Comedy Review: Mark Watson

Last a night a full house gathered at the Sherman Theatre, Cardiff. A colourful mix of students, radio 4 listeners and people looking for something to do on a Friday - all in turn serving themselves as people watching entertainment extraordinaire. Yes, I had wine in hand and slightly nervous conversation to make. The reason for the milling? Mark Watson; sometime radio and TV funny chap, who was out to entertain with his ambitiously titled "All the thoughts I've had since I was born' act. Unlike most of the things I blog about he did actually play Aberystywth a few days earlier, bless him.

Within minutes of Mark's somewhat eccentric appearance the crowd were completely disarmed and delighted. His engaging manner, impeccable delivery and self-deprecating ways were winning and witty, as was his anecdotal set. Mark Watson isn't surreal, he doesn't have catch phrases, and he's not witheringly sarcastic: he is a rare gem of an observational comic possessing a charming way with words...

Be prepared though - those words come out at a rate of around a million a minute. My gosh no wonder he's so thin! Not that Mark bounds back and forth around the stage, it's just that the sheer energy and enthusiasm he invests into his ramshackle tales punches home an admirable work ethic. As a consequence stories tend to ramble breathlessly, and not all get wrapped up neatly. For the most part that's okay - firstly there's usually something very, very funny waiting to spring out from reminiscence prison; also the whimsical nature of the musings means that you find yourself chortling away to a turn of phrase, not caring that there wasn't quite an end to the narrative, whilst you're lead down a garden path of a completely different, sometimes dark, nature.

The show was great, and faults were few; maybe there seemed to be a lack of control over the audience in the second half - things became a bit too pally for my liking. Some members rattled on and on. Then again the general high levels of interaction served to spawn one or two big laughs, and the idea of a competition encouraging people to be nice to each other certainly brightened some lives- £3 cash prize not to be mocked in these hard times.

The only other flaw seemed to be the haphazard introduction of general themes, such as compliments or 'Little Book of Calm' style de-stressing; these touchstones of structure didn't quite scaffold the show and seemed slightly cumbersome. Like Eddie Izzard, Mark riffs (about his life, not bees), and I suspect just like Izzard, those riffs are carefully worked out, but they sometimes clashed with the broader musings, throwing out the pace slightly.

Mark's been performing at the fringe and touring generally since 2004 , garnering accolades and praise, but he's still a young comedian and the small niggles are easily consequential of that. I thoroughly enjoyed myself, laughing along to an original, warm and mirthsome soul. I'm looking forward to more of Mark's wry comedy in the future.

Four Stars and a big grin for Mr Watson.

You can stalk Mark on twitter, or find his tour dates listed here.

Friday Pop

I'm listening to Candi Payne's excellent 2007 album 'I Wish I could Have Loved You More'. Nice pop music for a Friday; something you can sing along to but still take yourself seriously as a music snob. Mind you, I sing along to Dolly Parton at times, off-key and totally without irony.

Other pop tunes I'm enjoying as I bustle about...

The Rezillos cover of Last of the Secret Agents - looks like one of the band has skinned a muppet....

And, No One Takes You Home by Kathryn Williams

Tonight I'm off to Cardiff to laugh at Mark Watson, which is okay, he's a comedian, a wonderful one at that (who makes the world substantially better), and I've paid for the privilege. Afterwards there may be chess and some drinks, or some storming to the train station and sulking at home (with a consolation pizza - a large one).

It could go either way but I'm all set. I'm oozing deliberately casual in cardigan that looks as if it could have been an Oxfam donation from Kurt Cobain, but underneath I'm a bundle of anticipation/nerves; fed up of let downs and, let's be oh so melodramatic here... false hopes. I'm tired, I really need some nice times and a laugh but I'll settle for winning at chess. At least twice.

Or that pizza and extra olives.

A Grand Weekend.

One of the strangest things about the goldfish bowl of Aberystwyth is its ability to instill cabin fever in almost anyone. Probably even hermits. It has indisputably been time to get away and go visit friends (even that does entail a trip to terrible Bridgend), scoring bonus points for being at home for Mother's Day and thus negating the need for a stupid, waste of money, bad for the environment, enslaving of the masses, card. I'm a heartless monster, I know.

