No IDea

So here’s a fun thing that happened to me over the Easter weekend.

I got ID-ed.

(That’s not the fun thing.)

Being baby of face, I’m fairly used to this scenario so flashed the cashier what I imagined to be an amused, world-weary and above all mature grin and handed over my learner’s driving licence.

The cashier looked from the card to me to the card again.

“Is not valid,” she barked.

I was ready for this too. Cashiers in England tend to have a bit of blind spot when it comes to Scottish banknotes and learner’s licences, and needless to say, I have a speech prepared for both occasions. I gave a droll chuckle and assured the cashier that driving licences were perfectly acceptable forms of identification.

“No. Is not valid.”

“Excuse me? Are you saying I’ve faked my ID?” I bleated. “This is ridiculous.” Then I added, unnecessarily dickishly, “Perhaps we should ask your supervisor?”

“No. I mean is EXPIRED.”

And it only bloody was. My learner’s driving licence expired in October last year.

I remember getting that licence aged 17 and thinking that I would be dead in ten years’ time. But here I was aged 28 in Sainsbury’s, clutching a bottle of gin and STILL NOT ABLE TO DRIVE.

The cashier gave me a look that encompassed the fury of Peter and the pity of the Madonna and bleeped the gin through.

I tried to say something witty, apologetic and self-effacing, but something was wrong with my face and all that came out was “Nuh. Nuhhhhhh.”

I need a new speech.

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Dry Run: Aliens vs. Robots Rumpus Party

Toy shop assistant: “Can I help you?”

Me: “Hi. I’m looking for facepaint?”

Assistant: “No problem. What age are you buying for?”

Me: “28.”

Assistant: “…”

Me: “I need to make my face erode to reveal an android skull?”

Assistant: “…”

Robot make-up

 

Sexy robot face

Smug robot face

Another productive evening at Dalrymple Towers.

Rumpus Party: Aliens vs. Robots, 15 April 2013

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Hope for me yet

Child prodigyThe driver of the 74 bus looked as though he had been awake for a million hours. I boarded, touched in, and immediately understood why. There was a guy in the aisle playing a guitar and singing loudly in Spanish.

The guy was not great at singing, but wow. He was enthusiastic. The low notes were coarse and fruity. The high notes sounded a little like someone gargling their way their way through a seizure. I considered filming him for a while, but decided that this might interrupt his flow and so just made my way to the top deck, sat back and enjoyed the show. Whenever the guy reached a particularly impassioned (strangled) part of the chorus, I may have given a little chuckle. It was glorious.

Then the guy got off and a six-year-old girl on the top deck started playing a shitty pop song through an iPhone and singing along.

If there’s one thing I really hate, it’s people playing music on public transport – whether it’s out loud, or tinnily through headphones*. Ugh ugh ugh. Rgggghhhhh. Rgggggggghhhhh. I could FEEL the joy draining out of me, my face tightening and puckering into a cat’s arse of pain and disappointment. I put my hood up, slumped in my seat, crossed my arms and glowered out of the window into the encroaching dark.

The singing stopped and I looked up. The little girl looked crestfallen, and it hit me. She had been performing for me. She’d clocked my reaction to Spanish wailing dude and decided that live performance was my thing, and she was performing for me.

There was only only one thing to do. With a superhuman effort, I gritted my teeth, inflated my cats arse, and went all out for a smile.

Because children remember stuff. They might not remember that they remember stuff, but remember they do (as this brilliant piece from last week’s The Onion illustrates). I remember TONS of stuff people around me said when I was young that I will be talking about in therapy when I am an old, old woman. The woman I assumed was the girl’s mother was chatting in Arabic on her own iPhone and totally ignoring her daughter. The girl stared at me. A child on the brink of a lifetime of neurosis.

So I smiled, and the little girl beamed. She BEAMED. Her mouth opened so wide, I thought the back of her head was going to fall off. She started singing again: her mum was still ignoring her, but she had an appreciative audience. She redoubled her efforts. It was horrible.

And I let it happen. I even inclined my head and did a little appreciative chuckle. And, as her mother continued to chat, I got to my feet, said ‘that was lovely!’ and got off four stops early.

BECAUSE I AM A GOOD PERSON AND POTENTIALLY A GOOD PARENT.

Message ends.

* it turns out that live music is fine

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FFS

Mooncup Rap Battle ad stillMooncup Ltd. I love you – you know that – but a tampon vs. menstrual cup rap battle?

SERIOUSLY?

 

 

Crunch time. Can I continue to evangelise for a product whose latest campaign makes my skin try to crawl away and hide?

See also: Marketing Menstruation, or, Why D For Dalrymple Should Be In Charge Of Telly Adverts (July 2012)

Marketing Menstruation (part two): Revolutionary Bodyform Ad Uses The Actual Word ‘Blood’ (October 2012)

Period dramas (December 2011)

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Beyonce – Lip-syncing – Whevs

Beyonce Faking It? If for whatever reason you HAVEN’T been desultorily trawling the web for updates on this story, discussing it on Google Chat with a wide circle of your acquaintance, or refreshing Twitter every four minutes to assess the public mood around the subject, here’s the situation.

