This time three weeks ago I was in sunny Mallorca, enjoying the dramatic scenery from the pool bar at a lovely little hotel called the HSM President in a little place called Alcanada, just along the coast from Alcudia. We were there for a week's all-inclusive relaxation, a little light tourism and, well, gluttony essentially. The Yorkshireman and I had planned our break thinking that our recent holidays had all been very on-the-go and busy, so perhaps it was time to chill out in the sun for a while instead.
What we had forgotten (and what we rediscover about ourselves every time we try to take time out to relax and then promptly forget again after about a week back at work) is that we are not good at relaxing. We get bored fairly quickly. Lying on a sunbed all day is pretty much the most pointless thing I think either of us could think of. You get hot and risk sunburn and lie very still and quiet for, like, hours at a time. Where's the fun?! Nope, the Yorkshireman and I are people who enjoy making the most of our time and so what was supposed to be a week purely relaxing in our carefully-selected, secluded little hotel turned out to be two days of struggling to relax and four days of finding other ways to entertain ourselves.
Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy the chance to just sit still for a change. I recall being very relaxed on our first full day there, sitting in the pool bar, overlooking the boats sailing on the sea and the mountains in the distance, sipping on some sangria and reading one of my holiday chick lit books (Here Come the Girls by Milly Johnson in case you're interested - thoroughly good candyflossy holiday read but, warning, it will make you want to go on a cruise). I think I could have quite happily spent my day meandering between doing that and feasting on the never-ending supply of food and drink (all-inclusive is very bad for the waistline!).
However I also had a husband to consider. A husband who would only sit in the shade because the sun made him too hot. A husband who does not find reading a fun way to pass a few hours and therefore struggled to find anything else portable enough to amuse himself for very long. A husband who was consistently itching to get up and go and do something. Anythingatall, seriously! On the plus side I think he got a good few blog posts written in his little notebook. Bless.
I mock, but generally I understood his boredom. If I hadn't had a few good books with me I would have been über bored just sitting around too. And so we lined up a few time-passing activities for various points of our holiday, turning our week of super relaxation into a holiday fit for a couple with super short attention spans. We walked, we explored, we visited roman ruins, we swam, we walked some more, we marvelled at the views, we watched box sets of How I Met Your Mother on my laptop in our room, we mourned the loss of my laptop power cable when it mysteriously broke, we went on a bus tour, the Yorkshireman took hundred of photos and I injured myself several times. So pretty much a standard holiday for us then!
The Yorkshireman is writing about it all in more detail, with his wonderful photography saying much more about the things and places we saw than I could ever hope to, so I'll leave that to him I think. I'm just grateful he didn't manage to capture me falling over a small speedbump literally about 50 metres away from our hotel, having already walked about 6km that day completely unscathed. I know, I know...
On our last full day of our holiday we finally found something relaxing to do. Believe it or not, spas are relaxing. Who knew?! We had tried out the gym part of it halfway through our holiday (I managed my usual 30 minute run on the treadmill, even in spite of having already gained about a stone from the never-ending supply of booze and buffets, so I was well impressed with myself - and rewarded myself accordingly with some sangria afterwards) but for some reason we hadn't gotten around to investigating the other parts of the spa. But on the last day we figured, hey why not, and the Yorkshireman treated us both to the health and safety inappropriate plastic flip-flops and very sexy bathing caps that were required for entry.
After about ten minutes of playing around in the heated pool, learning to press the shiny buttons that controlled jets of water and bubbles and all sorts of fun things around the pool, we wondered why the heck we hadn't done this earlier. This would have helped us to relax dagnammit! The steam room in particular was very cleansing (smelling as it did of Vicks vapour rub for some reason) and the powerful flumes of water landing on your shoulders from the side of the pool was like having a massage from a no-nonsense 1950s hospital matron with a grudge. We left our first session feeling so relaxed we ended up returning for a repeat performance a few hours later.
The next morning we awoke and stared out over our beautiful sea-view to see that, overnight, the sky had turned grey and it had started to drizzle. We enjoyed one last mammoth breakfast (complete with free cava just because it was there and we could), we checked out and then we settled in at the damp entrance to the hotel to wait for our transfer to the airport. The bus was half an hour late but we didn't panic and we didn't really mind and we both managed a quick nap en route to the airport. So I guess somehow we did manage to relax that week.
Relaxation (or lack thereof) aside, it was a lovely holiday. Mallorca is a beautiful island and if you avoid the major touristy resorts with their cheap and nasty Red Lion pubs (why leave home at all people?!), its traditional culture still shines through, surviving the influx of the American military in the 1950s to help build the radar station on Puig Major and even the influx of boozy chavs from Britain over the last twenty years. It's wonderful to experience a different way of life for a change and to just slow down and do whatever you want. That said, our next holiday is so totally going to be another city break. We may come home exhausted but give me bright lights, chain stores and coffee shops over sunbeds any day baby!
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Saturday, 7 May 2011
The city in the sunshine
The weather has been glorious in Belfast over the last couple of weeks (well except Thursday when it rained, but we'll ignore that). It hasn't been exactly the hottest temperature-wise, but the sun has been out, the skies have been blue and there have been smiles on the faces of strangers wandering the streets. I've had the good fortune to be on leave from work to enjoy it and, when he has been home, The Yorkshireman has joined me in heading out and about into the unexpected mini-summer too.
Last Friday night, inspired by the beautiful sunshine, we planned to go on a bit of a walk on Saturday. A bit of a walk inevitably turned into a bit of a hike as we somehow ended up walking to the Cave Hill, up around the Cave Hill all the way up to McArt's Fort (or Napoleon's Nose as we locals call it), then down again and all the way home, about 11km in total we reckon. It took us about 4 hours 20 minutes including a pit-stop at the supermarket to buy supplies and a brief picnic in the gusting wind at the top of the hill (made all the more brief by the fact that about half of every mouthful blew away before it was eaten).
It was all very nice and pretty and scenic, etc, but I am not an outdoorsy kind of girl. I am much more comfortable with pavements than plateaus, with malls than muck, with Starbucks than shale... or as it became known throughout our descent of the hill, "fucking shale!"
You see, my balance is less than stellar at the best of times, but when faced with any kind of surface that increases the risk of slipping and falling (like ice, wet grass or fucking shale), I will inevitably slip and/or fall. It terrifies me! I cannot adequately describe the fear as I made my way slowly (oh so slowly!) and unsteadily (oh so so unsteadily!) down one particularly slippery bit, with nothing to hold on to and tiny little pebbles moving underfoot. Swearwords were emitted in their multitudes and my heart was racing. I was still shaking when we settled in at a little table at Belfast Castle for afternoon tea. Nice scones by the way - definitely worth a try if you happen to be in the area!
Having eventually calmed down, and with my leg muscles just about recovered, I also went for a bit of jog up the tow path earlier this week. I always looked at people who jog as though they were a different species - why would you voluntarily run? For fun? Seriously?
However I have previously written about my attempts to get fit and active by going to the gym and also how competitive I tend to be. The combination has somehow led to me now running for 30 minutes at a time (without stopping) on the treadmill at the gym, with the aim of increasing my speed slowly but surely over time. I'm not exactly speedy quick (I'm up to 8.8kph now) but it's more about the stamina than the speed for me.
The Yorkshireman and I had gone to the park to try an outdoors jog/run over Easter and both declared it boring and also harder than the treadmill. However with the nice weather I decided to give outdoors running another try and so headed down to the tow path along Belfast Lough. I had Google Earthed it beforehand and knew that the run from where the path straightens out after Duncrue up to Hazelbank Park was just a little over 3km. I've been reaching about 4.5km on the treadmill so I was determined to make it all the way without stopping.
I managed to make it but man it was tough going! Actual ground is harder on the joints than the treadmill and, dude, the wind! It was like trying to run forward with someone pushing me sideways the whole time. But I made it to Hazelbank, stopped for a quick break on a rock and then headed on back. I even managed to jog some of the way back too, which I was quite pleased with. I still prefer the gym but it was interesting to see how the two different conditions compare.
Apart from being all fit and healthy and actually being active outdoors (quite unlike me!), I've just been enjoying the lovely weather through the window and by wandering around the city, shopping for our upcoming holiday, sipping a skinny cappuccino or two and people-watching. Everyone seems to be in a good mood and it's catching. Even pubs are enjoying the craic - I had to giggle the other day at a sign outside the Kitchen Bar, a pub well-placed at one of the entrances to Belfast's beautiful Victoria Square shopping mall, which said "Free Man Crèche - buy him a few pints and we'll look after him for you!" Now there's an offer I should bear in mind next time I drag the Yorkshireman shopping.
Last Friday night, inspired by the beautiful sunshine, we planned to go on a bit of a walk on Saturday. A bit of a walk inevitably turned into a bit of a hike as we somehow ended up walking to the Cave Hill, up around the Cave Hill all the way up to McArt's Fort (or Napoleon's Nose as we locals call it), then down again and all the way home, about 11km in total we reckon. It took us about 4 hours 20 minutes including a pit-stop at the supermarket to buy supplies and a brief picnic in the gusting wind at the top of the hill (made all the more brief by the fact that about half of every mouthful blew away before it was eaten).
It was all very nice and pretty and scenic, etc, but I am not an outdoorsy kind of girl. I am much more comfortable with pavements than plateaus, with malls than muck, with Starbucks than shale... or as it became known throughout our descent of the hill, "fucking shale!"
You see, my balance is less than stellar at the best of times, but when faced with any kind of surface that increases the risk of slipping and falling (like ice, wet grass or fucking shale), I will inevitably slip and/or fall. It terrifies me! I cannot adequately describe the fear as I made my way slowly (oh so slowly!) and unsteadily (oh so so unsteadily!) down one particularly slippery bit, with nothing to hold on to and tiny little pebbles moving underfoot. Swearwords were emitted in their multitudes and my heart was racing. I was still shaking when we settled in at a little table at Belfast Castle for afternoon tea. Nice scones by the way - definitely worth a try if you happen to be in the area!
Having eventually calmed down, and with my leg muscles just about recovered, I also went for a bit of jog up the tow path earlier this week. I always looked at people who jog as though they were a different species - why would you voluntarily run? For fun? Seriously?
