Wrestling With My Past

Since reading Luke Haines’ very excellent ‘Bad Vibes: Britpop And My Part In Its Downfall’, the man seems to be everywhere I turn. Considering I was no fan of The Auteurs (sorry) or Black Box Recorder (double sorry), I’m now quite fascinated with him. The main reason for this is not just because his book was so well-written, completely bitchy, hilarious and couldn’t-give-a-shit superb, but because he’s made a concept album about British wrestling in the 1970s.

That’s right. A concept album. About wrestling. Listen:

I mentioned in a recent post about watching TV wrestling with my Dad on a Saturday afternoon when I was a kid, and hinted that there may be a more murky wrestling past I could reveal. Well, here you go – I used to be a wrestling groupie. Admittedly, I was only about five or six years old, and there was nothing more untoward going on than getting picked up and held aloft by various stars of the Bri-Nylon trunk brigade.

‘Uncle’ George (not a real uncle – you know, one of those people who your Mum and Dad made you call Uncle or Auntie, because they’re good mates with them) ran the wrestling at Huddersfield Town Hall in the early 1970s, and I’d get taken along to watch the greats Half-Nelson and Boston Crab each other to death. It seemed so glamorous (I’m not kidding). My Mum and Dad would be done up to the nines, my hair would have been made into ringlets like Lena Zavaroni (always a sign we were going somewhere swanky). Backstage would involve saying hello to whoever was working up a sweat in their Speedos that evening.

Extensive investigative research (extensive investigative research = me, Mum, laughing over a Sunday Roast last week, her regaling me with various tales) has revealed that we were ringside regulars. My favourite two wrestlers were Bert Royal and Vic Faulkner, a tag team. I absolutely loved Bert Royal, possibly my first sporting crush (closely followed by the boxer Alan Minter):

First love - Bert. A middle-aged man in underpants.

Second love - Alan. Handsome man in boxer shorts - I still think he's gorgeous.

I met Kendo Nagasaki, the masked fighter, and his hilarious manager, Gorgeous George (now immortalised by Mr. Haines). There was Cry Baby (Jim Breaks) – my Dad couldn’t stand him. Sadly, I never got to meet either of the Big Two – Giant Haystacks or Big Daddy (my Sister met Big Daddy - I have wrestler envy). Watch this clip - honestly, it's superb - I am almost crying - the commentary, Steve Logan's legs, everything about Gorgeous George, the theatrics - priceless entertainment:

I did have a memorable incident with the other most famous British wrestler of the time – Mick McManus. As he was sitting around after his bout, ‘Uncle’ George and Mum took me over to meet Mick. Mick picked me up and sat me on his knee. And I promptly started blubbing, saying out loud “I don’t like his ears, they're horrible”. Mick McManus was famous for having cauliflower ears, and couldn’t stand them being touched when he wrestled. This absolutely cracks me up, and my Mum has me in stitches when she tells the story. I threw a proper fit. He’d probably just chucked some pot-bellied grown man around in his underpants for twenty minutes, then having a nice rest, he gets some snotty little brat pointing out that his lugholes are a bit unattractive. Poor Mick.

He was a broken man after I'd finished with him.

(Postscript: I've had a further coincidence involving Luke Haines. Towards the end of his excellent book, he revealed that The Auteurs appeared reluctantly on the pilot for the Chris Evans egofest that was TFI Friday. The passage tells of his experience recording the show, culminating in the moment when, standing at the faux-bar run by the faux-landlord in the television studio (remember?), Evans calls across the bar to offer Luke a drink:

"Evans beckons again. 'Drink?' It's a do-or-die situation. I take the latter option. I look him in the eye across the bar and slowly and deliberately mouth two words at him: 'Fuck. You.' And then: 'Cunt.' It's an afterthought, and it registers. He half smiles and walks out of my eye line. He knows."

Blondie and I appeared on the same pilot show. On a buying trip to London Town, we were wandering down Oxford Street early one Monday, when we spotted Danny Baker loitering in Topshop's doorway. "Sniffin' Glue!" we called out, which made him look round - it was an early punk fanzine he wrote for in the 1970s. He came out to chat, then asked if we'd like to be filmed whilst being told a joke by the Ginger One for a new TV show he's making. We agreed, because we're nothing if not open to suggestion, me and Blondie. Carrot Top appears - he is very tall and rather a charmer (not to be confused with 'charming'). He tells his joke, as he holds up a large cardboard tray of eggs "What's the difference between this tray of eggs and the English cricket team? This tray of eggs haven't been beaten yet.". Dreadful. I thumbed towards Evans, and said "he's a funny man" whilst rolling my eyes. Blondie was meanwhile putting her tongue firmly in her cheek, glancing slyly to camera. Our finest hour. When the show aired on the Friday evening, we were local heroes, and "he's a funny man" became a catchphrase. I don't think we'd have gotten away with "Fuck. You. Cunt." Hats off to Luke Haines for top potty mouthing.)

