Is it sad that the most exotic place I've travelled to this summer thus far was for work?
These last few months since the demise of university life have revolved around earning money and staycationning to the max: days spent slogging for the promise of pounds lighting up the dwindling bank account, no sooner to be deposited than to be flung towards nationalrail.co.uk or Sainsburys and their alluring alcohol offers (Jose Cuervo Margharita Mix is my find of the summer and foe of the pancreas.
I may moan about living in Preston, home to North End and once notable for the national Football Museum - until it closed down - but, without sounding like a GCSE geography student on a coursework trip, you can't fault it for its impeccable transport links.
Case Study #1: PTown to London Euston in an eeney meeny 2 hours and 3 minutes flat meant i could dash back from work oop here and still rendezvous for Happy Hour off Regents Street. It isn't however, an ideal length for trying to shake off that big-smoke hangover.
Case Study #2: To the Lake District. Bung animals, coolboxes, tents of cavernous wet weather gear into your chosen vehicle and a simple zip up the M6 later you're welcomed into the comforting green folds of Wordsworth country. Have a go if you think you're hard enough at peak-climbing and mountain biking (I did. Fail).
Case Study #3: Edinburgh. Having been sucked into the repugnant perpetual myth that all culture desists the further one gets from London's buzzing metropolis, I forget how simple and how CHEAP it is to get an express northwards to Scotland's capital. A return ticket for about £30 will secure you passage on one of the most epic train routes Western Europe has to offer: a most cliche-ridden, beautiful sight, all crumpled green velvet humps and silvery brooks.
What awaits you on arrival plops the glace cherry on the cake; never mind the glorious architecture looming over Waverly Station and Princes Street, go right ahead and soak up the stench of performance and excitement the city buzzes with during August in celebration of the one and only Edinburgh Festival.
Now in its 64th year of existence, the largest cultural event in the world dominates daily life in Edinurgh during August each year. Flat rents triple, you can't buy a pint of milk without being savagely leaflet-ed and it's fairly likely that a night out will conclude dancing to cheese in a uni exam hall for FREE at 5 am in the morning.
This year marked my first-ever Fringe, and it was as spectacularly glorious as I could have ever hoped. Days spent wandering the throngs of people cluttering the Royal Mile to watch great and not-so good street performers, the moments spent rapturously engrossed in some fantastic theatre, laughing so much tears streamed down my face at a particularly rib-tickling piece of comedy. Nights melted into a mesh of friends and faces, gin and goon-ish dancing, whether to Barry Manilow bounces in a stained glass tent or Jason Derulo in a packed-out uni building.
Somewhat wisely for the sake of my battered wallet, we tackled the myriad of shows on offer at the rate of one a day. Here is my attempt at a rundown.
Friday: Showstopper! The Improvised Musical
I think you might have got the gist of this by its very title. The premise: audience throw out suggestions for themes, music types and musical-esque numbers which these oh-so talented team of actors take and conjure into a riproaringly good musical. The theme of that night was "Ancient Eygpt", and it was with a flamenco guitar twist and inspiration from Wicked! Les Miserables and High School Musical (coughcough...) that this stupdendous group took to the stage. Worth every single penny.
Saturday: Hood! (Peculius Stage)
Ignorant idiot that I am, my theatre viewing choices have always stayed safely within the bounds of "comedy", "musical", or "Shakespeare". Thank God then, for the Peculius Stage (and invitation by the ohso talented Megan Smith!). As soon as one walks into the room it is as if one has been consumd by a forest with a fantastically eerie atmosphere embued by the players. Think Tim Burton on a crash course collision with Little Red Riding Hood with acapella vocals Simon Cowell would slay a wolf for and you're about halfway into the woods.
Sunday: A Midsummer's Night Madness (Hackney Harlem)
For my final show in this fair city, it was the irresistable combination of the Bard's 'Dream and hiphop stylings which turned my head. I wasn't disappointed. Even if you detest Shakespeare with a passion, the sheer geniuses of the Hackney Harlem Theatre Company will have you diving for any A level text upon leaving the theatre. Brilliantly reworked for a modern day audience yet threading in (and using to full effect) orginal lines, the result was a resounding sucess which really made me appreciate the comedy factor of Shakespeare's plays; the sheer comedic force of Bottom attempting to do all the parts (in the guise of a traffic warden) made me laugh my mascara off. Playing at the Hackney Empire very soon, I cannot recommend this enough.
I found a cheeky clip of the group rehearsing if you'd like a taste of their skillz.
Staycationning: the future.
© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog
Tuesday 24 August 2010
Monday 9 August 2010
Here they come, the Beautiful Ones
What better, purer combination could there be than the alluring cocktail of perfectly sculpted bodies meeting delicious grooves? In my latest obsession to dominate my YouTube playlist, videos of fashion shows where Bambi legs sashay into a sea of faces and tall, dark, silent types skulk down a brightly-lit runway are often perfectly offset by a stunning soundtrack.