However I have previously written about my attempts to get fit and active by going to the gym and also how competitive I tend to be. The combination has somehow led to me now running for 30 minutes at a time (without stopping) on the treadmill at the gym, with the aim of increasing my speed slowly but surely over time. I'm not exactly speedy quick (I'm up to 8.8kph now) but it's more about the stamina than the speed for me.
The Yorkshireman and I had gone to the park to try an outdoors jog/run over Easter and both declared it boring and also harder than the treadmill. However with the nice weather I decided to give outdoors running another try and so headed down to the tow path along Belfast Lough. I had Google Earthed it beforehand and knew that the run from where the path straightens out after Duncrue up to Hazelbank Park was just a little over 3km. I've been reaching about 4.5km on the treadmill so I was determined to make it all the way without stopping.
I managed to make it but man it was tough going! Actual ground is harder on the joints than the treadmill and, dude, the wind! It was like trying to run forward with someone pushing me sideways the whole time. But I made it to Hazelbank, stopped for a quick break on a rock and then headed on back. I even managed to jog some of the way back too, which I was quite pleased with. I still prefer the gym but it was interesting to see how the two different conditions compare.
Apart from being all fit and healthy and actually being active outdoors (quite unlike me!), I've just been enjoying the lovely weather through the window and by wandering around the city, shopping for our upcoming holiday, sipping a skinny cappuccino or two and people-watching. Everyone seems to be in a good mood and it's catching. Even pubs are enjoying the craic - I had to giggle the other day at a sign outside the Kitchen Bar, a pub well-placed at one of the entrances to Belfast's beautiful Victoria Square shopping mall, which said "Free Man Crèche - buy him a few pints and we'll look after him for you!" Now there's an offer I should bear in mind next time I drag the Yorkshireman shopping.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Pride and prejudice at the polling stations
So it's votin' day here in Northern Ireland, with three exciting polls in which to have your say: the election to the NI Assembly, the local Council election and, of course, the infamous Referendum about the Alternative Vote. Exciting. Or not.
You may have been able to tell from the Yorkshireman's recent post that he is a bit of a liberal soul and that he's not fond of what has come to be known as tribal politics here in Northern Ireland. And you know what? He's not alone.
I was born, bred and indeed currently live in quite a staunchly unionist area of North Belfast. Many of the folks around here are all about hanging up their flags for the Twelfth celebrations and the only dilemma they seem to have about voting is which party ending in "UP" to choose as their first choice. I am... not among them.
Living in this area and seeing people so blindly follow the herd has only led me to question why. Why do people select who they want to oversee their constituency or council ward based on prejudice founded decades ago instead of what they're offering right here, right now?
Personally I want to move forward. I want the best person for the job to get the job, not the person who shouts the loudest about something I don't consider to be significant. I only wish that the others in my area were starting to move on too and think along the same lines but it doesn't seem to be the case.
This morning, bleary-eyed, the Yorkshireman and I rocked up to our polling station to do our bit for democracy. Before we even got to the door, some women started trying to push DUP propaganda at us. I said "no thanks" and walked on, but one of them just shouted after me, "but you need it for the order!" Excuse me?! Not only do you assume I will be voting DUP, but you also feel the need to dictate to me in which order to vote for the DUP candidates? Wrong crowd, lady!
Already somewhat irked by this, I was waiting for the Yorkshireman to finish his voting when an elderly man, seemingly a little bewildered by the whole process, approached the ladies responsible for checking you off the list and checking your ID at their little table. It seems he had already been in that morning but had forgotten his ID and had just returned with it. The ladies asked him if he wanted to vote in "all 3". The man clearly had no idea what they meant, so they explained about the different polls he could vote in that day. The poor wee man was clearly overwhelmed and so simply waved the DUP ladies' propaganda at the women in the hope this would explain his intentions (so much for voting being confidential, eh?). Inevitably they explained to him which of the elections those specific candidates were running in and tried to explain further about the other two votes he could cast. He didn't seem interested - he was there to cast his vote for the DUP candidates in the order he had been told to and that was pretty much that... what a good little sheep.
It saddened me that people like this, who don't even know what or who they are voting for other than a party, mean that our country is essentially stuck in the past and doesn't seem to be moving forward at all. In recent years I have been given some hope that things were changing, for example the election of Naomi Long (of the non-sectarian Alliance Party) firstly as Lord Mayor of Belfast in 2009 and then as an MP in Westminster in 2010 (beating Peter Robinson, the leader of the DUP and indeed First Minister himself). However little scenes like with the old man this morning reinforce that Northern Ireland as a whole, and in particular little stronghold communities like ours, have a long, long way to go before the past can actually become the past.
In the meantime I'm proud to do my bit. I will show up and vote for change by refusing to lend my vote to anyone from a unionist or nationalist party. Quite frankly I just don't care about that issue. I want my political leaders to enhance and enrich our little country. I want them to fight for better quality public services. I want them to increase the quality and availability of education for people of all ages. I want them to decrease the poverty divide. I want them to encourage people off benefits and into empowering jobs. I want them to fight anti-social behaviour. I want them to lead by example in moving towards the future. I don't care whether they think we should be part of the UK or a united Ireland, unless the issue happens to come up for some reason (although I think the South might be a little too preoccupied with rebuilding their economy at the moment to worry about the folks up North), in which case I want them to use common sense and all the resources and advice available to them to make the best decision for our country's wellbeing.
Some might argue that I'm being naive but I would say that I'm being optimistic and forward-thinking. I would much rather be that than stubborn, closed-minded and insular.
So, as 10pm approaches and the polling stations are getting ready to close, I wonder what the immediate future holds for my area. I imagine the DUP will have yet another storming victory, but I can at least hope that with each passing election their hold will lessen. Perhaps by the time my grandchildren are casting their votes there might actually be some competition and the candidates will actually be selected based on their perceived ability to run the country well. Until then, only time will tell if my fellow liberals (there must be some of us out there surely?) and I have managed to make any difference whatsoever.
You may have been able to tell from the Yorkshireman's recent post that he is a bit of a liberal soul and that he's not fond of what has come to be known as tribal politics here in Northern Ireland. And you know what? He's not alone.
I was born, bred and indeed currently live in quite a staunchly unionist area of North Belfast. Many of the folks around here are all about hanging up their flags for the Twelfth celebrations and the only dilemma they seem to have about voting is which party ending in "UP" to choose as their first choice. I am... not among them.
Living in this area and seeing people so blindly follow the herd has only led me to question why. Why do people select who they want to oversee their constituency or council ward based on prejudice founded decades ago instead of what they're offering right here, right now?
Personally I want to move forward. I want the best person for the job to get the job, not the person who shouts the loudest about something I don't consider to be significant. I only wish that the others in my area were starting to move on too and think along the same lines but it doesn't seem to be the case.
This morning, bleary-eyed, the Yorkshireman and I rocked up to our polling station to do our bit for democracy. Before we even got to the door, some women started trying to push DUP propaganda at us. I said "no thanks" and walked on, but one of them just shouted after me, "but you need it for the order!" Excuse me?! Not only do you assume I will be voting DUP, but you also feel the need to dictate to me in which order to vote for the DUP candidates? Wrong crowd, lady!
Already somewhat irked by this, I was waiting for the Yorkshireman to finish his voting when an elderly man, seemingly a little bewildered by the whole process, approached the ladies responsible for checking you off the list and checking your ID at their little table. It seems he had already been in that morning but had forgotten his ID and had just returned with it. The ladies asked him if he wanted to vote in "all 3". The man clearly had no idea what they meant, so they explained about the different polls he could vote in that day. The poor wee man was clearly overwhelmed and so simply waved the DUP ladies' propaganda at the women in the hope this would explain his intentions (so much for voting being confidential, eh?). Inevitably they explained to him which of the elections those specific candidates were running in and tried to explain further about the other two votes he could cast. He didn't seem interested - he was there to cast his vote for the DUP candidates in the order he had been told to and that was pretty much that... what a good little sheep.
It saddened me that people like this, who don't even know what or who they are voting for other than a party, mean that our country is essentially stuck in the past and doesn't seem to be moving forward at all. In recent years I have been given some hope that things were changing, for example the election of Naomi Long (of the non-sectarian Alliance Party) firstly as Lord Mayor of Belfast in 2009 and then as an MP in Westminster in 2010 (beating Peter Robinson, the leader of the DUP and indeed First Minister himself). However little scenes like with the old man this morning reinforce that Northern Ireland as a whole, and in particular little stronghold communities like ours, have a long, long way to go before the past can actually become the past.
In the meantime I'm proud to do my bit. I will show up and vote for change by refusing to lend my vote to anyone from a unionist or nationalist party. Quite frankly I just don't care about that issue. I want my political leaders to enhance and enrich our little country. I want them to fight for better quality public services. I want them to increase the quality and availability of education for people of all ages. I want them to decrease the poverty divide. I want them to encourage people off benefits and into empowering jobs. I want them to fight anti-social behaviour. I want them to lead by example in moving towards the future. I don't care whether they think we should be part of the UK or a united Ireland, unless the issue happens to come up for some reason (although I think the South might be a little too preoccupied with rebuilding their economy at the moment to worry about the folks up North), in which case I want them to use common sense and all the resources and advice available to them to make the best decision for our country's wellbeing.
Some might argue that I'm being naive but I would say that I'm being optimistic and forward-thinking. I would much rather be that than stubborn, closed-minded and insular.
So, as 10pm approaches and the polling stations are getting ready to close, I wonder what the immediate future holds for my area. I imagine the DUP will have yet another storming victory, but I can at least hope that with each passing election their hold will lessen. Perhaps by the time my grandchildren are casting their votes there might actually be some competition and the candidates will actually be selected based on their perceived ability to run the country well. Until then, only time will tell if my fellow liberals (there must be some of us out there surely?) and I have managed to make any difference whatsoever.
The language you are about to hear... is disturbing
Title quote attributed to Dave Chappelle
There are many things that marriage can teach you: love, trust, patience, humour, compromise, humility, how to take deep breaths instead of choking someone to death... you know, all the important things in life. However a relationship between two people who hail from different areas, especially different countries, can teach you even more besides. You learn about things like the history of different communities, cultural differences and different social etiquettes.
