly SE11 was once home to the most famous and hedonistic pleasure gardens ever seen in this country, as described in Thackeray's Vanity Fair. 

Every weekend, 18th century socialites, peasants and celebrity courtesans alike were able to pay the small entry fee into Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, a grown-up playground of delights which hosted masquerades, circus performers, fireworks and even hot air balloon launches. 

The main promenades were lit by thousands of oil lamps, but it was most notorious for the dark and plentiful nooks and crannies in the shrubbery, where all manner of naughtiness ensued.

The gardens lost their sparkle in the mid 19th century when they became known for crime, prostitution and seediness and eventually were forced to close. These days, all that remains of the gardens is a sad and unremarkable little park in built-up Vauxhall; a hangover from its glorious heyday.

Netherfield Ball, Pride and Prejudice

Jane Austen's Regency Balls, despite the formalities, were surprisingly sexually charged; a ball would have been the only place a man and a woman could make physical contact in public, not to mention the fact that eligible men were tasked to dance with as many women as they possibly could. Romantic sparks must have been flying around the room left right and centre.

And Jane Austen doesn't disappoint at Netherfield Ball in Pride and Prejudice. The highlight of the evening came after Elizabeth had been cornered by the repellent Mr Collins for the first two dances, only to be dumbfounded when sulky Mr Darcy, who had rejected her at the Meryton Ball, asks her for the next dance. 

The visible spark between the pair gave fellow guests plenty to 'OMG' about the next day and has done wonders for men everywhere who, like Darcy, aren't quite the life and soul of the party. Instead of being written off as party poopers, they have been rebranded as the mysterious heroes, quietly smouldering in the corner and rescuing you from dancing with creepy men.

'Parents are out of town' teen parties

10 Things I Hate About You (1999), Touchstone Pictures

Finally, how could I write about parties without mentioning the keg-fuelled teen blow-outs that define all American coming-of-age movies? 

In my school, these orgies of destruction were practically forced upon all those foolish enough to let slip that their parents were out of town; it was your time, nay, your duty to step up to the mark and take one for the team. 

In my eyes, the archtype of a teen house party is Bogey Lowenstein's party in 10 Things I Hate About You, where the entire school crashes a geek's cheese and wine evening and turns it into the crazy party of the year - but in hindsight our Sixth Form equivalent was probably something closer to an episode of the Inbetweeners. The Last of our House Parties resulted in a cake sale in the common room to fund the damage to the house - Mum stopped going away so much after that, and the party, it seemed, was officially over.

Merry Christmas!

Thanks for reading and good luck surviving the party season! After all, there aint no party like a Christmas party. If I've missed one of your favourite all-time fictional or historical parties, please add your comments below.

London in the Movies

Mary Poppins (1964), Walt Disney

London is an iconic, sprawling film set, where hundreds of great loves have been born, dark crimes have been hidden, adventures have began and stars have left their footsteps. Turn any corner in the city and you could be struck by an overwhelming sense of deja vu as you find yourself in a strangely familar spot, transported into a childhood fantasy or a cult classic.

As I wander around London, I often feel like I'm in a film. Looking out of the window over London's rooftops on a misty evening still always reminds me of Peter Pan. The dark cobbled alleyways around Grays Inn Road, near my offices, are evocative of the shadowy Victorian lairs of Oliver Twist. Even rush hour tube journeys have a certain novelty - if I miss a train, I sometimes wonder if that might have had a Sliding Doors effect on the course of my life.

Peter Pan (1953), Walt Disney

So on a sunny Saturday morning, my companion and I, who share a mutual love of romantic comedies, Harry Potter and musicals, could think of nothing lovelier than to take ourselves on a tour of London's movie locations.

We left my friend's flat in Waterloo and began our journey on the South Bank, where Hugh Grant famously said, in the words of David Cassidy, 'I think I love you' (Four Weddings and a Funeral).

