Beauty Queen of Leenane- Play review

McDonough’s Curve production of The Beauty Queen of Leenane is much like the hot drink Complan: simple, full of flavour and has the odd lump thrown in that you’re forced to swallow with shock.

On the box, it’s a story of Maureen (Michele Moran) a forty year old virgin, trapped in a rural Irish cottage. Whilst hoping for love, Maureen is left caring for her crafty, manipulative mother Mags (Noran Connolly). It’s when the box is opened and a chance of romance is stirred in along with misdelivered letters and a poker that things start to boil over.

One of the main ingredients is the sourness between mother and daughter. Dutiful Maureen is tired of serving porridge and Complan whilst her sisters are happily married. Mags is forever scheming to avoid a care home, whilst “waiting for the news”, complaining of her bad hip and shuffling pots of urine to the kitchen sink. In the midst of their simmering home life are sprinklings of the brothers; Dooley (Andrew Macklin) and Pato (Stephen Hogan), who add spice and stir things up.

Moran plays her character of Maureen seamlessly and with utter conviction. From doting daughter to the sex crazed singleton, she helps bring the hidden lumps to the surface in a captivating twist of events. She is an actor completely immersed in her role and it pays off superbly well when the whole plays’ flavour is shifted. She interacts well with Hogan, who also fits comfortably into his role and at times helps heighten humour for the audience when awkward and cringe worthy moments arrive.

Connolly is a convincing mother figure who manages to pull off sweet and evil easily and tastefully. She lightens dark events with brilliant black-comedy lines which are all well delivered and timed, which also helps to move the play along. The only qualm with her character is minor, her jokes feel a little repetitive but even that in turn reflects upon their mundane life style.  The same can be said for Macklin. Although his Irish accent is questionably Welsh at times, he fits comfortably in the simple cottage, makes the most of the set and his grudge over a tennis ball is both hilarious and tense, proving to be one of the plays’ highlights.

Originally written by Martin McDonagh, Paul Kerryson’s direction brings it to Leicester’s Curve stage in a simple and hugely effective way. The simplicity works in the plays favour and allows attention to be focused on the actors themselves and the events. The lack of complications within its direction allows the four actors to progress through scenes with ease and it’s refreshing to see a play which doesn’t have intricate and overpowering style.

Juliet Shillinford’s set design was in no way forgettable. The details were subtle and hugely effective. Small elements such as the working stove and kettle (constantly heating Mags demands), the dirty socks and Irish memorabilia made the whole play more authentic. The sound of crunching gravel outside played to an actor’s exit or entrance and the rain and wind lashing against the window were highlights which magnify the brilliance which has gone into making this play a charming success.

As a whole it’s definitely worth a watch. At times it lacks subtlety and keen viewers may see the twist coming,  but even then it’s still a beauty of a play, both captivating and absorbing. 

A Storm of Swords book review

With HBO’s series of A Game of Thrones proving to be a world-wide success, which even managed to compete with TV giant Breaking Bad, attention has now one again turned to George R R Martin’s internationally best-selling series, from which the show was based on, A Song of Ice and Fire.

Largely regarded as the king of fantasy epics, A Song of Fire and Ice was first released in 1996. The series currently consists of five volumes, starting with A Game of Thrones. The TV series has so far covered up to the half-way point of the third volume, A Storm of Swords, causing most fans to turn eagerly to the book itself for spoilers.

Jaws were left hanging after the notorious Red Wedding scene aired on TV, which saw most of the loved cast brutally butchered just when all seemed to be looking up. The second half of A Storm of Swords works hard to keep those jaws securely glued to the floor.

In the war torn land of Westeros only four of the five contenders for power remain alive, with another seemingly defeated and the game for the Iron Throne continues as even more alliances are forged and forgotten. The dreaded Joffrey still remains as the young and unsteady ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. Winter is coming bringing with it the blue eyed, un-dead Others. A host of Wildlings, human, mammoth and giant alike are attacking The Wall. Meanwhile, the exiled queen Daenerys Targaryen, rider of the last three dragons, is making her way across a blood soaked slave country.  All are set to collide.

If the previous books hadn't already, the prologue sets the theme for the chapters to come. Each page, if not most lines, hold death, betrayal, tension and tragedy; and as always, if you think it is going to end well, “you haven’t been paying attention”.

The book follows the usual format with each chapter being dedicated to a different main characters’ view point. True to style, Martin ensures each is as heartbreaking, intense and shocking as the last. Despite the wait between each books being published, it’s easy to slip back into the fast pace of things as we find ourselves reunited with a few familiar faces. As expected though, many have met a gruesome end and some new characters are introduced which both refreshes and jars the flow of things.

Martin is so superb in his writing that it’s easy to forget that as a reader, you too are part of the game of thrones. You believe wholeheartedly that you’re as informed as Vary’s with his little birds, when in reality you’re being played, deceived and misled, just like every character.

