Freewheelin' Bob Dylan [but is he ART?]

At Halcyon Gallery [no 'The'] in Mayfair, you can see 'Mood Swings' - an exhibition of Bob Dylan's artwork. 'Exhibition' makes it sound friendlier and less like a very posh shop than it is. There are two heavies on the door [wired up like FBI goons] and there are roped-off areas where, if you take a peek, you can see offices manned by sharp-suited art-future managers doing deals over the phone. Never mind all that, we're here for the ART.

The 'Zim does roughly four kinds of ART.

1) Pictures.
For his 'Self Portrait' LP, Bob Dylan put a self-portrait on the cover. It doesn't look like him but I still like it because it looks like he didn't try TOO hard and enjoyed doing it. It's loose. At Halcyon we see 4-foot-tall sketches, paintings and prints all in this loose style. Some of them work as decoration because they're colourful and look like things [houses, trees etc.] but most look like Van Gogh homages. They're loose up to a point but when he gets to a face they tighten up & overwork. You want to take an eraser to them and tidy them up although they are supposed to be untidy. You could do better.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Self_Portrait_(Bob_Dylan_album)

2) 'Sculptures'.
Specifically: gates and wall hangings made from old bits of iron, spanners, toothed wheels and the like. I have no problem with novelty gates. In Norfolk you often get a garden gate with bullrushes woven into the railings, perhaps climbed by a little mouse or perched-on by a heron. I bet they don't cost £100.000 each. There's a picture of Bob on Halcyon's website, standing astride one of his circular wall iron 'images'. This proves that he did them I suppose; I'm not doubting he has, but I'd rather see a short film of him speaking to camera saying: "I have a team of 200 students doing all the work, I just visit the scrapyard and choose the bits." It would be more like ART that way. Instead, he seems to be saying: "Concentrate, Bob - you're gonna be chargin' huuuge bucks for these...."

http://www.halcyongallery.com/

3) 'Genuine Car Doors Used By The Most Famous Gangsters Still With The Bullet Holes From When They Were Finally Tracked Down By The Cops'*
*Old car doors, with bullet holes and dents, from the gangster era indicated, with a black & white poster about a different gangster with each door. The sort of poster you might get to advertise a village féte or whist drive.

[look close enough and there are no actual claims that these doors belong to those gangsters SO WHY HAVE THE BRASS NECK TO CALL THEM ART & CHARGE TONS OF MONEY FOR THEM?]

4) Enormous Blow-Ups Of Magazine Covers
In which Bob takes a cover of 'LIFE' Magazine, blows it up to 6 feet and changes the headlines. There's a really nice one with Woody Allen, Groucho Marx's son features on another, Gadhafi as Superman... they look impressive. Buuuut they'd look impressive if they were just 'LIFE' magazine covers blown up - because the 'LIFE' logo looks great. But Bob Dylan didn't design the 'LIFE' logo so what is his input? He's found a good printer? The satirical headlines are thought-provoking but printed so sharply as to ruin the illusion that they're original. Again, you could do it yourself. Better. And cheaper.



The best piece is a black & white photo of Bob in his studio, guitar resting on a wall, oil paintings in various stages dotted about the shelves. It's not for sale. I might not know a lot about art, but I know what I like; I might not know a lot about Bob Dylan, but I know he's not ART*.



*apart from the music

Double-Jeopody Plus One

I was short of cash.

The advert said: "Meet Steve Coogan and win £100 in CASH!"
It said stuff about who to ring and the rest, but I won't bore you with that now. I rang the number, spoke to the brother of the bloke in The Mock Turtles and arranged to meet.

In a disused warehouse, somewhere off the North Circular was a portakabin like the one Michael Caine is brainwashed in during 'The I.P.C.R.E.S.S. File'. Cosy like. Outside, dressed as Tony Ferrino, I was met by Steve Coogan [dressed as Steve Coogan].

Inside we were not alone. Reading left to right [or if you're chinese, left to right], Coogan, Bricktop [the cockney thug], Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67] and Hunstanton P. "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli [light-heavyweight boxing champion of Dulwich]. I was introduced of course, there was no way of guessing all that other information.

