Currently cat-sitting and flat-sitting in Holloway once more, while recovering from a minor operation on my shoulder. I’ve had a suspicious-looking mole removed, just in case. Though I’m arguably London’s most sun-avoiding man (even the Camden Goths go out in the noonday sun, particularly by the canal), I never put anything past Nature’s sense of irony.

One of the more medical downsides of living alone is that there’s no one to notice any changes to your body’s blind spots. Doctors ask you to check your skin moles for changes, but what if they’re on the areas of your back or shoulders where it’s difficult to see them, even with a mirror? Admittedly, it’s not much of a chat-up line: ‘What I’m looking for in a relationship is someone to keep an eye on my less accessible moles.’

***

To the Natural History Museum’s new butterflies exhibition to try and catch their rare dual-gender moth. Alas, the poor thing has died of old age, after about a week. It’s known as a gynandromorph rather than a hermaphrodite, as both genders are present but half-formed. The moth is neither one thing nor the other. In fact, the gender split is right down the moth’s body, so it has a boy wing and a girl wing.

Info: http://www.nhm.ac.uk/about-us/news/2008/may/news_14417.html

Still, the rest of the exhibition is a delight anyway: an educational children’s maze followed by a more adult-friendly hothouse where all manner of colourful butterflies flutter around one’s head unfettered.

I also take a peek at the museum’s Darwin’s Canopy show, which features various artists’ proposals for a permanent ceiling design, based on a Darwin theme. Though a panel of judges decides the winner, there’s a guestbook wall for visitors to nominate their favourite on slips of paper – or say anything else they like.

I rather like Mark Fairnington’s panels of animal eyes, a simple idea which gazes down on visitors while encouraging them to guess which animal belongs to which eye. This seems more in keeping with the NHM’s reputation for providing things to do for kids. And Darwin was, after all, a detective.

But going by the wall of pinned slips, the runaway favourite is the offering by United Visual Artists: a sculptured mass of foliage around a sun-like globe, based on a 3D computer simulation of growth.

Info: http://www.nhm.ac.uk/visit-us/whats-on/temporary-exhibitions/darwins-canopy/artists/index.html

Then to the former Truman Brewery in Brick Lane, for Middlesex University’s Art & Design Degree Show. Phoebe Allen’s coursework includes a series of photos of myself, posing around Hoxton as if for a fashion magazine shoot. Happy to be of modelling use to friends, this is the second time I’ve seen my face on the wall of a degree show. Last time it was Central St Martin’s.

***

Other social events lately: a club night at the Green Carnation bar in Greek Street where the DJs are three generations of women from the Parkin family. Turban-topped Molly Parkin (in her 70s), daughter Sophie (40s), and granddaughter Carson (late teens). The clientele spans the generations accordingly and the night is given a rather delicious pun: ‘The Parkin Lot’. Turns out that the Green Carnation is a Wilde-themed gay bar, but without the requisite piles of Boyz or The Pink Paper, or loud dance music pumping away. The upstairs bar has plenty of plush sofas and armchairs, fireplaces, upholstered panelling and tasteful wallpaper, all with the look of a Victorian salon. A new place to meet friends, then.

While Molly Parkin is DJ-ing, John Moore tells me he’s thinking of asking her to play Bo Diddley. I presume he is referring to Mr Diddley’s recent demise, only later I discover the legendary musician was actually one of Parkin Senior’s paramours.

My source is this article by Sophie P, concerning the lot of an erotic adventurer’s offspring:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-452348/Oh-mum-PLEASE-stop-talking-sex-life.html

***

A Fosca track review from the blog In Love With These Times, In Spite Of These Times:

http://kisschase.blogspot.com/2008/05/highgate-cemetery-in-rain-theres-ever.html

Fosca “We See The World As Our Stunt Doubles”

Talking of million-year waits… they’re back, you know, with a new album called “The Painted Side of the Rainbow”. What this rather spangly should-be single is off of… We would argue that Fosca are needed more than ever before.

Rather apt that the blog entry starts off talking about Highgate.

