Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy: Smiley Culture

So much happens in my day-to-day life that reminds me of my Dad. When he wasn't jetting off round the world building machines to create the finest Worsted suit cloth money could buy, Pater and I idled away countless hours watching telly together. The perfect 1970s Saturday - World Of Sport, Dickie Davis (perhaps wrestling from some Northern town hall - I may write more of my shady 70s wrestling past soon), Pink Panther cartoons straight after Final Score, then a big plate of beige food (rustled up by Mum, before she'd head off to work nights as a nurse at the local hospital), followed by whatever sitcom the BBC was showing, likely to be The Two Ronnies (my Dad idolised Ronnie Barker). Then, there'd be Parkinson, Match Of The Day, often with a late-night grand finale of a Hammer Horror double bill. I could stay up until whenever I liked (often going to bed completely shitting myself - I used to fling myself onto my mattress from the doorway light switch, so Dracula / Frankenstein / assorted other ghouls couldn't make a grab for my legs from underneath the bed).

And Sundays: Weekend World with Brian Walden (always awash with politics, our house), Ski Sunday, The Money Programme (from an early age, honestly, I did - he'd mutter gruffly "watch this, you might actually learn something" - I hated it). He enjoyed spy thrillers, read le Carré, Len Deighton, Jack Higgins, Alistair MacLean. I clearly remember watching 'Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy' on Sunday evenings with him. That Alec Guinness was cast as George Smiley was heaven. Dad loved Ealing Comedy too, and both Kind Hearts and Coronets and The Ladykillers remain dear to me, thanks to him.

By George, he had it.

So, when I heard they were making a film of Tinker, Tailor..., I was thrilled and worried in equal parts. I mean - who else could possibly play Smiley? John le Carré had made it clear he thought Alec Guinness personified Smiley, even writing with Guinness's performance in mind in his later novels.

Gary Oldman. GARY OLDMAN???

Nothing Smiley about that.

Don't get me wrong. Ever since I saw Gary Oldman as Bex in Alan Clarke's The Firm, I've harboured a great big fat schoolgirl crush. Finding him completely believable as the well-dressed football-firm head thug (let's cross-reference with any slop containing Danny Dyer here, and see who comes up trumps), and watching him channel such intensity in his performance stuck with me. I hoped to see much more of this actor. Turned out that he'd really excel at doing nutter, Mr Oldman. Masterful at unhinged. Sid & Nancy, Leon, True Romance, Dracula - no romantic leads here, ta. But Smiley? Cool, calm, dispassionate Smiley?

So, lets cut to it. I've just absorbed an early evening showing at the Phoenix cinema in Finchley, mesmerised by the most beautiful production of John le Carré's superb book. Everything about the film of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was a joy. Stunning direction and cinematography. Superb casting (hats off to Jina Jay). A perfect colour palette and set dressing par excellence. Congratulations must go to the art director and production designer, who have created a piece of film-making that perfectly evokes the era. Peeling wallpaper, grubby streets, rusting window frames - every scene has a subdued grimness that transports the viewer right back to an era of strikes, austerity and Cold War paranoia. And Gary Oldman? Excellent. Self-contained, brooding, and held slightly more sex appeal for me, because there's no way I ever fancied a crack at Sir Alec.

I spy with my little eye...something beginning with 'brilliant'.

(Postscript 1: in memory of dear Dad, I downloaded (yup, my Luddite days are over, folks - I've actually gone and downloaded something off that Internet thing) the Alec Guinness Tinker Tailor onto my iPad. On returning from the Phoenix last night, I'm happy to report that I watched two small-screen episodes (it's surprisingly good for this sort of thing, the iPad) and they were excellent, completely stood the test of time. The opening credits of those Russian dolls transported me back, remembering my 12 year-old self in Yorkshire, the fug of that smoke-filled living room...and a daft bit of me likes to think my Dad was there last night, watching Sir Alec with me.)

(Postscript 2: Came within a hair's breadth of meeting Gary Oldman recently. The very lovely Hamish Brown was asked to photograph him for an article in Radio Times. The shoot took place at the Soho Hotel, where I hear Mr Oldman was charming and easy- going, and happy to do whatever was asked of him (and believe me, the glitterati aren't always this way). Sadly, no chance of me being spared from a busy office, which probably saved me from making a right gushing tit of myself. Lucky me, our Hamish has done a very kind thing and has gifted me a beautiful black and white shot to hang on my wall. There'll be swooning in my hallway most mornings from this point onwards.)

Sigh.

Spring: Gettin' Busy With It

Sometimes, I wonder where time goes. Well, I can tell you. It flies. When you’re having fun (and other stuff), that is. It’s been a busy start to Spring.

Popping into my favourite café one day for bunting chat, it turned out that Massimo was a little short-staffed. And so, my new temporary employ as waitress began. I managed to get through a whole Saturday and Sunday without major incident (apart from a little spilt milk, which I didn’t bother crying over). According to my new boss, I acquitted myself very well, and there’s a job for me if I decide to change career direction:

Small Helping

Lucky me, I was invited along to The Borderline to see Arbouretum play (by Anthea at Thrill Jockey records). I’d wanted to see them for a while, but the last time they played, I was away Down Under. So, I rocked up at The Borderline for an evening of heavy noodling. It’s a small world, this. I bumped into Michael Singing Adams, whose girlfriend Lucy also works at Thrill Jockey. I had no idea. I see them at so many gigs, but never knew what she did for her spending money. Thoroughly enjoyable evening - Arbouretum were well worth waiting for. I haven't seen a band look so pleased to be applauded in ages. They kept putting their thumbs up. I love this.