"Edward", started Coogan, "congratulations on making it this far in the quest for one hundred pounds. You have been chosen for three reasons over and above the other entrants; 1) You can drive 2) Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67] liked your picture and 3) You look like you could fight a bit but not too much. Now here's the deal: We'll give you one hundred pounds in, we're speculating here, used fivers if you can a) Accompany Bricktop to the Dulwich branch of HSBC and *cockney accent* turn it over. You'll be driving. Or b) Make a short, instructive video that may or may not contain scenes of a sexual nature with Mrs Elsie Lanyard [aged 67]..."
*wink* from Mrs L [aged 67]
"...or c) Go toe-to-toe, man-on-man, mano-on-mano, glove-to-glove, for richer for poorer over three three-minute rounds against Hunstanton P. "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli [he's a boxer]."

I stroked my chin, which didn't respond.

The bank job was tempting but the chance of being banged up for armed robbery didn't inspire [I was guessing about the tools, but it was daylight and within normal business hours so a good guess]. Mrs Elsie Lanyard [I'm guessing between 65 & 70] seemed a nice enough sort but, really. As for Hunstanton P. [I later found out it stood for 'Philadelphia', not because he was from there but it's his favourite cheese] "Bish-Bash-Bosh" McAli, I reckoned I could take him easy.

Steve, 'Top & Els seemed disappointed with my choice. Reassuringly, so did 'Phil.

The ring was shabby, the ropes were not strong enough to actually keep you in the ring if you so much as leaned on them, there was no bell [someone had brought a triangle along] and all four corners were red, which confused the announcer.

I've seen the "Thriller In Manila", but poor old Hunstanton Doo-Dah couldn't fight his way into a manila envelope, let alone out of a paper bag. I caught him with a south or north paw, I can't remember, and next thing I know his mum is in the ring attacking me with her shoe. Three stitches.

After the blood was mopped up...

"Edward, congratulations. To be honest we weren't expecting this result - I for one was sure you'd go for the bank job - which is why we don't have the hundred pounds, which would probably have been in used fivers, to give you. Luckily, Mrs Elsie Lanyard [still young enough to hold a driver's license] has agreed to escort Bricktop to HSBC.
In the meantime, the posh bloke out of #Gogglebox is here to give you your trophy.

Enter, the worse for two bottles of red, Dom Parker, holding one of those tiny cups, a proportionally accurate F.A. Trophy just big enough for an egg.
"Whatto", piped Dom, "well done and all that, top fisticuffs, I say, couldn't do me a favour old chap? I'm not sure I'm safe to drive, what with them having a television next door and an open bar. Deliver this box of chockies to my Auntie Glenda in Barstead Avenue on your way home and there's an extra quid in it for you..."





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In The Kitchen At Parties

We were kindly invited to a party by @TheOfficialMWF, entertained by grand kitchen creator Michael Wilkinson and Chef @MichelRouxJr, who provided the gorgeous canapés. We took some photos.

Michael Wilkinson, our charming and colourful host.

A Pre smoked salmon & quails egg-fueled crowd.

"Can you make it out to Gordon Ramsay, that's R. A. M.."

Ritz® Crackers have a lot to live up to.

Sebastian, assembler of canapés and assistant to the Chef

Cheers!

Chef Michel Roux [I offered to wash up]

Don Quixote: A Restricted Review

Last night to The Royal Opera House for Don Quixote; a ballet. In case you've never been, it's like a play with much less talking and more music, or a prom with tons more dancing. Pre-show snack was a jumbo sausage roll and a banana from the Sainsbury's opposite Holborn tube, £2:10. 

The story revolves around the titular Don, seemingly going off his trolley and onto a giant robot horse, followed by a tiny man in lots of padding called Sancho. Sancho drinks, gets beaten up by girls and is carried off by Dementors before making a triumphant return in time to see Don ride off into the sunset on his giant robot horse.

A curtain, yesterday.

That's a GIANT ROBOT HORSE. The ears twitch and everything.

There's also a soppy old love story with dad not letting daughter see the one she loves and wanting her to marry the fop instead. Only scene-changes and gypsy bullfighters can make sense prevail. A giant robot horse! It's all magical.

I lost count of how many were in the orchestra; it was at least 38. We had a good view of the brass section, dressed in dicky bows despite playing in a pit. They looked relaxed throughout, very much the orchestra in form. The conductor had as many curtain calls as the dancers which seemed a bit rich.

