Jive's Alive - and so am I!

A few quick steps back to the Blog to let you know I'm still alive. People do worry. All is well. Indeed, I am all-a-jive.

After a week of brash, high volume showbiz 'n' media, exchanged over tepid Veuve Clicquot, cold canapes and tickling spit in my ears, I headed to groovier, more wholesome entertainment last Saturday: The Rivoli.

This was an impromptu, last minute call - often the best - and what a night to cherish. The Rivoli dance hall in Brockley is a proud relic of the 1950s, a fragile, time-warped shelter of crushed crimson velvet, flaking fake gold leaf and dust laden ceiling lanterns. But despite the delicate museum nature of its contents, the Rivoli has a strong, passionate beating heart and, on this night, an equally loud swing band.

These days, I would normally require a keg of beer with an oak aged barrel chaser of wine before I start dancing, but I was up there, doing my stuff on the smooth parquet after no more than a sip of Krononbourg (£2.30 a pint. Positively 1950s prices compared to the rip off Royal Borough bars, where it is, I think, £3.40). So, I got to jive with my mum, a couple of sisters and an aunt and another girl picked at random. What a hoot. And what a sweat. The ballroom is tantamount to a tropical gym with spinning and hopping people doing manic five minute interval training sessions. I caught one guy, clearly a dedicated dancer, changing into his third shirt of the night in the loo. "You can't have too many," he said sagely.

What you notice most at the Rivoli is the laughter and smiles. The people on the dance floor are a vision of grinning faces, as are those looking on. There is a huge age range - early 20s to 70s, maybe even 80s - and everyone seems bonded by a deep sense of nostalgic innocence and an over-riding quaintness. For a few hours, you are not exactly transported to a time that may have been better - when people, possibly, never had it so good - but you certainly feel happily disconnected, however fleetingly, from the claustrophobic complexities of digitalised life in the 21st century. The modest, threadbare room and simple bar erases all pretension: you can sip a cup of tea here with a bread roll, or tuck into champagne, it's all fine; guys can ask a girl to dance without appearing to be on the pull. And girls say Yes - they even form a polite queue at one end of the floor. Imagine something similar in a posing modern club. Never.

The Rivoli has a definite, enduring magic. Thankfully, its owner turned down £4 million from McDonald's to preserve it. Good on him, a modern hero. I was born a few hundred yards away and my mum and dad used to go there in the early '60s. It was always cheerily pointed out during drives into town when we were kids. Now I have been and I've even jived there with mum. Very cool.

Maybe you should go, too. Take your mum. The Rivoli is a delightful departure from wherever you are in 2007. Go. Swing. Sweat. Smile.

Sally On The March

Some pleasing news on the progression of the Sally cards. My March statement from Peartree Heybridge shows we sold 4,260 in our first full month. Pretty good going. The team are so happy that at a meeting in London yesterday we agreed to add four new cards to the range and bring out a branded weekly planner and a spiral notebook. The Sally duvets and liveried Beetle are a year or so away.


Ps: Can I dispense with a few items of clutter in my head from that Easter break?

*My first visit to the boat race was nearly a sinking stinker. My crew got clogged up amongst the mob by the pubs at Hammersmith Bridge, or as I now call it, "Hammered-twats Bridge". It was choked with people getting so totally wasted that I reckon the Spanish Armada could have sailed by and they wouldn't have noticed a thing. Why does every sporting event in Britain revolve around people getting blotto? Not that I can talk, mind. Anyway,the day was saved by wading back up (or is it down?) river nearer Fulham. I have to say that it was nothing short of joyous seeing those boats and those fine - and truly blessed - men s'oaring for all their worth. The sun blazed high above the old Harrods Depository and danced over the water as the two boats passed by a few feet apart. A stunning freeze frame image to treasure. (Oh, and the rose wine was cold and delicious, too).

