'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

Well, if we overlook an astonishing disappointing Dalek effort from the once-great Moffat, that was rather a lovely evening - lounging in a Crouch End gazebo by candlelight, all suitably louche. And at lunchtime I'd finally got round to attending one of the Union Chapel's daytime concerts, with (The Real) Tuesday Weld taking full advantage of the pulpit; the night before I'd walked through Holborn, along the South Bank and then down to the deep South for my_red_dream's wedding reception, where pretty much all the old faces were together again for the first time in I don't know how long. It has been, in brief, a pretty satisfactory weekend.

At some point I got very behind writing about shows I've seen; Edinburgh is done now, and I've not even caught up with the last of the previews I saw before it kicked off. Impressed to have caught three of the Best Newcomer nominees (including the rather surprising winner) courtesy of diamond_geyser (all mentioned in previous posts, I think) - but then there were also the very sweet Grainne Maguire (who is not a character act), curly-haired Matt Highton (for whom I became a professional gag-writer), Phil Nichol (a sort of Canadian Al Pacino who was probably great once he'd learned his material), and Nick Doody (wrong and brilliant). And then, at a normal venue, whatever the opposite of a preview is, so now I have *finally* seen Dinosaur Planet in full.

Also, there were plays! At the Bridewell Theatre, which is not just a name, for said well half-blocks the entrance to the basement bar. I was there to see perfectlyvague's Thatcher in Berkoff's Sink the Belgrano - which is treasonous rot, but part of being one of the good guys is being able to enjoy art even when it's wrong. Also on the bill was Man of Destiny, the first George Bernard Shaw I've seen in ages. He really was much better at speeches than drama, wasn't he?

I try not to post 'Stupid Columnist Is Stupid' stuff anymore, because really, what's the point? Half the time it's exactly what they want. But I read this article more than a week ago and it's still bugging me.
"Gentrification can be funny. A middle-class friend of mine recently moved to Brixton in south London. She noticed a chicken shop at the end of her road which always had expensive cars parked outside at night, and queues of people through the door. Assuming this was a reflection of the quality of its food, she went in asking for some chicken. Her request was met with astonishment by the owner and the great amusement of the other customers. There was barely a kitchen, and certainly no cooking going on.
If you are a middle-class person who has never lived in a poor area, it may not be obvious to you either that the chicken shop was actually selling drugs."
I'm not trying to be all street here, but I am aware of plenty of London commercial premises which seem to be fronts for something dodgy. At least one I can say with certainty was, because a week or so after we were in there buying after-hours booze, I saw footage on TV of SWAT cops raiding it and carting off lots of heroin. Plenty of these shops are not very good at their nominal trade - but they always make some desultory effort at a cover. And a chicken shop? Which, more than any other, will attract the drunk and uncomprehending customer who's going to get in the way of the real business? That seems like a very strange choice of cover.

Beyond that...well, last week I helped record 'a radio play', as we are now apparently calling the scurrilous collection of in-jokes and outright puerility that is The Oxford Dons; once it's uploaded for timeshifted listening, I'll put the link on here. I walked to Hackney for the recording, and while I was disappointed that Balls Pond Road doesn't seem to have a ball pond, it does have a deeply Dalston community garden, and an oddly hallucinogenic windmill, and a beautiful old supplier of colours to artists. Afterwards, astonished that we seemed to have got away with it, we sat in the infamously hipster London Fields (something else I've never done before), where even the beggars claim to be poets or foot masseurs. I'm sure if I'd stuck around longer one would have turned up insisting he was actually a DJ. Then down to the heart of town for a library raid (the next four volumes of Invincible were my goal, the fact that schoolgirls were tying each other up next to the comics shelf was strictly a bonus) and the newly restored version of Fritz Lang's Metropolis. If you were hoping it might make sense now, then sorry, much of the plot is still strictly to be inferred - but my word, it's beautiful. Then off for sushi - quite the Axis evening. I liked it, but I'm not sure I see it as making a whole meal, the flavours are great for treats but too complex for consumption en masse.
On Thursday I went for what should have been a civilised dinner, and then have a gap somewhere after I left, until I remember climbing out of the park. Which isn't even on any sensible route home from where I was. Hmmm. Friday also ended up involving a fair amount of red wine, although no park detours this time*, which meant that I felt not the slightest compunction about having a quiet night in on Saturday. Not done that for a long, long time. But there was another party to attend on Sunday, after all.

*There were some other detours earlier, because the route to Kilburn - which I had hoped might be simpler on foot - is in fact horribly tricksy, and seems to use either main roads, or the eerily deserted sort**. Shan't be trying that again. Was there to see The Vichy Government at No Fiction, where their fascist dance anthem 'Iberia' made its live debut. Good times.
**I usually like deserted roads, but sometimes you can tell they're deserted for a reason.

Some time since I've said what I've been up to, isn't it? In brief: Fitzrovia pub full of indie celebs, partying on the roofs of Holloway, much pizza, and an unexpectedly good Tuesday night on which more anon. But I shall pause to note that until further notice, the decor, the food and the (free, quality) jukebox have conferred upon The Mucky Pup the status of New Favourite Pub. Although fair enough, I imagine the company helped.

Two fascinating, flawed creators are breaking their silences this year. Neal Stephenson has a new book coming in September; having taken a well-deserved rest since finishing his magnificent Baroque Cycle he looks to be returning to SF, although the cover looks rather coy about implying anything of the sort. Meanwhile, there's Dave Sim's Glamourpuss. If you don't know about Dave Sim, I'm not sure I can summarise him for you; let's just say that as a comics writer and artist he's first rate, and as a letterer he's simply the best, but over the course of 26 years devoted wholly to his self-published magnum opus Cerebus, he understandably went a bit strange. In some ways, though, it's better not to know that, and just to read Glamourpuss, a remarkably sui generis comic* which combines fashion mag satire, art criticism, and Sim's commentary on his own progress as attempts to emulate the photorealist style of old comics artists he admires. I have no idea who he thinks is going to read this, and I find it glorious that he doesn't care. It's not something which would normally interest me, even, but he's good enough that it does.

I have no interest in seeing the film 21, but I've become somewhat obsessed with the soundtrack. Well, let's be more specific. The sleeve of my copy says only that it begins with the Rolling Stones' 'You Can't Always Get What You Want', failing to alert me that it is in face a desecration of as they are currently known a 'remix', one which I have since learned is by the ever-execrable Soulwax, our era's enthusiasm for whom will one day be considered in the same damning light as Jive Bunny's record sales. Nor have I ever got past The Aliens' contribution, which is exactly the sort of pleasant psychedelia one expects from them. But in between...well, you've got Peter, Bjorn & John's 'Young Folks', and that's always good to hear when the sun is shining. A couple of pleasantly unnerving pop-dance tracks. A fairly strong new effort by LCD Soundsystem - nothing on the level of 'All My Friends', but given how much of Sound of Silver sounded like a band suffering from that song's complaints rather than making them, welcome nonetheless. And more than any of these, MGMT's 'Time To Pretend'. This is exactly the kind of smug, hipster pop I normally loathe, or at most tolerate as background music, but here the serene arrogance wins me over just like it's meant to. "I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life. Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives"...and I just think, yeah, sounds like a plan. I don't even mind that it's a clean radio edit.

*Like Alice in Sunderland or Black Dossier, Glamourpuss is another nail in the coffin of that absurd combination of marketing speak and cultural cringe that is the term 'graphic novel'. Whatever these are, and whatever they are is great art, they are sure as all the Hells not novels.