Everyone else seems to be watching The Apprentice at the moment. Including the strangers who tell me what I look like:

‘You remind me of Rafe from The Apprentice‘ – said to me by a man in the Boogaloo the other day.

I’m not a fan of The Apprentice, so this is lost on me. All I know about Alan Sugar is that he reminds me of the officers in Catch 22. The ones who offer Yossarian everything he wants: get him out of war, give him a medal, be a hero back home, if he only does one thing for them… ‘Like us’. Mr Sugar knows that money can’t buy love, or make a dull rich man any less dull, but it can buy TV stardom, and so it can buy TV love.

As reality TV shows go, I prefer Big Brother‘s shameless encouragement of dayglo, party-girl narcissism. Rather that than a programme where everyone’s heart’s desire is to tug their forelocks and defer to a successful businessman who wants to be on TV, in TV studios pretending to be boardrooms.

I’d only agree to be on the show if I could bring a camel and a giant needle with me.

***

Wednesday night: with Ms S to Holloway Odeon for the Sex And The City movie. Something of a current hot ticket, as we plump for Holloway after failing to get into showings at three other cinemas the same evening. Our preferred venues, Islington Vue, Bethnal Green Rich Mix, and Barbican Screen are all sold out in advance. And as we go in to take our seats, there’s a tannoy announcement that Holloway has sold out too, and we pass a queue of disappointed couples and women on a girls’ night out, now having to decide whether the latest Cameron Diaz romcom would be an adequate substitute.

Unlike those artier areas of London where you’re never more than ten feet from a discussion about The Kite Runner, Holloway Road’s pavements are resentful at best, putting the tension in unpretension. I don’t take it personally: the street glowers at everyone regardless, with its unruly length and width, struggling not to be known as somewhere to go through, rather than go to. It’s not quite rough with a capital R, but neither is it up there on the Top 10 Happiest Roads Of London chart.

Accordingly, Holloway Odeon is no stranger to the requisite bored, aggressively unquiet teenagers who go in order to throw popcorn at other people with one hand, while having loud mobile phone conversations with the other. Last time I was there, two girls down the front kept turning round to point at me and discuss my own appearance among themselves – and on their mobile phones – rather than watch the film. And this was in the dark. Admittedly, the film in question was the third Pirates Of The Caribbean flick, full of actors who seemed curiously distanced from the watery antics themselves, but I digress.

Although the Sex And The City movie isn’t exactly Citizen Kane, or even Citizen Carrie, the film is still a definite event. Its roaring success despite lukewarm reviews – and despite the high price of cinema seats – says something about current trends in what people want from their movie-going.

The first scene of the SATC film depicts the main characters sitting around discussing Naomi Klein’s book No Logo. Then they start seeing Western consumerist greed for what it is, boycotting designer labels, and finally donning burkhas and veils and converting to fundamentalist Islam, where they find true happiness… because they’re worth it.

Well, okay, no it doesn’t. That’s the whole point. Some films offer a journey to somewhere you’ve never been. Others take you along a tried and tested, familiar and favourite route to a known destination. This is very much in the latter camp, in every sense.

Whether it’s Indiana Jones 4, The Simpsons Movie, or adaptations of the Harry Potter books, these films celebrate – and exploit – past conversions to previously existing material. They turn cinema audiences into congregations of the faithful. They are made, quite simply, for fans. Cinema tickets are so expensive, after all, so why risk any surprises?

What happens is that by trying so hard to please the fans and carry no surprises, such films let the fans down. The fans want it the same as it was, except different. Except not too different. It won’t be as good as it was, but they’ll go along and buy it anyway. But there’ll always be a certain settling-for feeling.

Angry Fans: That was so formualaic.

Studio: But we thought you were fans of that formula?

Angry Fans: We are. We just want it different. But not too different.

Studio: (sulkily) Well, why don’t you just write your own wretched movies or novels?

Angry Fans: Have you seen the Internet lately? Fan fiction, you know…

Studio: But that’s breach of copyright. Invent your own characters!

Angry Fans: But we want to see THOSE characters…

Studio: Well, they’re OUR characters.

Angry Fans: But we know them better than you do.

***

And so on. I keep thinking of a quote by Stevie Smith.