Martin travels further into the lands where Jon Snow and Daenery’s stage their struggles, which adds an interesting new depth to a story we thought we were getting to grips with. New possibilities and expectations are presented and it will be interesting to see how Martin will tie up all of many the sub plots (Other than just killing the character off, obviously).

There are some qualms, often there is so much happening it becomes hard to take it all in and let the devastation take full effect, each twist is magnificent but doesn't always receive its deserved recognition as it is overshadowed in the next chapter. Also, some characters such as Davos are hard to get through, compared to the likes of Arya Stark, they seem almost mundane and readers can often find themselves skimming through to the next chapter.

Overall though, A Storm of Swords is a masterpiece woven from tragedy, skilled writing and intensity that leaves readers satisfied till the end. Marten is unprecedented and will surely be remembered as the master of fantasy within a generation, his work is so ambitious and detailed it’s easy to become engrossed.

The Prestige, a review.

   Are you watching closely? Because the harder you’re looking, the more you concentrate, the more effective Christopher Nolan’s ultimate misdirection in his Victorian murder-mystery tale, The Prestige, will prove.

   Every magic trick consists of three acts. The first is the pledge; we are shown something ordinary and asked to inspect it, to see that it’s real. Once we’re satisfied the next act begins: the turn, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary.  Finally, once we’re engrossed and fooled, comes the third and hardest part of the act, the prestige, or big finale. Nolan’s laid out the film in a similar way, with the whole piece working as a ruse that defies us to see through the smoke and mirrors and spot the hidden trick.

   Set in the 1890s, the plot revolves around two London magicians, Angier (Hugh Jackman) and Borden (Christian Bale), struggling through a bitter feud after an illusion goes wrong and causes the death of an assistant.  Both magicians are capable of awe inspiring tricks, but as their tense relationship and lives become increasingly fuelled by obsession, deceit and jealousy their rivalry turns deadly, destroying and consuming most aspects of their lives.  Nolan ensures that illusion plays a pivotal role in the film though, so not all is as it seems and at times the rules of physics are morphed.

   The plot becomes increasingly captivating the further we delve into the magicians lives but what’s intriguing about The Prestige is the lack of CGI. The old fashioned film style leaves open the possibility of figuring out the twist, the audience remain comfortable in the fact that it will remain realistic. True to Nolan’s style though, the time line isn’t linear, The Prestige is filled with flashbacks, similar to Momento and again, the technique works well.

   Despite knowing we’re being misdirected by Angier and Borden, they play their roles so convincingly that it’s hard to avoid being sucked in and fooled. Both Jackman and Bale exceed as the conjurors. Jackman appears more serious and grown up than he has in his previous roles , he becomes the aristocratic loner he’s portraying at a much deeper level than we’ve seen him before. Bale is almost the cheeky-chappy of the film, his sticks to his cocky accent well, has perfected his smirk and yet with each plot twist can suddenly become dark and unnerving.

   Michael Caine’s role is arguably downplayed too much as his character spends most of his time in the background. Yet his time he does spend on screen is spent is extremely emotive yet not over the top, as usual his voice over is charming and he’s the perfect narrator. 

   David Bowie and Scarlett Johansson make brief yet crucial appearances. Both are debatably wasted roles, with Bowie coming across as too bizarre and Johansson being used as a sex symbol; yet both are refreshing to watch and move the plot forward.

   I pledge that you should give this film your full attention, watch it closely and have your turn at guessing the grand prestige.  You won’t be disappointed. 

A flappin' good interview with Richard Hopper

Richard Hopper has sailed the Amazon, been ice breaking in the Maldives and has even broken down surrounded by crocodiles in Australia. He’s seen all the culture and wildlife of the world, yet still prefers the company of his birds in Leicester’s countryside at his Tropical Birdland Park.

   In 1976, at just ten years old, Richard found himself in his friend’s garage being introduced to his first tropical birds and a nest of budgie eggs about to hatch. “From that moment on I just fell in love. I knew what I really wanted and that was just to try and breed endangered birds”. Now, 37 years later, I find myself walking a wooded path alive with the squawks of huge and vibrant birds of all kinds, with a, albeit slightly less fresh-faced, Mr Hopper waiting at the end of it.

   We sit ourselves down in the parks café, which is filled with pictures and statues of endangered birds amidst tropical plants, and Richard immediately launches into how it all progressed from a couple of budgies in his friends garage. “My parents, John and Madeline, were always very good with wildlife, at 16, when I told them I had such a passion for birds, they retired and sold their factory which produced machinery and bought a small bungalow in the middle of scrap land”.

   Work immediately began on building aviaries and converting the lands three stables into a shop of sorts, buying and selling birds. Whilst tugging at his hair, Richard explained, “I didn’t like the trade aspect of it but I had to do something to try keep my head above water. The birds would get stressed and start pulling at their feathers from being moved so much”.

