Confessions of a 39 year old groupie

No pleasure is guilty. I’ve believed that for years. If you like something legal and it does no one any harm, then no judgement should come. But you may get scorn. And your choices may be the subject of ridicule. That is certainly the story over the years for my love of Grease 2, a film I completely and utterly adore. It may be camp, it may have been panned by the critics and it may not have captured as many imaginations as Grease (I refuse to say original, as that suggests a denigration of Grease 2 that I just can’t buy into), but it is a film that gives me such unbridled joy.

I’ve liked Grease 2 from a solitary position. Throughout the years, I’ve only encountered one person who feels the same as I do about Grease 2, and that’s my sister. Never once have I had a friend who likes it, hey I can’t even get my best friends to even watch it with me. They stare at me with incredulity as I rave about the brilliance of the film and the soundtrack, both of which revel in the campness that comes with a musical that features a bowling nun and a pretend nuclear warning signal as a backdrop for trying to have first time sex. They question my sincerity, believing that I like it in an ironic-so-bad-it’s-good kind of way. Nope, I genuinely think the film is a piece of creative artistry, resulting in catchy songs, dual meaning lyrics, brilliant singing and fantastic dancing. Any film that stars Michelle Pfeiffer AND Lorna Luft has something going for it. And then there is Maxwell Caulfield in leathers against skin. If anything’s going to help the gayness come to the surface…

So, through the years, I’ve had to put up with the mocking and the jokes and the condescension (albeit good-humoured) from my friends who, to give them their due, allow me to continually lobby and pressure them into watching the film – alas, to no avail. It may only be a film, but it is a form of isolation and loneliness in a way. It teaches resilience and pride in your choices, to be unafraid it your desires, to plough your own furrow. I’m not saying I’ve suffered bullying or hardship because of the film, but some of the lessons are translatable to more serious elements of life. You take lessons from where you can. In particular, the way I’ve had to like Grease 2 on my own, with no support from friends, has taught me, along with other experiences, that it’s OK to do things in a solitary fashion. Being alone is not being lonely.

However, all that changed for a brief moment at the end of January when Cool Rider Live, a concert musical based on Grease 2, was performed in the Lyric theatre for a one night only two performance run. For once, I was in a room full of like minds. And it was bliss. An entire theatre of people who adored the film as I did, who knew all the words to all the songs, who knew the dialogue well enough to anticipate the lines. People who pressed fast forward during Charades. It was by far and a way the best night I’ve had in a theatre. Ever. The energy of the audience flowed into the cast who were, quite frankly, overwhelmed by the response but complete adept at using it to fuel the performance. It was incredible and it created a feeling of, well, belonging that I never expected a show to do. I’ve been to gigs by the biggest acts, but you know they’re well loved and supported. The notion of Grease 2 on stage was, let’s be frank, quite a shot in the dark.

But what a shot. As soon as I left the show I bought a ticket for the second performance, soaking up as much of it as I could, never knowing if I’d have the chance to revel in the company of riders again. Fortunately, that chance has come this week, with a longer run at the Duchess over five nights. I’m surprised at my reaction to it. By the end of the run, I will have been to three of the shows, I’ve bought costumes, I’ve tweeted incessantly about the show, I’ve followed strangers who are fans (one of whom I’ve now met face to face), I’ve hung around outside the stage door, I’ve had pictures taken with the cast, I’ve crashed the press night party. In short, I’ve turned into a teenage One Direction fan, although I’ve not had any urges to draw pencil sketches of cast members in compromising positions.

I’m also surprised that it’s this that has inspired me to blog again after almost two years of absence. The disastrous political situation of the country, the woeful economic situation, the boredom in my previous, family events, personal success. Nah, none of those are worth sharing, but my 30 year love affair (obsession?) with a load of all camp, yep, I need that to be on the internet.

