The Nature of the Beast....

So Gary Speed has been the topic of many conversations, all ending with the same question- why?

There are photos of him hours before, smiling and happy talking about the World Cup- talking in future tense. This of course can mean nothing- anyone that understands the solitary nature of depression knows that the outside presentation of yourself is often the opposite of the person screaming for help inside. But depression is more physical and all-consuming than many are aware- the world becomes an inaccessible place, you almost don’t speak the same language as everybody else such is the solitude of that darkness that gnaws at you like a rat.

That didn’t look like a depressed man at the BBC. Either he’s a good actor, or…. And many said the same thing, discussing the day’s tabloids that were spread on the table… there’s something else. With rumours flying around, the one that keeps re surfacing is the format we are most used to- a paper had a story on him, and whatever the nature of that story, it was bad enough that Speed couldn’t face it. Tabloid-wise this narrows it down- stories they dig up and splash across front pages that could cause a man to hang himself come in catagories we have all seen before and perhaps it is unwise to make suggestions here as to not add to hearsay. It would also be wise to take into consideration that we don’t know this man – we know the media representation of him which is a very different thing.

 No doubt the truth will out as it has a habit of doing when tabloids are involved, but it should make you aware of the two avenues of debate—

                                      What was the secret?       /       Why do we want to know?

Is it our business to know the answer to this man’s last painful hours? Is this ‘news’? Why do you, the reader, need to know? Yes his job lead him to be in the public eye, but I have a feeling that our thirst for the answer doesn’t lie under the heading of compassion, but of curiosity.  We don’t ask why to heal our sorrow the way his family needs to ask why, so where does the line fall between public knowledge and private?

I think this is why the Leveson Enquiry is something we should all be taking note of, not in terms of seeing which downtrodden celebrity is moaning about being harassed or infringed upon- this is not new. What is new is the sudden self-awareness it has generated in the public about how it’s got this far, how deep it goes and what we’re willing to tolerate in order to satisfy our own demands of a media-lead society.

I think it’s a fair summary to say the nail in the coffin of the scandal was the hacking of  Milly Dolwer’s phone, and hearing her mother speak at the enquiry highlighted the significance- how she had thought as a consequence, that her daughter was still alive. It would be naive to think that this is a new practice in the underworld of ‘investigative’ journalism, so what’s changed? What did hacking the mobile phone of Milly Dowler show us that made us all so uncomfortable?

It’s the fact it has highlighted our responsibility, as readers, as members of the consumer public. It’s nice and comfortable to blame an Elderly Australian who actually, doesn’t look like he knows what day of the week it is, letalone heard of NOTW (1% of his empire) That’s too easy. Underneath is a darker truth that maybe we’re not ready to look at. We live in a world of supply and demand, so we should take collective responsibility for the media monster created, not scurry away and search for a scapegoat; individual slimy journalists and red haired women to pin to the wall. If there was no demand, there would be no need for the supply.

We buy those 90p magazines of such quality we shouldn’t even wipe our bottoms with them letalone take their content as bible truth, with articles stretched so far from the truth that one quote form a ‘source’ can span into a whole interpreted article of whats-their-names dramatic weight loss or failing marriage.

It is our generation’s interest in reality TV and a cheap 5 minute celebrity shelf-life and as all of this grows we endorse it; the perfurme, the books, the t-shirts, until  it is impossible to flick through 1000 Bky channels without a constant hum of our so called ‘reality’ seeping through; supply and demand supply and demand.. Turn on any TV channel and it is guaranteed you’ll find some concept of ‘reality show’ from Tool Academy, Judge Judy, to celebrity love island/jungle/rehab/farm, following people we can laugh at, love, hate, write about. We’ve been doing this for hundreds of years- people in the stocks, public hangings- but internet and television have twisted such concepts into a whole new species; look at TOWIE, Made in Chelsea, Geordie Shore, and the latest Desperate Scousewives (God help us.)

The line between entertainment and reality has bled into one another; I liked the Royal wedding but why has Pippa Middleton’s buttocks become national treasures? I don’t mind Sienna Millers movies but why do I have to know about every male she sleeps with? I like JK Rowlings books, but why were journalists harassing her children? And most importantly, why do the Kardashain clan exist??

Perhaps the most infamous case is the death of Princess Diana, hounded by photographers into a tunnel and a fatal car smash. Churn out those conspiracy theories all you like BUT paparazzi don’t go on the hunt for pictures to frame copies on their walls, they take them because they sell- and who is the highest bidder?? We are. A newspaper is the middle man.

As a society we are each individually to blame for phone hacking- we should accept that it’s us that has turned Sunday night television into something that features ‘celebs’ eating animal anus’s  and enduring cockroaches up their noses. Supply and demand supply and demand. It’s an interesting little circle that we have actively chosen to be a part of, like a hamster in a running wheel.

Maybe Gary Speed’s secret will come to light, or maybe there’s no secret at all- but if that headline does arise, read that paper knowing that story cost that man his life. The debate shouldn’t be what did he do, but what did WE do. We are holding the reins; the people, the public, the consumer- imagine the media like an animal that we hold the leash to- we feed it, goad it, poke it with a stick, and then wonder why it turns round and bites a small child. The Leveson enquiry shouldn’t result with a tap on the nose and ‘bad dog!’ to journalists and media giants, but make the owners look at the animal it created. When I say owners, don’t think the Murchochs- they don’t own the media- WE do. We keep the Murcdochs pockets lined- so let’s decide what we line it with.

Don’t endorse bullshit.   And bullshit shall not be produced.

#DontEndorseBS

101 Ways To Keep A Man (And Loose Your Self Respect)

Feminists drive me nuts- when you use the term it usually conjures up images of a ballsy man-hater (and they’re usually single) but I thought something ought to be said about The Sun Page 23, (17/11/11)



101 Ways To Keep A Man by Emiliana Silvestri
“How to stop your man from having an affair” shouts the headline- with a ‘cut out and keep your man’ page with helpful hints and tips from Emiliana’s new book, such as ‘Learn to cook and be a nearly naked chef’- illustrated by the author herself by wearing a low-cut top and learning over an oven in tight red satin lingerie, breasts spilling out into her baking tray holding a pie. The picture of this rather leathery looking woman does not exactly inspire confidence I must say.



Now you could argue that The Sun isn’t exactly a woman’s paper, Page Three being a popular debate. But having met a few of the page three girls while working at Nuts, I don’t think it’s topless modelling that is derogatory for women (firstly because who says women as a gender are represented by Page Three?) but being told ‘Make yourself more interesting’ I DO find slightly offensive.



