Written in Squid Ink

After 6 months of waiting (I exaggerate but the wait was significantly long), a vertigo-inducing seat, it was time to see Eddie Izzard LIVE at the O2. Mum and Art had to endure me on the Thames Clipper ride to the stadium. That is 20 minutes of hyperactivity and a blabber of incomprehensible chatter every time the Eddie Izzard Stripped Advert came on the built-in floating TV. But next thing I knew, we were seated in the massive O2 tent and then after a play of lights, Eddie Izzard stepped on to the stage, bowed at all corners and began his mad tirade on human civilisation with dinosaur roars, speeding raptors, jazz farm animals, raptor porn, chariot windshield wipers, wikipedia, the out-of-towels-Pepys-diary-keeping giant squid, Mr Squirrel and every other surreal combination of everything.

In an nutshell, he was absolutely amazing. I can still see his name in lights, his expressive eyes and the way he laughs at his own ridiculousness.

Phantom II: He Still Loves You, Christine!

It's here. The months leading to the opening of Andrew Lloyd Webber's new spectacle loom ahead. On this dark, mist-filled path, one can only imagine what wonders await us. Love Never Dies follows up the story of our much loved, well used characters (the Phantom, Christine, Raoul - okay no one really likes Raoul but he's a necessary character - Madame Giry, and Meg Giry) but in a new setting. An over ground one at that, which makes for some interesting symbolism. As far as I can gather, the Phantom is now an important figure in new-world-type-thing-going-on New York, being the successful owner of Coney Island. He lures Christine (husband Raoul and their son Gustave in tow) over, having pined for her for the last 10 years. Move on, Phantom? But I suppose his torment is what he (and his loyal fans) live on. So bring on the potential tragedy (or surprise happy ending - come on Phantom needs it) and sweep us off our feet with your music of the night.

Ramin Karimloo (the sexy one) plays the Phantom in the new production, with Sierra Bogges as the ever wandering Christine. I've already got my tickets for March 2010. Can't wait.

Halloween

Ghouls and goblins and phantom masks
Love and life and heartbreaking tasks.
There is nothing more to say about this day.
Nothing more to add to what you have to say.

Now don't we all like a horrorshow filmy to viddy once in a while?

I had the opportunity to read A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess a few months ago. A verbal, sexual fest of words (just flowing like unmuddied water), it was such a read that caused a plethora of emotions. The story was amazing, frightening and adventurous. Alex and his drogues will be beating you with their actions but wooing you with their language. We lap up whatever his tongue dictates.

Fairuz then recommended me the film. A Stanley Kubrick classic of the same name, it is a wonder to the eye as it is a pleasure to the ear. A ready hand to cover one's eyes at times. But one's gulliver is indeed filled with words by the end of it! Morality and ethics are brought to question by Alex through his actions and his punishment. While his treatment is as contreversial, his pleasure in ultra-violence is manic as well as fascinating (only a mandman could derive such delights in rape, pillage and pain) - not to mention a love for Ludwig van.

Moloko plus first, my brothers. Right, right, right? But not this notchy for what thou didst have in mind.

September Ramblings/Happy Merdeka

Looking back on the last months, I can say that I've done things I never thought I would, seen stuff that opened my mind, felt everything from heartbreak to elation to excitement to happiness. What can I say. It's all been good. Hey scrap that. It's been one helluva (don't you just love that word?) ride.

I wrote at the beginning of the holidays that we'll be discovering ourselves, welcoming new sides of us. Humbert Humbert said, parentheses included, (in reference to his and Lolita's travels) we had travelled everywhere and seen nothing - or something to that effect. I think I've practically been nowhere but seen everything. I stayed in London most of June, July and half of August: I worked, I camped, I cried, I spent days that never should've ended, but I loved it all. I was in Malaysia for the other half of August, and most of September to be with family, friends, to read, to rekindle my love of the X-Files (for all my highbrow Marxist ways, where would I be without Mulder and Scully?) and restored my tired soul. It was indeed tired.