"It's not a real horse." "Sshh."

Paul Hogan was right about the trousers. I mean, what if there's an accident?

At one point one of the 'rinas dropped her fan - do you think they have little huddles before the show for such moments? The others could have thrown their fans to the ground in solidarity, but no. The final flourish of that section had the girls posing impossibly on one toe, waving their fans like no tomorrow. Our friend went for *hand on hip* which was a nice compromise.

Look at him milking it - didn't dance a single step!

At the end the story takes a rest while the stars do their final showing off floor exercise. These people are in the absolute peak of physical condition and deserve every "bravo". Go and see 'Don Quixote' at The Royal Opera House if you can.

See, they did all the work and have to sneak out the side of the curtain. There's no justice.

An enormous THANK YOU to @msmarchers for the chance to enjoy such a fantastic evening. x

Trouble With Boris

"Your back wheel's following you, if you're lucky."

An experiment was carried out, removed, and another one brought in in its place. Over 24 hours, spread over 2 days, we would find out how good the Boris Bikes are. Our perspective only.

For £2 you can hire a Borispeed for 24 hours. This sounds like a sweet deal and it is, as long as you follow some procedures. First you pay for your 24 hours then, and only then, you repost your credit/debit card to receive your release codes. You tap these codes on the bike dock until it flashes green - then wrestle the rather heavy machine out of its housing. There is a knack involving a lifting motion but most people we saw appeared red-faced and bruised before getting on.

The first docking station we found was full of bikes - this is not a good sign, it means the payment/ticket machine is not working.

The next station had a working payment screen but all the bikes were showing a red light and couldn't be removed; so we had tickets for that station but no bike to ride [the tickets are 'live' for 10 minutes, becoming void thereafter and not transferable to another station].

Once on your bike, to avoid paying more you must dock and re-hire within 30 minutes. Go over and you are charged an extra £1 - go over your 24 hours and it's £150 added to your card.

Aaaanyway. The third station we found had the holy trinity of working screen, working bikes and available bikes. We high-fived, adjusted our saddles [big], checked our gears [3], brakes [hefty] and were off.

For about 20 minutes all is well, then the spectre of extra payment starts nagging. We found a place to dock but there were no bikes available to take out; another walk....

All the stations we saw had little crowds of confused tourists, either trying to work out the payment process or wondering why the bike with a red light flashing couldn't be wrestled out of its home.

Our next ride went over the half-hour. I mean, life's too short right?

Fair game [10 points for a direct hit].

It was nice going through Hyde Park, moaning at the dozy pedestrians instead of walking through Hyde Park moaning at the dozy cyclists. Tip: if you're english, the little "brring-brring" bell is a viable and acceptable means of warning folks you are about to stove them in two from behind. Tourists, who are less reserved, keep theirs going non-stop and expect you to respond with a smile. Join in. Boris, you might want to add Raleigh Chopper-style saddles for hipsters and baby Boris bikes for the littles. You're welcome. Also, these bikes have CONSTANTLY flashing lights. CONSTANTLY. That means Boris Johnson has discovered perpetual motion and kept it mainly to himself.

The Borissettes,  including Invisible Kevin third from left. Note they're not moving, Boris Johnson.

We started late on Saturday afternoon and docked our last bikes near the Albert Hall 23-and-a-bit hours later. The station contained an almost full rack of bikes and a broken payment point.

"Get off and milk it!" etc.

Richard Herring, Alive

Yesterday evening, not quite as hot as recent evenings, we went to Battersea Arts Centre to see Richard Herring perform his Edinburgh warm-up/try-out show 'We're All Going To Die'.

We sat right at the front. If you've ever been on a manual-handling course you'll know the potential danger of doing this: "Can we have a volunteer from the audience to show us how not to lift this sack of loam..." What if this is an interactive show? Does Richard do Hypnotism? What if he makes fun of my lazy eye? Who says I've got a lazy eye? You wanna start something? Yeah, you're all talk. Anyway, we sat, as I say, RIGHT at the front.

The Props

The stage consisted of a small round table with a jug of water, a plastic beaker and Richard's notes. If we'd had that spy ability to read upside-down and a bit sideways we could have sneaked a preview.

During the show, Richard took two sips of water. 