Any article detailing how to keep your man from straying should strike us all as odd. The word ‘keep’ implies two things;
1. That you’re accepting men straying is a fact.
2. It’s the woman’s responsibility to do the ‘keeping’ and prevent the straying.



Never-ending tales of over-paid sports men being unfaithful to their wives who consequently rarely seem to leave, constantly reinforce the belief that men go out and spread their seed and its the wife’s duty to forgive them- the wives of John Terry and Ryan Gigs being jaw-dropping examples of the fine line between footballer’s wife and prostitute.

It’s important to note that these relationships, although in the harsh glare of the public eye, are still real relationships- we don’t know Mrs Terry or Mrs Gigs or the ins and outs of their decisions to stay. But Emiliana’s advice seems to imply that these women acted correctly in line with current common belief, and even further- implies they are to blame for their husband’s roving eyes. (N.B most women don’t have a footballer’s bank balance to act as compensation…)




This isn’t written under the ‘feminist’ tag here but more under the theme of common sense. I might hold an old fashion vision of a tall strong man, a breadwinner looking after me and my future family- but I’ve got to admit, I don’t have much intention of getting on my knees for it. And I certainly don’t intend to be baking apple pies half-naked to sustain it.

"I am simply being honest.” Emiliana says. “Men have three basic instincts — food, shelter and sex. If you nail that as a woman, there's no need for him to look elsewhere."


I don’t think there is a sentence more depressing.

‘As a woman’- are these our highest aims- to water, feed and shelter? What am I dating? A man or a plant??
Emiliana’s ‘honesty’ generates an image of a gorilla in a suit, lumbering through the door, sniffing out his woman and his food. If he doesn’t find it, he follows the smell to the next house with the next heavy-bossomed woman he can find holding a baking tray.
Should we give the male species perhaps a little bit more credit here?



“Men don't cheat because they can — they cheat because they are not fulfilled at home”

Ouch!
Did you hear that Cheryl Cole- its YOUR fault.



It just seems a bit too easy to think that this is the simple formula- feed them, keep the house clean, have sex with them. Are our men really that basic?? Even if you decided to bite your tongue and follow Emiliana’s rules, the most likely outcome is that your just going to feel even more of a twat naked in your apron if you find out he still couldn’t keep it in his pants, you ringing various girlfriends sobbing in your kitchen; ‘but what’s wrong with my pie??’

There’s nothing wrong- you just need to give somebody else the fork and go bake yourself some self respect instead.




“It is so easy to make small changes and to keep a man enthralled. Men love family and security and a happy home.”



What about what we love? There’s not a single mention of all this effort being a two-way street which was slightly disappointing- if I’m farting about cooking delicious treats and dieting to have a body and libido to satisfy, then what exactly am I getting in return for all my hard work?

I think the fact this Nancy Dell’olio look-alike is making, is that him coming home to you at all is the reward- we should be damn grateful if this man has decided his marital bed is worthy of him this evening, so grin and wipe his mouth as his eats his lamb chops.



"They would rather have a family get together at home than a torrid one-night stand in a hotel. But women have to make an effort."



Ok so let me see if I’ve got this right- men don’t even like cheating, but do it anyway in response to our failure to keep them ENTHRALLED?? Who is she getting her facts from- Ryan Gigs??



I think it must come down to this; why would you want ‘keep’ someone? I don’t want to keep anybody against their will. If they want to go out and cheat, it doesn’t really matter how much cooking in my bra I do, do I really want to eat my dinner with somebody I had to lure to the dinner table?



If this is what a marriage entails then I can feel myself backing firmly away from the alter- from Emiliana’s point of view, I can’t quite see what I’m going to be getting out of all this prancing around, besides, anyone that knows me knows I’m a terrible cook…





                                                                   * * *





The best thing about articles being printed on-line as well as in the paper is the comments box- I think this one says it all..



“Doesn't work.... I dated her..... and cheated on her. She looks rough, moans all the time, can't cook and is terrible in bed- when she didn't have a headache!! Couldn't wait to get shot of her!!!”



Stick that in your apple pie Emiliana.


http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/woman/3940787/How-to-stop-your-man-having-affairs.html




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The Trainline: Passengers, Bulgarians and Bonny Wee Scotland...

Of all the tales that have been recorded here, the two stories that seem to have brought forth the most laughs are the infamous tale of me, the missing dog and an 800 euro reward: http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2010/08/mystery-of-missing-dog-and-800-euro.html

And the episode with the train toilet, namely me with my pants round my ankles and the door sliding open to a packed train.
http://melodystravellingpen.blogspot.com/2011/09/essex-girls-guide-to-city-life.html


Since I have avoided small dogs and promises of large rewards ever since, I thankfully have no similar stories to share from that perspective. But trains are another matter. Although I have indeed learnt my lesson and now LOCK the door in public places, trains are funny old things where etiquette seems to go out the window…



London trains I have decided, are like the ancient gods of Greece and Rome, omniscient with the power to make or break your day, (or your life) your best interests not being their primary concern-

As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,

They kill us for their sport

Will the train get to Liverpool Street? Will there be signal failure at Hackney downs again? Only the Gods can know. What you can be sure of as a passenger on National Rail, is that if the temperature fluctuates above or below average by 5 degrees or more, chaos shall ensue. I have seen ‘hot’ weather make train lines apparently melt, snow bringing trains to a standstill within 30 seconds of the first fallen snow flake as only British snow can do, and even, ladies and gentleman rain. Yes, rain- this might be England, and yes its rains a lot- but National Rail are not prepared for rain. Getting to and from work is a game for the gods, hit and miss. You stand on the platform and leave your fate in the hands of the train Lords.



Romford- Liverpool St.

I have the pleasure of getting the early train where you’ll find the distinct difference being that before 7am it’s full of builders, and after 8am its full of suits.

Whatever time it is, the morning train is rather unsociable, more so than tube where the rule of thumb is that you can be jammed in someone’s armpit but you must still pretend that you are a solitary traveler, no eye contact and definitely no talking to eachother, otherwise fellow commuters will stare at you like you’re on day release. The morning train is pretty much a snooze cabin, with fellow passengers dribbling, snoring, and earphones playing Ndubs far too loudly. The guy sitting opposite me one particular morning had his hood up on a paint stained jumper, eyes rolled in the back of his head in a manner that made me unsure whether he was dead rather than sleeping, his legs flapping open. There was a large hole in his crotch. And he was wearing a very flimsy pair of pants. Lovely. I felt my golden grahams debating whether to stay in my stomach.

I stared at him (his face not his crotch) and wondered- did he not see this slight mishap when he got dressed?? Yes it’s the 6.48am train, yes its dark, its cold- we’re on the same train so I know this- but I have managed to dress myself in a way that doesn’t have me confused with a homeless person. I don’t have a hole in my pants.