Beyonce Knowles-Carter – internationally-acclaimed recording artist, live performer and all-round diva fabulosa – was down to sing the Star Spangled Banner at Monday’s US Presidential Inauguration, and some people are saying she lip-synced it. That is to say, she sang full-throttle into a mic that she knew to be switched off while a pre-recorded track was played through the speakers.

It hasn’t yet been confirmed whether this happened (or didn’t happen – whatever), but there are people out there who feel realllllllly strongly about it.

Twitter reacts to the Beyonce lip-syncing non-story

In all honesty, I’m finding the whole thing pretty hard to get worked up over. But since for two hours today I had cause to believe I might be interviewed about it by the BBC World Service and therefore wrote lots of notes, I’ll try.

I can see how some people might feel betrayed about the whole pretending-to-sing-live-but-actually-not-singing-live thing, especially since, if it wasn’t live, the powers that be appear to have tried their best to make it seem as though it was (at one point, she does a dramatic pulling out of her earpiece thing, as if so overcome by patriotism, emotion and the presence of Michelle Obama mere feet away, she no longer gives heed to tuning or The Man. There’s even the sound of wind on a mic).

Then there’s the fact that Beyonce is a professional singer, whose job is, technically, to be able to sing live to lots of people. So I can see how it might feel a little bit disappointing if you focus on that.

But am I surprised? Not really.

I don’t think many people appreciate how hard it is to sing when you’re being amplified. Those noises you make in the shower may sound great, but are not at all the same as singing into a microphone in front of a large group of people. Take it from someone who knows.

In November  I was lucky enough to sing with Voce live with the Rolling Stones at London’s O2 arena*.

Voce/LYC being APPLAUDED by the ROLLING STONES

My experience with microphones before this: various choral recordings, and a Holst Singers / Imogen Heap project at the Roundhouse. The O2 was somewhat different.

At rehearsals and soundchecks we were miked, earpieced and given a stern lecture by a roadie on the vital importance of not talking, whispering, or making weird noises of any kind on stage. If we did any of these things, we were told, it would be picked up, amplified and transmitted to 20,000 people, all of whom would boo and throw things.

That’s all fine, but what we hadn’t anticipated was the fact that in the event we could not even hear ourselves over the noise of the crowd. I could have shouted obscenities into the mic (and it was touch and go for a while) and while the arena would have heard every word somewhere within that texture, I wouldn’t have. We just had to sing, trust our tuning, and hope for the best. Obviously, because Voce are amazing, it was fine.

Voce/LYC on stage at the O2

This was INSIDE.

Now imagine it’s outside, with considerably more than 20,000 people screaming and singing along, and wind, and possibly other kinds of inclement weather, and highly assassinable people standing close by, that you haven’t had a rehearsal, and that if you fuck this up, people will be LOL FAILing you on YouTube for the rest of your short career.

Beyonce would be a fucking idiot if she didn’t lip-sync. To be honest, I’m surprised she didn’t just Skype in for that part of the ceremony.

When you think about it, the bigger story here is that if Beyonce was lip-syncing, then presumably an ENTIRE BRASS BAND was also lip-syncing. Is anyone giving THEM any grief?

No. Next!

PS. If any outraged readers want to enjoy some quality live music-making, they should come to one of my forthcoming concerts with the Holst Singers (2 March) and Voce Chamber Choir (17 March).  By lucky coincidence, both choirs will be performing the National Anthem, live, with ALL of the extra notes.

Star Spangled Banner - For Sporting Events

* Why yes, this whole post was a roundabout way of shoehorning this in.

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Review: The Hobbit

20121226-202559.jpgThe traffic was horrific and Westfield itself, a circle of hell. However, now I am back home and in possession of a gin that will, I hope, paralyse me, I can offer the following review of The Hobbit:

Short people, swords, beards, man-plaits, singing, swords, trolls, shouting, fighting, swords, goblins, preciousssss, fire, falls, penises swords, hairy bromance, stirring music, dragon. And ONE female character who appears to be heavily sedated throughout and whose first ‘action’ is to receive a compliment on her youthful appearance.

Don’t talk to me about spoilers. We all knew this was going to happen.

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Crisis

It happened so quickly. I sat there, wedged in the too-narrow chair, a drink lodged uselessly in my hand as the colour drained from my world. Then a sharp intake of breath as the harsh, inescapable fact of it hit me: an invisible punch to the chest.

My first impulse was to run, escape – hide. God only knows what I blurted out by way of goodbye as I gathered my things together and stumbled to the door.

Homeward bound, I cycled through all the emotions you’d expect – shock, anger, betrayal, humiliation. Back home I stood under the shower for hours, weeping, trying to wash it all away. But when I wiped the steam from the mirror, it was to find the same desperate reflection staring back.

Why didn’t I see it coming? In retrospect, it’s so clear. The warning signs were there. But I was so convinced that everything would be fine – so wanted everything to be fine – that I ignored them.

God. I feel so stupid.

Alone in my flat, I desperately scan our conversations for the thing, the things – the idiotic, pointless things I must have said to make this happen. And I’m tormented by an unending tickertape stream of things that remain unsaid: the doubts unaddressed, the instincts stamped down, the reassurances that could have been made, but weren’t. And it’s too late. Too late to say anything. Too late to save it.

I so desperately want to have hope, but how can anything be salvaged from this? The roots of what we – of what I once had are so, so damaged.

This is the worst fucking haircut I’ve ever had.

20121219-125921.jpg

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