This is all very interesting. I now know, for instance, that Maggie Thatcher is not exactly a celebrated political leader "oop Nawth". I have learned that, in Yorkshire, Rugby League is the only "proper" form of the sport, whereas Rugby Union is "for pansies who like sticking their fingers up each others' arses". I have learned that, for Yorkshirefolk, complaining is not only a popular passtime but indeed an art form, especially when it comes to money and work. However my favourite differences hark from a bottomless pit that is simultaneously age-old and yet ever-changing: language.
In high school I remember being taught about colloquialism - words, phrases or expressions which are used informally in conversation and are often unique to a certain group, for example people from a certain area. We had to come up with some examples of Belfast colloquialisms but I remember thinking that we weren't quite so unique as some other areas of the UK - we had nothing on the Cockneys for example. In fact, for the most part, I thought we were a pretty dull bunch. However the Yorkshireman and I have known each other for about 9 years now and during the course of that time it has become apparent that I underestimated the complexities of our local language. It has also become clear that Yorkshire can be its own little world in some respects.
These are some of my favourite gems from each side of the Irish Sea that at first perplexed each of us and then tickled us a little.
Northern Ireland
Boke/boak - to gag/vomit ("I'm going to boke in a minute!"); also used to describe something sickening ("Katie Price? Boke like!")
'Bout ye? - literally "what about you?" but mainly used as an alternative to hello
Dead on - alright/sound, ("Yes that plan sounds dead on" or "aye she's dead on like!")
Do you think I came up the Lagan in a bubble? - do you think I'm gullible enough to believe what you've just said?
Eejit - idiot
Foundered - to be very cold, freezing ("Flip, it's cold out there, I'm foundered!")
Keep 'er lit - phrase used to spur on and encourage, especially when things are already goin well ("C'mon Crues, keep 'er lit!")
Meet - kiss/snog
Wee buns - easy to do
Wick - rubbish/crap/disappointing ("The Blair Witch Project was totally wick!"); also an expression when something goes wrong ("Aww wick!")
Yorkshire
Gee over - instruction to stop it (known as "give over" usually but the alternative pronounciation threw me at first!)
Ginnel - a passageway, usually between the front of a row of terraced houses and the alley behind them
Gizza ring - please telephone me
Flower - term of endearment, seemingly mainly from South Yorkshire
Owt - anything
Put wood in t'hoile - instruction to close the door
Tarn - a lake (I know, not specifically a Yorkshire term, more of a geographical one, but apparently mainly used "oop nawth" so I feel justified!)
Thissen - yourself
I had written the start of this post a couple of weeks ago and never quite got around to finishing it. However this evening I received the required inspiration, as my mother, sister and I choked with laughter at a Facebook status update from my evidently perplexed English-born-and-bred cousin, whose Belfast-born-and-bred mother had just told her that for dinner this evening she would be having "shite with sugar on it!" The Yorkshireman looked equally perplexed and also a little (quite rightly I suppose) disgusted, perhaps even more so when we explained that it was something said by stressed-out Irish mammies whose kids are whining about what's for dinner. My sister and I were threatened with this tasty-sounding meal on more than one occasion but yet it caused such consternation for those not brought up hearing it. Ain't language grand?
There are many things that marriage can teach you: love, trust, patience, humour, compromise, humility, how to take deep breaths instead of choking someone to death... you know, all the important things in life. However a relationship between two people who hail from different areas, especially different countries, can teach you even more besides. You learn about things like the history of different communities, cultural differences and different social etiquettes.
This is all very interesting. I now know, for instance, that Maggie Thatcher is not exactly a celebrated political leader "oop Nawth". I have learned that, in Yorkshire, Rugby League is the only "proper" form of the sport, whereas Rugby Union is "for pansies who like sticking their fingers up each others' arses". I have learned that, for Yorkshirefolk, complaining is not only a popular passtime but indeed an art form, especially when it comes to money and work. However my favourite differences hark from a bottomless pit that is simultaneously age-old and yet ever-changing: language.
In high school I remember being taught about colloquialism - words, phrases or expressions which are used informally in conversation and are often unique to a certain group, for example people from a certain area. We had to come up with some examples of Belfast colloquialisms but I remember thinking that we weren't quite so unique as some other areas of the UK - we had nothing on the Cockneys for example. In fact, for the most part, I thought we were a pretty dull bunch. However the Yorkshireman and I have known each other for about 9 years now and during the course of that time it has become apparent that I underestimated the complexities of our local language. It has also become clear that Yorkshire can be its own little world in some respects.
These are some of my favourite gems from each side of the Irish Sea that at first perplexed each of us and then tickled us a little.
Northern Ireland
Boke/boak - to gag/vomit ("I'm going to boke in a minute!"); also used to describe something sickening ("Katie Price? Boke like!")
'Bout ye? - literally "what about you?" but mainly used as an alternative to hello
Dead on - alright/sound, ("Yes that plan sounds dead on" or "aye she's dead on like!")
Do you think I came up the Lagan in a bubble? - do you think I'm gullible enough to believe what you've just said?
Eejit - idiot
Foundered - to be very cold, freezing ("Flip, it's cold out there, I'm foundered!")
Keep 'er lit - phrase used to spur on and encourage, especially when things are already goin well ("C'mon Crues, keep 'er lit!")
Meet - kiss/snog
Wee buns - easy to do
Wick - rubbish/crap/disappointing ("The Blair Witch Project was totally wick!"); also an expression when something goes wrong ("Aww wick!")
Yorkshire
Gee over - instruction to stop it (known as "give over" usually but the alternative pronounciation threw me at first!)
Ginnel - a passageway, usually between the front of a row of terraced houses and the alley behind them
Gizza ring - please telephone me
Flower - term of endearment, seemingly mainly from South Yorkshire
Owt - anything
Put wood in t'hoile - instruction to close the door
Tarn - a lake (I know, not specifically a Yorkshire term, more of a geographical one, but apparently mainly used "oop nawth" so I feel justified!)
Thissen - yourself
I had written the start of this post a couple of weeks ago and never quite got around to finishing it. However this evening I received the required inspiration, as my mother, sister and I choked with laughter at a Facebook status update from my evidently perplexed English-born-and-bred cousin, whose Belfast-born-and-bred mother had just told her that for dinner this evening she would be having "shite with sugar on it!" The Yorkshireman looked equally perplexed and also a little (quite rightly I suppose) disgusted, perhaps even more so when we explained that it was something said by stressed-out Irish mammies whose kids are whining about what's for dinner. My sister and I were threatened with this tasty-sounding meal on more than one occasion but yet it caused such consternation for those not brought up hearing it. Ain't language grand?
Friday, 15 April 2011
A meal in Muriels and a luxury liner on the Lagan
Yes, get a load of the alliteration in that title! It also concisely sums up how I spent Wednesday evening with the Yorkshireman and our merry band of amigos.
We met at our usual haunt (Starbucks) and, as usual, were practically forced out at around 6.15pm, even though it doesn't close until 7pm. I totally understand that they need to start cleaning upstairs before closing time, so that there's not as much to do when the last customer has taken their last sip of latté and finally left the building, but when the downstairs is full to bursting a whole hour before you're due to close, do you really have to close off the whole upstairs and shout at people who dare to attempt to join their friends who are already up there? Could you not even just leave a few tables available near the top of the stairs or something? Just a pet peeve…
But anyway, having enjoyed a very quick grande, skinny, wet, white chocolate mocha with no whipped cream (new favourite drink - lots of calories, even the skinny version with no cream, but a delicious once-in-a-while treat), we ventured to Tesco Metro on Royal Avenue in search of supplies for our plans later that evening. Then, laden with cheap and mostly unhealthy food and drink, it was on with our evening. First stop, dinner.
We'd been meaning to try Muriels on Church Lane for dinner for a while. I'd read some good reviews about it online a while ago and it was actually going to be the venue for my birthday dinner back at the start of March, but our plans on that day changed and so we didn't manage to get around to it until this week.
It's a strange little place altogether. From the outside it looks like it's been plucked out of a romantic little side street in Paris and implanted unceremoniously into a slightly less classy side street in Belfast. There are little outdoor tables, undoubtedly hugely popular in warmer weather, and a little menu stand in front of the door - all very charming! It's fairly small inside but the décor is interesting, with boldly patterned wallpaper, chintzy furniture and arty black and white photographs of young, attractive starlets on the walls, leaving you wondering whether you're in a brothel or your granny's living room. We went upstairs and grabbed a couple of tables in the corner beside a huge fireplace (although the only heat and light it emitted came from the fairy lights in the hearth) and perused the menu.
I'm a little torn as to how much I liked the food. On the one hand there's plenty of choice on the menu - even more so than the menu they have online - and they have some very inventive ideas, for example a mini three-course meal served as a main course and the option for a cupcake and tea/coffee for dessert. Most of us took them up on the latter and I must say it was delightful. However dinner itself was, for me at least, just ok. The chips were too skinny and crunchy and, bar the tasty seasoning, might as well have been from Burger King. I also had the fish bake, which had far too much creamy sauce and not enough fish in it for my liking. Comments from the others seemed to range from a rather bland "nice" (the steak sandwich) to "soooo good" (the risotto), so perhaps it's a little hit and miss depending on what you order. Personally I thought it was alright - I'm glad I went and my meal was nice enough but I'm not in any big hurry to return.
With our opinions formed and our stomach full, it was on to part two of our evening's entertainment. After the success of last year's event we had been hoping the Belfast Film Festival would be putting on a few more films on the Lagan Boat this year - happily they didn't disappoint us! We actually had three to choose from this time around but as "scary" sea creatures and ghost stories aren't really my thing, I opted for Juggernaut instead. I'd never heard of it, let alone seen it, but IMDB revealed that well-respected actor Anthony Hopkins was in it, so how bad could it really be?