Fan: I loved your last novel and can’t wait to read another.

Stevie Smith: Well, read it again, then.

One exception to this diminishing returns rule is the revived Doctor Who series. I think one of the reasons for its success is that it forgets about pleasing the fans, and concentrates on pleasing non-fans. Which means the old fans can finally feel less alone.

Unlike The Apprentice, I ‘get’ Sex And The City. It’s not about happiness through the pursuit of wealth, ruthless enterprise and never turning your back on Sir Alan Sugar. It’s more about allowing the pursuit of expensive things because they’re pretty and shiny expensive things. And providing a few dirty laughs doesn’t hurt. Maybe I don’t care for The Apprentice because it’s just not funny, or pretty and shiny. Sir Alan has all that money, but does he even once experiment with a new lipgloss? Or even once wear a gold lame suit? No.

What the SATC film IS like is a box-ticking reunion gig for fans of the TV series. Except, curiously, there’s far less bawdy conversation. Some of the TV episodes actually broke a few Tynan-esque taboos concerning the various ins and outs of, well, ins and outs. Though the movie has a few Rabelaisian moments, not least one particular instance of male nudity, there’s still far less sexual content than you’d find in an average arthouse drama.

It used to be the case that you had to go to the cinema for more sexual content than TV would allow, and TV would only show such movies in frustratingly bowdlerised versions. These days, it’s all on (and all out) on late night TV, particularly the digital and cable channels. While in the cinema the money-making factor is now so important that any racier scenes that might pare down audience numbers have to go. More bums on screen equals fewer bums on seats.

Even so-called sex comedies like American Pie have to hold something back, in order to sell the DVD to people who have already seen the movie. Inevitably, the DVD cover comes emblazoned with promises of extra naughtiness.

But the sexed-down Sex And The City film still makes for a memorable night out. The latter-day Mae West quips are present and correct, and the designer clothes are given their widescreen due.

But my most abiding memory is of the audience around me. Not just overwhelmingly female, but fans of the series, and so happy to be there in the first place, particularly when the film is selling out so quickly every night. The Odeon shakes with hundreds of women laughing uproariously, or cooing ‘Awww…!’ or cheering and breaking out into applause. I feel unusually safe and comforted – mothered, even – in this huge dark cave of happy ladies.

Then I remember what else this area is known for. Around the corner from the cinema is HMP Holloway. Another huge dark cave of ladies. Albeit less happy.

Photo from the Guardian, from Saturday night’s Tube drinking spree. I suppose this is the Tube equivalent of stealing traffic cones:

I wonder what they’re saying to each other?

Woman on left: When Boris put up posters all over the tube announcing a drinking ban at midnight, but with weeks to go, it was like a red rag to a Blue Nun…

Woman on right: And oh, the irony of the Circle Line’s ‘vacuum flask’ look on the map… Good old Harry Beck! Here’s to topological design classics!

Boy In Middle: Actually, the ‘flask’ look wasn’t in Beck’s original 1933 design, it was a revision by a later designer, Paul Garbutt.

Woman on right: If you’re going to split hairs, I’ll glass your face.
***

Today’s Evening Standard front page headline: ‘TUBE DRINKING BINGE LEADER IS CITY BANKER’. The photo is of a dinner-jacketed man, looking like a Steve Bell cartoon of a stereotypical 1980s yuppie, standing in a Tube carriage, raising a glass of champagne to the camera.

The Standard reveals this apparent ringleader ‘did it because a female friend who worked for Ken Livingstone lost her job following Boris Johnson’s election victory.’

It’s impossible that any single person was behind all of the revelry, of course, given it was a more a whispered ‘pass it on’ wheeze rather than anything else. But that’s the thing about chaos: you can take from it what you want. Including a causal argument that completely demolishes the point any protesters were trying to make about responsible drinking. Says the editorial:

‘The Mayor’s prompt delivery on his Tube ban is welcome… Alcohol bans on public transport are an inevitable result of the inability of some drinkers, like those on Saturday, to drink responsibly.’