   After that, with the help of a £40 a week government grant to start the business, the park opened in 1984 with the key goal of breeding and releasing endangered species of birds. However, Richard encountered issues he didn’t expect. “Thieving was bad. In those years exotic birds were worth silly amounts of money in the pet industry. We were burgled 13 times. It just crippled me, financially and emotionally”. Proving to be a resourceful character, Richard explained how he adopted rescue dogs and trained them to act as security, eliminating the problem. With a chuckle and a parrot-like click, he added, “Apart from the odd time when people have managed to sneak small birds out in their coats”.

   The parks issues didn’t stop there though. Richard’s birds began to die slowly and painfully from a disease neither he, nor the vets, could work out. “I did my own studies. I found out about geophagy, the need for birds to eat soil or clay. I saw photos of thousands of Macaws licking clay off a cliff”. After this discovery, Richard took flight to Peru and Ecuador and returned with some of the clay, after tests it was given to the birds; “it was a miracle, it just fixed everything”.

   Looking at the humble man sat in front of me in his little café, twiddling his thumbs, I found it hard to imagine Richard scaling cliffs surrounded by flocks of wild birds, which made his next story even more remarkable.

    On a trip to the York Peninsula, “The big spikey bit at the top of Australia”, Richard and his family hired a campervan to see the wildlife of Papa New Guiney. “I stupidly reversed onto this lovely beach, it’s full of salt water crocs so you can’t swim, but I’m thinking we’ll have a ‘barbie’, only there’s a ledge I didn’t see and I reverse right over it”. Suddenly his trip to Peru sounded remarkably tame to me. “The back wheels are hanging over and I just think to myself, “Fuck, I haven’t seen anyone in days” my family are in the camper van and there’s these crocs not too far off so I go looking for help”. Luckily the day was saved by a friendly local two miles away and a fine ‘barbie’ was had by all.

   Tales of his adventures seemed to revitalise Richard and I no longer saw him as a tame and settled bird keeper. However, his thoughts soon migrated back to his passion and his face darkened as he elaborated on his aim of releasing endangered birds. “My dream of releasing them into the wild was more or less smashed when I discovered all of the red tape involved”. He began pulling with his hair again as he explained how government procedures made it virtually impossible for “the little guys” to return their animals to their natural habitats. “For a start I don’t have any initials after my name. You have to prove so much, you have to put the birds through hell, you have to get the attention of two governments who’s top priorities aren’t parrots, I gave up”.

   I started to worry that his ambitions hadn’t been very well planned out from the start and were nothing more than a childhood fancy with clipped wings but again, Richard impressed me. “I had big, grandeur dreams, but the idea was planned and nurtured. While travelling I met some people who lived in lodges in the jungles of Belize, where a dam had knackered the scarlet macaws habitat.” He explained how together, they planned to use the land as a release haven where birds that Richard bred could be transported and released safely, but again, “It just couldn’t be done, not while the governments are as they are, I’m too small and they’re too big, I could not do it”.

   Richard seemed to pick up on how disheartened his story had left me and, if him rolling a cigarette and donning his coat was anything to go by, wanted to draw our meeting to a close. His parting words were incredibly humbling. “I’ve lived a good life, I’ve been to Costa Rica, Borneo, Kenya, everywhere, and I’ve gotten married on the Say Shells. I tell my daughters, “Don’t worry about me, I’m happy with what I do, I’ve done everything”. I love my family, I miss my mum and dad but I’ll forever be thankful to them, without them Birdland wouldn’t exist. Even after all these years, I still love being with the birds every day; I can’t even think of doing anything else, I wouldn’t want to”.

A Guarded Fairytale

            She jumps down the overly large step that drops from her front door, stray hair sticking to her forehead as she does so. Her eyes roll as she sighs heavily. Her knees give way slightly as she lifts down the two scooters propped in the hall as her children kick their legs with giddy shrieks. The bag hanging from her shoulder swings wildly.

Pulling the door shut the vintage tiles of her house, littered with plush toys and Sippy cups, are hidden from view with cobalt panels.

Hastily checking over her pockets she calls out, “Kids, come on, calm for Mummy remember?”

The little girl squeezes her eyes shut. Her puffy cheeks pull in as she lets loose a squeal while her brother’s fists redden around clumps of her hair that he’s tugging.

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Five

Pricilla Courtess

You wouldn’t believe it. I can’t even believe it myself. A man licked his bowl. Licked it! The soup is piss water, and he licked it clean. Imagine, this place refused my darling Fifi when the people themselves are mongrels. My hair is falling out. My. Hair. Is. Falling. Out. Don’t even get me started on my eyelashes. The one I have anyway.

If it weren’t for dear Simon, well, I don’t know. He’s as loopy as they come that one, but bless the lamb. I mean, the guy takes half an hour putting his stuff in the right place, by my, oh my, he is a star.

Which reminds me, I called that no good Patrick Star. I gave the scum a good old piece of my mind, I told him, I said ‘You, you are the scum on my shoes. The most useless piece of crap I ever did see.’ I said a good deal more, believe me.