Music and fashion are pretty much inextricably intertwined, if not for the simple reason that every rapper and his pack of yapping dogs has a clothing line nowadays. Just as pop stars like Katy Perry express their ker-razy character through bubble-gum clothing, or more shy and retiring musos such as The xx strive to prove the exact opposite, so when it comes to the ultimate display of a designer's wares on the runway, one of the best ways to try and convey the essence of their sartorial ambition is through the banging tunes blaring from speakers.
Depending on your budget/extent of contact list, this can be achieved by either a) burning an ice-cool mix list (with the help of celeb siblings Mark and Samantha if you're Charlotte Ronson) or b) getting muso-muses in the shape of chanteuses like the Plasticines if you're Alice&Olivia at New York Spring 2010. According to Ronson, the key is the less obscure, the better. With the clothes the main focus, the last thing a designer wants is a fashion editor wracking her brains for the name of the oh-so-catchy opening number.
A quick run down then: hot/up-and-coming + instantly recognisable = a soundtrack which acts as an aural catalyst into the mind and mania of your favourite fashionista.
Here are some of my personal picks from the world wide web (beware weak attempts at fashion analysis)
Louis Vuitton 2010: "Keep It Goin' Louder" (Diplo remix.) Major Lazer feat. Nina Sky and Ricky Blaze
Fancy, flouncy furs offset by this gem of a Major Lazer remix which manages to effortlessly combine the essential factors of freshness and easy listening to not flount the runway rules. Lace cycling shorts - noted in the hope they won't be arriving at Preston Primark anytime soon.
Valentino 2010: "All For the Best" - Thom Yorke
Simply beautiful gowns in the timelessly elegant Valentino style could only be served up on a bed of minimal sophistication, and who better to call than Thom Yorke for such an occasion?
Chanel Cruise Collection: "Oh Lani" Kai Lavatai
What a sexbomb of a soundtrack! This sassy number might not be the first to spring to mind when one thinks "Chanel" and "Cruise" but if this number's anything to go by, I'm hoping Lagerfeld has room on his yacht for summer 2011.
© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog
Music and fashion are pretty much inextricably intertwined, if not for the simple reason that every rapper and his pack of yapping dogs has a clothing line nowadays. Just as pop stars like Katy Perry express their ker-razy character through bubble-gum clothing, or more shy and retiring musos such as The xx strive to prove the exact opposite, so when it comes to the ultimate display of a designer's wares on the runway, one of the best ways to try and convey the essence of their sartorial ambition is through the banging tunes blaring from speakers.
Depending on your budget/extent of contact list, this can be achieved by either a) burning an ice-cool mix list (with the help of celeb siblings Mark and Samantha if you're Charlotte Ronson) or b) getting muso-muses in the shape of chanteuses like the Plasticines if you're Alice&Olivia at New York Spring 2010. According to Ronson, the key is the less obscure, the better. With the clothes the main focus, the last thing a designer wants is a fashion editor wracking her brains for the name of the oh-so-catchy opening number.
A quick run down then: hot/up-and-coming + instantly recognisable = a soundtrack which acts as an aural catalyst into the mind and mania of your favourite fashionista.
Here are some of my personal picks from the world wide web (beware weak attempts at fashion analysis)
Louis Vuitton 2010: "Keep It Goin' Louder" (Diplo remix.) Major Lazer feat. Nina Sky and Ricky Blaze
Fancy, flouncy furs offset by this gem of a Major Lazer remix which manages to effortlessly combine the essential factors of freshness and easy listening to not flount the runway rules. Lace cycling shorts - noted in the hope they won't be arriving at Preston Primark anytime soon.
Valentino 2010: "All For the Best" - Thom Yorke
Simply beautiful gowns in the timelessly elegant Valentino style could only be served up on a bed of minimal sophistication, and who better to call than Thom Yorke for such an occasion?
Chanel Cruise Collection: "Oh Lani" Kai Lavatai
What a sexbomb of a soundtrack! This sassy number might not be the first to spring to mind when one thinks "Chanel" and "Cruise" but if this number's anything to go by, I'm hoping Lagerfeld has room on his yacht for summer 2011.
© Miranda Thompson 2010.
DISCLAIMER: The video links hosted on my blog are not being presented as my own. If you believe that the copyright in your work has been violated through this post, please contact me through the blog
Tuesday 3 August 2010
Lapsed
Far too long has elapsed since I last pressed fingertips to grubby keyboard for The Miranda's benefit: weeks of hours and minutes dissolved into a flurry of timetables and lists and arrangements and French.
There was more than simply admin and faceless pieces of paper to order about: six countries soaked up in espresso shots of time. First, Amsterdam, where grizzly grey skies contrasted sharply the fragrant florals which tumbled from market stalls along the River Amstell. Only platefuls of mouth-watering poffertjes (Dutch pancakes), thick and fluffy and laden with glistening butter, managed to soothe pavement-battered feet.