But the Saturday night train-based boozing wouldn’t have happened if the ban hadn’t been trumpeted in the first place. Why didn’t Boris just quietly bring the ban into action with immediate effect? Why not at, say, 11am on a Tuesday morning rather than midnight on a Saturday?

Well, to remove freedom from people, it helps to encourage people to act as if they need to have their freedom removed. Clever stuff. So Boris is made to look smarter than ever, while Londoners – and as the Standard insists, Livingstone voters – are painted as naughty, stupid children that need to have their privileges taken away.

A paradox of causality: a protest used to justify the thing it’s protesting against.

But this is all part of a much longer trend in treating people en masse like naughty children. From the Quiet Carriage signs that seem to invite bad behaviour rather than prevent it, to a set of other Tube posters – brought in under Ken – which depict a series of cartoon baby-like figures promising ‘I won’t have my music on too loud’, ‘I’ll offer you my seat’ ‘And I’ll say thank you’.

The only response allowed – and encouraged – seems to be one of Pavlovian reaction. A drinking ban on the Tube provokes… irresponsible drinking on the Tube. Unhappiness with Labour equals Conservative landslides. To exercise free will, people are currently meant to react only in terms that consolidate whatever it is they’re reacting against. Whether it’s knee-jerk Conservatives or knee-jerk Anti-Conservatives (and knee-jerk liberals), as long as the knee is jerking to a worse option – for the sake of option at all – it can’t be good.

From all accounts, I understand there were plenty of mini-parties taking place on the Tube of perfectly harmless, responsible, light-hearted and fluffy-tailed (and in the case of Boris-dressed groups, fluffy-wigged) young people enjoying themselves, and having fun without others suffering; special hats off to young Ally Moss and her portable brush and dustpan alongside her evening dress. But – sigh – the majority of coverage goes to the archetypal loutish lads and ladettes. The meek shall never inherit the headlines.

Admittedly, my whole philosophy is to be wary of crowds, fashions, crazes and trends, and resist the herd instinct, however well-meaning it might appear. There is danger in numbers. And not much opportunity for individual style, either.

Well, unless it suits me, of course. If the Facebook-based Flash Mob is now the only true way to make hordes of young people act en masse, I wonder if I should start a group there called ‘Sock It To Boris and Feel Part Of Something – Buy The New Fosca Album!’

A quick plug I promised to Wynd of the Last Tuesday Society. He’s promoting a play about the life of that decadent hero – or anti-hero – Stephen Tennant.

Mr Tennant was a 1920s Bright Young Thing – i.e. a full-time socialite who at the time was famous for being famous. He appeared in novels by Evelyn Waugh and Nancy Mitford, canoodled with Siegfried Sassoon, then spent the rest of his life in bed. Essentially, if it’s 1920s England, and there’s a camp male character who’s entertaining but doomed, it’s probably based on him.

The Immortal Dropout- A Monologue devised by Hugo Vickers.

Date: 2 & 4 June 2008, at 7pm. Doors open 6.30pm.

Venue: The Cabaret Room at Bistrotheque, 27 Wadeson Street, London E2 9DR – transformed into Stephen Tennant’s bedroom at Wilsford Manor.

Tickets £10 (limited availability) from www.thelasttuesdaysociety.org

A monologue in two short acts. Stephen Tennant, once the brightest of the Bright Young Things, lived at Wilsford Manor all his life. Once a family home, filled with conversation, chatter and laughter, it is now the retreat of its lonely owner, who chooses to spend most of his time in his bedroom, mulling over his life, the people he has known, and his literary endeavours and enjoyments. Stephen Tennant is played by Charles Duff, an international actor, director, author and lecturer, who was raised in Stephen Tennant’s milieu.

The play then transfers to the Jermyn Street Theatre in the West End, from 28 July to 2 August.

Recommended reading: Philip Hoare’s biography Serious Pleasures. Now something of a cult read, I’ve seen it cited as a favourite book by both the bar manager at the Boogaloo and Little Britain’s David Walliams. All of which makes sense.

Just found this review of the Hoare book by film director John Waters, from 1991:

Aubrey Beardsley, Ronald Firbank, Denton Welch — believe me, Stephen Tennant made them all seem butch.