Anyway, I hung up but I started thinking. I thought to myself, thirty years I’ve been doing this. Thirty years and all that I have to show is a free bowl of soup in a morning. I mean, look at me, Pricilla Courtess, no make-up on and sat in a homeless shelter. Well, I pulled out my sketches and took a good hard look and I thought, who was I kidding? Even I don’t wear my designs.

Well, I started sobbing to Simon something fierce. I could have just settled down, popped out a few kids like normal women? No. Pricilla Courtess had to give herself a dodgy hip pleasing the men who were gonna make her dreams. Pricilla Courtess had to have Botox, and fucking Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Pricilla Courtess isn’t even my real name, can you believe that? Thirty years I’ve kept that charade going.

 I would kill for a Pall Mall now, you know? Literally, anyone of the mongrels in here, even for just one drag. Oh, and a lighter that works for once in my damned life. I think of my poor little angel pie, in some damn dog ‘home’ like she hasn’t got anyone who loves her.  It makes my hair start falling out all over again. Can you imagine the humiliation?

Anyway, even dear Simon couldn’t put up with my tears, the poor fruit-loop. He walked right on out of the shelter, clutching his bird book. Honestly, he treats that thing like it’s more precious than my pearls, flattens every page out before bed and everything.

Now, you will not believe what happened when he got back, you simply won’t. He’s got a face like a slapped arse bless him, twiddling his thumbs like he’s just lost a leg or something. Anyway, he turns round and you know what he says? He says, ‘I got you a job’, well I cut him off straight away with this big old shriek and started flapping my damn hands around like some cuckoo bird. And believe me, that wasn’t even the best part. He turns round and says, ‘You’re going to be a designer for Monica Green.’ Well, my jaw damn near dropped though the floor. How stupid was I? I’d just nearly given up, nearly convinced myself I was no good. Laughable isn’t it?

Well, Simons got this big grin on his face and says something about, ‘We can leave today’. Anyway, I’m already busy packing up my designs, passing him my free soup and shouting ‘What we? I’ve got to go!’ and running out the door. Can you believe it, Pricilla Courtess is gonna be a star. 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Four

Simon Dempsy

My back ached a bit when I woke up this morning. Nothing much to complain about though really. Quick rub with the palms and it eased out a bit. Like my wife had always said, no use making mountains out of molehills. I shaved my face as usual. Combed my hair into a centre parting, making sure the centre was as perfectly central as achievable. I cleaned the underneath of each nail. I neatly tied my laces.

They gave out chicken soup for breakfast this morning, I prefer the pea. My wife used to make the sweetest pea soup, you’d have loved it.  I gave the man next to me my bread roll. He’s only been here for a couple of days; still treating each meal like it’s his last. I took my time with my meal though, hadn’t finished my first spoon before he was licking his bowl. His beard dipped into the dregs.

I’ve got a few things under my cot. My wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird is laid parallel to Baxter’s collar, my old dog. Five centimetres away from Baxter’s collar is my tooth brush. Three possessions isn’t much for a man in his fifties, I know, but they’re more than enough for me. I had done well to hide my wife’s copy of To Kill a Mocking Bird from the bailiffs.

Living in a homeless shelter isn’t as bad as what it is made to sound. After my wife passed I missed the comfort of meals being cooked for me. They’re even as pleased as she was when I help tidy away the days mess.

They push me to socialise like she did too. I started talking to a woman who had just found herself here a week ago. Her false eye lashes were slightly askew and a streak of thick foundation was missing from each cheek where her tears had fallen. I asked her what she had been crying about. She held a dogs collar in her hands too, smaller than Baxter’s underneath my bed and she pointed to the sign on the wall, ‘NO DOGS’.

I spent the day with her after that. She cried a lot. I asked her about her dog, she showed me a photo. She told me about her failed dreams and cried some more. I listened. I treated her to a look at my wife’s book. I read two chapters to her until she fell asleep on my cot. Her hair had fallen over her face, some caught on her eyelashes. I tucked it behind her ear, careful not to catch her ‘diamond’ earrings, mind you.

I took extra care preparing myself for the new day; I even clipped and cleaned my nails twice. Today I gave Pricilla my bread roll. Later, she took my hand in hers and led me to her cot. She pulled out sheets of paper from under her bed. Her designs. I had to concentrate on my facial expression so I wouldn’t grimace. My wife taught me to be polite. In all honesty, her drawings were outmatched by even ten year olds. I could understand why she was here. Her face held such pride, such a smile. I wanted to see that smile every day.

I told her, ‘Would you excuse me? I need to make a phone call.’

Shaky hands while you’re trying to dial are horrible, you know? I hadn’t entered this number in a long time. Her voice sounded the same as always. How she used it to speak to me was different. I said, ‘Hello?’ and my words stuck. She said, ‘What do you want Simon?’ as bluntly as that. I told her I’d heard she’d changed her name back to Green. She sniggered at me. My chest clenched and I said, ‘Now, Monica, your mother taught you to be polite.’ Again she sniggered. It feels pretty awful you know, having your own daughter disrespect you like that.