Perhaps not. I did however go to work the following morning with my skirt on inside out.

I had dressed and stumbled down towards the coffee machine at around 6.15 waking up my brother’s girlfriend, who due to the size and logistics of our house, was asleep in the conservatory with my brother. (My mother keeps waiting for one of us to move out, but it’s not quite going to plan.)

“Babe you’ve got your skirt on inside out.” She tells me helpfully, never grumpy despite the fact I always seem to crash around and wake her up each morning. I was so tired I took it off there and then in the middle of the kitchen turned it outside in and put it back on.

It wasn’t until I was halfway to work did a kind-looking lady whisper in my ear at Holborn, “Darling, I think you skirt is inside out- I can see the label.”

Oh. In my sleepy stupor I had taken my skirt off, turned it through twice, and then got all the way to London before somebody told me. Not bad considering it was only 7.38am.



Liverpool Street- Southend


Two guys sit next in the seats next to me. Its Thursday evening, I’m on my way out of London after a gig. This pair are donned up in suits with one of them holding a bag of Burger King, both smelling of beer and jack Daniels; this being the general Thursday night Liverpool Street-look.

“What the fuck are on your feet mate?”
The boy with the burger points to his friend’s feet, feet that are sporting a rather impressive pair of blue, clean, suede loafers.
“Oi, these cost a fucking monkey I’ll have you know.”
I don’t know how much this is, but I’m going to guess at his indignant tone that a monkey is a fair amount for a pair of suede loafers.
“I don’t care if they were a fucking donkey mate, they’re ponce shoes.”
I wonder what profile he got this gem of information from.
“What you talking about? These are the bollocks these are.”
They’re definitely peeled of something’s bollocks judging by the texture, and before burger boy clocks this witty connection, blue shoes remembers his hunger and clasps his stomach.
“I will give you FIVE pounds for that burger, right here right now.”
Considering inflation levels, the shit economy and the fact a large rubbery burger from Burger King is about a fiver anyway, this isn’t a good deal.
“No” says the other, holding the burger in both hands, but not taking a bite, obviously interested to see where this bargaining will go. Mayo and lettuce are starting to drip out.

“A fucking fiver- come on mate, I’m Hank Marvin.”
The burger boy smiles and says slowly- “I’ll swap the burger.”
“For what?”
“I’ll swap you the burger for the shoes.”
We all look down at the blue suede shoes. This just got interesting.


“No mate no, I can’t do that.” blue shoes boy is shaking his head, his eyes not leaving the burger which to be honest, seems to be falling apart anyway, loosing value by the second in my opinion, but beer hunger has been known to make us all eat stranger things than a cold burger..

The deliberation is still going on by the time the train reaches Romford, and I’m half tempted to stay on for a few more stops as blue shoes is genuinely getting closer to giving in, offering a staggering 20 pounds sterling for the burger, burger boy still holding out for the loafers. I leave them bartering, the burger no doubt stone cold anyway, walking home wishing I had bought the meal myself to make tidy profit.




London Victoria- Edinburgh


Luka boy as he was fondly named at uni due to the fact there was a Luka girl and a Luka boy in our halls of residence, is a truly original human being that cannot be described, but only shown to you. Everybody in the entire university knew Luka boy, and although no doubt popular, I do remember being hesitant on my first evening in halls thinking it was a possibility that his strange Bulgarian might be a little unhinged. He can be slightly disarming the first time you meet him- we always say that you have to ‘get’ Luka, otherwise you just think he’s from another planet.



He already had a degree in drama when I met him, and had among other acting credits, played a rapist in a BBC Crime Watch re-enactment, before studying for a degree in European studies when I met him at Royal Holloway, then onto a Masters in Islamic studies in Edinburgh. His mother was a brain surgeon working for the Red Cross in all sorts of dangerous countries that Luka seemed to get dragged to every summer holidays, his father owning a factory that made optical lenses for –among other things- sniper guns. (An interesting marriage combo.) His love for women was old fashioned in his genuine awe for the female form, but it was mixed with outrageous lines and language which likened him to Borat rather than Cassanova. Luka boy is the only guy I know that can say the following and somehow get away with it being charming; “Melody, your boobs are like stars from the Star Wars galaxy.”

He has diplomatic immunity, is a qualified masseuse, speaks three languages and is half Italian, this being a fact he only realized in our second year of uni to his utmost horror. He accused us of blasphemy when we explained that with his mother being Italian, he was consequently half Italian, regardless of where he was born and grew up.

“I am Bulgarian he cried.” beating his chest indignantly. Bulgarians have strange and wonderful customs and throw the best parties. Going to the Bulgarian student’s birthday gatherings saw banquets of fresh fruit laden on the tables, unlimited liquor and candles in every room. The only thing you need to watch out for is the Rakia. Some sort of alcohol made from grapes, it strips paint and rots liver, Luka turning up with several home-made bottles one night that his father made which left me with alcoholic poising so severe that after a Friday session I was still being violently sick on Monday morning, along with strange side effects such as my pierced ears closed up and my hair stopped growing. I couldn’t even smell alcohol for two and a half months after that and I have never experienced memory loss like it since…



That’s not even the half of it. Luka with cross mountains for you, swim oceans for you, shower you with complements, all you have to do is tie him down to a map coordinate. You never quite know where this guy could be at any given moment, trekking through the mountains of Scotland gathering research on his latest PHD thesis titled ‘Muslim women in Scotland,’ or popping down to London in a rented car for one night before visiting pals in Oxford, although you’ll never get an answer out of him as to what he’s doing or where he’s staying and you’re not even sure that he has a driving license.



So me and my amiga Kelly jumped on a train one Friday afternoon for a long weekend to Edinburgh to visit the Legend that is Luka boy. I had never been to Scotland before, I’m not sure I’d ever been north of London when it comes to traveling around England in all honesty- my geography is that if you’re not a Londoner, you’re a northerner. And then there’s Scotland.

These trains definitely beat the tin carriages that crawl into Liverpool Street through the dregs of east London and Stratford. There were tables and seat numbers and cushions. We piled on with our holdals, beer, wine and chocolate, not taking notice of seat numbers per se- and proceeded to gossip and giggle and generally annoy all other passengers until a thought struck us. We immediately called Luka.



“Luka, do they use Euros in Scotland?? We didn’t change up any money!”
There is a sigh on the other end of the line as he informs exasperatedly that no, we don’t need Euros. We call him back 45 seconds later.
“Luka- is it going to cost us more to use our phones in Scotland??
Oh my God, girls, iz the same gaad damn caaantry!” (Think compare the merkat.com but two octaves lower for the full effect.)