So, everyone loves the Olympics now…

But days, months, years ago it wasn’t the same. My constant, continual and repeated (annoying?) response over the last few years when people talked about the Olympics was ‘it’s gonna be amazing!’

I was, to be generous, humoured by my friends for my obsession and my optimism. See my previous blog post to understand where I was coming from and, quite frankly how annoying I probably was over the last 7 years.

So, as I knew and predicted, suddenly everyone’s a fan. I told you so, I told you, told you, told you, told you so (copyright Grace Adler). But only in a nice way.

The Olympics grabs hold of you, gets under your skin. Passion, achievement, commitment, disappointment, pride, honour, relief. With pretty much every event you are in awe of at least one athlete.

I love that everyone now loves it. I love that so many of my previously sceptical friends have seen something that inspires or moves them.

I love the Olympics.

The preview of a lifetime

Danny Boyle is a genius. Sure, many film goers will already believe that to be true but the achievements that gave him that acclaim are nothing compared to what he has done with the London 2012 Olympic Games Opening Ceremony.

I’m absolutely committed to #savethesurprise so no spoilers from me. Besides, I don’t know that I could describe what happens in a way that did it justice. Suffice it to say that it is an amazing show.

Since no spoilers are coming, I’ll stick to feelings. What Boyle, his crew and the cast of 10000 volunteers did last night gave me shivers. I was in awe at what I saw, a remarkable telling of Britain’s story. There were jaw-dropping moments, moving moments, spectacular moments. Some of it was truly unbelievable. All around me were people with incredulous smiles beaming out from their faces, blinking back tears of wonder and amazement.

It was, as billed, the greatest show on earth.

Olympic opening ceremonies are often about selling the host city to the global audience. This will certainly do that, but it will also provide one of those unforgettable national moments for the British audience that will stay seared in our collective psyche for years to come.

I don’t hold to the notion that you can be proud of where you were born. It’s a strange concept to grab on to something over which you had no control whatsoever. Last night Isles of Wonder made me proud to be British. As I said, Danny Boyle is a genius.

Not only athletes have Olympic journeys

In 1984, I was nine years old. Among the normal nine-year-old stuff that I got up to, I was also obsessed by space and the solar system. School projects, books, posters. The works. Whether I knew in advance or subsequently joined the events together, this space obsession led me to watch in fascination the spaceman entering the stadium at the Los Angeles Olympic Games. I remained obsessed with space for a little while, but the real significance for me is that this was when I first became aware of the Olympics.

I’ve done my best to see as much of every Olympic games since then. I am in utter awe of it all. Faster, higher, stronger. The unity through sport, the endeavour, the sacrifice, the commitment. Watching any Olympian reach the end of their event, whether they win or not, will always create a massive welling up of emotion. For the huge, national conversation occasions where a Brit wins big my view of the accomplishment is more often than not blurred as I try to see what I can through teary eyes. That someone has finally achieved the one thing they have been focussing on for so long  generates in me a strange sense of pride by proxy. I’m comforted by the idea that, in our corporate, capitalist, selfish society, people will can strive for something more meaningful and longer lasting than materialistic success.

I’ve been excited about the Olympic Games coming since 6 July 2005. I still get shivers seeing those images of Jacques Rogge in Singapore announcing that London had won its bid. I remember where I was (at work), what I was doing (skiving off said work and watching the BBC news website) and what I did immediately afterwards. Which was email my dad to say that come August 2012 I would be there.

And there I will be. As soon as the call went out, I registered my interest to be a volunteer. Last July I moved to London. Many reasons were involved, but one of them was so that I could be here during the games. I have two Olympic journeys. The long-term one that I’ve been on since I was nine years old, and the one that’s been happening since earlier this year when I was selected to be a Games Maker.

Many are cynical and critical about the use of so many volunteers. Sport at all levels, from grass-roots Sunday league to elite performances, runs on the commitment of volunteer. I see no cynicism – although I think it’s fair to say I have a blind spot here – but a continuation of a fantastic tradition that supports individuals and teams in achieving their goals. I’m honoured to be a part of it.