I had had enough, I said, ‘Now, I need you to do something. I have a friend, she draws clothes. I want you to employ her.’ I had felt very assertive, until she laughed. Her reply had my stomach round my ankles, ‘One condition. I want mother’s To Kill a Mocking Bird.’ 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Three

Lesley Gate

I got into the money business years go. Not without a lot of elbow grease though, mind you. You see, I didn’t start out life in the best of ways. I lived in a mare of a flat; I could piss, eat and sleep all in the same room. There’s was always something different falling apart and I was always begging someone for this, that and more. I always had a plant though, mind you, even if I didn’t have much else. The young man who lived above me was always saying, ‘Tough world out there sweet cheeks, deal with it’. I’d say, ‘World would be a lot nicer if there was a bit of decency in folk.’

You know, I used go round the towns restaurants, saying I had a dog that liked scraps. For the life of me I’ve never been able to stand dogs. Always pissing on the grass and digging up plants. Where was I though? Ah yes, it took more years than I care to say to get to today, got my name, Lesley Gate, above the door and everything. I saved up every penny then started lending them out to folk after I’d learnt a thing or two about high interest rates. After a while I even hired the young man, Jack, from upstairs to get me what was owed. Then he started saying how all’s that’s needed is a bit of decency.

Patrick Star, now there’s a man who needs to learn decency. Even Jack hasn’t managed to get back what that man owes me. He drives around in his flashy car, knowing full well my money got it. That scallywag’s enough to make my skin crawl. He’s a sign of a new breed that man. Everyone’s desperate these days, they take and take, yet no one wants to pay me back. Well, let me tell you, I know how to look after my money.

Anyway, Star sent in this woman today, caked in more make up than a common hooker, pearls as fake as her eyelashes. She was ranting and raving, just as greedy as the rest. She was throwing all these bits of paper at me, like I gave two tuppence worth. Let me tell you, I riled her up something fierce. I kept shuffling around the office, giving my plants a drink, while she’s trying to follow, talking up a storm something fierce. I tapped on my hearing aid just to nark her.

By then, she’d turned on the water works, so, I told her what I say to most folk these days. I said, ‘Honey, that better be water for my plants, because tears don’t work on me no more. Everyone’s got bills, there’s a homeless shelter down the street, and they’ve all got the same sob story there. It’s a tough world out there sweet cheeks, deal with it.’ 

A Month in Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part Two

Patrick Star

So, I’m banging this chick right. She’s got a smoking body, you know the type. Massive tits, nips puckered up to fuck, ass to go with it. Not too much an hour either. She’s pounding hard, screaming out my name. She knows I’m a star.

I showed her the life style. Flash apartment, fancy drinks, and fast car. You’d think that’d be enough for her right? Wrong my friend. They always want more. Soon as I shoot my load she’s off, spurting out her dream in life. Same as a million others, she wants to be a model. More specifically, she wants me to make her a model. I give her ass a quick spank goodbye and tell her I’ll ring some contacts.

Ha. The last time I had contacts was, ah, well, either way: I’m not gonna be calling her again. I bet I know what you’re thinking, pretty good life he’s got there, right? Well, cards on the table time mate. As good as I’ve got it; things aren’t all as smooth as hooker’s tits.

You spin them this line, yeah I’ll call, then before you know it, they’re hounding you. Why haven’t you called? Did you speak to anyone? Am I gonna be a model? Fashion designer? Actress? The next thing, you call Pauline ‘Penny’ and Sandra ‘Sapphire’, shit just hits the fan. 

You know, I’ve even been slapped round the face a few times. Ungrateful bitches. This one time, my girlfriend walked in on me and this bangin’ chick. She had this look, I was so shit scared my balls shot right up inside me, I didn’t think they were ever coming back down, you know?

I mean, the money helps. I’ve got this shit tonne of stuff lying around, so what if it comes with a few slaps? Look at my car, man. That baby purrs better than any woman.

I did get things right this one time though. You heard of Monica Green? Course you have, hottest designer out there. I made her. She’d come home wearing some of the stuff she’d made and I’d just think, damn, she looks good. Anyway, we went out for like three years, I finally make her name a star and BAM: she dropped me like a sack of shit.

Now, I’ve got this old bitch, Pricilla, ringing me day and night, ‘I wanna be the next Monica Green, make me a star, make me a star’. She’s in her fucking fifties; you think she’d know she’s past it. She carries round this little rat of a dog like she’s the fucking Queen of Hearts. It’s sickening how much the little rat loves her though. She called me up last night, crying about her bills. Well, Patrick Star doesn’t give two shits unless she’s got two bangin’ tits. I told her to swim with the Loan Sharks.

A Month In Success- Creative Writing Monologue Project, Part One

Pricilla Courtess

Oh, you just would not believe the day me and my fluffy little angel pie have had. It started off with the usual; I just couldn’t find my carton of Pall Malls anywhere, always getting away from me those things. As soon as I find them, I’m searching round, ‘Lighter, lighter, where’s the lighter?’ but of course the damn thing's not working. I had to traipse all the way down stairs and ask the young man there to be a darling. I said, sweet as sugar, ‘Be a lamb for me and light me up?’ so of course he did.

