Black Swan: Freaky Lezzer Pas de Deux Shit

The Boss has started up Cinema Club. The basic premise is that a load of workmates go to the flicks together each Thursday evening. I'm never really sure about doing stuff like this en masse. I love watching film and going to the cinema is a very special and magical thing for me, but often fraught with a bit of angst. My angst comes from there being OTHER PEOPLE IN THE CINEMA. You know, the general public (who I'm not that arsed for) - sitting there with their oversized heads in the way of the screen, stuffing their fat faces with popcorn (you greedy gets - can you not possibly live two hours without sustenance?), slurping on mammoth fizzy drinks (next you'll be wanting to get up for a piss at the most important scene, fuckwit), and generally breathing anywhere near me. Yeah, love the cinema, if only I had the place to myself.

My first outing (not from the closet - they don't get to turn me that easy), I went along with The Boss and Tracy to meet up with a load of The Boss's lesbian pals for a viewing of Black Swan at Curzon Soho. Word on the street is there's a lesbian scene involving Natalie Portman in the film. You've never seen a cinema filled with as many tennis fans, comfortable shoe wearers and 'special friends' of Madonna in all your life (all hoping for a glimpse of our young ballerina getting munched, no doubt). I warned my assembled crew not to eat, speak or have any contact with me whatsoever whilst the film was on. So, they threw popcorn in my hair and threatened to feel me up when the lesbian scene came on.

Black Swan is a film about ballet, directed by Darren Aronofsky (Requiem For A Dream and The Wrestler). Natalie Portman (if I wasn't so enamoured of all things gentleman, maybe I would have a go given the option - she's stunning) plays Nina, a talented young ballerina who wants to be the perfect dancer, to dance the Swan Queen in Swan Lake. Vincent Cassel (broody French dude - top in Eastern Promises) is the director of the ballet, and after some deliberation, he gives her the role. Then he suggests that in order to be able to dance this role, she ought to loosen up a bit, have a wank and let her hair down. And then it all got a bit weird.

I'm not doing the spoiler thing, so no need to look away now, Film Fans. But I have to say, it kept me pretty gripped, and the tension in the audience was palpable (particularly during aforementioned ladylover scene - not a dry seat in the house). Very enjoyable evening - Cinema Club might become a regular Thursday jaunt for me (but only if The Ladies agree to watch films involving cock too).

Crisps

Crisps are great. I like them a lot. They make a top hangover cure, sandwiched in white bread. Growing up, there was Golden Wonder. Then came the fascination of things like Frazzles (my Mum's favourite) and Quavers. Pickled Onion Monster Munch (delicious). Discos (how much flavour?). Wotsits (no, thanks - sweaty, cheesy cardboard). And if you're from Yorkshire - the joy of Seabrook crinkle cut (now on sale in Asda EVERYWHERE!!!).

I remember (and so it seems do many of my friends) putting an empty crisp packet under the grill at home until it shrivelled up, and then glueing a pin to the back of it to make a tiny, shrivelled crisp packet brooch. This may sound odd. I must investigate with my southern counterparts to find if this was going on in Hackney and Shepherd's Bush in the early 70s too.

Went for a styling meeting today in an ad agency. One of their accounts is a well-known crisp brand. In their reception, they have a wall of crisps, there for the taking. I did some taking, getting away with two packets of salt and vinegar. Very nice they were too, Gary Lineker.

I met The Scot on Sunday afternoon for a chinwag. We ended up in a pub, and he got some crisps from the bar. We find we have a mutual fascination (or disdain) for the way crisps have stopped being simply cheese and onion - crisp connoisseurs can now tuck into mature cheddar and red onion. Marketing gone mental.

So, imagine me walking into Selfridges after my meeting, just for a little wander and look at nice things in the food hall/kitchen department, and coming across this:

For. Fuck's. Sake. Mozarella and chuffing basil on a crisp. And they're from Yorkshire (and 'convivial' ???). So, I had a bit of a Google. Seems this farmer fella called Ashley Turner in Sheffield is digging up his spuds, turning them into fancy crisps (Chardonnay Wine Vinegar flavour, anyone?) and flogging them to Fortnum & Mason, Harvey Nichols and Selfridges. I bet he's laughing his head (and flat cap) off.

Pete Postlethwaite RIP: Brassed Off In New York

I remember my first ever trip to New York back in 1997 like it was yesterday. From coming over the Brooklyn Bridge, seeing that oh-so-familiar skyline up close and personal, listening to Gershwin and imagining I was in a Woody Allen film, staying in a swanky Soho loft for two weeks (I'm a simple lass from a two-up-two-down in Yorkshire, ferchrissakes!) - everything about it was perfect.

One evening, the Ex and I went to the Angelika art house cinema (corner of W Houston and Mercer). The film showing was Brassed Off, a film about a colliery brass band in a struggling mining village in Yorkshire. There are plenty of laughs in the film, but also some real poignancy, reminders of a broken coal industry that once employed and supported whole communities in the North. Watching Brassed Off in another country was interesting, and although there were a few Northern in-jokes that me and The Ex laughed loudly at but passed others by, NYC managed to keep up pretty well and seemed to get the whole premise. A speech given at the end of the film moved me to tears at the time, given by the band's conductor Danny at the finals of the National Colliery Band competition held at the Royal Albert Hall (I've just watched it again - same effect):

The character of Danny, director and conductor of the colliery brass band was played by Pete Postlethwaite. I was sad to read in today's paper that he has passed away aged only 64. I've seen him in many films over the years, always enjoyed his varied performances. Unfortunately, I never saw him act on stage (note to self: see more theatre greats before they're all gone and you're stuck with Sister Act or Tap Dogs), but as a man who learnt his chops in the golden days of Liverpool's Everyman, then you know he could definitely do it on the boards as well as on the silver screen.

(postscript: Gerry Rafferty has just died. Keith Hawkwind tells me he drove past Baker Street today on his way to Pinewood, and said he mimicked the sax solo. A fitting tribute, he thought.)