Oh and Happy Merdeka, Malaysia. 52, and it's only just going through its teenage years. As countries go. It's a young nation with an old soul, and a lot of attitude.

Something to Tickle your taste buds

Enjoy!

http://twitter.com/razakbaginda

Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence

I recently revisited an old classic (and an old personal favourite - it's listed as a favourite film on Facebook and as we all know, Facebook never lies) starring David Bowie, Ryuichi Sakamoto, Tom Conti, Takeshi and Jack Thompson in the roles of Japanese prison guards and British POWs, set in a Javanese camp in 1942. Under the poignantly touching title Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence, the film sheds light on the relationships, tension and dare we even say, love developped during captivity between captor and captive.

Bowie plays as Jack Celliers, a Major in the British Army while Sakamoto (who incidentally wrote the score and the brilliant tune of the same name) is Captain Yonoi, the head of the camp who develops an obsession with Celliers. Conti is the namesake of the film: Colonel John Lawrence who in the film, acts as liaison officer because of his proficiency in the language and culture of the Japanese. Takeshi is Sergeant Hara who in his drunken moments proves to be the gentlest human being while with sobriety, he is the strict guard of the camp.

An amazing film that takes us into the minds of soldiers who under their caps, and their bland uniforms, are truly only just simply human.

Communism is the new Chic

Has fashion replaced idealism?

Karl Marx did not have a section on fashion in Das Kapital. But Karl Lagerfeld am sure has other plans. In lieu of the Golden Star of the USSR, we have instead the gilded Cs of Chanel. To be honest. I am quite shocked, if not slightly flabbergasted at this flagrant capitalistic gob in the eye to communism. It is the irony of history I suppose: Cold War enemy of yesterday, inspiration to fashion today. The question that begs to be asked is this: will we be fashioning turbans, headscarves and the crescent in the next generation? While American foreign policy dictates who we hate, French haute couture dictates what we wear.

The bag - Lenin is spinning in his Red Square tomb:

Highlights of June written in July

Finishing my exams/The GBLT picnic

After a month (SOAS doesn't do things by half!) of slaving at the library (9am-7pm, almost every day except for one day I blew off to spend by the river in Richmond Park - twas worth it!), the exams were over. The last line for the year had been written and the holiday had arrived. Not with a bang but with a little pull at the sleeve. It's quite discreet in that sense. It wasn't a feeling of intense relief but rather a ah tis done state of mind. The summer stretched ahead and to be honest, I was not looking forward to it. Too much space. The picnic was right after - it was lovely to see all of us with the look of relief and the ability to relax and not use the "i have to go to the library" excuse! I've heard it too many times, and I've used it on more than one occasion. Art was skipping and singing. We did the Time Warp again and again and again. We lay in the grass. Some of us ran into the fountain. Some of us were speaking in different languages. It was a good day.

Fairuz's Visit/The End of the Year Ball

Fairuz came to town and did she shimmer London or what! (She did, in case you were wondering). She stayed for two weeks and we watched (in order): We Will Rock You, Hamlet, Hairspray and Priscilla Queen of the Desert. We had English breakfast (not a tea, as you well know...) and Art cooked for us a banquet of meals fit for a King (or rather Queens). Fairuz and Art met and sparks flew - I maintain they gave me toncilitis in order to soft shoe across London on their own! I brought Fairuz to a Gay Bar and she danced the night away - wowing us all to the tunes of Katy Perry, Britney and ABBA (if memory serves me well). Thank you Elly for walking us to the bus stand- I can't walk down TCR without thinking of you. I dragged Fairuz to the End of the Year Ball (thank you Elly for asking me to go - I would not have gone otherwise) and we went home twice. I swear sir, we're over 18! Fairuz - you can really shake your groove thing! I just shift my weight from one leg to another. And we topped it off with some fast food before going home to gossip about the evening. We had a picnic in your honour Fai-Fai (thank you all for turning up to sit on the grass) and we also had a mountain of a breakfast that morning - those amazing pancakes that did not disappear no matter how hard you closed your eyes. And of course, that epic trip to the Science Museum. I love that stupid cup and curly straw thing. Love it. So. Very. Much. Not to mention the pile of crap we didn't really need but still bought. We drove the evening away too - we saw Tower Bridge at night and the London Eye sparkled for our young hearts. Ah when we saw you off at the airport, I had already begun to miss you. Good luck with Year 2.