Harry Potter 

Dark clouds appeared from nowhere and loomed ominously as we crossed the Millennium Bridge, creating that 'disaster movie' sensation of the calm before the storm. It felt, for a moment, as though the Dementors were coming.

Thankfully, we reached the other side of the bridge, unlike the poor Muggles in the scene from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, when the Death Eaters destroy it during a rampage through central London.

Once safely north of the river, we spied Australia House on The Strand, which moonlights as the setting of the wizarding bank, Gringotts, in the films. And of course an embarrassing photo at Platform 9 3/4 in King's Cross Station is also a must for any self-respecting Potter geek in London.

On my way to Hogwarts

Sweeney Todd: Demon Barber of Fleet Street

Although now interspersed with branches of Starbucks and Pret, many of the old, crooked establishments on Fleet Street are still reminiscent of Tim Burton's atmospheric musical Sweeney Todd. The film tells the story of murderous Johnny Depp as the demon barber who fills neighbouring Mrs Lovett's homemade pies with his victims' remains.

With this in mind, as we neared the end of Fleet Street, I was alarmed to see a Wagamama directly underneath a dodgy looking barber shop. Maybe stick to the vegetarian options if you ever decide to eat there...

Eek!

Mary Poppins

As we approached the steps of St Paul's Cathedral, where a melancholy old lady feeds the pigeons after dark in Mary Poppins, the heavens opened in true chick flick style. This rather scuppered our plans to 'feed the birds' as Julie Andrews sung in the film, as they all flew away, unimpressed with the soggy bread on offer. (This must be why Disney decided to film the whole thing in a California studio).

A gorgeous day to re-live Mary Poppins

The roof terrace on top of next-door shopping centre One New Change is the perfect place to gaze upon St Paul's and over the rooftops of the City. If you look closely, you might even spot a few Cockney chimney sweeps in the distance leaping around Dick Van Dyke style... maybe.

However in what had become a dramatic thunder and lightning storm, with rain launching itself at us from all angles, a rooftop was perhaps an unwise choice. Looking more like drowned rats than rain soaked heroines, we quickly decided the credits had rolled on our day of movie fun and we retreated indoors for a large glass of wine.

Notting Hill 

There are still enough classic film locations to warrant at least another day of exploring, particularly in the pretty-as-a-picture village of Notting Hill. (Yes, that'll be Hugh Grant again - still being wheeled out for any London-based romantic comedy). The Travel Bookshop from the movie has sadly closed down, but you can still spend a leisurely afternoon looking for the little house with the blue door, and peering into the communal gardens where Hugh and Julia Roberts shared their first kiss.

These pretty streets are also the romantic setting for one of my favourite scenes from Love Actually, when Andrew Lincoln brings his signs over to Keira Knightley's house and tells her he loves her, 'without hope or agenda'. This scene was filmed in St Luke's Mews in Notting Hill and is one of those locations that feels just as magical in real life.

Love Actually (2003), Universal Pictures / Studio Canal / Working Title

However Walt Disney discovered the joys of this area long before Richard Curtis, in the classic Bedknobs and Broomsticks. A real life jaunt down Portobello Road would be so much more fun if only life was a musical...

Not The End...

Thousands of tales have been told about London town, and it would take a lifetime to experience them all. I've not even mentioned the gritty East End stomping grounds of Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels, the mysterious temples of The Da Vinci Code, the Elizabethan theatres of Shakespeare in Love, or the elegant parks of Finding Neverland.

Ticking them off is a great way to explore the city, but rather than trying to cram it all into a day, I think I'll try to experience the rest one at a time, saving each one for when I am feeling a bit jaded and most in need of some movie magic.

Fifty Shades of Escapism: this year's holiday reads

Escapism, for me, could just as easily be listening to a bit of Schubert at my desk as watching back-to-back episodes of The Bachelor on Sky Plus. High culture and trash culture take me to very different places but both have a special place in my heart, and this is why I have long objected to the idea of a hierarchy of tastes.

So with that in mind, I gave myself a well-rounded reading list of novels for my holiday which consisted of the beautiful, the silly, the classic and the downright filthy - starting, of course, with Fifty Shades of Grey.

