Back to Back

The last few days have been a total whirlwind of sporting, musical, theatrical and political activity.

First and foremost, England pulled their finger out and beat Slovenia to go through into the next deciding round. As much as I feared for the English nation as I watched the match with heart in mouth, I also feared for the loss of my Australian nationality as I find myself utterly consumed by GO ENGLAND fervour.


The heat at the moment is a welcome change but it does remind me how ill equipped London infrastructure is for anything hotter than 18 celcius. This was evident on Tuesday night when I sweltered along with thousands of others at the otherwise excellent Brixton Academy for the Scissor Sisters concert. Jake and Ana's return to the stage was a triumph. Hot as we all were, their music and theatrics compelled us all to jump up and down for hours, complete with jazz hands and many ironic, bouffant hairstyles:


Back to Back Theatre have been on my radar for years. Based in Geelong, Australia, they provide a performance platform for actors with disabilities. Their show Food Court debuted in London at the Barbican last night. I'd been wanting to see see them for years so my expectations had built up accordingly. What a bummer it was then, when they all came crashing down. What to say? The piece seemed unfinished, as if the collective had workshopped it to a point and then ran out of time. The actors themselves were fantastic but the tempo and structure of the play let them down.

Note to dramaturg - no need to bludgeon the audience. We Get It. How about some humour? Even people with disabilties like to laugh.


As much as I've assimilated into being a Brit, I was relieved to find my inner Aussie was still very much alive on news that Julia Gillard was our new Prime Minister. And a red head at that!


On hearing the news I was shocked. Logging online, I quickly consulted the speediest news format available to me from Australia. Facebook. A cursory glance at the updates of all my Australian friends confirmed this swift reshuffle of the ALP leadership. There was nothing in the British news about this much apart from that fact that Julia was born in Wales.

Shame on you Murdoch. And you being an Australian too.

A new day has dawned in my (other)home country and the debate that is following fills me with hope. The inertia that surrounds politics seems to have been shaken off for now. A fervour lit by a Redhead is taking hold. Let's see what happens....

England vs Algeria

I don't mean to piss on an open wound but consider this in relation to England's appalling performance on Friday against Algeria. A comparison of our national anthems:

Algeria:

We swear by the lightning that destroys,
By the streams of generous blood being shed,
By the bright flags that wave,
Flying proudly on the high mountains,
That we have risen up, and whether we live or die,
We are resolved that Algeria shall live -
So be our witness -be our witness - be our witness!

We are soldiers in revolt for truth
And we have fought for our independence.
When we spoke, none listened to us,
So we have taken the noise of gunpowder as our rhythm
And the sound of machine guns as our melody,
We are resolved that Algeria shall live -
So be our witness -be our witness -be our witness!

England:

God save our gracious Queen!
Long live our noble Queen!
God save the Queen!
Send her victorious,
Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen.

Thy choicest gifts in store
On her be pleased to pour,
Long may she reign.
May she defend our laws,
And give us ever cause,
To sing with heart and voice,
God save the Queen.

Says it all really. We are lame, lame, lame.

Have you taken a look at Slovenia’s?… .

RPM

The past few months have seen a few firsts happen in my life. I’ve run my first marathon, played in my first piano recital and also, attended my first RPM class.

For the uninitiated, RPM stands for Revolutions Per Minute. Meaningless in itself, the term has been repackaged by the Les Mills global sports franchise into an indoor cycle class that mimics outdoors cycling. At least that’s what it says on the package.

The marathon had left me with a foot injury which means that I have been unable to run, dance, jump; do any high impact activity for the past month. To hold stir craziness and boredom at bay, I’ve been swimming, cycling, yoga-ing and pilat-ing but it hasn’t really worked. I got bored.

I needed more variation.

My husband, a RPM fan had been urging me to go for months.

Give it a go, he said religiously until weakened by his nagging, I succumbed.

So at the ungodly hour of 7.15am, I found myself perched on top of a stationary bicycle in a dark, airless room with 30 other people, all there to “feel the burn” Thankfully the instructor, a lycra -clad Australian seemed not prone to the fake cheering or whooping that inflicts many of his type (Fitness instructors. Not Australians). As the thumping music started, everyone around me started churning away at their pedals in Lance Armstrong fashion.

I started to feel quite peculiar. The room started to close in. My chest felt tight. I had an overwhelming urge to run outside and gasp in cool, clear air.

Did I listen to my body’s’ good sense? Did I leave the class before passing out from claustrophobia?

No. I kept going. Why?

Because I needed to feel the burn, baby.

Overcrowded. Tick. Airless. Tick. Dark. Tick. Welcome to RPM

Succumbing to the oxygen-deprived psychosis that RPM inflicts, I pedalled away. Up imaginary hills, around imaginary tracks; all the while humming the tune, We’re On the Road to Nowhere beneath my breath:

We're on a ride to nowhere
Come on inside
Takin' that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride...


At last the class ended and I collapsed in a sweaty, spun out heap. My heart rate was off the charts. The burn had well and truly been felt.

So how did you find it? asked the Husband who had been pedalling away in his own Tour de France fantasy next to me.

It sucked. It’s stupid.

Eloquent as I am, I didn’t mention to him that I was planning to go again.

Suckerrrrr. That's me.

The Buffalo Bar

So I went along last night to the Buffalo Bar on Upper Street to hear a friend’s band play. The last time I had been to a live gig, the dinosaurs still roamed the earth. The bar rated well on my personal dank factor scale which filled the night with promise. As the music and beer kicked in and the space around started filling up with punters, I had the same reaction I get every time I drag myself out to hear live music.

Why don’t I do this more often?

Actually that’s not strictly true. I went to a Get Connected charity gig for in April organised by a friend of mine. It was held at the Hoxton Underbelly and featured three up and coming bands which entertained us amply and well. I would have preferred a little more sweaty crowd moshing but that’s just me.

So it wasn’t that long ago. Only two months. Why does it feel like centuries?

Because there was a certain period of time in my life where I would go to gigs on Tues, Weds, Thurs, Fri, Sat and Sun. Every Thursday the local gig guide would come out and I would plan my week accordingly.

I was a groupie. For gigs. Alas uni days ended and full-time work beckoned. Talk about responsibility being a killjoy.


Gigs are cheap, easy to come by and on all night, every night. They don’t require you to sit quietly as in a theatre or cinema. You can move around. You can talk. You can leave when you want and come late. You can dance. They’re usually at night in the dark so you can look like crap and it doesn’t matter.

I love going to gigs. Why don’t I do it more often?