Working with the D Group/The Occupation

Thanks to father, I managed to get a job as a temporary assistant at the D-Group, just on Dover Street. It was a good experience - name card sorting was never as fun indeed. My workmates were all so lovely (special shout to Roger Dillon who always asked how I was) though I doubt they'd say the same about me! It was an interesting company though I'm not quite sure what they do. Oh well! Art came round to see me for a few lunches and those visist always brightened up my day - it was something to look forward to! We'd have lasagnes or soup and gossip like two characters from Sex and the City. Great afternoons they were indeed! And one fateful Friday in June, some workers from SOAS were taken to a room, searched and arrested, and then deported. All without any initial legal aid. Just taken away like that. I left for work and made my way to SOAS for the protest. We ended up in the City with makeshift placards made on the train, and we marched in our SOAS colours and made our case known to the centre. We called it a day and continued again on Sunday to paint banners (I watched 3/4 of Hedwig the stage version with Art but I left before it finished - I know you haven't forgiven me but I hope you understand why), among other things - the Sunday of my life: the day I secretly relive in the sanctity of memory. Perfection in a day, if ever that was possible. But the week that followed was manic if not exciting. The occupation began and we slept on the floors of Paul Webley's office in protest to the deportation of the SOAS 9. We also marched down gower street, holding hands, carrying banners, holding up placards (though mine kept on unhinging) following Hanadi with a megaphone. I was so proud of all of us. We made it in the end and we won the fight. I've always admired Clare but it was truly something else to see her in action. It's nice to be able to say hey yeah I know Clare and oh yeah I was there.

Such a month it was indeed! It even needs its own soundtrack. If I could I'd play love songs, dance grooves, musical numbers, piano concertos, harmonica riffs and march songs. Ciao bella, my beautifuls.

Not even Turkish Delights

You: So it's a shame we're in different countries.
Me: Yeah it's been a rough week sans latrines.
You: So it didn't work out for you, it didn't work out for me.
Me: I guess if it wasn't meant to be, it wasn't meant to be.
You: I was kinda wondering...
Me: I've been kinda day dreaming...
You: I think whatever I say -
Me: I'm not really listening to what you have to say.
You: And I think whatever I write -
Me: All I can think of is Turkish Delights.
You: Perhaps maybe we should -
Me: If only what I dream, could.
You: I kinda like Turkish Delights.
Me: Let's see where has fate set.
Us: I can't quite face the world just yet.

Beauty walks on a razor's edge - someday I'll make it mine, bob.

Hello! It has been a crazy May. Exams are finally over - they were scattered over the month like rainbow sprinkles on a massive cake. I had so many fun moments: library madness, late-night movie showings, reading in the sun. Oh it has been wonderful. Where to begin. I am going to miss school. Summer's great and all but everyone's all over the place discovering new locations, meeting different people, learning new things. And it's fantastic, yes. But somehow - it's kind of lonely too. It's as if we're all on our separate missions, not truly apart but not quite together. You know the feeling.

I am looking forward to the coming months of re-evaluation and discovery. But I also can't wait until October when winter settles in again and we're sheltered from the cold by the stories we tell.

So my friends. Enjoy the summer. Enjoy yourselves. A toast to new beginnings, new friends, new adventures, new challenges, new us.