 Right, so, back upstairs, I’m sat with Fifi, my favourite wittle puppy wuppy, trying to put my make up on. I’ve got all my powder and lipstick on, a stunning shade of red, brings out the uh, seductress in me, you know? Anyway, just as I go to put my eyelashes on, I realise there’s no glue left. I can’t put on my lashes with no sticky. So that gets me thinking, this just won’t do. Well, same as I said to my little Fifi, ‘Pricilla Courtess cannot and will not leave this flat without a full face.’ If I want to be my best, I have to look my best, right? See, you understand.

Anyway, after that, me and Fifi started noticing more. There was no vol-au-vents, no more Pall Malls, even out of all of my angel pie’s Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Well, bright as a button I pushed the thought to one side. I started drawing up some more designs, you know, living the dream? Well, designs as good as mine just don’t draw themselves. I’d just finished this fabulous feather boa design, ombre tones, glitter and everything, when my tummy started to rumble, just like my little Fifi’s.

Well, I looked through all the cupboards, you know what poured out? Dust. Dust and bills. They’re all shouting ‘Final Notice’ and ‘Last Chance to Pay’ at me. Well, I was almost tearing my hair out, the nerve of them! It’s obvious I’m too busy with my designs; I can’t deprive the world of fashion to pay bills. Even Fifi was all in a ditz. So, I think to myself, I know who’s fault this is and I ring that no good Patrick Star. Star my peachy ass. The man’s been getting more and more useless by the day, you know? He yacks and yacks, ‘People don’t like your designs’, ‘They’re fifty years too late’. Damn fool can’t admit he just doesn’t know how to sell me.

So, anyway, I call him with the usual. ‘Patrick? Oh, Patrick darling, any good news? Who wants to buy my work today?’ And you know what he tells me? No one’s interested, that my designs aren’t being picked up. Well, I thought he’d lost his marbles and got me all mixed up with someone else. You know, one of his women of the night. He tells me he knows its Pricilla. The damn cheek of it.

So, anyway, he assures me next week’s the week, he’s got loads of meetings lined up. I told him, I said, ‘That’s all well and good darling, but I need cash now, I need to feed my little angel pie, Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh doesn’t grow on trees you know.’ You won’t believe it, but the swine tells me to go to the pawn shop and sell my pearls. You see these pearls? Got them from my Mama. She used to tell me they’re as real as my beauty, like I needed telling. Well, I started getting all in a fluster, I mean, I just can’t sell them, they’re as real as my beauty, you see?

I started thinking again though; I need more Botox, paper, that damn Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh. Before I know it, I’m stood in this grotty little pawn shop, clutching my Mama’s pearls, thinking of the thousands I’ll get. Damn near broke my heart.

Now, you will not believe this. The scum in the shop had the nerve to tell me the pearls aren’t real. He says they’re fakes. Well, I laughed in his face and told him to fuck himself. You know my pearls are as real as my beauty.

So, you see no Val-au-vents and no Dog-Au-Posh-Nosh for Fifi today.

Revival in the form of RVIVR- an album review

When four-piece punk rock band Letterman controversially split in 2007, fans were left dejected and angsty as ever. Yet, the band’s two singers, Phil Douglas and Matt Canino moving on to other crusty, progressive pop-punk ensembles were enough to lick the wounds of the bitter. Douglas joined New York’s Iron Chic, while Canino teamed up with female vocalist Erica Freas to form RVIVR, an activist quartet.

RVIVR debuted with the simply titled, LP, in 2010. With Canino’s DIY ethics and a knack for writing tiptop melodies mixed with raw vocals and infectious choruses, LP definitely had an irrefutable charm, despite being a little rough around the edges.  Now, 3 years later, RVIVR has stormed the scene with The Beauty Between, a tighter, 14 track album with more focus and delightful imperfections that characterise the genre.

Similarly to LP, The Beauty Between wastes no time building a sweltering pace after an initial instrumental opener which successfully sets the tone. In “LMD”, Canino and Freas alternate their howls in a well-balanced duality which is rarely seen in pop-punk these days, especially when mixed with their sheer authenticity. Freas is by far the more talented singer with her gritty charm and despite not being a particularly talented vocalist Canino’s broken wails offer some balance, quelling calls for him to take a step back from lead as a backing vocalist.

After Freas gets her own track with “Spider Song”, which also features on her solo album Belly, Canino takes centre stage with “Old Dogs”, a slightly slower sentiment to their murkier counterpart Iron Chic, which does well in breaking up the album. Things pick up pace again with “Wrong way/One Way” and “Big Lie” where RVIVR are arguably at their finest. The tempo is battered forward and vocals are passed seamlessly back and forth and are upheld with outstanding song construction and musicianship, with “Big Lie” even fitting in a sax solo amongst the mania.

