Spying in the Cube-icle

Having listened to my friends extolling its virtues throughout the years I was away at university, last night I finally made a visit to Bristol's microplex, 'The Cube'.

Tucked discretely down an alley in Kingsdown above the BRI, the venue certainly didn't disappoint. The orangey beamed low ceilings and half-staircases created an environment resting somewhere between a quirky European backpackers' hostel (the sort with sofa throws, free tea and cheap beer/ 'herbs') and a scout hut. It all felt very homely until I went into the ladies loos and found a peep-hole cut out of the side of my cubicle. I can only assume that The Cube once really was a scout hut and they haven't got around to filling it in yet. Either that or its meant to be a kind of voyeuristic extension of the viewing experience. (Sorry. Not for me. I'll be taking a tea-towel to hang up next time I go.)

Peep-shows excluded, the private members cinema (it costs £1 to join) boasts a daily changing programme of films from around the world along with a range of themed screenings, gigs and exhibitions. There's also a lounge and student style bar serving up an eclectic range of drinks and snacks which range from cocktails dashed together out of plastic bottles to yummy deserts and wasabi peas. There's also a programme of special events. This summer sees The Cube Summer Garden, a series of outdoor screenings featuring French and Japanese cinema which you can take with tea and cake.

Apart from the few slight discomforts (the hole in the loo and some of the most excruciating wooden seats any scout or guide could have possibly sat upon) , the only real damper on our evening, was the unannounced switching of the film. We thought we were going to see the French Moroccan 'Couscous', but instead found ourselves presented with Bertolucci's 'The Non-Conformist'. This wouldn't have been the most unwelcome of surprises - it is an excellent film - but given that we had, only a few months ago, tracked down a screening at another of Bristol's arts cinemas, it was largely due to laziness that we sat through the Italian classic again.

Communication is something The Cube could perhaps do with working on - that and an effort to sort out a few technical problems with their projectors (which I think may have explained the switch), but it would be a shame if this venue ever loses it's secret club-like feel. The prices are low (£2 for all on Tuesdays) which make a few unexpected occurrences acceptable and make me sure I will be visiting again.

Weston Super-Memories

As I logged on this morning I was immediately greeted by the sight of Weston Super-Mare pier ablaze. It took a few seconds to register. As a girl from Bristol, this was an important part of my childhood going up in smoke.

Sentimental as it sounds, I found myself unable to fight off the memories of wind-splatted ice-creams, donkey rides and sandcastles which resembled nothing similar to any form of human habitation. It was the place of seaside cliches, sandy sandwiches included, and the place I learned how to play with other children in a way which didn't provoke them to dig at my toes with a spade. (Sand-filled toe cuts are possibly one of the most cringe worthy forms of abuse, comparable only to enforced paper cuts before a cookery class involving lemons.)

This was the same story for many of my friends and, I'm sure, many other children from the urban South West. I went to a school in Bristol, but many times throughout the 1990s the whole year-load of us would get packed on a coach and driven to the town - usually in the pissing rain. It was here that the pier really came into its own. There was the hall of mirrors in which everyone could get lost, look fat, thin or just generally hideous. There were the machines where we seemed to waste infinite amounts of money getting 'old' pennies in return for our legally tenderable allowances. Then there was a 'moderately scary' ghost train which some of us may have decided to 'spice up' by adorning the route with our own 'superior' poltergeists and cranky witches. Afterwards, fish and Chips followed by disgustingly pink candyfloss always seemed a sensible antidote to the dodgems, but we soon learnt it was just a recipe for being sick at the nearby Sea Life Centre or, better still, on the coach journey home.

It became a bit of a joke, especially once we were teenagers and resented any form of organised fun in general. Weston Sludge-and-Mud was the name given by those of my friends who lived in the area. But what it gave us was an inexpensive taste of freedom which almost everyone could enjoy. The pier provided a bit of history (we were never allowed to go unaware of its Victorian heritage) combined with a genuine opportunity to have fun close to home. At the age of ten we were allowed to run fairly free and were given our first real responsibility for getting back to the coach on time. I suppose in reality if the teachers were at one end of the pier, providing we didn't decide to jump off and swim for it (there were no risk assessment forms in those days), there wasn't really anywhere for us to go. Stay too late on the dodgems and Mrs Denham would soon be chasing you around the circuit.

I can only hope that Michelle and Kerry Michael make good their promise to restore the pier to its former glory so that future generations of children can enjoy its timeless escape from city life - and the wonderful Weston weather.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/jul/25/pressandpublishing.thetimes

Sources at The Times would suggest Coren is not alone in his views. Just perhaps a little more expletive.

Environmentally friendly theatre

On buying a ticket at The Alma Tavern Theatre in Bristol this evening, I was presented with a laminated plastic ticket and asked to hand it back on the way out. Why hasn't anyone had this idea before? Not only does it have the obvious advantage of not condemning a truck-load of trees to the box office, but it also means it doesn't knock around in a handbag for three months afterwards. The only downside is now I don't have anything to wrap unwanted chewing-gum in when that inevitable decomposition begins to take place just after the interval.

Short Cuts to Edinburgh - The Alma Tavern Theatre

The two fringe-length shows preparing to travel up to Edinburgh fared well in front of an intimate Bristol audience. No one seemed too perturbed by the heat or stickiness in the tiny pub theatre which is always testiment to a reasonable show.