We take Lukas screeching in jest, as it’s a miracle to get him on the phone, especially twice in a row. It was always going to be a risk visiting Luka boy as since you never quite know where he is, it was just as likely we could have got on a train only to find out that he was nowhere near Scotland when we arrived, going off to Lithuania for work experience as was indeed the case last summer. (God knows what type of work experience they offer in Lithuania..)



On the train on our little adventure we stop at York, where an overweight Scottish woman with a large pram clambers on with her very loud mother and aunt. The woman and the toddler smeared in chocolate are the only ones with tickets- the mother an aunt fussing like clucking hens are being supposedly helpful although they take up more room than the luggage. It would seem I was sitting in this woman’s seat from the daggers being stared in my direction, (why do people get more aggressive the further north you go?) but decided not to worry as the seat opposite me was empty.



I suddenly notice that the train has begun to move away from the station. The women start squawking “but we’ve got to get off! The cars on a meter!” -the next stop is Newcastle. Me and Kelly think this is hilarious, but as the larger of the two women bundle down the isle towards the driver, she stops at my chair and says in a tone identical to the Scottish caretaker in the Simpsons, her ‘R’s rolling and hissing-

“Yourrrr sitting in the wrrrrrong seat!”

The weekend doesn’t not disappoint, involving little sleep, champagne, cocktail bars and Luka boys unbeatable generosity and hospitality, managing to make it through the weekend without upsetting too many more Scots, only upsetting Luka’s Nigerian house mate. The accent throws me considering its Nigerian with a firm twang of Scottish- calling everybody ‘pal,’ ‘ey pal’ with a voice deep like a Braveheart warrior.

“Your English is very good.” I tell him, “Where did you learn it?”
“Is she kidding me?” He says, eyebrows raised looking at Luka, then at me- He’s very tall and so bends down so we’re at eye level. “We speak English in Nigera!”
I give up.

The Power of the Foo: Who needs sleep when you have music?

The saying goes that you can never have too much of a good thing. And I’m a sucker for sayings. So in my over-enthusiasm for music and writing, my diary at work often looked something like this over the summer; three gigs and two festivals in fourteen days, enjoying the company of 240,000 people in the process; nearly a quarter of a million people who loved music and beer as much as me. Not bad for someone who claimed they didn’t like crowds…

Here are some cheeky bits that didn’t make it to print…





Lounge on the Farm Festival- Kent

Armed with a pop up tent and a crate of cider, I was prepared to loose my camping virginity. Yes, I am twenty-three years old and had never been camping before. I don’t know how I feel about a serious lack of showering facilities but I do know how I feel about portaloos, and more importantly, suffering a hangover without the comfort of carbohydrates and a box set of House. But hay ho duty calls.

My and my friend affectionately named ‘Foogasey’ headed off to Kent Saturday morning, the name Foogasey originating from a holiday together aged 16 where we met a group of shaved-headed scousers in the villa up the road to us, who apart from spending their entire holiday stoned (and flying home early when their stash ran out) called eachother ‘foogasey’ constantly in a strong Liverpudlian accent. It’s funny how when you’re a teenage girl, the bigger the idiot and the lower the IQ, the more wildly attractive a guy appears to be. (My mum would argue here that despite no longer being a teenage girl, my dating history shows not much has changed..)

I don’t think even to this day me and my friend have any idea what that word means-but it has been our nickname for each other ever since.

Anyway, back in a field in Kent, after traipsing through the grass finding a spot, we somehow manage to park our tent in what seems to be a subconscious walkway; even though it was definitely not on any official path, the tents plotted in such a fashion that everybody seemed to walk straight into ours. After the 18th person tripped over the string attaching my Tesco tent to the mud, I enquired as to what, if you don’t mind, is the godamn problem? A woozy teenager scratched his head thoughtfully and then said helpfully- “You know what it is? This tent wasn’t here yesterday.”

There you go guys, your first piece of advice when it comes to festival camping, don’t arrive on the Saturday, arrive on the Friday- because otherwise people will have cemented their field map in their minds and the amount of alcohol that’s consumed means that regardless of the fact that your tent is bright purple, people will simply not see it.

Me and my Foogasey proceeded to drink an entire crate of cider before moving on to the VIP tent, listening to Katy B, Ellie Goulding and Example play live out on the grass. This particular area was full of very suave looking people in fashionable ray bans and wellington boots that were obviously far too expensive to really be for mud, one particular fellow lounging on the grass like a Greek at a feast waiting to be fed grapes, sporting instead of a toga, the welly/rayban combo. He tells me casually as he smokes a cigar (what kind of festival is this?) that he works for the Mercury prize, but is leaving the music industry to become a pub landlord.
“Why?”
“Because people can’t download pints for free,” he says mournfully.

As the sun sets, me and my Foogasey proceed to ‘the cow shed’ which is literally just that- a huge barn that was built for raving, dubstep and drum’n’bass pulsating into a heaving crowd and we dance like the sun will never rise, sweating like its an aerobics marathon, and not caring at all. We stagger back in the dark, now hoping we will indeed fall upon our tent the way 25 thousand other people no doubt have done during the evening, and we end up being momentarily distracted, ‘planking’ on bails of hay and eating late night burgers and wondering why didn’t we buy more cider?

                                                                           ***

Waking up in a hot, sweaty tent with a stinking hangover was officially on the list of one of the most horrific mornings of.my.life. Do you know how early the sun rises in the summer months? Damn early I’ll tell you, a fact I was blissfully ignorant of until I had the pleasure of sleeping in a florescent synthetic bubble which was rather like being in a plastic pocket in a microwave- but instead of a spag bol churning inside, it was two Essex girls churning full of cider and rum.

So apparently this is the deal with festivals- you’re expected to get up hungover, early, deal with the hangover with no comfort and most importantly no shower or hot running water and a portaloo so full I could smell it before I saw it. And then you want me to start drinking alcohol again? I’m going to say here that I don’t care what you think of me after reading the next paragrapgh. I stand by my hangover-fulled decision.

“Foogasey- lets rock and rolla.” We discarded our tent- or sweatfest 2011- into the nearest bin after discovering the bugger was not quite as easy to fold back up as it was to pop out. We then jumped into my buddy’s air-conditioned vehicle and went off to Burger King. And then we went home. I don’t do camping Foogasey.



Foo Fighters, Milton Keynes Bowl

It seemed to be a bit of a running joke that I was a gig reviewer afraid of crowds, a city girl terrified of the tube, but one of our gang that fine day was a scaffolder afraid of heights; I couldn’t quite tell whether this made me feel better, or just feel a little bit sorry for the pair of us.