The second half of the album is less ferocious yet maintains quality, with guitar lines weaving in and out of one another, as evidenced in “Ocean Song” and “Paper Thin”. The songs are so well written that RVIVR can afford to take it down a notch, with stunning lines demonstrating their activist ways without sounding too preachy. 

There’s not much at fault with this record, and complaints are minor. Freas is underutilized, with Canino’s struggles exposed when he tries to sing alone and the album itself does feel a little top heavy, with the better tracks dominating the first half, but overall The Beauty Between is an earnest, energetic and gritty example of what true pop-punk should be, with the potential to be 2013’s highlight within its genre. 

New academy brings Shirebrook out of the 60s

Shirebrook Comprehensive School’s dull grey walls have played host to tens of thousands of young adult and even stayed open through the closure of the towns’ mines, which founded the settling. All that is about to change though with the arrival of a £27 million, purpose built academy which opens on the 18^th April 2013.

The Head of Department in English, Mrs Ward, speaks with passion about the new build, ’’The new academy is definitely a huge improvement on the current building, which still uses blackboards in some classrooms, as it boasts specialist technology areas, science labs, IT, drama and music rooms, a 3D cinema, a sports hall and a 3G all-weather pitch. This is the start of a brighter future for all that come here. These new facilities are better than anything we’ve ever had in the past and will not only bring our teaching up to date, but make learning more exciting, engaging and effective for the students”.

The academy has taken two years of building work and ten years of promises to finally be ready for students to walk through its doors but the new environment won’t come as a total shock as students have been involved with both its design and building work throughout this process.  Mrs Ward continued to explain, ‘it has been a pleasure to watch it come to life. The students helped to choose fittings, furniture and colours, some of our construction students even helped to lay some of the bricks.’

The facilities on offer have not been the only thing to advance with the work; the environment is going to see an improvement too. According to Mrs Ward, ‘being eco-friendly has been a big focus point; our school now has its own wind turbine which will generate power for the building whilst also being a demonstration tool in science and construction.’ Woodland Trust also donated sixty free tree’s to the school as it took part in the Jubilee Woods Challenge, where geography students planted 550sqm of the new sight with saplings. ‘Every part of this build has been thoughtful; each student who planted a tree tied a message or sketch to the supporting stake, their own legacy for when they leave’.

Mrs Ward also talked about the merger between Shirebrook Academy and Stubbin Wood School, a school for children with special needs, which will see them brought together in one school for the first time in the town’s history. ‘This is the first specialist school Derbyshire County Council has ever produced, everything is purpose built, there’s even going to be cookers with adjustable heights in the cooking classrooms, it’s the first of its kind that Derbyshire Council has ever produced and it’s been located with a mainstream school to help break down stigmas and boundaries’.

New ties with Sheffield Hallam and AllRoads have been created with the hopes of helping more students find their way into higher education and careers. ‘Shirebrook was always a small mining town, people never expected anything more than working down the pits or in factories. With the mines and most factories closed it’s more important than ever before to help our students aim higher, it’s a proud moment for us as teachers as our students progress to university or promising careers’.

With the students and teachers excited for the move, some of the town has been left sad at the thought of losing a building which has held many fond memories for generations, but the newly appointed head teacher, miss blaaah created the opportunity for a last visit and goodbye before it is knocked down. “We held a farewell tour for all past students. We held an assembly where we talked to them about the new building and then took them on tours around the classrooms where they spent their youths, they also got a last look at the library, dining hall and science labs, one of the visitors could even point out a burn mark they had created on one of the desks during an experiment, eight years ago.”

“Most of the people who came hadn’t stepped foot in the building since their final days of year eleven, it was a sad occasion for some, but I think most were excited for the current students who get to move into a new fabulous building which is truly befitting of our school”

With the last goodbyes said, what was once a quiet mining town is ready to become a town of the future. 

The Good Life, a review

“Ahhhh” really does say it all. More than 200 people attended Richard Brier’s recent funeral and last night more than ten million watched The Good Life’s 1977 Christmas special in tribute.

Back in the day it was ‘silly but fun’ and yesterday the show proved it’s still no different as the BBC aired one of the series’ most loved episodes. Following the lives of Tom and Barbara Good, self-sufficient loons, and their middle class neighbours, the Leadbetters, the show is laced with gentle humour that is still relatable today.

With many families today pinching the pennies during the country’s economic struggle, it’s warming to see a family so content and charming as they pull together a budget Christmas, all home made or ‘acquired’ of course.

So cheeky and warm is the Good’s relationship it still leaves audience’s today wanting to throw away their material goods and adopt a cow. Felicity Kendal works superbly with Briers to bring consistent gentle humour that all ages and classes can still enjoy.

In a stark contrast, the social climbing Leadbetter’s would rather buy their Christmas, neatly wrapped and delivered. However all goes wrong with the delivery and the Leadbetter’s are left miserable when ‘Christmas is cancelled’, because of a Christmas tree five inches too short. As the Good’s save the day and the two households get together to celebrate, the message is clear: the good things in life are free.

With morals still valued today and down to earth wit ‘The Good Life’ really does provide a good watch for the whole family to enjoy, and hopefully will for many more years to come. 