One thing we noticed last year was that everyone on board seemed to have come prepared to party. People, who had clearly been to these events before and were as such "in the know", were rocking up with takeaway food and bottles of wine, while we made do with a few measly sweets. This year, no longer novices, we boarded the boat complete with our own stash of goodies courtesy of our aforementioned shopping trip. Within minutes of settling ourselves in for an evening's floating entertainment, I had whipped out the first bottle of red wine and was doling out the white plastic cups. I had mild pangs that this might make me seem like a bit of a lush, but when four different parties of eager movie-goers took their seats and promptly produced their own bottles of red wine and plastic cups I knew I had found kindred spirits. I mean, wine and sweets, watching a film about a boat, on a boat, floating around the calm waters of the Lagan, watched over by the lights of the city... it just doesn't get better than that on a weeknight!
The film itself was awesome purely because it was quite rubbish. I hadn't realised it was a British-made film from the 1970s and as such knitted jumpers and handlebar moustaches were all the rage. You can read all about it on IMDB if you so choose, but essentially it was a cross between Speed, Titanic and The Sweeney, the plot being centred around some bombs that had been planted on a cruise ship and the efforts to disable them on time before everyone is blown to smithereens.
The villain of the piece was the most monotonous baddie I have ever come across. The man just did not stop giving instructions over the phone! And they weren't even straight-forward instructions. It was like, "Go to number 372 Smith Lane. Underneath the gnome with the red hat and the green fishing rod you will find a key. Take the key and go to Jones Bank at number 22 High Street. The key will open box number 452. Therein you will find a purple party hat and a monkey called Eric. Take the monkey to the fountain at Trafalgar Square and place the party hat on his head. He will then dive into the fountain and retrieve a small plastic tube. Within this tube are further instructions. I will contact you again at 2.13pm precisely." I so totally would have been doodling on the corner of a page and "mmm-hmm"ing after about thirty seconds.
The film also featured two of the worst parents in the world. The mother was so miserable with sea sickness that she kept losing her children and let them run freely around the ship, even when her boy-who-looked-like-a-girl son said he was off to investigate the "hole in the ship" and also later after said boy had almost been blown up already. It's ok though, his father, who by the way was such a good parent that he wasn't even on board the ship with his family, responded to the news of his son's near-death experience by telling him to go to bed. Parenting fail, much.
It wasn't the most exciting of movies but it was so bad as to be entertaining. I barely noticed anyway - I was more preoccupied with looking outside at all the real ships moored up and down the harbour, as we passed by within a few metres of them. I'm always fascinated by proper big ships, especially those that have portholes. I have no idea where this delight comes from other than a vague memory of having had a wooden jigsaw that included a ship with portholes on it as a child, but I just think it's cool when a ship has honest-to-goodness portholes!
Our own little portholeless boat soon stopped back at the Big Fish and, having disembarked back on to dry land, it was time to go home. I had great craic though and will definitely be back again next year, red wine and plastic cups in hand, natch.
We met at our usual haunt (Starbucks) and, as usual, were practically forced out at around 6.15pm, even though it doesn't close until 7pm. I totally understand that they need to start cleaning upstairs before closing time, so that there's not as much to do when the last customer has taken their last sip of latté and finally left the building, but when the downstairs is full to bursting a whole hour before you're due to close, do you really have to close off the whole upstairs and shout at people who dare to attempt to join their friends who are already up there? Could you not even just leave a few tables available near the top of the stairs or something? Just a pet peeve…
But anyway, having enjoyed a very quick grande, skinny, wet, white chocolate mocha with no whipped cream (new favourite drink - lots of calories, even the skinny version with no cream, but a delicious once-in-a-while treat), we ventured to Tesco Metro on Royal Avenue in search of supplies for our plans later that evening. Then, laden with cheap and mostly unhealthy food and drink, it was on with our evening. First stop, dinner.
We'd been meaning to try Muriels on Church Lane for dinner for a while. I'd read some good reviews about it online a while ago and it was actually going to be the venue for my birthday dinner back at the start of March, but our plans on that day changed and so we didn't manage to get around to it until this week.
It's a strange little place altogether. From the outside it looks like it's been plucked out of a romantic little side street in Paris and implanted unceremoniously into a slightly less classy side street in Belfast. There are little outdoor tables, undoubtedly hugely popular in warmer weather, and a little menu stand in front of the door - all very charming! It's fairly small inside but the décor is interesting, with boldly patterned wallpaper, chintzy furniture and arty black and white photographs of young, attractive starlets on the walls, leaving you wondering whether you're in a brothel or your granny's living room. We went upstairs and grabbed a couple of tables in the corner beside a huge fireplace (although the only heat and light it emitted came from the fairy lights in the hearth) and perused the menu.
I'm a little torn as to how much I liked the food. On the one hand there's plenty of choice on the menu - even more so than the menu they have online - and they have some very inventive ideas, for example a mini three-course meal served as a main course and the option for a cupcake and tea/coffee for dessert. Most of us took them up on the latter and I must say it was delightful. However dinner itself was, for me at least, just ok. The chips were too skinny and crunchy and, bar the tasty seasoning, might as well have been from Burger King. I also had the fish bake, which had far too much creamy sauce and not enough fish in it for my liking. Comments from the others seemed to range from a rather bland "nice" (the steak sandwich) to "soooo good" (the risotto), so perhaps it's a little hit and miss depending on what you order. Personally I thought it was alright - I'm glad I went and my meal was nice enough but I'm not in any big hurry to return.
With our opinions formed and our stomach full, it was on to part two of our evening's entertainment. After the success of last year's event we had been hoping the Belfast Film Festival would be putting on a few more films on the Lagan Boat this year - happily they didn't disappoint us! We actually had three to choose from this time around but as "scary" sea creatures and ghost stories aren't really my thing, I opted for Juggernaut instead. I'd never heard of it, let alone seen it, but IMDB revealed that well-respected actor Anthony Hopkins was in it, so how bad could it really be?
One thing we noticed last year was that everyone on board seemed to have come prepared to party. People, who had clearly been to these events before and were as such "in the know", were rocking up with takeaway food and bottles of wine, while we made do with a few measly sweets. This year, no longer novices, we boarded the boat complete with our own stash of goodies courtesy of our aforementioned shopping trip. Within minutes of settling ourselves in for an evening's floating entertainment, I had whipped out the first bottle of red wine and was doling out the white plastic cups. I had mild pangs that this might make me seem like a bit of a lush, but when four different parties of eager movie-goers took their seats and promptly produced their own bottles of red wine and plastic cups I knew I had found kindred spirits. I mean, wine and sweets, watching a film about a boat, on a boat, floating around the calm waters of the Lagan, watched over by the lights of the city... it just doesn't get better than that on a weeknight!
The film itself was awesome purely because it was quite rubbish. I hadn't realised it was a British-made film from the 1970s and as such knitted jumpers and handlebar moustaches were all the rage. You can read all about it on IMDB if you so choose, but essentially it was a cross between Speed, Titanic and The Sweeney, the plot being centred around some bombs that had been planted on a cruise ship and the efforts to disable them on time before everyone is blown to smithereens.
The villain of the piece was the most monotonous baddie I have ever come across. The man just did not stop giving instructions over the phone! And they weren't even straight-forward instructions. It was like, "Go to number 372 Smith Lane. Underneath the gnome with the red hat and the green fishing rod you will find a key. Take the key and go to Jones Bank at number 22 High Street. The key will open box number 452. Therein you will find a purple party hat and a monkey called Eric. Take the monkey to the fountain at Trafalgar Square and place the party hat on his head. He will then dive into the fountain and retrieve a small plastic tube. Within this tube are further instructions. I will contact you again at 2.13pm precisely." I so totally would have been doodling on the corner of a page and "mmm-hmm"ing after about thirty seconds.
The film also featured two of the worst parents in the world. The mother was so miserable with sea sickness that she kept losing her children and let them run freely around the ship, even when her boy-who-looked-like-a-girl son said he was off to investigate the "hole in the ship" and also later after said boy had almost been blown up already. It's ok though, his father, who by the way was such a good parent that he wasn't even on board the ship with his family, responded to the news of his son's near-death experience by telling him to go to bed. Parenting fail, much.
It wasn't the most exciting of movies but it was so bad as to be entertaining. I barely noticed anyway - I was more preoccupied with looking outside at all the real ships moored up and down the harbour, as we passed by within a few metres of them. I'm always fascinated by proper big ships, especially those that have portholes. I have no idea where this delight comes from other than a vague memory of having had a wooden jigsaw that included a ship with portholes on it as a child, but I just think it's cool when a ship has honest-to-goodness portholes!
Our own little portholeless boat soon stopped back at the Big Fish and, having disembarked back on to dry land, it was time to go home. I had great craic though and will definitely be back again next year, red wine and plastic cups in hand, natch.
Wednesday, 13 April 2011
Monday, 11 April 2011
Dreaming of the city that never sleeps
I have a confession to make. Last year I had a love affair which has since led to a bit of an obssession. Not a day goes by when I don't think about her and read all her latest news. I have photos of her on my desk at work. Songs on the radio remind me of her. I spend happy moments reminicing about the time we spent together last November and making plans for things we can do together when we are eventually reunited. I get jealous of others who get to visit her in my absence and then claim they love her as much as I do. But how could they? Oh New York, I truly do "heart" thee!
It all started when I was planning our first ever trip to "The Big Apple" last year. My Google-fu had been strong and I had collated a whole lot of information about what to see, what to do, how to do it, where to eat, what to avoid, etc. The "NYC Trip Nov 2010" bookmarks folder on my Internet browser was full to bursting and yet kept on growing. During our precious time there we only got around to visiting a small number of these places, leaving the remainder for future trips. And then there are the places we did go last time but were so awesome that we want to visit again.
One of the main sources of valuable information for planning our trip was the New York City TripAdvisor forum. I love that place. The Destination Experts are wonderfully snarky (typical for New Yorkers, or so they tell anyone who complains!), especially when you ask vague questions or questions that reveal your thorough lack of research by yourself first, but that's one of the things I love about it. There's no messing around and no unnecessary niceties. These guys know their stuff and they're more than willing to share their wealth of knowledge with you, if only you put in a little of the grunt work yourself. If you ask me, that's fair enough.