DODGY KEEPER - Harry Mottram

A one-man show depicting the hopes and shattered dreams of a struggling part-time goalie. The main action is athletically performed by Mottram himself, assisted only by a projected film which provides a welcomed injection of variety and context. The monologue anxiously rattles through hang-ups over gambling, drinking, ageing and relationships and the combination of prose and verse progresses with impressive fluidity. Mottram carries the play well, seamlessly switching between characters to complete conversations with colleagues and girlfriends. It's only a shame that he comes across as more convincing when he steps into the persona of other characters than when he is in his role of the protagonist. His performance feels just a little too 'nice' to be believable as the rather reckless sorry case the script suggests. One gets the sense that star, once a local goalie, is a little too close to the character to avoid tainting the performance with an element of himself.

CYRIL - Sally-Anne Hayward

Hayward was for the most part very amusing and worked well with the audience. The show focused upon village life and combined modern day observation with the protracted telling of a village-themed fairy tale. In all fairness this is still a work in progress so there has to be some leeway allowed for polishing, but the structure felt a little strained and at times it felt as if she lost the audience's support.

If the theatre rule that nothing should be 'too close' is to be applied to stand-up, then making us feel a little uncomfortable should be nothing to apologise for. Hayward's joke empathising with the murders of Fred West in Gloucester, however, (there really weren't many ways 'i couldn't help wishing he was still there' in reference to the quality of the people to be found there could be interpreted - please do feel free to offer any suggestions) went down like a gibbering dead fish. The recurrent disability jibes, especially relating to those with prosthetic legs also felt a bit unnaturally inserted - presumably for shock value, or due to some kind of phobia.

Hayward's finest talent lies in her real-life social observations. Her commentary upon the grimy realities of the day, covering topics such as parents, ex-boyfriends and depleting pubic hair were far wittier than the fairy-tale she deviated to narrate. Though cleverly conceived, it felt a bit like it belonged more to the realm of the children's books she confessed to having been so inspired by. In a more dramatic setting, it could have perhaps acted as an effective contrast to the intermittent anecdotes, but within the stand-up act, just made the story seem superfluous. It's difficult to create a sense of juxtaposition for an audience when they are presented with one woman talking on a bare stage.

The History of India

If you think Indian museums will provide an opportunity to learn about the history of the sub-continent, think again. Or at least don't expect anything comprehensive and don't expect to understand anything if you haven't read up on it already.

Predominantly a jumbled showcase of sentimental anecdotes and illegible personal letters from revered politicians, there's a sense that the primary purpose of much on offer is to serve as a kick for public patriotism. A rare piece of factual narrative is unlikely to contain any glimpse of self-criticism or balanced analysis and distasteful details may well be completely omitted. (The Indria Ghandi Memorial in Delhi serves as a prime example. No mention of the hated Emergency to be found.) This is of course in-keeping with the 'Incredible India' campaign which proliferates around tourist offices in the country. According to one employee, a continually positive projection is a must.

Artefact buffs however, will be in their element. They may not always be entirely relevant (in the memorial museums a lot of emphasis is put on childhood family relationships) but the efforts made to collect and preserve letters and other archive material are repeatedly impressive. Many visitors prefer to pass through the text heavy areas (there are only so many letters about school exercises and entire speeches one can read in the constrained opening times - less than 2 hours between lunch and closing is not uncommon) into the meticulously re-constructed rooms on offer in a number of the north's prime attractions.

So if seeing the very table that Ghandi sat at for dinner or standing on the original 1940s carpet (no, it really doesn't smell that great) which the politicians responsible for the partition passed over floats your boat, you'll be in heaven. Otherwise a good book will probably do a better job of filling in what you want to know.

Ray Lewis - A stab in the back

Borris Johnson is a relatively lucky man. He may have proved himself something of a blind idiot with a worrying lack of rigour in his staff selection procedures, but the important role he had championed Lewis for seems to be shielding his administration from the sharpest fire.

Ray Lewis’ resignation on the basis that the countless accusations against him (really quite a lot to have gone unnoticed) were getting in the way of the Mayor’s work may have been a way of avoiding admission, but it was also a likely prediction of what would ensue did he not get out of the spotlight. Just as ‘blunt 2’ is getting underway, the last thing it needs is to be undermined by scandal and sleaze.

It must be incredibly frustrating for the Labour party not to be able to seize the unbelievable gaff as fierce ammunition. But that would undermine their own cause of getting a handle on knife crime. Ken Livingstone admirably seemed to have recognised this, avoiding the opportunity to really stick the knife in (excuse the pun) at Johnson’s unbelievable oversight and offering a considerable degree of sympathy. One can only hope, in the sake of public interest, that others deal with the blunder as tactfully.

Curbing knife crime is a cause which the media also seem fully behind. Those with a sense of social responsibility are unlikely to want to discredit the campaign. Yet if the accusations are proved true, it is important to expose the weaknesses in the administration which allowed such oversights to occur. If some far-reaching collaborative smear campaign really has occurred, then questions need to be asked about why and how his innocence was not already known as a result of City Hall vetting procedures. The treatment of Lewis and the Johnson administration over the next few weeks will be a test of editors’ skill.