*Gary Lineker seems a decent bloke and he has an amiable enough telly delivery, but he just doesn't fit with golf and The Masters. Call me a southern jessie but that (Leicestershire?) accent of his irritated me like hell each time his voice over came on to say "The Masss-tas" with some clunking round up. Bring back the smooth, knowledgeable Steve Rider. And will someone tell Peter Aliss to takes his bloody clubs home. Really, enough.

*I got stuck in an hour-plus, eight mile traffic jam on the M23 with the rest of the day out mob on Sunday. Weight of traffic, road works, an accident? No, nothing so predictable. There was a stock car rally on some waste ground by the motorway near Gatwick. No hoarding or screens up, so you had thousands of drivers slowing down for a quick look. There was even a police car there to monitor the jam - with the cops also watching the races. I have never experienced such a ridiculous, annoying, easily avoidable traffic jam. Get the organisers to put up some screens, or it will be a stock car race on the M23 next time.

*I do my bit to be ecologically well behaved, but really, I do despair. What is the bloody point in me putting up energy saving bulbs at home when every single motorway light pylon is at full beam at midday on a sunny day? Give me a break.

Ahh, that's better. Thank you for sharing all that with me!

Happy Discipline

I've never been much of one for doing the giving up stuff for Lent. I've always seen it as a bit like those New Year's resolutions - novelty discipline for the weak willed that is doomed to failure. Well, that's what always happens to me anyway. And, besides, I live my life by deadlines, so why create yet another one with Lent.

For some reason I found myself giving up things this year. Don't ask me why. Maybe I am becoming bi-religious-curious, or something. I thought long and hard about what form my hair shirt would take and chose two luxuries I consume regularly and would miss badly: chocolate and beer. Chocolate is always there to cure the boredom and beer finds its way into my life on most days, normally as an instant sedative in the casualty ward (aka: a pub) where I check into after a rubbish day.

Amazingly, I have not had a drop of beer since Lent began. It has been suprisingly easy and quite fulfilling. Discipline is good, I recommend it, although I admit I have drunk probably twice as much wine, so what have I really achieved? I had also not touched chocolate until a few hours ago when I walked past Charbonnel et Walker in Mayfair and was seduced by a man with a tray of champagne truffles. A free truffle? Don't mind if I do, thank you. Only as that divine, dusted ball disappeared in one gulp did I realise that I had suddenly failed my fast. A moment's memory lapse and I had messed up, fallen splat with the finishing line in sight. I cursed myself, then went into the shop and bought of few boxes of truffles as presents, which earned me several more freebies. I swallowed them hungrily with pleasure. If you are going to fail, fail with a flourish.

But, I'm still OK on the beer front. I can hold out until Sunday, no problem. So, Easter for me will mean everything. It will mean a big decision - like lager or bitter? Lager and bitter, probably. Very spiritual, I'm sure.

Happy Easter.

"Canvas One"!

I realise there has been much anticipation for the unveiling of my first ever work of art on canvas. That time is upon us. Steady. This could be one of those moments that is fondly referred to in art history in 100 years from now. Then again, it may not. I hereby give the blogo world "Canvas One".

Many people may question what my inspiration was for this piece. Just as many may not. All I can reveal is that I was invited into an impromptu art class with two teenagers a few weeks ago. While one painted a daffodil and another the silhouettes of trees - both children calm and quiet - I found myself slipping into an abstract abyss and being a wholly disruptive student. It was all a most enjoyable exercise and one that I would highly recommend. Eventually, after much layering of acrylic paint in front of the telly and unwarranted, ridiculous angst, my canvas was complete.

I will not be displeased with those of you who draw sincere comparisons with neo-plasticism and Mondrian's geometric grid compositions. I concede that the visual interplay between the lines and the "vortex" circle create a sense of pain and tension that is neither symmetrical or systematic. The work is both mysterious and timeless and, indeed, it has been said that there is a sense of the spiritual within this piece, with a counterpoint of hopelessness. Yes, I agree, it is pure abstraction, but at its heart this work is nothing but Truth.

At other times, I step back and I know that one thing is clear: I have painted a bloody flag.

And my flag should be rotated a quarter turn to the right, but I can't effing load it that way.

Art: it is pure pain.