Nick Drake: A Rare, Rare Find

The Handsome Climber introduced me to the music of Nick Drake. Our mutual love of American hardcore of the 80s was tempered by some right softy stuff too. I clearly remember being curled up in bed one night - he hopped out to turn off the light in his little student room, pressing play on his cassette deck (I miss you, my plastic tape friends) and the room filling with "Time Has Told Me". There was no going back. I thought "River Man" was one of the loveliest things I'd ever heard. Something in me almost popped when I listened to his 'Bryter Later' album for the first time. A few years ago, on an emotional trip home, 'Northern Sky' came on my headphones as my London train sped homeward through Yorkshire, and I made a right tit of myself, tears pouring down my face.

So, Laura Barton's piece in this morning's Guardian, about some bloke in the 1970s finding an old cassette in a skip outside Island Records with 'Nick Drake' and 'Cello Song' scribbled on it, made my heart skip a beat. Seems unlikely I'll get to hear the piece, though, as it isn't due for general release - Michael Burdett, the skip forager, did nothing with the tape for years, then recently had the novel idea of photographing the reaction of people, as they listen through headphones to this previously unheard version. I'm not entirely sure what I think of this, but as it's the marriage of two of my great loves - photography and Nick Drake - it'd be churlish not to go and have a nosy. The exhibition will be on at the Ideas Generation Gallery in London from the 27th January until 12th February:

http://gallery.ideageneration.co.uk/pages/434/view

Have a butchers at Ms. Barton's article here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2012/jan/24/nick-drake-strange-face-project

He was never ready for his close-up, Mr deMille.

(Postscript: I laughed as I always do at the comments on The Guardian site - slap on the back for Space Peanut commenting at 25/01/12 11.28am "Fearne Cotton has heard this song and I have not...". I laughed briefly. Then it hit me: Fearne. Fucking. Cotton. Has. Heard. This. Song. And. I. Have. Not. Beggars belief.)

Pop Noire: Their Dark Material

Tuesday. Worst day of the week by an imperial mile. It’s nowhere. Even Monday has its saving graces. Once Monday is over, you honestly feel like you’ve achieved something, even if it’s only the superlative feat of having gotten out of bed and made it through a whole day at work. When I was more of a lady of leisure, Tuesday held no dread for me. All days blurred into a happy haze of wellingtons, walks on the Heath, sipping tea in cafes. Being poorer than a church mouse put paid to that sort of malarkey, and now I’m working 9-5 (ain’t no way to make a livin’ – oh, I hear you, Dolly P).

So, Tuesday, Tuesday – how to ease the pain you bring? Well, be lucky enough to have pals put on a spectacular showcase of top music in a great little venue. The Shacklewell Arms chaps probably couldn’t believe their luck. Tuesday, the day notorious for people saying stuff like “Go out? On the worst night of the week? Are you out of your tiny?”. Probably like a beer morgue in there most Tuesdays.

But not this Tuesday. Pop Noire are up to their musical tricks again, giving London Town a real treat with its first view of Savages and Lescop. The place was packed to its shabby rafters, the joint truly jumping. First up, Savages. Savages are the new project from Jehn of John & Jehn fame (aka my lovely French pal, Camille). And jesus, they were good. How to describe? Hints of Patti Smith, Siouxsie, Velvets, shoegaze, punk – loved it. And so did the crowd. My funny, smart, gorgeous friend has a stunning voice, intense and compelling to watch. “Hypnotic” according to a gentleman friend. No-one could believe Savages are a new band - tight, polished, cool. Great tunes, top attitude.

A nice pot of Guinness later (I’m virtually teetotal since NYE, folks), and we’re getting the super tunes of Lescop. Having watched the boys in Paris back in November, I was pleased to see them playing off safe home turf and still having a crowd whistling and whooping for more. When Matthieu asked the ladies in the audience to move closer, the ladies moved closer – gladly. Superb evening, good crowd, great atmosphere. Who says Tuesday can’t rock?

(Postscript: My lovely friends asked me very nicely if I’d have a houseguest at Disgracelands, not enough room at the Pop Noire inn. I was more than happy to have Antoine, their Pop Noire partner-in-crime, stay over – he’s a lovely gentleman. As I’ve already posted Lescop’s video on an earlier blog, I think I’ll show you a beautiful bit of film-making by Antoine for a song by his friends, the very wonderful John & Jehn. Antoine is supremely talented, but far too modest to blow his own trumpet, so I’ll blow it for him (oh, leave it, you lot).

http://www.popnoire.com/

Root Of All Evil

Following an enjoyable few days (DTB at The Lexington – mesmerising, an evening with Les French and The Scot – good company as ever, The Haberdashery – superb cake, a jaunt to look at my new home out East – nervewracking and exciting), a small adult refreshment with The Marrieds made a sweet finale to my weekend.

I arrived at the drinker of choice, where they lay in wait. The second he laid eyes on me, Lord Married got his phone out and said “oh, you’ll know about this” and proceeded to show me something…well, I knew not quite what.

