I had to partake of the London transport system at rush hour this morning. To describe my feelings at approximately 09.15 would involve a level of swearing not even I can condone (abridged: "shit", "shite", "arseholes", "bastards" - it got worse after that). I am, however, from up North, and made of stern stuff. Can't be letting the Tube / general public get the better of me. All my pent-up grrrrr was swept away on arrival for a portfolio show at Mercury Music with their creative director, the very wonderful Tom Bird. I'm stating here that I've nicknamed Mr Bird the Grace Coddington of Mercury - charming and stylish, they're lucky to have someone like that at the helm. Lovely man. Nicest meeting I've had for ages.
(I mention Grace Coddington because Tom and I discussed the documentary about US Vogue editor Anna Wintour, 'The September Issue'. Grace is definitely the beauty behind Wintour's business-head beast. I own a book called 'Grace - 30 Years At Vogue'. It was an extravagant gift from a lovely man for my birthday years ago (he spazzed £75 on it). I was astonished to be informed a few weeks back, by a clever lady-in-the-know about fancy books / publishing, that this book is now selling for over £1000. Yes, you read that right. A THOUSAND BLOODY ENGLISH POUNDS. Almost passed out. Not for sale, mind - it's a beautiful and precious-to-my-heart tome.)
I could buy 100,000 Black Jack chews if I sold it.
Tempting.
Rush back to the office to arrange for my setbuilders to lay Olympic running track in a cavernous venue in glamorous Slough for a shoot on Friday. The subject will be Oscar Pistorius, the South African man who runs on carbon fibre blades, after a congenital disease he had as a kid made amputation of both legs necessary. I wish I could attend - I'd love to see the man nicknamed 'Blade Runner' and "The Fastest Man On No Legs' doing his stuff.
Blade Runner - bet he could thrash Rutger Hauer.
Evening falls - a special screening of Paddy Considine's Tyrannosaur at The Phoenix, with a director's Q&A treat. Arrived in plenty of time, wolfed down some chocolate, settled into my perfect centre back-row seat. Perfect, that is, until a giant, with a head the size of a frigging pumpkin, sat in the seat in front of me. Watch out come Hallowe'en, mate. Some kid might scoop your brain out and pop a candle inside. I have to get up and sit on the wooden bench right at the back. What an unexpected result. I can see everything and don't have to hear the popcorn eaters. There is a cinema god.
I'm not doing a spoiler. The film is on general release from Friday - go and see it. Perhaps you can hazard a guess - Paddy directed it and the main character is played by Peter Mullan. Correct - it's a musical comedy with dancing girls and bunny rabbits.
Bit like this, but with cheap vodka, council houses and a pitbull terrier.
The Q&A that followed was entertaining and exhilarating. If you've seen Paddy act in anything (most likely in one of his many collaborations with director and old college friend, Shane Meadows), you'll probably grasp that here is a man who feels passionate about anything he undertakes. Not one for half measures, never half-hearted, you truly get a sense of this when he talks about the process of making this film. What I like most about Paddy Considine is how uncompromising he is. You just know he has an honesty and integrity perhaps not always prevalent in the world of film-making. The word 'bullshit' pops up a lot. I don't think it's something he talks himself, and you can safely say he won't put up with it from anyone else.
He also has Olivia Colman and Eddie Marsan on stage with him (no Peter Mullan, which is a shame, because his performance is extraordinarily good). Olivia Colman plays the long-suffering Sophie in Peep Show, a fine comedy actress. She's a revelation in Tyrannosaur. Reckon it's pretty safe to say viewers of the film are in for a bit of a surprise as they watch her character unravel. You may know Eddie Marsan as Lestrade in the latest Sherlock Holmes, but perhaps it's better that I reference him as the nutter of a driving instructor from Mike Leigh's Happy-Go-Lucky with Sally Hawkins. Expect something along those lines in Tyrannosaur, but he's definitely upped the nasty ante this time...
When I leave the cinema, I plan to come straight home to write this blog, I'm so bowled over by the entire evening. I'd had a previous offer to go to see Meursault in Hoxton after the cinema, they're a band I've been trying to see for ages (and are good enough to have wangled their way onto McG's The Funeral Playlist™). But I thought "no, get yourself home for a bit of writing and a nice, early night". Then, I saw the text from my old friend K. He tells me Bert Jansch is dead. I find this news a shock to read and so sad-making. I saw Bert perform at The Spitz some years back with Beth Orton and it was sublime. So now, I'm thinking "fuck it - go to Hoxton", and I do.
And I'm so glad I do. I arrive breathless at 10pm (well done, Northern Line), with 10 mins to spare, meet up with some great people, finally get to see Meursault, who, as a finale, say "it might be a bit cheesy, but we'd like to dedicate this one to Bert Jansch", but it isn't cheesy and it makes me well up a bit (cos I'm daft like that). And they start with strains of 'Anji' which was a signature tune for Bert, then it segues into a quiet then thunderous crescendo of their own, which is superb.
Then, I really did come home to write this blog. And, writing it, I listened to a favourite album of many years, 'Bert and John' created in the year of my birth by two greats of the guitar. What a pairing, what an album.
RIP, the quite wonderful Mr Jansch.