Tomorrow (Wednesday) I see the Opening Ceremony Technical Dress Rehearsal. I think I am more looking forward to this event than to any other gig, concert or event I have attended. I cannot begin to imagine what it will involve or what it will feel like. But I’m entirely convinced that it will be one of my greatest experiences. I will absolutely #savethesurprise.

As I’ve gone through each stage of the Games Maker process, I have become  more enamoured with the Olympic Games than I ever thought possible. I truly adore everything about it, and cannot believe that I am about to be part of it. I’m going to be present when dreams are made and goals are reached. My small contribution will probably go unseen by any athlete competing over the next couple of weeks. But I have this sense that they’ll know that the role I and other Games Makers are about to play is vital for the success of every single competition. I certainly haven’t made the sacrifices any athlete has made to get here, but I feel fundamentally part of the Olympic movement.

And then, I get to do it all again for the Paralympic Games.

Louise Mensch is a [insert appropriate word]

Have I Got News For You. A great show, wonderful to see it recorded as I did yesterday. What’s not so great is hearing the idiotic opinions of Louise Mensch given more airtime than is necessary. Mensch is weird. She sometimes shows flashes of being an interesting, spiky MP. Her select committee stuff, her ‘rocknroll’ past, her complete objection to the death penalty (remember she’s a Tory). But then you see stuff that just means you have to scream: STOOGE!! Y’know, when she trots out the Tory Central line about Labour’s Legacy (great health spending, more people going to uni, Human Rights Act, LGBT equality, positive relationship with Europe), that Cameron’s a real leader, that tackling the deficit justifies the destruction of whole communities.

And at the Have I Got News For You recording (on your mystical corner box of light today, the 21st October 2001) it was the stooginess (new word claimed by moi, referring to act of being a party stooge) that shone through, especially with her complete dismissal of anyone protesting capitalism if they lived within capitalist rules. The Occupy St Pauls campaign was highlighted. Mensch clearly completely disagrees with them (though it would seem the HIGNFY cast and audience completely disagree with her), and of course there is nothing wrong with that, but it seemed also that she was dismissing their right to protest because they live in the UK. Drink Starbucks coffee? Well, screw you if you think you have a valid opinion about excessive profit and unfettered capitalism. Bought a tent? Well, shut the fuck up about a consumer driven economy; you’re just as bad.

What is annoying about Mensch’s argument (which I suspect is shared by many Tories) is that it serves to disenfranchise entire opinions, schools of thought, political views, by saying that those critiquing the environment around them should be ignored because they live in the environment around them. If I drive a car, I can’t criticise petrol companies price policies. If I buy a takeaway coffee, I can’t campaign for fair trade bean production. If I use a laptop/netbook/iPhone/iPad (etc etc etc) then I’m banned from suggesting that we’re an excessively consumerist society.

Her argument is, of course, bollocks. From my perspective, It is the very fact and experience of our capitalist economy over the last 30 years which, though serving me very well in many cases, makes me realise that much of it is ridiculously excessive and in major need of review, reform, realignment. Although, since I’m writing this in an iPad, drinking freshly ground coffee and listening to Radio 4 you can – in the Mensch world of argument – just ignore me.

But then, maybe she was just having a laugh. It is a comedy show after all.

Like having my own opinion shouted back at me

I’ve recently finished reading Chavs: The Demonisation of the Working Class by Owen Jones (I can’t bring myself to put a z in demonisation).

It’s an impressive book. I can jump on board an anti-Thatcher rant any time you invite me, so much of this was like nectar. It’s provoking as well, making me wonder if I genuinely am as careful with my assumptions and my language as I think I am. Surely, an ocassional ‘chav’ has passed my lips in judgement. What does it mean? Can I really say I took any kind of moral high ground watching Wayne & Waynetta, Lauren and Vicky Pollard? That I was analysing the class portrayal rather than laughing at idiocy of those ‘below’ me? Mocking the working class is a very easy mode to slip into, even for those of us who think we watch, talk, live and listen without prejudice*.