It looked like a badly whittled stick. Turns out the picture features on a page for the source of much knowledge (and often a source of much hilarity for me), Wikipedia. The page in question is about ‘figging’.

Right, you lot – hands up who knows what ‘figging’ is when it’s at home?

I’m imagining not many of you. Here you go - prepare to broaden your mind (if nothing else):

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Figging

What the flipping fuck? Quite honestly, I had no idea. I’m now slightly concerned about the public perception of me. “Oh, you’ll know about this” – HOW? WHY? The thought of me inviting any of my gentleman callers to pop a pared bit of fiery root up my behind is, quite frankly, highly unlikely. I’m a nice, old-fashioned girl. The only orifice I’m putting ginger into at the moment is my mouth, coupled with hot water and some lovely honey because I’m full of bloody cold.

Oh, and into my cakes. But rest assured, lucky recipients – the ginger in my baking has come straight out of a jar from Waitrose. Not my arse.

(Postscript: actually, I come from a long line of nice, old-fashioned girls. A few years ago, Little Mum was celebrating her 75th birthday. We took the old darling to her favourite Chinese restaurant, a rather swanky affair near Leeds. The accountant brother-in-law looks after their books, and in turn, they did a lovely job of looking after us. Following a spectacular feed, the charming owner brought out a special treat for Little Mum, one of those ridiculous banana-masquerading-as-penis affairs, a tiny bit bizarre for such an eatery. 10 out of 10 for creativity, though - they used that crispy seaweed stuff to depict the pubes. "Ooooh!", squealed Little Mum in delight when she saw her pudding. And, as she went to lick the tip of the banana, she confided in a conspiratorial tone..."I've never done this with a real one". Try and imagine the faces of her daughters, her teenage grandson, her son-in-law. Laughed my head off. Then thought, "bloody hell - poor Dad, god rest his soul".)

NB: bell end is a lychee. Genius.

**NEWSFLASH!** Picture above has caused much jollity among those of you who hadn't already seen it. What I've just discovered via my blogging stats is that it's been downloaded quite a bit in the last few days since posted here. This makes me wonder if, a) I have unwittingly become a pusher of geriatric porn and a filthy network of granny fiddlers are using it to get their kicks, or b) like me, people find this picture so sweet yet utterly hilarious that they now have it as their screensaver. I'm hoping the latter, and that Little Mum becomes an internet sensation known as "lovely grey-haired old dear performing fellatio on that banana".

Zimmer Stardust: Dave is 65

Ooh, look out, you rock 'n' rollers! The Thin White Duke has collected his bus pass. And so, in his honour, Disgracelands is having a Dave Day. The sounds of Ziggy, Aladdin and various other alter egos are filling the air. He's one of only a handful of artists who get to be called by just their Christian name in my iTunes (Dave and Jimi and Ella and Janis and Elvis - I'm not counting Madonna, I'm not sure she's a real person - and I'm possibly the only person alive who doesn't own any Adele - or Cher, come to think of it).

Little point me rattling on about the vast swathes of artists Dave has influenced - there are books and magazines written by the professionals for you people to read if you're after that sort of thing. I can only speak for little ol' me, and he's been a mainstay for over 30 years - my Mott The Hoople loving beardy bro-in-law saw to that back in the late 1970s.

Dave and Mick - dream team. Imagine seeing it on TOTP back in July 1972.

I'd have been straight down John Lewis haberdashery for a bag of sequins.

Gives great face too, Dave. And not just when bedecked with a swoosh of lightning lipstick à la Aladdin Sane, or slicked back swaggering Berlin era - superb style. An image taken by Terry O'Neill, a promo for Diamond Dogs - it's one of my favourite rock images of all-time. Black and white rock 'n' roll majesty:

Diamond.

When I was younger, I remember thinking the Tia Maria woman was exotic and gorgeous.

Would you Adam & Eve it - it's only Dave's bloody missus!

Once upon a time, not long after I became a single girl, I headed for a little drinkie with The Ladies in The French House. It's a long story (we still laugh about it now), but an immaculately dressed gentleman (I'm talking Helmut Lang, perfect navy tiny polka dot tie, silk handkerchief in the breast pocket, the works) took a shine to this scruffy oik and would not take no for an answer. A witty, silver-tongued Beau Brummel. He offered me drinks (no, thanks), a ride in his fancy car (really, no thanks), suggested a night of unbridled passion in a swanky hotel of my choosing (I SAID NO. ARE YOU DEAF?). At this point, The Ladies were egging me on, as they became quite enamoured of the man they named Mr Big (it was a bit Sex And The City, but my shoes were less fabulous and I weighed more than a pork scratching). And he was trier - I've always been a big admirer of persistance. As we chatted about music, Dave was discussed in depth and the clever blighter knew his stuff. And he almost had me when he said his favourite Bowie album was Hunky Dory.

NB: almost. (We later discovered Mr Big was a millionaire hedge fund manager. Hilarious.)

(Postscript: just read a nice piece by Alexis Petridis from Friday's Guardian: http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/2012/jan/06/david-bowie-turns-65 )