Secret Cinema: Lawrence of Arabia

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Despite it feeling more than a little un-PC to get dressed up in Arabian garb and travel on the train via Finsbury Park for Secret Cinema's screening of Lawrence of Arabia, once there it proved itself to be the most incredible experience in many ways. Walking from the station to Alexandra Palace (where the film was being shown in a vast exhibition hall, with 4,000 people sitting on the floor snuggled in blankets and cushions) everyone was in Bedouin inspired garb, walking in a line like some kind of mass exodus or sacred pilgrimage. We passed donkeys, camels and men and women on horseback who charged about with swords and herded us about or tried to barter with us for goods. Inside, there was a giant souk set up, with cushion and rug filled Bedouin tents, falafel and lamb kofte stands, market sellers hawking rugs and jangly trinkets and the sounds and smells and bustle of a colourful, frenetic, energetic Arabian market. Sort of a weird thing to do on a Friday night, but rather fun.
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I'd definitely recommend signing up to Secret Cinema. Shrouded in secrecy (their mantra is 'Tell No One', clearly something i'm ignoring) they'll email you when their next event is happening and send through clues as to where the final location will be, and what the film being shown is. Everything I've seen so far, The Warriors outdoors on London Fields, and Alien in an east end warehouse has been an utterly immersive and eye-opening experience. More than anything it's kind of wonderful to be a part of such an explosion of creative thinking and production. Yes, sure there are hitches and everything isn't quite perfect, but if you're game and up for it, it's pretty ace.

Next up, my vote goes to Fiddler on the Roof - not only because i basically grew up wanting to be in it (singing Matchmaker matchmaker...) but seems like it might balance the weirdness of this event out. or not.

Farewell Whoopee

The Whoopee Club was one of the front runners, if not the front runner of London's neo-burlesque movement. Six years ago, when i was working at The Erotic Review, we worked a lot with its founders Lara and Tamara just as they were starting it up - collaborating on Burlesque features, promoting nights and generally thoroughly enjoying a celebration of sultry, elegantly sleazy glamour. It was underground, left field and more than a little excitingly unsettling. there hadn't really been anything like it for eons. I'll never forget the first evening of theirs that i went to - the naughty but nice titillation was wholly captivating. i never looked back and from then on any opportunity to dress up in 1940s and 50s regalia for a night of tease was snatched with both hands. Now, of course, Burlesque is everywhere, and not all of it good - i've seen enough two-bit wannabes peeling their kit off in a show of sexiness that turns me on about as much as a mosquito buzzing in the middle of the night to have become more than a little wary. a pair of nipple tassles, some suspenders and stockings, a thong and killer heels, i've come to realise, does not an erotic performance make. a serious amount of chutzpah, sass, wit and inventiveness does, which is somewhat rarer than the nearest branch of Agent Provocateur. When Whoopee started it really felt naughty. deliciously naughty. Like it was actually rather fabulously ok to be utterly entranced by girls stripping - old school style, where you were always left wishing for more. what you don't want is to feel slightly embarrassed for any performers - wishing instead that they'd save their dignity and just stop. It's a state that's all to easily achieved, sadly. Anyway, Friday saw The Whoopee Club's last ever show - a night of war time austerity at The Bethnal Green Working Men's club. I was keen to go, for old time's sake. There were some brilliant performances - i especially loved the pole dancer grinding to Peaches' The Boys Wanna Be Her (especially good as i do so love Peaches - esp Lovertits), the spandex bodystockinged girl hula hooping and Audacity Chutzpah's hilarious feminist striptease.  Less keen on the maniac tranny flinging himself around the stage and staplegunning things to his chest, but that's personal preference i guess. Paloma Faith wore gold sequins and sang, and everyone was red lipsticked and seamed tights-ed. Bliss - a glorious memory of the good old days. 

Lucky Voice (again)

Here are me and Hermione, having been styled by the fabulous Bella, singing karaoke and generally having too much fun for a school night at Lucky Voice while Amy took photos for them, including this one, which i love. Posing, us? Damn Straight. And loving it.

Blitz party

Well, there definitely wasn't any sign of wartime austerity at The Blitz Party, and thank the lord for that, though everything else was perfectly in place at the themed WWII party in shoreditch. i drank copious amounts of the most amazing cocktails - the best of which was a champagne, vodka, elderflower and lemon juice concoction which got me drunk, dancing to the big band music and leering over men in second world war uniform in a major way (no discriminating between army, air force or navy, don't fret). thankfully sandbags were everywhere which protected me from laddering my seamed tights as i careered into the exposed brick and low arches when being spun about to the music by dashing soldiers (on leave one supposes) - jolly lucky. revellers had pulled put all the stops, the women's 1940s curls, slashes of vermilion lipstick, polka dot and floral tea dresses and fur stoles more than matching the jaunty trilbies, dapper suits, braces and twirled mustachios of the men, with nurses in bloodied aprons sartorially pitted against soldiers on crutches. and lest anyone lose perspective, silent 40s films were projected onto the walls, filling the room with agonising parting embraces and troublesome flights over enemy territory. super.