I probed him for some pearls of wisdom- at one point his feet wouldn’t leave the ground (making his job slightly difficult I imaged) but now he was at top of buildings on a daily basis. What did he do to make the fear go away?? When did it go? Somehow I didn’t think he was going to give me a date for the calendar, but I wanted to know that one day, however far in the future, that goblin clinging to my ankles who pulls me to my knees more frequently than I would like to admit, one day he would be gone and my life would be mine again without me subconsciously checking at every corner whether he was lurking in there, waiting to get to get me.
The scaffolder thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. “Eventually, it just went away. You just have to get on with it don’t you. After a while, because I had to, eventually it got a bit better, and now, it’s just ok.

Great.
I think that although not quite the answer I was hoping for, there was an important slice of wisdom underneath the shrug of his shoulders. No one else can help you or give you the answer- there isn’t enough valium, diazepam, any of the pams to make whatever your problem is go away. The hardest advice, but the only advice is that no matter what it is that is causing you to suffer, you have to face it, head on, over and over and over. And if you can do that, regardless of how completely shit it feels, eventually you see that fear is nothing. I mean that logically- it has no weight or form, it has no substance apart from what you feed it yourself, and you feed it in avoiding it.
At the top of a building or in the depth of anxiety and depression, if you just keep ploughing on into it and simply refuse to give it an inch of your life, one day you’ll see that that goblin clinging around your ankles isn’t there at all.

But for now he is here, he’s amongst the 70,000 people in Milton Keynes despite the sunshine because he never strays far from me no matter where I run. But I loose him in the songs and the atmosphere, and for a while, all I hear is the music.

                                                                       ***

Rock concerts have this strange ability to make me fall in love with men that usually I would recommend to take a shower before I let them anywhere near me. The lead singer of the day’s supporting act- Biffy Cyro- being a prime example here, having me utterly entranced with the killer combo of A. playing the guitar, B. blue eyes and tattoos and C. well, being a rock star. Rock concerts also have the ability to bring out the inner rocker in even the most reserved of us, the guys in our little gang having ripped shirts and bandanas round their head by the end of the evening. One of them was going two days in a row, and was starting this marathon with a mammoth hangover- throwing up in the cab on the way to Milton Keynes. He was so green he possibly was from Mars and I marvelled at his love of for this band that he was going to put himself through this, but when in doubt, drink, and it wasn’t long before he was bouncing around like the rest of us.

Milton Keynes is quite simply, a glorious venue. It’s like sitting in God’s cereal bowl, sunshine pouring in, space to sit on the grass, Biffy Cyro, Death Cab for Cutie and the unbeatable Foo Fighters completely taking over my life from 1pm-1am.

The most important thing I learnt that fine day was the importance of the mosh pit- a rite of passage in the world of live music. I was slightly unsure if mosh-pitting with rock fans was maybe a slightly ambitious one to tick off my anxiety list, but the boys would stride forward disappearing to the front returning a few songs later breathless, gleaming with sweat and bruises but most importantly- beaming. Smiles radiating as they explained to me that mosh-pitting was the only way to enjoy a gig- to throw yourself around, loose yourself in the music (and other fans) and not worry about the bones being smashed to pieces beneath your skin. A few buckets of cider served as dutch courage and with the atmosphere being so delicious in its fever and excitement, I heard myself say- yeh, why not- wait for meeeee!

Well, I must report that I rocked the socks off that mosh pitt- apart from that fact my 8-day old camera was smashed to smithereens. I was smashed to smithereens. But mosh pitting is good stuff guys. Its like a friendly punch up- everyone picks each other up, friendly rock-loving strangers peeling me off the floor as I tumbled and ran and threw myself around the tight tornado that had formed 20 metres from the stage, Dave Grohl so close he could almost definitely catch the kisses I was blowing at him (if he would stop tossing his hair around for a second.)

“Dude- we forgot to eat!” It was 3am and our bodies were running solely on large plastic cups of cider by this point, my Weetabix at 10am being a long time ago. Our exasperated cabbie had nearly lost the will to live looking for us among the thousands of drunk and tired fans taking into consideration that Milton Keynes consists of nothing but roundabout after roundabout and in our collective state of merry dishevelment the only directions for him to find us was- “We’re at a roundabout! We’re at a damn round about! Where are you?”
To which he consistently replied: “I’m at a roundabout!”

Finally united we then hit the most ridiculous traffic with road works on the M something mixed with 70,000 rock fans dispersing.
“Mr cab driver, how many miles to go?” I asked hopefully as we went along at a pace that would make snails look like Formula One cars.
“Fifty seven.” He mumbled. I tossed and turned, hitting the uncomfortable point between drunkenness and sobriety that usually you go through while sleeping, waking up with the finished product of a hangover without having to live through the transition aswell. I dozed fitfully, waking up 45minutes later.
“Mr cab driver, how many miles to go now?”
“Fifty six.”
Are you freaking kidding me!? My bladder screamed. I suddenly had a startlingly clear epiphany- we were going to die of old age in that cab.

Four and half hours later at 6am with the early morning sunshine breaking through, I crawled into bed, my ears still ringing, my jaw aching from all the smiling and yelling for 16hours. Best.gig.ever.



Professor Green- Somerset House
Somerset House by the River Thames on a warm summers evening, a cheeky bit of VIP and a large alcoholic beverage is a pretty agreeable combination for a Thursday, or at least it would be without the bonus of an annoying male chewing your ear off so you can’t actually pay attention to what’s going on up on stage…

The amount of bollocks this guy has in terms of confidence whilst talking to me, grows exactly in proportion to how much shit he’s shovelled up his nose. Now without launching into an anti drugs tirade here, you have to admit, the white stuff does seem to make even the most moronic of men suddenly think they’re a bit of a Casanova. ‘A whiff of the white does not a good looking bloke make.’ Shakespeare, I’m sure, would agree.

I’m doing my best to use the subtle art of body language to show this gentleman I would love him to sod off so I can enjoy the gig, considering I don’t know who he is and he’s spitting on my face as he talks, his jaw about to come off its hinge as if chewing something invisible.
“Did I tell you I just got back from Malia on Sunday?”

Oh dear.
I get a full and detailed account of this trip that leaves me wanting to take a shower when suddenly he drops what I think is supposed to be the winning ticket in his wooing technique;

“I work for Barclays Capital.” He stops for dramatic effect. “Yep, yep you’re right, I am indeed a banker boy.”

Dear god. He actually used those words, and then, smoothing his suit jacket with his palms, he winked at me.