My only criteria for a holiday read, as opposed to something to read on the Tube, is that it should, above all else, be a page-turner.

Risks should be avoided. Your much-needed two week break is no time to be forcing yourself to read something that doesn't make you want to whip it out at every pause in the conversation. A holiday read should, like everything else you do on the trip, feel like pure indulgence. (This does not necessarily always correlate to a well-written book, as I discovered...).

With the right book on holiday, you can have a truly multi-sensory reading experience, with your enjoyment of the book being enhanced by the feeling of the sun on your skin, the breeze in the palm trees and the perfume of exotic flowers in the air. With the wrong book, you’ll end up reading your friend’s dog-eared magazine for the seventh time while listening to the loud Aussies on the adjacent sunloungers discussing where they’re going to have dinner.

1. Fifty Shades of Grey, EL James

Michael Fassbender: my perfect Christian Grey (albeit slightly older than Christian's 27 years)

When I left for Indonesia, Fifty Shades of Grey was a very popular book that most girls I know had either read or planned on reading. I'm not quite sure what happened in the interim, but on my return, it seemed it had actually taken over the world. (My favourite headline so far is a toss-up between ‘Peter Andre to pen male version of Fifty Shades of Grey’ and 'Boyfriend squirted partner with brown sauce after she refuses to stop reading Fifty Shades of Grey').

The culprit of the brown sauce incident needn't have worried. This is hardly sexually liberating erotica that will lead a generation of women into a kinky underworld;  sorry boys, but this is pure romance. With props.

You probably all know the story. Beautiful, tortured billionaire Christian Grey whisks idiotic unworldly student Anastasia Steele off her feet and showers her with lavish gifts. However there are obstacles; he has a Red Room of Pain and stalkerish tendencies (but that’s OK, because he’s attractive) and likes to hit women with things. After a lot of soul-searching, eye-rolling, lip-biting, earth-shattering and palm-twitching, Ana decides that, yes, he can hit her with things.

Of course, the writing is appalling. Sometimes, perhaps at the 64th mention of Ana’s 'inner goddess' (no exaggeration) or her observations such as, 'his sweatpants hang… in that way', you wonder if the whole thing is a big joke. Annoyingly, I even caught myself mirroring her inane internal monologues, exclaiming ‘Holy cow!’ and ‘Double crap!’ to myself at various points during the holiday.

But, beyond rime or reason, Fifty Shades is bizarrely addictive and I defy you not to get caught up in it. It provided us hours of fun on the beach as we read aloud some of the more ridiculous lines and debated who will play the immortal Christian Grey in the film. (I’d be keen to see Alexander Skasgard, Ryan Philippe, or ideally a young Michael Fassbender, but I appreciate the latter may be unrealistic…). Like it or loathe it, my brand new copy was literally falling apart and missing several pages after my two friends and I had each raced through the novel, and now looks embarrassingly well-thumbed.

The appeal here is the potent combination of classic Cindarella romance, a relentless stream of constant sex scenes and a ridiculous amount of hype. Who isn’t powerless to resist? If you haven’t already, stop fighting your curiosity and come join the club; read it, have fun and then bitch about it afterwards. As Ana herself says, "this is wrong... but holy hell is it erotic."

Actual rating: 2/10
Holiday read rating: 8.5/10

2. The Making of Us, Lisa Jewell

The Making of Us is a good old ‘Richard and Judy Book Club’ style novel, bought in haste from Waterstones thanks to the cover, which is plastered with praise from fairly reliable sources.

This is the uplifting tale of three lost souls who discover they all share the same sperm-donor father, who is now terminally ill. It was a relief to find real, three-dimensional characters and to discover that I could still feel real emotion, after my brain got such a spanking during Fifty Shades of Grey. I even shed real tears during this book, which I sailed through in a couple of days.