You see people all the time who come on and leave their first ever post saying, "We're going to New York soon for the first time ever and we're so excited! What are the "must do/see" things in New York? Where should we stay that's close to everything and doesn't cost that much? Looking forward to all your suggestions!" Seriously people, those are some vague-ass questions. There is nothing that you must do except comply with the city's legal requirements and customs. What you inevitably see and do is is pretty much dependant on what your interests are - what's the sense in recommending the Guggenheim to someone who's more interested in Monster Trucks? Also, no hotel is "close to everything" - Manhattan is 13.4 miles long in itself, with the "must see" Statue of Liberty on an island off the South and "must see" Central Park in the North... and then there are the other boroughs of NYC like Brooklyn and Queens beyond that. As for accomodation that "doesn't cost too much", define "too much". I imagine a guy living behind a dumpster and Donald Trump would have very different ideas of what costs "too much". And also? If you'd read the frequently asked questions down the right-hand side of the forum or even searched through previous posts before you posted, you would probably have all the answers you're looking for.
It even makes my blood boil a little when people just want someone else to effectively plan their whole trip for them and I'm not even responsible for answering their inane questions. Instead I just lurk, even now, five months after our trip, in part to keep picking up more tips for our next visit to New York and in part to smirk at posts that will inevitably incur the wrath of the regular posters on the forum. It's a little schadenfreudian I grant you but it passes along my lunch break wonderfully.
Perhaps, though, it's really just a case of the green-eyed monster. These people are just starting out on learning about this wonderful city ahead of actually going there to experience it, while all I'm doing, for now at least, is reading about it wistfully and reminiscing. The Yorkshireman and I continue to save hard for another trip stateside but at the moment our bank balance is woefully deficient and so it looks like it will be the end of 2011/start of 2012 at the earliest. We could probably go a bit earlier if we wanted to live cheaply - after all, I've picked up a lot of tips on TripAdvisor about cheap places to stay and eat - but then we wouldn't get to experience half of our own little list of "must do/see" things and that would just seem like a wasted trip.
So for now I shall just keep sighing deeply at the photograph the Yorkshireman took of the Chrysler Building that I have on my desk, keep reading the posts on the TripAdvisor forum at least once a day, and keep adding to that bookmarks folder on my browser. It might take some time to get back there but when we do it's going to be one helluva trip in one helluva town!
It all started when I was planning our first ever trip to "The Big Apple" last year. My Google-fu had been strong and I had collated a whole lot of information about what to see, what to do, how to do it, where to eat, what to avoid, etc. The "NYC Trip Nov 2010" bookmarks folder on my Internet browser was full to bursting and yet kept on growing. During our precious time there we only got around to visiting a small number of these places, leaving the remainder for future trips. And then there are the places we did go last time but were so awesome that we want to visit again.
One of the main sources of valuable information for planning our trip was the New York City TripAdvisor forum. I love that place. The Destination Experts are wonderfully snarky (typical for New Yorkers, or so they tell anyone who complains!), especially when you ask vague questions or questions that reveal your thorough lack of research by yourself first, but that's one of the things I love about it. There's no messing around and no unnecessary niceties. These guys know their stuff and they're more than willing to share their wealth of knowledge with you, if only you put in a little of the grunt work yourself. If you ask me, that's fair enough.
You see people all the time who come on and leave their first ever post saying, "We're going to New York soon for the first time ever and we're so excited! What are the "must do/see" things in New York? Where should we stay that's close to everything and doesn't cost that much? Looking forward to all your suggestions!" Seriously people, those are some vague-ass questions. There is nothing that you must do except comply with the city's legal requirements and customs. What you inevitably see and do is is pretty much dependant on what your interests are - what's the sense in recommending the Guggenheim to someone who's more interested in Monster Trucks? Also, no hotel is "close to everything" - Manhattan is 13.4 miles long in itself, with the "must see" Statue of Liberty on an island off the South and "must see" Central Park in the North... and then there are the other boroughs of NYC like Brooklyn and Queens beyond that. As for accomodation that "doesn't cost too much", define "too much". I imagine a guy living behind a dumpster and Donald Trump would have very different ideas of what costs "too much". And also? If you'd read the frequently asked questions down the right-hand side of the forum or even searched through previous posts before you posted, you would probably have all the answers you're looking for.
It even makes my blood boil a little when people just want someone else to effectively plan their whole trip for them and I'm not even responsible for answering their inane questions. Instead I just lurk, even now, five months after our trip, in part to keep picking up more tips for our next visit to New York and in part to smirk at posts that will inevitably incur the wrath of the regular posters on the forum. It's a little schadenfreudian I grant you but it passes along my lunch break wonderfully.
Perhaps, though, it's really just a case of the green-eyed monster. These people are just starting out on learning about this wonderful city ahead of actually going there to experience it, while all I'm doing, for now at least, is reading about it wistfully and reminiscing. The Yorkshireman and I continue to save hard for another trip stateside but at the moment our bank balance is woefully deficient and so it looks like it will be the end of 2011/start of 2012 at the earliest. We could probably go a bit earlier if we wanted to live cheaply - after all, I've picked up a lot of tips on TripAdvisor about cheap places to stay and eat - but then we wouldn't get to experience half of our own little list of "must do/see" things and that would just seem like a wasted trip.
So for now I shall just keep sighing deeply at the photograph the Yorkshireman took of the Chrysler Building that I have on my desk, keep reading the posts on the TripAdvisor forum at least once a day, and keep adding to that bookmarks folder on my browser. It might take some time to get back there but when we do it's going to be one helluva trip in one helluva town!
Friday, 8 April 2011
Just another Manic Thursday
My participation in the Belfast Film Festival 2011 continued yesterday evening. When I'd been looking at the programme I stumbled upon a "special event" called Dance Mania. Its name didn't seem to fit in with all the other arty film titles and so it caught my attention. It was described as follows:
I figured, hey, I like musicals, I like dancing and I especially like Glee - this sounds like my kind of event! My mother, who enjoys utter cheese as much as I do, also thought it might be fun and so we conspired to head up the Shankill Road together on Thursday 7 April and boogie on down.
So last night we headed out on the town. First we decided to grab a bit of dinner - after all, you need a lot of energy to dance the night away! We were originally going to try The Potted Hen in St Anne's Square but their pre-theatre menu didn't particularly stimulate our mental tastebuds and so we headed across the road to Hooligan. Or, as the case may be, not Hooligan. You may recall that as recently as last week, the Yorkshireman and I had a wonderful dinner at Hooligan and so I had been contemplating its sister restaurant, Made In Belfast, as my venue for our pre-Mania meal. However when I visited Made In Belfast's website earlier this week, I was stunned to see the following announcement:
What do you mean "met a violent end"?! If it did indeed turn into Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter on 1st April, I was apparently there on Hooligan's last day of existence and it seemed to be very much in one piece then! Perplexed I tried in vain to call Hooligan's number to see if they were still open, albeit in the form of Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter, but it was constantly engaged, hence our decision to go to The Potted Hen instead. However when we walked past yesterday it was indeed open for business and so we figured, hey, why not?
Nothing whatsoever seemed to have changed apart from the now absent Hooligan sign that the Yorkshireman had so carefully documented for posterity the week before. The kooky décor was still the same inside and I still risked setting my clumsy self alight on the candle in the wine bottle on our table. The menu had changed slightly however. The Yorkshireman is now entirely gutted that they no longer offer their fish finger sandwich, even though I explained to him that my mother had essentially the same thing in the form of the their fish and chips with mushy peas, the only difference being a lack of bread (which you can order separately anyway) and the fact that hers was served in a metal bath. I on the other hand had an absolutely devine Greek stifado stew and was gutted only because we didn't have time to stay for dessert.
Before we left I quizzed our waiter on the whole Hooligan/Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter debacle and he confirmed that the name had indeed changed and that if we had been there the week before then we must have been present for Hooligan's "downfall" - I still have no idea what actually happened or whether they're just being fabulously dramatic about a mere name change just for the craic but I like their style!
And so it was off to be dancing queens for the evening… or so we thought.
Our first hint that the event would not quite live up to expectations was the fairly short list of people who had purchased tickets and the equally empty room when we arrived. But fair enough, I thought, an evening of dancing to cheesy music is not for everyone and it's better to have only a few fellow crazies than a lot of disinterested folks being boring. Onward!
However the evening did not get any better when the "event" began. There was no introduction from anyone - the lights simply went off and the screen went on. It looked fairly promising at first when a montage of dance clips from movies like Dirty Dancing, Flashdance, Grease and Rocky Horror played to the tune of Footloose and had us simultaneously dancing in our seats and sqwaking "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" and "It's just a jump to the left!". However once Footloose finished so, effectively, did the entertainment.
From that point on, one song simply followed another, as though someone was clicking their way through YouTube one video at a time by following the suggested video links down the right-hand side. The quality was awful in most of the clips too and the editing was truly shocking - some clips ended in a black screen for an eternity before the next one started whilst some screeched and warbled to a sudden halt just before the end. Only three girls ventured out of their seats at any point to dance and I have a suspicion they were in some way connected to the organisation of the event. It also paled in significance when compared to the seven people who got up and left about 5 minutes in, effectively cutting the audience in half.
What annoyed me most, however, is that a good amount of the songs were in no way related to musicals, film or even TV. I can sort of understand them playing Thriller (even though I detest it) because it's sort of a mini film in itself, but how exactly did the creator of this bilge decide that the dance-loving audience of a film festival audience would be more enthralled by Groove Is In The Heart and Walk Like an Egyptian than, say, I've Had The Time Of My Life or the Time Warp? We were waiting for the punchline or something great throughout the evening but it never came.
Thankfully it was as short as it was rubbish and we were out on the pavement blinking in the daylight after about an hour, wondering how someone had managed to scam us into paying a fiver each to sacrifice an hour of our lives in such a way! As my mother said, if a GCSE media student had submitted it as their coursework, they would have failed.
And so it was on to Starbucks for some caffeine to numb the pain. Well there had to be some high point to the evening! Prior to that my favourite part (apart from dinner) had been when they played the Glee version of Single Ladies, but any happiness this provided soon faded when they played not one but two High School Musical songs, each as monotonous as each other. Woe!
I must say I'm fairly disappointed. I guess their budget isn't that huge but I'm fairly sure that even I could have edited the thing better, not to mention choosing better songs to start with. Bad Belfast Film Festival! I am so totally putting you in a corner because that is where the naughty step is! I can only hope that my next (and final) Belfast Film Festival outing later this week will be of a higher calibre. Only time will tell!