Hopes, fears, deeper conversation, and your favourite colour

My ears are all alert and my heart is open, thanks to this discovery (courtesy of my friend Nurmala). She goes by the name of Yuna and she'll be hitting our airwaves very soon. What struck me was the simplicity of her music (flowing music on guitar - literally the notes are floating all about you when you hear her play), the deep intentions of her soft and simple lyrics.

I really do think she has something to calm the soul and feed our desire for love. And you know me, folks, I'm always one for the love of love.

Here she is on Youtube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=41JBNf9dyB4

And this is her MySpace page.

http://www.myspace.com/yunaroomrecords

Always this ridiculous obsession with Love: A Greek Story

There is a story, that is both comical and divine. It attempts to explain how we are roaming this earth, half and incomplete, searching for the other that makes us complete. It is a tale that is told countless times, referred to a million times and probably the one I like best (be it told in its original form as Aristophanes' speech in Plato's Symposium or in its modern modification in Hedwig's Origin of Love).

According to the myth, there were three sexes. Two-bodied women, men who were stuck back to back, and the halfmen-halfwomen creatures. They're all us, by the way. One day, they angered the gods and Zeus in his anger struck thunderbolts (or heavenly knives, I am not sure) and split these doubles into singles, and they were scattered all over the world.

Ever since then, we've been trying to piece ourselves back together with metaphorical staples and thread. Happy finding, my friends.

Love, the day after.

Love is a Dali painting with no pain.
Love is waiting in the light rain
and wondering if you'd show up.
Love is a Special Edition DVD Eddie Izzard boxset,
Watching it with chips - not caring about becoming fat.

Love, as I can tell, is a kind of state of mind
where you have no idea if you're in pause or rewind.
And your head's in the air and the only way is up, up.
Love is a half-read book with pencil'd notes
at the side. Receipts crumpled in the pocket of my coat.

Love is buying flowers at half the price.
Love is the taste of sugary spice.
It is the feeling of hearts mixing into a homemade cocktail
(or rather mocktail).
It is when you stop believing in such a thing as love songs.
Only to be proven wrong.

Basically. Love is the simple appreciation of the things around you
and making much of the few.

I just want to be Filthy Rich!

You, reader, must know of my aversion (call it suppression if you like) to TV shows. But. I have made an exception and when I make exceptions, it has to be the best. After all, if you're going to do something - do it well. And so. Allow me to introduce you (fanfare please) to The Riches! 

The show follows the lives of a Traveler (Irish Gypsies who roam around the United States pick pocketing and conning their way about life) family who end up impersonating a dead man's life. It's got everything you need in a show: excellent dialogue, edge-of-your-seat-tongue-wagging-eyes-popping suspense, cross-dressing, Southern hospitality, lies, deceit, llamas, sex in a Benz, and of course, Eddie Izzard - who is at the moment, the bane of my existence. Yes. I am in love. It's a transcendental trashy unexplainable kind of love. Minnie Driver gives an excellent performance too. 

Right. Watch it if you can. You won't regret it. 

 

If Hell was a blues bar, I'd gladly be a sinner!

Last night was my induction into the shady swanky smoky (even with the smoking ban, if you get my drift) world of the blues, courtesy of some good friends from SOAS (thank ye, James). We sat at a table right next to the stage, and therefore got the full brunt of the music - not that I'm complaining. The early evening saw the crowd serenaded by two men with guitar, singing everything from Dylan to Lennon. As it got later, and the lights got dimmer, the small stage was compacted rather ingeniously with a full set of drums, a double bass, audio boxes of some sort, and of course the West Weston lads with their harmonicas and blues charm. When they began, the evening truly did too. Everyone was moving to the beat and for one moment, all seemed just fine with the world. And with the blues, all will be taken in our stride.

All in all, a good evening. And lastly and most importantly, thank you Art Mitchells-Urwin (the person, the idiom and the concept rolled into one person), for reminding me that there is still much humanity and respect in this world.

West Weston, play me the blues, boys.