C(h)ur(ch)se

George’s feet pounded the pavement, five steps behind the rest of his class mates. Smoked poured from his mouth with each breath, despite the sun’s attempts at spring, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. His neck and back ached in protest from his hunched walk, his last defence since his coat had failed him. He blocked out the classes chatter. George found it hard to believe that they could get this excited over leaving the confines of a classroom, especially when they were on their way to a church.

As the group trailed behind their lecturer, the pavement gave way to a cobble stone street so that even George’s body was unnerved. All too soon the Church’s spire loomed above them all, casting a heavy shadow over the industrial street cleaners parked outside. If George had looked up, he might have shared in the wonderment of those around him; instead he pulled out his phone and shared with Facebook how he’d rather be in bed.

The church’s grand metal doors were laden with iron flowers and through the glare on his glasses, caught George’s eyes. He ran his thick fingers over the petals as he made his way inside, only to be greeted with donation boxes and ‘home made marmalade’ sales. George snickered and shrugged off the idea of a religious awakening happening today. Even leaflets had a price on them.

Candle holders stood empty as electric bulbs lined the heavy stone walls, accompanied by cheap sets of speakers replacing the choir. Deciding to explore alone, George came across a prayer ‘pin board’. Rita prayed for Samual to find acceptance in his life. Dave prayed for world peace. Barbara prayed for Pistorius’s girlfriend’s safe passage to heaven. George prayed for cheap vodka and unholy women, and then laughed to himself as he put the provided pen back down.

Across the room a note from the organ drowned out the tacky speakers, shocking the whole group into silence. George carried on his inspection, making his way to the gravestones on the wall. Most were illegible in places, the stone crumbling away from the wall. George had no interest in who these people were or how they came to be there, he turned his back to them, and leant against the wall. A piece of a skull, carved into the gravestone, gave way as he did so and shattered at his feet. Panicked, he swept it under the carpet, glad his classmates were still occupied with the organ... 

Black Mirror, a review

For those expecting the subtle tameness of last week’s Be Right Back, Charlie Brooker’s latest instalment of Black Mirror might need a ‘Warning’ sign or at least some sort of emotional preparation to get viewers through unscathed.

Instead, we’re thrown straight into confusion as the main character, Victoria (Lenora Crichlow) wakes up in a chair surrounded by pills, wrists bandaged and no recollection of how she got there or who she is. The bewilderment is dragged out slightly with Victoria slowly scanning herself and the room but it adds to the audiences need for understanding. The only clue to foul play is the strange symbol on the room’s TV, which, as the show progresses, keeps reappearing.

As Victoria finally ventures outside we’re barely allowed a few moments to take in the estate’s residents, creepily filming her every move through their windows, before a masked man aims a shotgun at her head and chases her through the streets. From here on out all hell breaks loose and the show suddenly becomes an apocalyptic style survival story with camera wielding ‘zombies’ following Victoria as she tries to evade numerous crazed murderers.

Up until this point Brooker definitely goes with the ‘less is more’ idea in terms of dialogue. Victoria is the only character to speak, only sobbing and wailing, ‘who am I?’ and ‘Can you help me?’ over and over. Crichlow plays the part extremely well, out-acting everyone else as her screams become more desperate and terrorized, literally making you uncomfortable as a voyeur.

It’s a rebel survivor (Tuppence Middleton) who helps to move the story on in terms of dialogue and purpose as she plans to destroy a transmitter at White Bear, which is supposedly causing the epidemic. However, Middleton’s decisive and brave manner starts to create impatience with Victoria. I found myself wanting to shake her into action, instead of allowing herself to be dragged around as she blubbers.

At this point, the plot seems pretty straight forward and reminiscent of Derren Brown’s Apocalypse. Until the plot twist his you in the face like an atomic bomb.

 Victoria is instantly flipped from the character of pity to a Myra-Hindley style villain, serving out a twisted sentence at a “Punishment Park” which is White Bear. Her ordeal is a setup she is doomed to repeat after she filmed the murder of a young child, carried out by her fiancé. The strange reoccurring symbol? One of her fiancé’s tattoo’s. The Zombie like camera men?  Paying visitors symbolising her past crime. Each night her memory is painfully removed via electric shock therapy, an ordeal we are forced to watch.

The rug-pull twist finds power in its relation to real-life murders and the public’s thirst for punishment. It leaves you fearful of how far the Justice System could go, leaving you to question: would we revel in the punishment or see the cruelty? It even plants a nasty squirm in your stomach as you contemplate Brooker’s attack on how often we all choose to see life through a camera lens, hoping for a YouTube hit, than with empathy and morals. 

Once again, Brooker shows strong writing, intelligent ideas and an uncanny knack for creating a troubling reflection of society.

Score: 8.5/10

The rats, a noir piece

They say you must be crazy to walk the Chicago streets without some lead in your pockets. Maybe I am insane. Maybe it’s just this city; there ain’t a decent man in sight.