Get your leg warmers on and get ready for a fantastic evening of dance and film at the Spectrum Centre.
We’ve edited together a compilation of some of the best dance routines from some of the greatest musicals of all time. So get ready to go disco with John Travolta, Put a ring on it with the kids from Glee, try some Summer Lovin’ with the gang from Grease, Do some Singin' in the Rain with Fred Astaire and don’t forget We’re All in This Together with the team from High School Musical.
Why not come along and bust some moves on the dance floor with us…"
I figured, hey, I like musicals, I like dancing and I especially like Glee - this sounds like my kind of event! My mother, who enjoys utter cheese as much as I do, also thought it might be fun and so we conspired to head up the Shankill Road together on Thursday 7 April and boogie on down.
So last night we headed out on the town. First we decided to grab a bit of dinner - after all, you need a lot of energy to dance the night away! We were originally going to try The Potted Hen in St Anne's Square but their pre-theatre menu didn't particularly stimulate our mental tastebuds and so we headed across the road to Hooligan. Or, as the case may be, not Hooligan. You may recall that as recently as last week, the Yorkshireman and I had a wonderful dinner at Hooligan and so I had been contemplating its sister restaurant, Made In Belfast, as my venue for our pre-Mania meal. However when I visited Made In Belfast's website earlier this week, I was stunned to see the following announcement:
"Hope the hangovers have cleared from your Paddy's Day adventures and you have obtained a clean bill of health. However, for those who still want to eat, drink and be merry our lovely team here at Made In Belfast are in the process of opening our second restaurant, on the very grounds of our pop up restaurant Hooligan (which met a violent end :-x)...MADE IN BELFAST CATHEDRAL QUARTER WILL OPEN ON 1ST APRIL 2011....and no this isn't a joke! Though our staff have big smiles xxx."
What do you mean "met a violent end"?! If it did indeed turn into Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter on 1st April, I was apparently there on Hooligan's last day of existence and it seemed to be very much in one piece then! Perplexed I tried in vain to call Hooligan's number to see if they were still open, albeit in the form of Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter, but it was constantly engaged, hence our decision to go to The Potted Hen instead. However when we walked past yesterday it was indeed open for business and so we figured, hey, why not?
Nothing whatsoever seemed to have changed apart from the now absent Hooligan sign that the Yorkshireman had so carefully documented for posterity the week before. The kooky décor was still the same inside and I still risked setting my clumsy self alight on the candle in the wine bottle on our table. The menu had changed slightly however. The Yorkshireman is now entirely gutted that they no longer offer their fish finger sandwich, even though I explained to him that my mother had essentially the same thing in the form of the their fish and chips with mushy peas, the only difference being a lack of bread (which you can order separately anyway) and the fact that hers was served in a metal bath. I on the other hand had an absolutely devine Greek stifado stew and was gutted only because we didn't have time to stay for dessert.
Before we left I quizzed our waiter on the whole Hooligan/Made In Belfast Cathedral Quarter debacle and he confirmed that the name had indeed changed and that if we had been there the week before then we must have been present for Hooligan's "downfall" - I still have no idea what actually happened or whether they're just being fabulously dramatic about a mere name change just for the craic but I like their style!
And so it was off to be dancing queens for the evening… or so we thought.
Our first hint that the event would not quite live up to expectations was the fairly short list of people who had purchased tickets and the equally empty room when we arrived. But fair enough, I thought, an evening of dancing to cheesy music is not for everyone and it's better to have only a few fellow crazies than a lot of disinterested folks being boring. Onward!
However the evening did not get any better when the "event" began. There was no introduction from anyone - the lights simply went off and the screen went on. It looked fairly promising at first when a montage of dance clips from movies like Dirty Dancing, Flashdance, Grease and Rocky Horror played to the tune of Footloose and had us simultaneously dancing in our seats and sqwaking "Nobody puts Baby in a corner!" and "It's just a jump to the left!". However once Footloose finished so, effectively, did the entertainment.
From that point on, one song simply followed another, as though someone was clicking their way through YouTube one video at a time by following the suggested video links down the right-hand side. The quality was awful in most of the clips too and the editing was truly shocking - some clips ended in a black screen for an eternity before the next one started whilst some screeched and warbled to a sudden halt just before the end. Only three girls ventured out of their seats at any point to dance and I have a suspicion they were in some way connected to the organisation of the event. It also paled in significance when compared to the seven people who got up and left about 5 minutes in, effectively cutting the audience in half.
What annoyed me most, however, is that a good amount of the songs were in no way related to musicals, film or even TV. I can sort of understand them playing Thriller (even though I detest it) because it's sort of a mini film in itself, but how exactly did the creator of this bilge decide that the dance-loving audience of a film festival audience would be more enthralled by Groove Is In The Heart and Walk Like an Egyptian than, say, I've Had The Time Of My Life or the Time Warp? We were waiting for the punchline or something great throughout the evening but it never came.
Thankfully it was as short as it was rubbish and we were out on the pavement blinking in the daylight after about an hour, wondering how someone had managed to scam us into paying a fiver each to sacrifice an hour of our lives in such a way! As my mother said, if a GCSE media student had submitted it as their coursework, they would have failed.
And so it was on to Starbucks for some caffeine to numb the pain. Well there had to be some high point to the evening! Prior to that my favourite part (apart from dinner) had been when they played the Glee version of Single Ladies, but any happiness this provided soon faded when they played not one but two High School Musical songs, each as monotonous as each other. Woe!
I must say I'm fairly disappointed. I guess their budget isn't that huge but I'm fairly sure that even I could have edited the thing better, not to mention choosing better songs to start with. Bad Belfast Film Festival! I am so totally putting you in a corner because that is where the naughty step is! I can only hope that my next (and final) Belfast Film Festival outing later this week will be of a higher calibre. Only time will tell!
Thursday, 7 April 2011
Table for one please Captain
You may have noticed that I am a bit of a nutterbutter at times. I dislike things other people enjoy, such as talking to a friend on the telephone, and yet like things other people hate, like travelling (the journey itself rather than the destination). It was in this spirit that I decided to take a day off work and book myself a random little trip over to Stranraer and back on the ferry one day. Alone. The most commonly asked question by anyone I told about my planned voyage was, quite understandly, "umm... why?" For no purpose other than for the adventure, mayteys! That said, it still became known as my "random loner trip" by those who just didn't understand (i.e. everyone).
I really love travelling on boats. I don't know quite why, although there is marine history in my bloodlines (the Navy rather than a half-dolphin great grandmother), but I find it soothing. In fact I find it more calming (not to mention fun) when there's a good bit of rough seas going on and you can barely walk in a straight line due to the swaying of the boat. I especially love standing out on the deck with the wind howling past, making my hair all tatty and my lips taste like salt - so refreshing!
And so earlier this week, with my printed booking confirmation in hand, I arrived at the Stenaline terminal on time for the 11.45am sailing to Stranraer. The Belfast terminal has certainly come on in leaps and bounds since the last time I was there, with a complete redesign that has essentially turned the whole place into a giant coffee shop (and you know how I love a good coffee shop!). My only quibble was that there was no announcement over the PA that the ferry was ready for boarding and I only realised I should probably be on my way when I looked up from my book to see everyone else scurrying off towards a far corner. Oops.
On the first leg of my trip I was on the Stena HSS Voyager. This is the faster of Stenaline's ferries and I've always kind of liked how you walk around in a big circle to get around the ship - it reminds me of the Enterprise from Star Trek TNG in that respect. For my little "loner trip" I had decided to go all out and book myself into the Stena Plus lounge. It was £16 extra each way but the website promised me free unlimited tea, coffee, wine and snacks, so I figured that given my usual caffeine consumption and the standard price of refreshments onboard the ferry I would get my money's worth in coffee alone. Plus sometimes it's nice just to splurge a little and feel special, especially when you're seen Titanic as many times as I have and know that the first class passengers get all the best places on the lifeboats if something goes wrong!
In the end I didn't need a lifeboat and nor feel that special, since it seemed like the world and his wife had been thinking along similar lines. Having given up looking for a table anywhere near a power outlet for my laptop (some chance!), I finally bagged the only two seats still available that simultaneously looked out towards the sea and were on the same level as the snack bar (both very important requirements!). Then it was into the five-minute long queue for the coffee machines.
I eventually managed to obtain a cappucino, a glass of apple juice and some shortbread and settled down for the journey. The HSS journey only takes about two hours and I spent it rotating between reading my chick lit book du jour, staring out the windows at the rolling waves in some kind of aquatic trance, enjoying a very tasty chowder with a tuna and cucumber sandwich from the lunch menu and helping myself to umpteen cups of tea and coffee (and post-lunch a couple of glasses of wine too!). By the time we arrived in Stranraer I was feeling very relaxed and the sun was just beginning to emerge from the grey and cloudy skies. Perfect!
Stranraer. Well, there's not really a lot to do in Stranraer to be honest. I even did research beforehand just in case there was some hidden gem I could take in during my brief trip, but alas it seemed that Castle St John is about it for visitors to Stranraer. That said I managed to fill the few hours I spent there quite comfortably by browsing in the shops, taking walks along the harbour and through Agnew Park and eventually having some decent fish and chips (compulsory when visiting the seaside) in the Starfish Restaurant. It was a lovely sunny day in the end and it was nice just to wander around a town I didn't know much about with nothing specific to do and nowhere specific to go.
The only strange bit was when I stopped into a pub for a quick drink and I ended up being the only person in there except for the barmaid. She watched Emmerdale, where someone seemed to be having some kind of breakdown, while I sat by the dominos table (I did not know pubs still had such things!) sipping my pint and trying to avoid awkward eye-contact. A sign on the window had advertised a beer garden but its whereabouts were not instantly apparent and to ask would have required forced conversation so I amused myself with my mobile for a few minutes instead and then left as soon as feasibly possible to continue my loner day back in the 21st century.
Soon enough it was time to head back to the foot passenger departure lounge for the ferry home. This time it was the Stena Caledonia and it was 45 minutes delayed, which wasn't a great surprise bearing in mind it had been 45 minutes delayed coming into Belfast when I was waiting to leave that morning. I found a plug socket by the vending machines in the departure lounge and hooked up my laptop to enjoy an episode of House to help pass the time. It did so admirably and by the time the end credits were rolling it was time to board. This time around I faced a 3 hour journey, as the Caledonia is slower than the HSS, not to mention older, so I was intrigued to see what the difference would be with Stena Plus lounge onboard this ship.