And that’s one of the lines of argument in the book – that a prejudicial, judgemental, snobbish view of the working class is just way too comfortable for a lot of people. It’s packed with myriad examples of snide, offensive anti-working class commentary in the media; an enormously illuminating summary of attitudes. He consistently highlights the misuse of terms like ‘middle-class’ and ‘average income’ by columnists earning six-figure salaries convincing their readers that high taxes on million pound properties are going to affect the majority of people, and conning them into thinking that working class scum are about to ruin their neighbourhoods with their scrounging benefit grabbing ways. The media – or at least a particular branch of it – is definitely held up as a demonising force.

It’s depressing to read how our economic progression (success?) over the years has stripped communities of life, passion, compassion and respect. That our desire for more, and cheaper, has led to such fragile, unstable poverty stricken lives for so many people. That seemingly simple solutions like substantial and planned housebuilding programmes, or decent conditions for workers, or investment in local communities have been for some reason out of the grasps of so many governments. Whether by accident or design, policies have demonised swathes of people.

Of course, I knew all this. So it was like my own opinion being shouted back at me. But with even more frustration. Perversely, I enjoyed it most when I got angry. Like an intellectualised incredible hulk.

It’s not all admiration though. Much as I did love this book, I had issues. When I started reading I kept daydreaming that I would run into Owen Jones somewhere so I could tell him how great it was. As I read more, I realised that I also wanted to tell him to stop being so scattergun with his ideas and arguments, and reference a bit more. I had readers whiplash sometimes from the massive change of gear in some chapters. I also got a bit annoyed that I couldn’t tell if a point was taken from a newspaper, an academic text, a book. Or if a quote came from his own interviews with people or from speeches. And I was never quite sure how he gained access to these people where he had spoken to them. Better contextualising would have helped enormously.

And finally, I wish the conclusion was longer, with more detail about solutions. Unless that’s for the sequel…

*I know, a silly George Michael reference. What can you do?

Sullying a brand.

Went to see ‘Yes, Prime Minister’ tonight at the Apollo Theatre, Shaftesbury Avenue. A hugely disappointing and upsetting experience. I remember a TV show full of wit and wordplay, with humour drawn from the intellectually sophisticated exchanges between Sir Humphrey and Jim Hacker. Party politics was low down the agenda, barely noticeable, in favour of wry comments about the relationship between ministers who wanted to be radical and civil servants who knew they couldn’t or shouldn’t be.

What I wasn’t expecting was a production that has damn near destroyed the ‘YM/YPM’ brands for me. Sir Humphrey was corrupt and venal; Hacker was snide & conniving. Both were unsympathetic. Party politics was stamped all over it, with rants against Europe, man-made global warming and the BBC. Worryingly, all three got some applause from audience members. By the interval, I was questioning the value of being there.

Before tonight I’ve never left a theatre, cinema or concert midway through a production. The second act attempts at finding the humour in the sex trafficking and peadophilia desires of the foreign secretary of an Islamic country forced me out of my seat and into the lobby. Perhaps I overreacted, but the satire I remembered was nowhere as this production decided to go down such a disgusting sexist, misogynistic, offensive road.

Waiting for my friend (who also disliked it immensely but stayed the distance) I got talking to some of the house staff. They acknowledged there had been complaints, particularly from those bringing younger people to the theatre. The theatre manager had even apparently been prepped for criticism. I may have to test her lines of defence.

Losing my blog-ginity

There we go. My first blog post. Finally got rid of my blog-ginity. But when will I do it again…? I’d like this to be the first in a highly regular and frequent set of experiences, but if it’s anything like the metaphor I’m aiming at, it will be every now and then, when the mood catches or I strike it lucky with something (*someone*) catching my eye.