Richard didn't sweat profusely. This makes him tons better than Lee Evans. I mean, eeearghhh right? When my mum went to see David Essex at Southend's Cliffs Pavillion, she was impressed that David didn't swear or sweat once. Time's have changed; Richard used cuss words and my mum's no longer with us for a start. 

We went all the way to Battersea Arts Centre and all we got were lolz and this lousy picture.

We were worried Richard might trip over the wire from the microphone.

I won't spoil the show by remembering all the jokes and documenting them here. It must be rubbish having to make notes during an entertainment, or having to take photos - surely you can't enjoy the show completely. I take photos all the time but even with the flash turned off, Richard would have noticed the idiot 3 feet in front of him snapping away. I took some once it was obvious the show was over but why? I knew I'd been there. Richard can get a photographer to take his picture anytime. Also, that was the time to join in the applause. 

Richard's costume for the show: Faded, red 'Superdry' T-shirt, well-worn jeans with a biro in the right-hand pocket [perhaps a tribute to Harry Hill?] and casual turn-ups, complemented by a pair of proper spangley trainers - the sort that suggest serious jogging is at least a possibility. Richard has lovely hair.

See Richard Herring if you can.

www.richardherring.com

@Herring1967

Gentlemen & Players

To walk or not to walk? That was the question yesterday. Stuart Broad hit a cricket ball and the Australian captain caught it - even in the garden, aged 7, that is out. It's in the laws of the game [yes LAWS, not rules] behind the biggest of them all: that the players should always uphold the spirit of the game. In club cricket you often get umpires who are on the same side as the batsman, ex-players who still love to be involved. Umpiring or scoring are chores to younger members and there ARE a lot of laws to remember, as well as being able to count up to six. As a result of this, you can get 'howlers'.

A 'howler' is a rank bad decision e.g. an l.b.w. given out when the batsman has clearly hit the ball, or given out caught when he clearly hasn't. I played in a match [my last in fact] when an opposition batsman was caught behind the wicket off a thick edge which everybody heard - the umpire was the batsman's father, he went on to score the winning runs. I also played in league matches where the opposition insisted on their umpires officiating the whole match - they were very generous with l.b.w. decisions, sometimes raising the finger-of-doom before the appeal was made.

Henry Blofeld, the Test Match Special commentator, epitomises the era of the game when if a player nicked one and was caught, he walked off the pitch without forcing the umpire to make a decision. After yesterday's incident he was asked if he always walked and recalled the only time he didn't. The umpire gave young Henry out and approached him at an interval, "Blowers, don't ever do that to me again!"

Ironically it was the australians who invented NOT walking - ex England captain Michael Atherton was caught behind in Australia and didn't walk, one of the Aussies asked him why not, "When in Rome, dear boy, when in Rome..." - but this doesn't excuse what happened yesterday. In the split second after hitting the ball, Stuart Broad would have thought "I'm out." For those who've never played, that's a sinking feeling in the pit of the stomach; at sunday club level it means your day's fun is over and unless you bowl you're sentenced to hours of self-recrimination and FIELDING [urgh]. At Test level it means the old enemy have carte blanche to send you on your way with some choice words about your manhood, parenthood etc. Broad decided not to walk. Even if he'd been given out he is notorious for asking for decisions against him to be referred to the third umpire - a man sat in front of a tv, fed various views of each incident to help his on-field colleagues. It might have been a no-ball, but this is the only thing that could have saved him. Unfortunately for Australia, they had used their two chances to 'go upstairs', otherwise Broad would have been despatched eventually.

Broad didn't break any rules, but he broke the first law of cricket; it's understandable WHY he did and I think we should be reluctant to judge him too harshly. England can point to two 'howlers' from the first innings; Jonathan Trott was wrongly given out l.b.w. and young australian Ashton Agar was stumped on 6, survived a review and went on to make a game-changing 98. This is irrelevant, it would have sent a message to young players and sunday players up & down the country to respect the umpire and respect the spirit of the game - I wish he had walked.

P.S.
At lunchtime yesterday, in the Test Match Special commentary box, the cricket-loving band The Duckworth Lewis Method [named after an equation used to estimate a one-day innings total when rain-affected] played two songs - 'Gentlemen & Players' and 'It's Just Not Cricket' - the second of which had free-form vocal help from Henry Blofeld himself.