gin soaked girl

This blog is about me and my adventures in the land of gin. Yes, gin is a country and I've visited it often. In fact I've conducted a passionate love affair with the place. Bought the t-shirt and definitely been to the duty-free. Along the way, I've been to a few gigs and undergone a bit of a personal renaissance. This blog celebrates the art of growing old disgracefully. Roll up. Roll up. Come join the fayre!

Tuesday, July 10, 2007

It's all a bit of a whirl...

A long weekend in Amsterdam, 7-10 July 2007.

Amsterdam in my imagination used to be simple to define: big red cheese; boys with fingers in dikes; chocolate box windmills and oversized clogs. This is how the maternal liturgy went. So was it fair? Turns out that there’s a lot more to the Netherlands (to use its proper moniker) than I once thought, and I am now in possession of a much more sophisticated image and conceptualisation (ok, so I’ve been watching Shrink Rap) of the country.

Ok, there are cheeses of all kinds, not just Edam, and clogs, also of all kinds, (including furry clog-type slippers and clog-shaped plant pots), but the boys holding back torrents and chocolate box windmills were conspicuous by their absence during my visit. The truth is that the Netherlands is a prosperous modern country with a touch of Germanic Puritanism still, but also a great deal of the atheistic, laissez-faire spirit of the age and an enviable pragmatism when it comes to matters of transport and housing.

Question 1: what do you do when you don’t have enough room on the roads and need to get from A to B? Answer: buy a ramshackle but lightweight and practical bicycle and park it in a high-rise, multi-storey ‘bike-park’ that houses thousands of similar apparatus. Also, plan your city so that there are cycle tracks running along every main road and tributary and acquaint motorists with the idea that they do not ‘own the roads’ and have to accomodate different modes of transport when it comes to sharing space.


Question 2: what do you do when you run out of space to build new houses and apartments and there are lots of young people coming into the city? Answer: take to the (inland) seas and form a Bohemian-influenced houseboat community that brings a welcome touch of New Age quirkiness to the wider community. No need to worry about such insignificant issues as being seen naked or exposed in your domestic activities by passing tourists on candlelit tours of the canals and backwaters. Just give a short wave and go about your business.


Question 3: Feeling a bit fatigued on a Sunday afternoon, a bit down in the dumps with the sudden blast of torrential rain or thunder and lightening? Then take a seat at one of the many roadside cafe/bars (not to be confused with the plentiful collection of 'coffee shops' that serve a wholly different class of punter) and relax your bones. Order your favourite Belgian or other lowlander-type intoxicant (that's a Leffe Blond, Westmalle Dubbel or Palm beer for me) and think about your favourite things. Oh and if your hungry, indulge in some Bitterballen, but only if you're a truly dedicated carnivore.

In short, Amsterdam is the capital of a strangely antithetical city: both Bohemian/libertarian and stoical/Puritanical at the same time. A melting pot of influences just like every other major European city.
Oh and one small droplet of knowledge that I managed to collect on the trip; the Netherlands is definately not the same as Holland, which refers only to the western part of the country (2 out of the 12 provinces), so therefore do not use this term as it might be construed as a touch on the pejorative side to the inhabitants of the remaining 10 provinces. NB. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. GSG.

Monday, July 02, 2007

I was looking for a gig, and then I found a gig…

The Wireless Festival, Hyde Park, 17th June 2007

It’s dull and overcast and the party spirit should have long since made its excuses and left for sunnier climes, but we’re British, and the desire for outdoors activities, nay pleasures, abound. Maybe it’s all that scouting and guiding and running up of flagpoles that we all enjoyed (with clenched teeth and goose pimples) when we were young and reckless. Good training for life, my elders said, and so it has proved, time and frostily, again...

It’s trying to crack a half assed smile when we arrive (the weather), and I am bravely sport nothing but a handkerchief-style, wrap-around cardigan (and vest top) with trainers in my personal attire, and am determined to get some fun out of this experience, God dammit.

So it is in a windblown grass-denuded landscape that myself and redwineaddict, another trooper of the ‘stiff upper lip’ kind, sit with our half pint of Pimms in plastic cups and absorb the wonders of the Japanese via Guantanamo Bay-style shenanigans of live wires, Polysics. Oh my God. Yes, orange catsuits and endless star jumps. Are they trying to distract us from the cacophonous music? It’s a bit like the end of the world with an electro clash soundtrack; choreographed by a half-mad, neurotic commandant. I did like the green guitars and the recorder solo though (or did I dream that?).

Where next? The XFM tent and Kate Nash of course- or Lily Allen’s little sister as sometimes known. A bit more on the sweet side and less of the acid-tongued songstress/’kick your ass if you look at me sideways’ vibe than Keith’s daughter but good value all the same. Caroline’s a victim was much enjoyed by the crowd and there was also something about butterflies, or birds or something. Birds I think it was, yes definitely, I liked that one. In fact I quite liked her performance overall, and was definitely, NOT AT ALL influenced by the fact that it was threatening to rain outside, oh no.

The next thing I remember is rubbery noodles and greasy black-bean sauce. And chemical toilets. What joys! A wierdly drunken bloke zigzagging between lines and jumping in front of people made queuing just that little bit more enthralling and joyful than usual. Glory be. The nuts and bolts of festival partaking really does get you down sometimes; especially when you’re old enough to fancy a nice cup of tea and chips over a joint or other illegal substance.

So on to the O2 VIP tent. La la la. Nice boys! Pretty boys! And a free drink. The Alverez Kings were a nice surprise for old ginnie and friend. Leather jacketed youthfulness and vigour encapsulated. The days of wine and plenty, hormone wise. Here on display. I could have gone up and said hi afterwards, but the prettiness, indie-boy factor was just too high for me. I couldn’t pretend I was anything other than enraptured. I’ve missed having a crush on someone far too young and unsuitable for me. The hidden passion, the angst-ridden soul searching. Just stick a red wig on me and call me Lulu.

And so to the main stage. The headline act. The Kaiser Chiefs- who I had so much fun with when they played the Astoria in April 2005. Oh how we jumped and laughed and giggled and waived our hands about with innocent glee. So much for that. The Kaisers, and I hate to say this, have morphed into unadulterated stadium-bait; underperforming, overcompensating, and yes, just no fun anymore- dressing like The Killer and pretending to be serious social commentators? ‘This is for all you fans out there’, give us a break. You’re getting way too big for your boots now. They shone briefly when Ricky Wilson, our former deity in the fun factory department, started mimicking one of the Polysics who had joined him on stage. But it was only short-lived. Spontaneity, thy name is definitely not Kaiser Chiefs. Kaiser Chiefs, thy performance is now leaden.
 

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