What's more the sun has had his hat on! Hip, hip, hip, horray. In fact it has been sunny enough to provoke general panic buying of disposable barbecues and burger buns, and for me to twitch about whether last year's suncream would still be okay to use. The glorious sunshine and gentle breeze stirred all sorts of latent feelings. But for want of any better options I was struck with the desire, nay - the compulsion, to go visit the Merthyr Mawr sand dunes - a magical place where I can change colour like a limited chameleon who only does anaemic white or clown nose red.

The sand dunes are just outside Bridgend, and are part of the largest dune system in Europe, so look impressed. The tallest dune stands at 80m above OD (Ordnance Datum), and on their edge is a small fortified manor that is slowly being swallowed by the shifting sands. There's also all sorts of multi-period archaeology that turns up in the area. So not just a pretty picnic spot.

On a sunny day the first thing you notice is that the dunes are riddled with children on plastic sleighs riding around, kicking sand (need I add at you?), screaming and not so surreptitiously weeing in bushes. To transport all the irritating, ball throwing, temper loosing, skuttling, skidding, urinating children, the parents obviously need big cars. Said cars are then driven as quickly as possible along the tiny country roads. It spoils the walk through the chocolate box village of Merthyr Mawr, but does add quest like peril to the day out.

Despite it all the dunes still seem like the place to be. There's a certain rightness and dogged adversity that a sunny day causes you to embrace - especially when you get to your chosen spot and the chilling breeze makes you to realise it isn't quite as warm as you'd like. The optimistic linen skirt admittedly proved to be a school girl error. Nevertheless there I was amidst the great outdoors; the sun shone down, whilst the wind (which wouldn't stop picking up) whipped the tiny sea grasses into papercut-giving machines. There was good company, sandy hummus and gritty champagne. In keeping with the desert atmosphere, Radio 3 World Routes was the only thing the radio would tune to; no bad thing - it provided funky accompaniment with fusion tunes based on ancient Persian music. I was expecting Lawrence to ride over any minute (the dunes were used as a location after all).

I had a really great time.

Fun Thing # 304 - Cleaning the Kitchen After A BIG Night Out

I say 'big', what I mean is a night out where you end up feeling like a sad, mothball smelling granny who no-one wants to visit because you make them eat mint imperials and tell the same story about wart removal over and over and over. It's no comfort to me that my plans of getting older do not, as yet, include either moth balls or warts; I'm anticipating being an old woman who smells of Chanel and bitterness.

Yes that's right- bitterness. I'm giving up all pretence at being a happy, normal, well adjusted person of the sort that welcomes friends into their tidy kitchen, slowly watches it disintegrate into a glass filled, booze-smelling hell hole, and gets up early the next morning to tidy. As yet the kitchen is still a mess, I'm grumpy because I haven't had breakfast and I refuse to make it when the counters are all covered in makeup, vodka, mayonnaise and party popper entrails. Oh and I missed the bloody bins again, bane of my life that they are.

As for the night out: not much went wrong really, I'm just being melodramatic and kicking myself for a really pathetic late night drunken text (not for the first time on here either).

I've vague recollections of seeing a brank or 'scold's bridle' at some museum or another - a barbaric medieval punishment device for people who talked too much. To qualify for this humiliation the scolder would have to be...

" a troublesome and angry woman who by brawling and wrangling amongst her neighbours breaks the public peace, increases discord and becomes a public nuisance to the neighbourhood."*

I'm not suggesting that a return to the 'good old' days of the literal curbing of free speech is in order, or that I brawl or wrangle, or even that I'm overly troublesome. I do think I may need my thumbs chopping off. It would be for my own good.

*Pettifer, E. 1992. Punishment of Former Days. Waterside Press.

Music Review: Emmy the Great - First Love

My heart has been utterly charmed by Emmy the Great. I'm smitten, beguiled and completely disarmed. The debut 'First Love' is beautiful, clear, quirky, poignant and a treat in every way imaginable. I'd go further and say the album is just exactly how romantic indie-folky, funky twiddly-dee stuff should sound. It has all the joy of flying kites high into the blue sky and you can get lost listening to each song soar.

Emmy herself has been doing the rounds for a while touring with folks like Martha Wainwright and Tilly and the Wall, not to mention singing away in various festivals and gigs around the indie underground. This album has, by all accounts, had a long gestation period, it's none the worst for it.