I followed the signs for the Stena Plus lounge and then stood around looking befuddled. A very helpful employee approached me and explained that there were actually two lounges onboard, one downstairs and one upstairs. He let me into the one downstairs and the door closed behind me. I looked around and essentially it was a small, depressing room with three windows, a small snack bar and a few tables and chairs. The people in it looked as grim as the room, so I turned on my heel and smartly marched straight back out again. The helpful employee, who was still there, looked at me knowingly and said, "would you like to try the upstairs lounge instead?" Yes please - I know £16 isn't a lot of money these days but it's more than I was willing to pay for the slow but steady withering of my soul.
At first glance, upstairs was marginally better. There were more windows, tables and chairs, the snack bar seemed a little bigger and there was (much to my chagrin) a children's play area (sorry mummies and daddies but children screeching for 3 hours is not my idea of fun). However a further look revealed two major plus points, namely that down one side of the room was an area with massive, fancy touch-screen computers (which no-one else seemed to be remotely interesting in) and also that on either side of the room was a door straight out onto the deck. Excellent! I installed myself in the very corner at one of the computer desks, moved the keyboard and mouse aside and set up my own laptop instead. Then I collected a new stock of caffeine, snacks and wine and returned to my little corner of wonder.
I spent about an hour of the journey writing my Rocky Horror blog post and the remaining time drinking wine and coffee, watching more episodes of House on my laptop and wandering out on to the deck to have my head blown off. I also tried the thai chicken curry from the dinner menu, which was pretty mediocre, although the chicken was nicely cooked. Even the children in the play area were relatively quiet. Then at around 9pm it was finally time to disembark back on to Belfast soil and make my way home.
All in all it was a strange but lovely day. I got to go on a boat (two actually), I got to walk along the shore and look at shells and I got to completely relax and do whatever I wanted, and all with a steady intake of precious caffeine and alcohol.
My only regret is that I had booked my trip before the Belfast Film Festival released this year's programme and I ended up missing something I would have loved to go to. The Yorkshireman however did attend said event and no doubt will write about it soon. But as for me, I had a nice day out and I think I might have to go on another similar little loner trip again sometime soon. Yes, I know I'm an oddity, but I'm mostly harmless. Mostly.
I really love travelling on boats. I don't know quite why, although there is marine history in my bloodlines (the Navy rather than a half-dolphin great grandmother), but I find it soothing. In fact I find it more calming (not to mention fun) when there's a good bit of rough seas going on and you can barely walk in a straight line due to the swaying of the boat. I especially love standing out on the deck with the wind howling past, making my hair all tatty and my lips taste like salt - so refreshing!
And so earlier this week, with my printed booking confirmation in hand, I arrived at the Stenaline terminal on time for the 11.45am sailing to Stranraer. The Belfast terminal has certainly come on in leaps and bounds since the last time I was there, with a complete redesign that has essentially turned the whole place into a giant coffee shop (and you know how I love a good coffee shop!). My only quibble was that there was no announcement over the PA that the ferry was ready for boarding and I only realised I should probably be on my way when I looked up from my book to see everyone else scurrying off towards a far corner. Oops.
On the first leg of my trip I was on the Stena HSS Voyager. This is the faster of Stenaline's ferries and I've always kind of liked how you walk around in a big circle to get around the ship - it reminds me of the Enterprise from Star Trek TNG in that respect. For my little "loner trip" I had decided to go all out and book myself into the Stena Plus lounge. It was £16 extra each way but the website promised me free unlimited tea, coffee, wine and snacks, so I figured that given my usual caffeine consumption and the standard price of refreshments onboard the ferry I would get my money's worth in coffee alone. Plus sometimes it's nice just to splurge a little and feel special, especially when you're seen Titanic as many times as I have and know that the first class passengers get all the best places on the lifeboats if something goes wrong!
In the end I didn't need a lifeboat and nor feel that special, since it seemed like the world and his wife had been thinking along similar lines. Having given up looking for a table anywhere near a power outlet for my laptop (some chance!), I finally bagged the only two seats still available that simultaneously looked out towards the sea and were on the same level as the snack bar (both very important requirements!). Then it was into the five-minute long queue for the coffee machines.
I eventually managed to obtain a cappucino, a glass of apple juice and some shortbread and settled down for the journey. The HSS journey only takes about two hours and I spent it rotating between reading my chick lit book du jour, staring out the windows at the rolling waves in some kind of aquatic trance, enjoying a very tasty chowder with a tuna and cucumber sandwich from the lunch menu and helping myself to umpteen cups of tea and coffee (and post-lunch a couple of glasses of wine too!). By the time we arrived in Stranraer I was feeling very relaxed and the sun was just beginning to emerge from the grey and cloudy skies. Perfect!
Stranraer. Well, there's not really a lot to do in Stranraer to be honest. I even did research beforehand just in case there was some hidden gem I could take in during my brief trip, but alas it seemed that Castle St John is about it for visitors to Stranraer. That said I managed to fill the few hours I spent there quite comfortably by browsing in the shops, taking walks along the harbour and through Agnew Park and eventually having some decent fish and chips (compulsory when visiting the seaside) in the Starfish Restaurant. It was a lovely sunny day in the end and it was nice just to wander around a town I didn't know much about with nothing specific to do and nowhere specific to go.
The only strange bit was when I stopped into a pub for a quick drink and I ended up being the only person in there except for the barmaid. She watched Emmerdale, where someone seemed to be having some kind of breakdown, while I sat by the dominos table (I did not know pubs still had such things!) sipping my pint and trying to avoid awkward eye-contact. A sign on the window had advertised a beer garden but its whereabouts were not instantly apparent and to ask would have required forced conversation so I amused myself with my mobile for a few minutes instead and then left as soon as feasibly possible to continue my loner day back in the 21st century.
Soon enough it was time to head back to the foot passenger departure lounge for the ferry home. This time it was the Stena Caledonia and it was 45 minutes delayed, which wasn't a great surprise bearing in mind it had been 45 minutes delayed coming into Belfast when I was waiting to leave that morning. I found a plug socket by the vending machines in the departure lounge and hooked up my laptop to enjoy an episode of House to help pass the time. It did so admirably and by the time the end credits were rolling it was time to board. This time around I faced a 3 hour journey, as the Caledonia is slower than the HSS, not to mention older, so I was intrigued to see what the difference would be with Stena Plus lounge onboard this ship.
I followed the signs for the Stena Plus lounge and then stood around looking befuddled. A very helpful employee approached me and explained that there were actually two lounges onboard, one downstairs and one upstairs. He let me into the one downstairs and the door closed behind me. I looked around and essentially it was a small, depressing room with three windows, a small snack bar and a few tables and chairs. The people in it looked as grim as the room, so I turned on my heel and smartly marched straight back out again. The helpful employee, who was still there, looked at me knowingly and said, "would you like to try the upstairs lounge instead?" Yes please - I know £16 isn't a lot of money these days but it's more than I was willing to pay for the slow but steady withering of my soul.
At first glance, upstairs was marginally better. There were more windows, tables and chairs, the snack bar seemed a little bigger and there was (much to my chagrin) a children's play area (sorry mummies and daddies but children screeching for 3 hours is not my idea of fun). However a further look revealed two major plus points, namely that down one side of the room was an area with massive, fancy touch-screen computers (which no-one else seemed to be remotely interesting in) and also that on either side of the room was a door straight out onto the deck. Excellent! I installed myself in the very corner at one of the computer desks, moved the keyboard and mouse aside and set up my own laptop instead. Then I collected a new stock of caffeine, snacks and wine and returned to my little corner of wonder.
I spent about an hour of the journey writing my Rocky Horror blog post and the remaining time drinking wine and coffee, watching more episodes of House on my laptop and wandering out on to the deck to have my head blown off. I also tried the thai chicken curry from the dinner menu, which was pretty mediocre, although the chicken was nicely cooked. Even the children in the play area were relatively quiet. Then at around 9pm it was finally time to disembark back on to Belfast soil and make my way home.
All in all it was a strange but lovely day. I got to go on a boat (two actually), I got to walk along the shore and look at shells and I got to completely relax and do whatever I wanted, and all with a steady intake of precious caffeine and alcohol.
My only regret is that I had booked my trip before the Belfast Film Festival released this year's programme and I ended up missing something I would have loved to go to. The Yorkshireman however did attend said event and no doubt will write about it soon. But as for me, I had a nice day out and I think I might have to go on another similar little loner trip again sometime soon. Yes, I know I'm an oddity, but I'm mostly harmless. Mostly.
Monday, 4 April 2011
Belfast’s unconventional conventionalists
I spent most of my workday last Thursday in a state of excited antici... pation. That joke will either be completely lost on you or you’ll instantly know what we were up to. Or, if you also happen to read my husband’s blog, you’ll know already regardless of your knowledge of Transexuals from the planet of Transylvania. Yes, we were off to Rocky Horror.
I’ve been at least peripherally aware of the Rocky Horror Picture Show since early childhood – I remember my sister and I repeatedly insisting that the DJ at my uncle’s wedding play the Time Warp for example – but I never really fully appreciated it until a few late night viewings in the latter end of my teens. Note I don’t say that I never fully understood it – I’m fairly sure there must be parts of Rocky Horror that even Richard O’Brien doesn’t fully understand and he wrote the thing – but it’s definitely compulsive viewing and listening no matter how bonkers the plot or its characters may be!
I think you also need a fairly open mind to appreciate it. I have a colleague who’s a little on the naive side who recently told me she was horrified when she watched Rocky for the first (and only) time, to the extent that she was even a little wary about watching Glee’s interpretation, bless her. Another colleague who is also a little, well, on the moral side, said she had never seen it but would never watch it just from its description. Ah well, I’ll be happy doing the Time Warp with my fellow sickos and perves then!
It was in this mindset that I nearly imploded with excitement when I read the Belfast Film Festival’s programme for 2011 and saw that on opening night the Black Box were hosting a Q&A with Patricia Quinn (owner of the famous lips in the opening scene of the movie and also plays Magenta) followed by a screening of the film.