It’s an undemanding yet satisfying read, which I certainly enjoyed at the time and found myself caring about the complex characters, but now looking back I feel kind of ‘meh’ about it. It was lovely but forgettable; not the kind of book that leaves you feeling bereft when you finish, like the classic beach reads so often do (I'm really talking about One Day - I still miss Em and Dex).

Actual rating: 7/10
Holiday rating: 7/10

3. Hollywood Divorces, Jackie Collins

Hurrah, we're back to the filth!

Although a less experienced reader of trashy novels may assume they are all on a similarly low par, I can say wholeheartedly that as with any genre, there is good trash, and there is bad trash.

And with Jackie Collins - the undisputed Queen of the Bonkbuster - you are in excellent hands. She has been writing her inimitable stories of sex, scandal, fame and revenge for five decades and counting.

Ever since I picked up Hollywood Wives in a second hand book shop in India four years ago, no holiday has been complete without a Jackie Collins novel.

I’m not sure I should admit how many of her books I’ve now read, but each of them has been ridiculously entertaining and expertly paced. Invariably, there’s a superstar with a seedy past and/or a bitter vendetta against another Hollywood A-lister, plus at least three subplots that all collide in a dramatic showdown at a premiere.

Her finest work is definitely the old-school 1970s and '80s novels such as Hollywood Wives and The World is Full of Married Men, where lines such as ‘she’s a tough old broad...’ don’t seem quite so out of place.

This year’s choice, Hollywood Divorces, seems to be set around in the early noughties if the cultural references to Britney and Justin are anything to go by. The main character 'Lola Sanchez' – a ruthless Latina diva with a penchant for bad boys – is unashamedly based on Jennifer Lopez, and it’s fun to spot other thinly veiled portrayals of famous names.

Saying that, Hollywood Divorces probably wasn’t quite up to the usual gold standard of vintage Jackie Collins (usually there's at least one vaguely likeable character), but it was still my most enjoyable read of the holiday. With at least 20 more of her books still to get through, I think I’m sorted for the next few trips.

Actual rating: 4/10
Holiday read rating: 9/10 (The winner!)

4. Love in the Time of Cholera, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

As our holiday drew to a close, I thought I would finish with something noble, epic and firmly on my list of 'must reads'. I found this weather-beaten copy of Love in the Time of Cholera in a book lender's shop on Gili Trawangan in Indonesia and put down the deposit of 100,000 rupiah (about £7).

Three weeks later, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon on the Piccadilly Line, I finally finished it. This is a stunning piece of literature that completely immerses you in the sights, smells and sounds of turn of the century Columbia, and is quite unlike anything I've read before. But it's not one that hooks you from the first page or that can be raced through in between snorkelling and cocktails. Having not even reached the halfway point during our time on the Gilis, I sacrificed my deposit so I could find out whether hopeless romantic Florentino Ariza finally got his girl, Fermina Daza, after sixty years of unrequited love.

With its dense, lush, lyrical prose and very little dialogue, I realised that Love in the Time of Cholera had been somewhat missold as 'one of the greatest love stories of all time'. If that is what you are expecting, you may be disappointed; this is the slow, gradual unfolding of a lifetime of obsessive love, and as the novel approaches its climax, our romantic hero has become elderly, bald, toothless, sickly and has slept with more than 600 women.

But if you take your time and appreciate it in the way you would study a painting, for example, the language and insights on life and love can take your breath away. On several occasions, I came across a sentence so beautifully observed that I had to fold the corner down of the page so I could read it again and again: 

"Tell him yes. Even if you are dying of fear, even if you are sorry later, because whatever you do, you will be sorry all the rest of your life if you say no."

Or how about: 

"It is incredible how you can be happy for so many years, in the midst of so many squabbles, so many problems, damn it, and not really know if it was love or not." 

How this can even be judged against the book that brought us the immortal words "He's my very own Christian Grey flavoured Popsicle" is of course an outrage, but those are the rules. If we are comparing these two books based on their beach read factor and page-turnability, I'm afraid there's a clear winner...

Actual rating: 9/10
Holiday read rating: 4/10