Somerset House was holding the second Pick Me Up, this year curated by a friend and graphic design favourite of mine, Anthony Burrill. Anthony is a clever man – his work is so simple, and often plagiarised. It’s a standing joke that my home is like a little museum of his work. Anthony very kindly gave me a really nice goody bag of his stuff and I bought a print by Linus Kraemer, depicting 360˚ of cake. I like cake, me.

Met Up with Helen P, Lou W and Scooter Steve (he wants to be known as this on my blog – just passed his bike test, he thinks Biker Boy sounds a bit on the camp side, and that pointing out he has a scooter is a little bit cooler, in an espresso-sipping/Dolce Vita kinda way. I've explained carefully that he won't get a new girlfriend by having a snappy moniker on my blog - getting a decent personality would work better). Saw The Boss from Blunt too. She was slightly worse for wear, having been up until 3am at a friend’s surprise birthday party. I think the only reason she came along was because Ian Stevenson, one of the very fine graphic artists Blunt represents, was part of the exhibition and doing a spot of DJing at the event. It was good to see Ian and his luxurious beard, whose work (his work, not the beard – the beard is brilliant, but its talent for art has yet to be discovered) is superb, funny and with a dark side that appeals to me greatly:

The Beard can't draw...yet

All this fun culminated in a massive piss-up at Aces and Eights. This is a relatively new bar by Tufnell Park tube station – painted black with diner-style booths, bit American dive bar, with a selection of decent whiskey and beer (LouLou - come back from NY soon - it's like Dick Manitoba's lite). There are a row of bras hung above the bar – I think the premise goes that if you hang up your bra, you drink for free. This was very tempting, as the imported ale I was necking was over £4 a bottle. Wisdom, however, decreed The Lads should stay in their lacy confines. It was a good night. Lots of old friends, some not so old, all good company. DJ played some top tunes, which culminated in me acting out, in bastardised sign language, the entire lyrics of Bat Out Of Hell. There was also a picking-up competition. Newly named Scooter Steve won this by trumping me, picking up both me AND Lou W at the same time. Like some mental Scales Of Justice. Hilarious.

I had a photoshoot for The Times at The Royal Albert Hall with Hamish. Hamish Brown is a well-known portrait photographer – he’s snapped pretty much every famous modern footballer you can imagine, and a whole heap of top musicians (his shots of Iggy and Dave Grohl are two of my favourites). It was a pretty straightforward shoot, but this didn’t stop me from having a bit of a sleepless night (will pre-shoot nerves ever go away?). It was a nice team on the shoot, all was going well. Until the schoolkids turned up. 200 of ‘em. With bongos:

Little bongo-bashing fuckers

My views on bongos are well documented. Bongos are fine when placed within musical arrangements, preferably as part of a combo, kept within a properly constructed tune. Not just fucking getting banged on randomly by some crystal-toting trustafarian outside his tent at a festival at 7am. Or, by some idiot standing right next to me on a train platform while I was trying to get to work in peace (fo' real - picture my indignation – if he hadn’t been so handsome, I’d have decked him). Needless to say, the acoustics in the RAH are excellent. So, try and imagine the aural hell for me as 200 little shits knock their skins about while I’m trying to work. Aaw, bless ‘em.

Luckily, I got out at a reasonable time, meaning that I could catch up with pals to see Pål. Pål being the Norwegian phenomenon that is Moddi. Met up with Kieran, Bernie, Nads and Scooter Steve (how long can I keep calling him that? It may get shortened to SS, but the worry there is if I put him in a black leather trenchcoat, he actually might look a bit Herr Flick). Benjamin Folke Thomas on first. He had a good voice, decent fingerpicking, and quite a good line in chat between songs. Moddi up next. He has a new cellist this time (I hear from The Scot this is a regular occurrence – ten a penny, these pretty and talented cellists in Norway, it would seem). His performance was excellent, but I think because I’d seen him do such an amazing set quite recently, it didn’t blow me away quite so much. Maybe it’s because I was so tired from my 5am start. Briefly saw The Scot and Ken, his music PR friend. Ken seemed quite pissed, The Scot didn’t. Hence, Ken was very funny and making some truly terrible jokes, which were rendered brilliant by their sheer crapness. Saw some of Ed Laurie, but by now I was flagging badly – I think I may have started to nod off…sorry, Ed.

Next night, we were very kindly invited by Elbow’s management to see them play at The O2 arena. I’m no fan of big gigs. I struggle with anything bigger than The Forum, it’s just not my cup of tea and most of the acts I want to see wouldn’t be playing somewhere like that anyway. And I've been listening to a lot of Bad Brains, not Elbow. But thanks to Hamish doing a sterling job on their recent PR shots, we were being treated and actually, a treat was in store.

Despite my reservations, it was a lovely experience. We travelled to the venue by riverboat; collected our treat tickets; sat in front row seats; watched a great band do some top songs; saw a witty, charming front man have an audience in his Northern palm; had a thoroughly good evening. I even shed a tear at one point (bloody pathetic – must get a grip, and also a bit more sleep).

All this fun has to have a downside – it came in the form of a two-day stomach bug with added flu symptoms. And so, as Spring has now officially sprung, I’ll be doing a little personal Spring cleaning. Which means nothing more racy or exciting than taking better care of my poor, fragile old body, getting fit (I'm in the market for new trainers and a tennis racket tomorrow) and maybe painting my toenails. Cos that’s how I Spring roll.