I’m generally quite blasé about celebrity sightings because unlike the majority of the Heat Magazine-reading, Jordan-obsessed UK I believe they’re just human beings like me and thee. No pedestals here I’m afraid. But it still seemed like it would be quite cool to see how different someone you’ve seen so often as a fictional, singing, incestuous alien on your TV screen looks forty years later and without the maid’s outfit or spacesuit. Plus I’m always up for an excuse to dress up with fellow crazies. So at the first available opportunity the tickets were booked and, much to the Yorkshireman’s consternation, the costume-planning began.
I’ll spare you the ins and outs of how difficult it is to find a decent Rocky Horror costume on a budget and the related last-minute mail-related ups and downs. However suffice to say by the evening of the event itself I had a black PVC mini dress and some fishnet tights in my bag. The Yorkshireman copped out and bought a Rocky Horror t-shirt, even declining my simple request that he wear fishnets tights underneath his work trousers in addition. Men... tisk! I mean, I do not have the body to be wearing a tight, short PVC dress in public, but it’s the spirit of the thing! I mean the film is all about expressing yourself (well, that and the transient morals of mankind), so you’re really obliged to let it all hang out. Or to contain it all in fishnets. Either will work.
So, after a quick pint of Guinness at the Duke of York and then an absolutely delicious dinner at Hooligan (seriously, you have to try this place), I donned my outfit of shame and, eternally grateful for my knee-length coat, headed around the corner to the Black Box to meet our friends. They had done us proud on the costume-front and so, suitably attired and with our names checked off the list, we headed in to a wonderland of darkness, fairy lights and red and black. Perfectly Rocky!
However when I went next door to their café to order my tea-total friend a latte it appeared that there was a totally different vibe in there. A couple of cool arty types were performing live, laid-back music in the corner to a group of similarly cool-looking arty types, all of whom were giving me odd sideward glances. Meanwhile I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the latte, all the while standing next to a bemused-looking elderly lady who probably thought I was in for a quick caffeine hit before I began a night of hooking around the Cathedral Quarter. However if she had ventured next door she would soon have discovered that I was far from the worst culprit. Some Rocky fans really go all out! I wonder whether she would have been most disturbed by the Magenta whose skirt didn’t quite cover the important areas, the blood-stained, scrubs-wearing Frank N Furter or the seven feet tall Usherette with the most amazing blonde beehive wig I have ever seen.
Anyway, having obtained the latte and given the elderly lady one more rueful, I’m-not-a-prostitute-honestly smile, it was back into insanity for me. The evening was everything I expected and more. Patricia Quinn was delightfully quirky (and I suspect, quite pissed) and the interview was thankfully not too long. With a parting shot of “let there be lips!” it was time for the show, much to the delight of the Rocky fans in attendance. Patricia’s lips, her billing page on the cast list and her famous line, “You're lucky, he's lucky, I'm lucky, we're all lucky!” all got enthusiastic cheers but as always it was the Time Warp that had everyone (except the Yorkshireman and a couple of other boringheads!) on their feet. It’s amazing how many people (myself included) will attempt a bit of tap dancing during Columbia’s Time Warp scene despite having no tap ability whatsoever. Essentially it was a room full of people jumping up and down and making their high heels click on the floor a lot - great craic!
One of my favourite bits about watching Rocky Horror with a group of fans is the audience participation. There are whole scripts out there in Interwebzland but unless you’re really hardcore there are only a few that are always said, for example when Brad’s name is mentioned by the Narrator you shout “asshole!”, when Janet’s name is mentioned you shout “slut!” and when Doctor Scott’s name is mentioned you shout “sieg heil!” However the audience are also perfectly entitled to make up their own lines and often people will shout out something you’ve never heard before. Depending on the person (and often their alcohol consumption) it can be hilarious or really not funny at all, but in the latter case it’s fairly evident from everyone else’s reaction (or lack thereof) that they should shut the hell up already and most times they do. You don’t want to cross a Rocky audience – you may not live to tell the tale mwahahahaha!
By the end of the night I was all danced out, my throat was hoarse from singing along and I was keen to get home and out of my fishnets, but I had a brilliant time. So that was event number one from my Belfast Film Festival list. Event two is later this week and I have another costume of sorts planned, even if this one is not quite so provocative! This outfit should be fairly work-safe. Evidently I never grew out of the dressing-up stage when I left primary school, but I figure you only get out of an experience what you put into it. Now just to locate some transparent rubber tubing, faux meercat fur and glittery fairy wings. Just kidding... or am I?
I’ve been at least peripherally aware of the Rocky Horror Picture Show since early childhood – I remember my sister and I repeatedly insisting that the DJ at my uncle’s wedding play the Time Warp for example – but I never really fully appreciated it until a few late night viewings in the latter end of my teens. Note I don’t say that I never fully understood it – I’m fairly sure there must be parts of Rocky Horror that even Richard O’Brien doesn’t fully understand and he wrote the thing – but it’s definitely compulsive viewing and listening no matter how bonkers the plot or its characters may be!
I think you also need a fairly open mind to appreciate it. I have a colleague who’s a little on the naive side who recently told me she was horrified when she watched Rocky for the first (and only) time, to the extent that she was even a little wary about watching Glee’s interpretation, bless her. Another colleague who is also a little, well, on the moral side, said she had never seen it but would never watch it just from its description. Ah well, I’ll be happy doing the Time Warp with my fellow sickos and perves then!
It was in this mindset that I nearly imploded with excitement when I read the Belfast Film Festival’s programme for 2011 and saw that on opening night the Black Box were hosting a Q&A with Patricia Quinn (owner of the famous lips in the opening scene of the movie and also plays Magenta) followed by a screening of the film.
I’m generally quite blasé about celebrity sightings because unlike the majority of the Heat Magazine-reading, Jordan-obsessed UK I believe they’re just human beings like me and thee. No pedestals here I’m afraid. But it still seemed like it would be quite cool to see how different someone you’ve seen so often as a fictional, singing, incestuous alien on your TV screen looks forty years later and without the maid’s outfit or spacesuit. Plus I’m always up for an excuse to dress up with fellow crazies. So at the first available opportunity the tickets were booked and, much to the Yorkshireman’s consternation, the costume-planning began.
I’ll spare you the ins and outs of how difficult it is to find a decent Rocky Horror costume on a budget and the related last-minute mail-related ups and downs. However suffice to say by the evening of the event itself I had a black PVC mini dress and some fishnet tights in my bag. The Yorkshireman copped out and bought a Rocky Horror t-shirt, even declining my simple request that he wear fishnets tights underneath his work trousers in addition. Men... tisk! I mean, I do not have the body to be wearing a tight, short PVC dress in public, but it’s the spirit of the thing! I mean the film is all about expressing yourself (well, that and the transient morals of mankind), so you’re really obliged to let it all hang out. Or to contain it all in fishnets. Either will work.
So, after a quick pint of Guinness at the Duke of York and then an absolutely delicious dinner at Hooligan (seriously, you have to try this place), I donned my outfit of shame and, eternally grateful for my knee-length coat, headed around the corner to the Black Box to meet our friends. They had done us proud on the costume-front and so, suitably attired and with our names checked off the list, we headed in to a wonderland of darkness, fairy lights and red and black. Perfectly Rocky!
However when I went next door to their café to order my tea-total friend a latte it appeared that there was a totally different vibe in there. A couple of cool arty types were performing live, laid-back music in the corner to a group of similarly cool-looking arty types, all of whom were giving me odd sideward glances. Meanwhile I waited for what seemed like an eternity for the latte, all the while standing next to a bemused-looking elderly lady who probably thought I was in for a quick caffeine hit before I began a night of hooking around the Cathedral Quarter. However if she had ventured next door she would soon have discovered that I was far from the worst culprit. Some Rocky fans really go all out! I wonder whether she would have been most disturbed by the Magenta whose skirt didn’t quite cover the important areas, the blood-stained, scrubs-wearing Frank N Furter or the seven feet tall Usherette with the most amazing blonde beehive wig I have ever seen.
Anyway, having obtained the latte and given the elderly lady one more rueful, I’m-not-a-prostitute-honestly smile, it was back into insanity for me. The evening was everything I expected and more. Patricia Quinn was delightfully quirky (and I suspect, quite pissed) and the interview was thankfully not too long. With a parting shot of “let there be lips!” it was time for the show, much to the delight of the Rocky fans in attendance. Patricia’s lips, her billing page on the cast list and her famous line, “You're lucky, he's lucky, I'm lucky, we're all lucky!” all got enthusiastic cheers but as always it was the Time Warp that had everyone (except the Yorkshireman and a couple of other boringheads!) on their feet. It’s amazing how many people (myself included) will attempt a bit of tap dancing during Columbia’s Time Warp scene despite having no tap ability whatsoever. Essentially it was a room full of people jumping up and down and making their high heels click on the floor a lot - great craic!
One of my favourite bits about watching Rocky Horror with a group of fans is the audience participation. There are whole scripts out there in Interwebzland but unless you’re really hardcore there are only a few that are always said, for example when Brad’s name is mentioned by the Narrator you shout “asshole!”, when Janet’s name is mentioned you shout “slut!” and when Doctor Scott’s name is mentioned you shout “sieg heil!” However the audience are also perfectly entitled to make up their own lines and often people will shout out something you’ve never heard before. Depending on the person (and often their alcohol consumption) it can be hilarious or really not funny at all, but in the latter case it’s fairly evident from everyone else’s reaction (or lack thereof) that they should shut the hell up already and most times they do. You don’t want to cross a Rocky audience – you may not live to tell the tale mwahahahaha!
By the end of the night I was all danced out, my throat was hoarse from singing along and I was keen to get home and out of my fishnets, but I had a brilliant time. So that was event number one from my Belfast Film Festival list. Event two is later this week and I have another costume of sorts planned, even if this one is not quite so provocative! This outfit should be fairly work-safe. Evidently I never grew out of the dressing-up stage when I left primary school, but I figure you only get out of an experience what you put into it. Now just to locate some transparent rubber tubing, faux meercat fur and glittery fairy wings. Just kidding... or am I?
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