Mate, a wally is a wally, regardless of how you dress it up. He had apparently followed the expected rites of passage- boys holiday to a shitty resort, sex, STDs, cheap drugs, dirty hangovers, dull job title- but I wasn’t quite convinced that the final product was a man worth being spat on for an evening. He was still grinning gormlessly at me, apparently not noticing that I hadn’t even remotely participated in the last 20 minutes of the conversation, with even Professor Green fighting to be heard over this boys insistent waffling. I don’t think he could see the words ‘loosing’ and ‘battle’ floating in the air, but to be fair, it wasn’t so much a loosing battle as it was the battlefield after Mel Gibson had dropped his Scottish-ass over it Braveheart style.

Bye Bye banker boy.

-Oh, and Professor Green was really good by the way.

Last Night a DJ Saved My Life: Music Related Life and Encounters

(Part 1)

Writing breathes life when it contains something that means something to the person holding the pen, and so having the opportunity to review and write about some of the best artists has been a bucket of fun but not always suitable for print.... Here are just a few of the highlights - the stuff that didn’t make into The Independent…

It’s probably important to take into consideration before we enter this music filled world, that before I got this job, I had never been to a gig. Not that I wasn’t a fan of all things music. But to say I was not a fan of crowds was possibly an understatement in a much longer story (For another day.) More and more with this job I seemed to place myself in front of things that I thought I couldn’t do; tubes, crowds, lifts, trains- any crowded small spaces, which seemed nothing short of unfortunate and downright exhausting, until I can across this paragraph one day;

‘We attract that which we fear most into our lives, so we may know what our fears are, face them, and master them.’

Diana Cooper

* * *

David Guetta- Brixton Academy

Brixton, from whichever angle it’s looked at, is just not somewhere I think I want to live. Ever. I don’t quite know how to go about describing this infamous part of London without slipping into stereotypes or regurgitated opinions, but there was a sharps bin in the porta-loo toilets of the Wetherspoons- and so I think that probably sums it up.

The streets this particular warm evening were lined with people covered in neon paint and very little clothes- a slice of Malia/ Falaraki or whichever Brit-endorsed island takes your fancy, heading for one place- Brixton academy to worship the DJ-ing legend that is Mr Guetta.

Inside was a hot sweaty jungle, thousands upon thousands of bodies dancing as if that Saturday night was to be the final sunset, the body heat radiating to such a temperature that it could be felt from the entrance, you could barely move inside without being covered in someone else’s sweat. This happened to be the exact combination of elements that would usually have me running in the opposite direction.

But I couldn’t write a review from outside. So beer in hand- off I plunged into the jungle.

And oh what a jungle. The best way to describe this gig would be somewhere along the line of it being the love-child of a passionate affair between Las Vegas and Ibiza in the height of the season, with a light show behind the decks that was like Disneyland on drugs mixed with Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory on an LSD trip. This was music, when it completely engulfs you, when it’s the only thing that matters, when you can’t remember your own name and don’t even want to and when pitching up a tent and living in Brixton academy forever sounds like your vocation.

The best thing about David Guetta when you see him live is his facial expressions when he’s DJing. He looks so ecstatic at the music he is playing, looking up wide-eyed from the decks with such delight to see a collection of random party lovers enjoying the music he’s passionate about. There’s something very genuine about the blonde Frenchman, a man so in demand by every musician in the charts, he’s moulded pop into an entirely new dance genre that the mainstream are lapping up by the gallon.

Down in Brixton, he climbed onto the decks, arms spread wide, almost Jesus-like with the florescent glow of lights behind him raving away. Somehow I managed to get the Phrase ‘Guetta is God’ into my review. And they printed it.

I woke up the next morning with the feeling (no not just the hangover feeling) that something very significant had happened to me, although I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I’d rumbled in the jungle and didn’t flip out and panic. Last night a DJ saved my life…

Camden Crawl- Razorlight/Tychy Stryder/Lethal Bizzle/ CockandBull Kid

Camden to me is the Narnia of London; technically part of the same city, but a different side of the coin: you’re never quite sure who you’re going to meet …The crawl had gigs taking place all day and night in numerous bars from one end of Camden to the other and I’d spent the day happily drinking Corona and going from one venue to another skipping ques with the magic thing called a press pass with friends, when who do we bump into? Pete Doherty….

Doherty strolled in front of me at the cash point and I couldn’t resist the temptation- I leant over as the screen flashed ‘you have insufficient funds’.

Well well well..

He turned around giving me a full frontal view of actually how unattractive his was. Pete is the type of guy you want to hose down with a jet wash and stick on a sunbed for a few sessions; dirty, pale, and in need of a bit of Lynx. His skin was sallow but not drawn, in fact he looked slightly poggy-faced like a badly put together plasticine man, wearing some ridiculous hat that I’m sure somewhere was ‘cutting edge.’ Just not here around people with their sanity intact. (Can I just chuck in here- why oh why do men where skinny jeans? And what oh what is wrong with girls that like men in skinny jeans???)

“Can I borrow 20 quid?” He asks me.

I stare at him as he looks unfazed at me and the other people in the que. Someone whips out their wallet.

“Yeh here you are mate, yer there you go Pete” the guy behind me says.

“Thanks mate he replies and scuttles off.

I probably would have given him some money, but he’s not my ‘mate.’ So I didn’t.

Swedish House Mafia – Alexandra Palace

The record label EMI decided that they liked me and my 5 star review for their boy Guetta, (they have since sent me every single he has ever consequently worked on and his album download 3 weeks before general release thank youuu) and so sent me four VIP tickets for Swedish House Mafia at Alexandra Palace for a review.

The atmosphere in the entire area of North London was brewing like a cauldron of bubbling excitement but we were so busy getting pie-eyed on the interesting combo of jaegger bombs and Cornas in the Wetherspoons (it’s always a Wetherspoons) that we missed the Swedish DJs themselves who were having a pre drink in the VIP bar we had access to. Damn the jaeggermister.

Ally-Pally’s impossibly high ceilings give it an outside feel - something that many revellers took literally as cigarettes were smoked all night and looking around I had a feeling that no amount of security could control this crowd. This was verified by the ‘apples and pears’ style voice that rolled through the crowd calling ‘Pills, mdma, gggggget cha pills and mdma right ere…’

Raving away to their hit tracks- pumping electric rhythms with snappy baselines- I turned around to see one of my brother’s friends, who from the expression on his face, looked like he couldn’t remember where he was and what he was doing. Considering there was 25,000 people in there, it was quite a coincidence that ‘Crazy Liam’ was there wandering about. It’s not quite so much of a coincidence that he was on his own in a state of merry dishevelment; having been on a group holiday with him in the past, the nick-name ‘Crazy Liam’ arose from his entertaining yet worryingly erratic behaviour when under the influence; including pouring bottles of San Miguel over his head grinning like a mad man, and humping the sand in the middle of the night informing us all he was in fact, a turtle.