From flattened avenues weaving amongst a tangle of waterways to sharp skyscraper edges and an abundance of midnight blue spotted with golden stars: Brussels, the EU administrative capital. Chocolately aromas curled around the lace fronted shops which swaddled the Grand Place before this metropolitana melted into thickly-forested green rolls and humps of countryside: the descent into the Belgian Ardennes was akin to diving into a mossy green pool.
To Paris, a city riddled with cliches. Hand-clasped lovers swooning on bridges stretching from the Left to the Right, hordes of tourists with emblazoned t-shirts proclaiming "J'adore Paris". Stomach churning heights from the Eiffel Tower and burning thighs mounting Montmartre. Beautiful boulevards melting into a shimmering horizon. The city of lights.
The blustery Normandy beaches set the scene for solemn contemplation and remembrance; picking one's way through the pock-marked scenery where slices of metal still scar the wild grasses and thousands of white marble crosses serve up sobering thoughts in cemetery surroundings.
Six hours of shut-eye later and feet stepped onto England's green and sacred land, where fat splats of raindrops quickened a return to reality. Elbows are sharpened for the plunge amongst London's myriad of tourists and trips through time: stepping back a thousand years at Tower Hill, rubbing shoulders with royalty at Buckingham Palace, or simply getting groovy with the cast of Sister Act. A plunge into the murky depths of the Tube and the terror of being swept away with the crowd provided a nail-biting finale.
Nerves were tested in the wildest corners of Wales; teetering on the brink of a castle where the solid grey blocks tumbled away to nothingness and every nerve needed to be mustered to bounce to the ground, with eyes to the sky and damp hands clamped to rope.
And so to the finish, on the Irish coast at the point where the sea and the sky become one in a gigantic, cavernous space inhabited by the friendliest souls one could ever wish to meet. The Ring of Kerry: the absolute highlight. A morning spent snuggled on traps pulled by hardy ponies, hot soup and sandwiches filling growling tummies before drifting away an afternoon on silent waters crowded by verdant mountains.
Squeezed into less than twenty days, the whistle-stop tour still manages to cream off the very essence of each place; a taste of its soul, a touch of the identity. It's enough to make one wonder why bother galumphing off to exotic beaches half a world away when there's oh so much to savour on our doorsteps.
There was more than simply admin and faceless pieces of paper to order about: six countries soaked up in espresso shots of time. First, Amsterdam, where grizzly grey skies contrasted sharply the fragrant florals which tumbled from market stalls along the River Amstell. Only platefuls of mouth-watering poffertjes (Dutch pancakes), thick and fluffy and laden with glistening butter, managed to soothe pavement-battered feet.
From flattened avenues weaving amongst a tangle of waterways to sharp skyscraper edges and an abundance of midnight blue spotted with golden stars: Brussels, the EU administrative capital. Chocolately aromas curled around the lace fronted shops which swaddled the Grand Place before this metropolitana melted into thickly-forested green rolls and humps of countryside: the descent into the Belgian Ardennes was akin to diving into a mossy green pool.
To Paris, a city riddled with cliches. Hand-clasped lovers swooning on bridges stretching from the Left to the Right, hordes of tourists with emblazoned t-shirts proclaiming "J'adore Paris". Stomach churning heights from the Eiffel Tower and burning thighs mounting Montmartre. Beautiful boulevards melting into a shimmering horizon. The city of lights.
The blustery Normandy beaches set the scene for solemn contemplation and remembrance; picking one's way through the pock-marked scenery where slices of metal still scar the wild grasses and thousands of white marble crosses serve up sobering thoughts in cemetery surroundings.
Six hours of shut-eye later and feet stepped onto England's green and sacred land, where fat splats of raindrops quickened a return to reality. Elbows are sharpened for the plunge amongst London's myriad of tourists and trips through time: stepping back a thousand years at Tower Hill, rubbing shoulders with royalty at Buckingham Palace, or simply getting groovy with the cast of Sister Act. A plunge into the murky depths of the Tube and the terror of being swept away with the crowd provided a nail-biting finale.
Nerves were tested in the wildest corners of Wales; teetering on the brink of a castle where the solid grey blocks tumbled away to nothingness and every nerve needed to be mustered to bounce to the ground, with eyes to the sky and damp hands clamped to rope.
And so to the finish, on the Irish coast at the point where the sea and the sky become one in a gigantic, cavernous space inhabited by the friendliest souls one could ever wish to meet. The Ring of Kerry: the absolute highlight. A morning spent snuggled on traps pulled by hardy ponies, hot soup and sandwiches filling growling tummies before drifting away an afternoon on silent waters crowded by verdant mountains.
Squeezed into less than twenty days, the whistle-stop tour still manages to cream off the very essence of each place; a taste of its soul, a touch of the identity. It's enough to make one wonder why bother galumphing off to exotic beaches half a world away when there's oh so much to savour on our doorsteps.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)