Emmy's voice trips along witty lyrics sounding for all the world like a happy version of Laura Marlin - she has the same clarity and the same instantly beautiful voice that makes tuneless people like me green with envy. Then again if you're going to bestow upon yourself the epithet of 'Great' obviously you need some serious gifts, not including modesty - modesty won't pay gas bills. Every band member compliments Emmy, bringing forth songs that crackle with talent. The album affects a carefree air yet there is undeniable depth and skill behind the arrangements; unsurprisingly all band members are involved in their own projects.

As far as the songs go 'We Almost Had a Baby' (acoustic version available to download free via myspace), '24' and 'First Love' stand out as fresh and deft, but the album is a complete whole and a joy to listen to from beginning to end.

As far as pretty pop music for a spring day, you could do far, far worse.... and I venture that Emmy will be around for a lot longer.

St Skeletor's Day

Back in 1998 when nervous breakdowns, hair dye, jazz, bloody men and chip stinking seaside towns were still to come in my life, Richard Herring came up with labling February 15th St Skeletor's Day: the anti-Valentine's, headed by a figure who epitomises evilness and the destruction of love (it's about 3 minutes into the youtube video).

Good.

It's not that I'm bitter, it's not that I dislike couples, especially happy ones, or happiness in general, or in fact any and all aspects of life that isn't fermented in barrels (well, maybe it is), but I do hate Valentine's Day. Waste of time, money and just an excuse to have stupid stuffed toys, heart shaped (if you're lucky) balloons, unattractive black and red underwear, not to mention fluffy handcuffs, all bandied from every shop window. Even charity shops, which apparently have no shame these days.... despite being run by little old ladies in floral dresses and knee socks. Very dark.

All across the world people live in misery and poverty; there's starvation, war, misery (more misery), prejudice, hatred and greed, and what do we do? Couples give themselves a nice pat on the back and feel fuzzy smug self congratulation. Most of the time this Carpenter song-like bliss is less about a deep and mutual attraction and more a thankful realisation that there is someone else who can share the responsibility of taking out the bins, chopping onions or unblocking the shower. Valentine's is after all the only day that you have to say thanks for being put up with. It's so caring, thoughtful and charming.

That doesn't cut it for St Skeletor; he doesn't have hair so his shower doesn't get blocked, he has many slaves (who he beats) so he doesn't need to make someone love him for the bins to go away. Being part skeleton he probably doesn't eat much, and all his calcium needs are met by a pestilential milkman. He even smashed the stereo with that ram headed staff of his when "It Had to Be You" came on, and regularly burns DVDs of 'When Harry Met Sally' as a recreational pastime. As Rich reminds us; Skeletor is so evil the only love interest in his life was a woman as diabolical as himself, hence her name; 'Evil Lynn' - and to be fair he didn't seem very keen on her.

So don't make St Skeletor Cards, if you do put some effort into making them equisit and then burn them in front of the potential recipient. Put on your ratty grey underwear safe in the knowledge that no-one is going to see it anyway. If you must buy chocolate hearts do so only to watch them melt into a lake of calorie riddled gloop that'll only make you feel guilty after you eat it. Oh, and wear capes with hoods so you can glare menacingly at happy couples as they stroll hand in hand clogging up pavements. It needs to be a cape though, or else your powerful social statement will be lost amongst the typical hoodie delinquency.

As for me, well, I'm going to the cinema to watch Casablanca on Valentine's Day; but I won't enjoy it, and at the end I'll be muttering loudly that Rick was better off without that heartless bitch.

The 'Heated' Towel Rail

The heated towel rail in our bathroom stands as an affront to masculinity. You can bleed it, you can twist valves and/or suck air in through your teeth all you like - it will not be fixed; that it should be so is a source of endless frustration to male visitors. I'm of the opinion that it hasn't been plumbed in correctly and isn't worth the hassle, especially as I've got the quick sprint out of the shower, grabbing the towel and the legging it to warmer climes down to a 't'. This includes strategically placed mats so I don't slip and break a hip.

My flatmate and I aren't inept or otherwise incapable of basic DIY (despite failing to notice all the radiators in the flat needed bleeding, and yes it was rather chilly). We do however know a lost cause when we see one. The frozen implacability of the towel rail will not be compromised. And what doesn't cause hypothermia can only make you stronger.....