We took him under our wing, or under our legs- as he became a perfect candidate for sitting on his shoulders sing at the top of our voices “Whose gonna save the world tonight..”

Razorlight/ The Noisettes- Clapham Common

When the rain falls and it’s festival season, you pray to the Lord for Hunter welly boots, and failing that, pray for a Moroccan style VIP tent with unlimited alcohol.

Clapham common was wet and grey and my buddy and I positioned ourselves on the cushions in what looked like the Moroccan tea tent that seen in the desert of Sex and the City 2. Not bad. Also not bad was the company- we befriended a group of guys that to be honest didn’t look like they belonged with the funky looking music mogals (neither do I to be fair), aged between thirty-and thirty five and completely uninterested in any of the artists playing- in fact they hadn’t heard of most of them. BUT what they did have was unlimited free drinks tokens as their buddy was head of security and so viola, they had two new best buds in the form of two Essex girls.

We continued to get sloshed sheltered from the rain until our pyramid of beer cans grew to an impressive height and I realised I bet go and review some music.

Razorlight were belting out the classics (write some new material soon mate?) Johnny borrell looking like a rock star in so much as he looked dishevelled and we danced in the rain and the mud to those cracking guitar rifts.

The merriment continued as we wandered into the nearest pub along Clapham Common, a pub that had the genius idea of giving us wet and muddy music lovers a box of Jenga. As we descended into new levels of merriment, became more and more difficult (especially with forfeits of shots) until it was a complete impossible game that no one in the history of the earth could have ever possibly have done so why was in invented- bah humbug.

 Read the Reviews:

David Guetta

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/reviews/david-guetta-brixton-academy-london-2281556.html

Camden Crawl

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/reviews/camden-crawl-various-venues-london-2278371.html

Swedish House Mafia

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/reviews/swedish-house-mafia-alexandra-palace-london-2295436.html

Razorlight

http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/music/reviews/get-loaded-in-the-park-clapham-common-london-2297394.html

Part 2- Foo Fighters, Black Eyed Peas, Take That and many more…

The Essex Girl Guide To City Life

 The Reluctant Commuters Guide to Commuting

Get An Oyster Card. Then Find Out What The Hell An Oyster Card Is.

You can’t officially class yourself as anything resembling a ‘Londoner’ unless you own an oyster card- a strange blue piece of plastic that you slap everywhere from buses to trains apparently saving money. I can never work out all the differences between a paper travel card, pay as you go, or how the hell to work out which (if either) is better for your bank balance. The key is to not jam it into ticket slots when you’re half asleep at Liverpool street station. Its slap, not jam, slap not jam guys, and this key phrase will ensure you won’t blow your cover as having no idea whatsoever about London, commuting or how the hell to cope with early mornings.

 Watch Out For Random Parades Of Horses.


Cars aren’t really the hazard in London town I’ve found, mainly because they’re too many of them tangled with black cabs and buses to go very fast. The main hazard commuters should be wary of are cyclists,  creatures that ride a fine line(literally) between being a pedestrian and motorist, crossing the line when it suits them, ignoring traffic lights when they’re red and switching to pedestrian mode as they continue the other way in line with the green man. Cyclists love to guess when the light are going to turn green and think, ‘what the hell, it’ll probably be green in a few seconds,’ striding off into the sea of cars, seemingly unaware of the pedestrians not leaving the appearance of a green light down to guesswork.

The other hazard to watch for is horses. Some Londoners sweat through Hyde Park in spandex and expensive looking trainers with springs in them at 7.30am, some Londoners take their horses out for a ride before their morning espresso. There is a separate lane in the park for horse riding as well as the cycle lane (a lane I often wander into with my headphones on, oblivious to angry bike bells being rung at me by people in  aggressive looking helmets and knee protection).  A Horse parade caught me off guard one morning across Marble Arch-  a 40 beast strong line towing carts and Cannnons  ridden by various  stern looking men and women in stiff looking uniform. Horse parades do not stop at traffic lights I discovered, even when it was a green man I couldn’t cross the road for hooves and carts. I was rather indignant.

Don’t Go Shopping On The Way Home

You may think your being clever in avoiding the devil that is rush hour but its far more likely that you’ll get into hazardous situations..
I leisurely browsed the shoes in a high street shoe store before strolling out and was half way down the road when I felt someone tapping me on the shoulder
“You dropped your shoe.”
I pulled out my headphones. “My what?” I looked at the girl who was helpfully holding out a shoe in my direction. A shoe with a grey plastic security tag on it.

The shoe had become attached to my bag that had a woolly cardigan through the handles as I left the shop, then dropped on the pavement, but the girl was now looking at me, then the tag, then back at me as slowly she came to her conclusion. Before she could cry ‘Thief!’ I hastily interject-,
“It’s not mine.”
Good one. Because no thief has ever used that line.
The girl doesn’t move and is still holding out the shoe, now slightly unsure of what to do next. I decide that honesty is the best policy;
“It just got caught on my bag on the way out.” She doesn’t believe me. I try a different tactic. “Just chuck it in the bin.” Now she definitely doesn’t believe me.
 “The bin?”
Christ will this child give up?? 

At this point I wish I had just said thank you, taken the shoe and taken it back to the shop, rectifying the mistake instead of somehow now being involved in theft and destroying the evidence. The girl skirts over to the bin, chucks the shoes and scuttles off not looking back at me. We’re going down.

Don’t Use The Toilet On Trains.

 This is very good advice. Perhaps even better advice would be ‘press the brightly lit LOCK icon before dropping your knickers.’ Being slightly neurotic when it comes to small spaces, locks and trains, this particular combination meant that I decided not to lock the door. Hindsight they say, is a beautiful thing. I don’t quite know the logic of my erratic thinking, mainly because there usually isn’t any- but it led to the following scene being  played out: I was sitting on the toilet seat, and the wide sliding door slid open, ever-so slowly, painfully slowly until I was rather well acquainted with my fellow commuters. There was a bashful silence as the commuters best quality came into play- the ignoring of ALL things past the end of their nose- people singing, people trying to talk to you, people on the phone: a commuter has a little force field around them that protects them from any kind of human contact or emotion until they get into the office, whereby thy suddenly seem to be able to interact again.

I silently press the brightly lit ‘close the fucking door’ icon and it slides gracefully shut and I wonder if it would be plausible to just stay in here until my stop, or perhaps just until forever.

Don’t Trust Your Blackberry Sat Nav.

 I’ve spent a rather embarrassing amount of time wandering around the city unable to look up from the little black thing that has grown into an extension of my hand. The main problem is that for some reason my sat nav puts St Pauls cathedral 10 metres east of where it actually sits, and being a rather large landmark, this slightly confused my geographic understanding of Bank and Cheapside. Considering my train out of the city lies somewhere between all that, it took a while to get home that first week. ‘Blackberry-itus’ is the realization that even though there must have been a time where you didn’t actually own one, it’s so implausible, it sounds like a myth. It is an old legend that people coped without bbm, facebook, twitter and emails pouring out of one screen, letalone texts and actual phone calls. A blackberry or I phone is like a city passport along with the oyster card: they won’t let you in the city walls without one.



Beware Of Men In Suits

There is a rule me and my fellow amigas have discovered up here; that men automatically look 20% better looking when you put them in a suit. This makes the east side of central London a rather tricky place as you can imagine- rather like an optical illusion where seemingly good looking, successful males gather in herds and throw money around.  It’s not until you get a little closer that the illusion looses it’s shine slightly -give a young man too much money and a room rent free in his parent’s house, the product doesn’t exactly scream boyfriend material… The more I watch the jungle between Liverpool st and Fenchurch st, the more I wonder whether they live in the same London as everybody else- this strange faction whereby a culture of wanker-ish behaviour is cultivated from a young age, fed with food, beer and bonus’s …  (Miaow)

Always Have A Plan B.  (i.e Diazpam.)

 If you afraid of the tube, then it’s nothing short of unfortunate if the geography of your office requires you to sit on it for long periods. Everyday.

I don’t quite know how to even expand on this sentence, the understatement that it is, so the advice I’ll offer for now is, you have to really want it, for it to be worth it.

I have always harboured this sense that there are two types of Londoners; those that get on the tube, and those that do not. I can’t quite pinpoint my desperation to be one of those placid commuters who show no recognition of discomfort or anxiety at being stuffed in to a steel tube a hundred meters underground, but I really want to be one of those people, because I decided somewhere along the line that for whatever reason, that what Londoners are. The only problem lies in the fact that even writing that makes me feel ill, and I spent the first days of my city life paying 30p to wretch in station toilets at the thought of the central line I then had to get on, and would only get on knowing my pockets were lined with diazepam. Just in case. 

I have never once been late for work though.

Sugar Hut Aren't Happy (But they don't really give a S***)

And so the reply....



Apologies that this took a while to post up- but if you care to read a good example of how NOT to run your customer care department read on….

I felt by the end of this exasperated email, that rather than apologise, they thought it was better I didn’t come at all, as if I should know that this is how the Sugarhut is run, and furthermore be grateful and put up with it..






Dear Ms. Miller


Your blog was indeed brought to our attention and our response, which we were about to post, is below.



I was rather flattered by this- and slightly disappointed- would have been much more fun if they have actually had the balls to post this online rather than back out an email it over…




We were very disappointed to read your blog Melody and, taking into account all your criticisms, wonder what made you want to visit to Sugar Hut. You were clearly aware that the club would be very busy, yet you queued “in the cold” for an hour to get in and stayed long enough to sample all the different areas.




Oh no, Sugarhut is disappointed in me- Thie paragraph suggests that I should of known better, that I should have given up before I got to the door and I’m the silly one for even entering and trying to find a space to breathe in all the different areas. Silly me.

“Go to the Sugar hut, Essex’s greatest tourist attraction! But do so at your own peril, because we don’t actually care if you do come along, and really we secretly laughing at all you silly customers that que in the cold, actually que, and then stay…..”

As regards the points you raise:


Thank you for bringing the confusion as to entry price to our attention and this is being addressed. We will happily send you a £5 refund if you let us know your address, although you did have the option to walk away on the night if you felt you were being “robbed”.


Is it me or is there a hint of sarcasm there? And lets be honest, its not a ‘confusion’- (MASSIVE air quotes please.) Unless the girl on the door can’t tell the time (a serious possibility) then there’s no confusion, someone knew they were making a hefty profit. Its very kind of her to offer to post me my fiver, but what about the rest of the group? Or the hundreds of people in front of me?






We operate a zero tolerance policy on drugs and make no apologies for conducting searches before entry.



Yep, because that was my problem here- that I wasn’t allowed drugs on the premises.



We have received no complaints from our regular customers (yes we do have them) regarding the increase of visitors and the club’s capacity is 1,000 and not 2,000 as you erroneously state.


Again with the sarcasm, (but bravo on the big word) and I think if it she had read my blog correctly , she'd see that I was pointing out I had been a regular customer.


The licensing laws state that plastic glasses are used throughout the venue and we must adhere to this rule.



Then it's probably not a good idea to advertise yourselves as a ‘West End Experience’ then because if its the Law you're worried about, then I’m pretty sure you're breaking advertising laws in thre somewhere.


Michael Norcross is a successful businessman and has reached where he is today by hard work and being involved in every aspect of his ventures. He has always been present at the club to ensure that guests are happy and things are running smoothly, although his profile has undeniably been raised by “The Only Way Is Essex” and he is now recognised.


Oooh its Michael now is it, forgive me. Being involved in every aspect of a nightclub involves tasks that I sincerely sympathise with, watching him smooze with legs blondes right left and centre. Hard work indeed.


To reiterate, we are sorry you didn’t enjoy your evening with us but can assure you that our regular clientele is enjoying the company of the wide variety of visitors from all over the UK and, thankfully, opinions such as yours are rare.






Regards


Karen Rogers


PA to Michael J. Norcross










MIAOW!!



I was perhaps a tad optimistic to think that this woman would have offered some sort of conciliation to our group, invite us back again to prove we were wrong about all the above. But by making it quite clear that I am wrong, that it doesn’t even matter anyway because they have enough other clients, just proves my point. Who cares if you provide lousy service, overcharge, when the tills are bulging? Because she’s right- those doors have ques outside all weekend- they don’t need the little minions because the name is big enough that presently it feeds itself.



The Sunday Express funnyily enough ran a piece that following week saying the exact same thing with a slightly more bemused tone- that Sugar Hut is a tourist attraction- not a West end experience nightclub.



So lets agree to disagree Karen, my opinion is definitely not as rare as you think, but while the doors are jammed full of orange wannabes, enjoy- but all cheap tourist attractions loose their sparkle when the novelty has worn off, and what used to be- dare I say it- a classy place to spend an evening, will very soon become a joke without the show to prop it up. Lets hope they makes a series three eh Micky…


Oh, and Karen, you can post that fiver back to me.





Yours sincerely,



Melodys Pen

Follow me on twitter- https://twitter.com/melodys_pen