Liar Liar Pants On Fire

As I sat in The Famous Cock near Highbury and Islington tube a few years ago, I was blessedly unaware of the desperate irony that my then amorous suitor would turn out to be one of the sliest nasties I would ever have the displeasure to waste my time on. A dishonest man you say, in London of all places? How shocking. But truly, this was more than a simple case of “playing the field.” This guy was totally wacko.

We first met whilst in similar states of drunken disillusionment at The Electric Ballroom on Tottenham Court road where we had both been reluctantly dragged by our metaler mates. As I lounged at the bar in what I considered to be a languidly dishevelled pose (but later discovered from a friend’s heartless photographic evidence, was more akin to Manson than Monroe), I overheard a couple of lads having a conversation about Shakespeare.

Being too drunk to remember the golden London rule: “ignore and be ignored”, I butted in mid-sentence and finished the guy’s quotation. The chap in question turned to me and I was suddenly staring at one of the campest men I’d ever seen. He was wearing some sort of shiny shirt with faux rosary necklaces and had a rather girlish face, with big brown eyes. He was kind of pretty, if you like that unctuous look. His hair had the unfortunate effect of making me want to wash my hands.

Why, you might ask, did I end up going out for a date with this greasy Lothario? Honestly, I’m not entirely sure. I think it might have been how interested he was. I, like most women, can be an absolute sucker for attention. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t deny it either. And I’m not alone. I am one of many intelligent young women - with a university education, a good job and a string of successful long term relationships under their belt - who have been targeted by this type of man and their anomalous antics.

Mr “Castor-Nova” (so dubbed on account of his oiliness) told me he was a journalist and worked for two magazines, neither of which I was familiar with, but I didn’t think to question him. You don’t do you? Or at least I didn’t. Besides, he went out of his way to show me an article he’d written for one of the magazine’s online sites.

It didn’t occur to me that he might be exaggerating or downright lying to me. Nonetheless, I should have listened to my instincts which told me right from the start that there was something weird about him.

He had the typically inflated jealous streak of most oddballs and whinged about my closeness to a few male friends. Finding himself ignored, he began to create several fictitious “modelesque” ex-girlfriends and female friends whom he’d bang on about incessantly. He received lots of messages from them on his Facebook page, something which I think he was disappointed that I didn’t ever comment on.

It turned out that he’d written them himself, from fake profiles. Pathetic.

Eventually it transpired that he’d been cheating on me with another woman, who I finally met and was heartened to discover was smart, successful and attractive. Between us we uncovered his lies. His job was, of course, a complete fabrication; he’d done a single day’s work experience for a magazine over a year before, hence the online article.

And the lies he’d told about me, whilst ghastly, were conversely comical in their absurdity: I too was a “model” (when in reality I barely reach 5 foot 3 and am certainly no stick figure) and a coke fiend (ha, if only I could afford it!) and, to top it off, a stalker (as if I would waste my time). It seemed that almost everything he’d told us was an invention, conjured up in the strange mind of this probable bed-wetter.

Walking away from this “relationship” (if you can call it that), was of course a huge relief, but it was positively humbling to acknowledge that I was capable of falling for such a load of rubbish. But I have wondered since, was it my fault that I didn’t automatically suspect him of constructing such huge whoppers? Is it realistic to check up on every word that a potential partner says?

It can’t be, not if you want to avoid turning into the personification of paranoia. Better to be fully aware that there are these oddities out there and trust to your instincts ladies! If you get a bad feeling, it’s best to not go there.

And anyway, aside from the androgyne sliminess, I should have known he was a deviant just from the name. As a die-hard Austen fan, I of all people should never have trusted a man with the surname Wickham.

A Date At The Riverside

As the tall and mysterious man led me down the shadowy alleyway in South London, I knew I was either on the way the most romantic date in the world, or about to suffer a grisly death. Fortunately the alley didn’t lead to an abandoned shipyard, but rather to a secluded pub by the side of the river Thames, appropriately named The Riverside. Romantic, relaxed and classy enough to impress without making my chap look needlessly flash, it had just the right elements to encourage successful second dates.

Mr Mysterious had reserved a plush sofa by the floor length windows, so I contentedly sank into the luxuriant cushions and ordered a Bloody Mary (all the cocktails are £6.00), made with Stolichnaya Vodka and with the full compliment of celery, horseradish, Worcester sauce, Tabasco, lemon juice and seasoned with salt and pepper. When my beau looked askance at my choice of beverage, I explained that it was the equivalent of a starter with added alcoholic advantages. He meanwhile ordered a Staropramen (£4.00) and a plate of spicy, crispy squid with garlic mayonnaise (£5.75).

Good, thought I (with barely concealed sexism); if he’d ordered a cocktail, then that would have been the end of that. A real man shouldn’t drink cocktails when he’s trying to impress a girl, even if the menu runs from Caipirinha (sagatiba Cachaca served over muddled fresh lime, brown sugar and crushed ice) to Cosmopolitan (Absolut Citron Vodka, Cointreau, orange bitters, cranberry juice and a squeeze of fresh lime shaken until ice cold and fine strained into a large martini glass.). Hey, it mightn’t be fair, but I didn’t write the rules. I think that was Candace Bushnell or someone. Luckily for my beer swigging adonis, the bar at at The Riverside is furnished with a good range of both ales and premium lagers.

Looking around the pub, I have to admit that I was suitably pleased with the venue. Pub it might be, but the decor has taken cues from such venues as All Bar One crossed with a dash of West End restaurant and gentleman’s club. The high celings and copious amounts of dark polished wood frame an island bar, with an impressive array of wines and spirits, while the floor plan places a dedicated dining area (with the now de rigeur window into the kitchen), alongside more traditional bar stools and slumpy sofas. There is a generous terrace outside which forms part of a broader piazza running alongside the river’s edge, just below Vauxhall bridge. With the MI5 building across the road, it seems like the people who built St George’s Wharf were asked to distract potential attackers from the rather less dramatic secret service building.

If the drinks menu says bar, the food menu certainly says pub with an array of solid favourites, such as free range Cumberland sausage and mash served with red onion gravy (£10.40), West Country rib eye steak with Portobello mushroom, grilled plum tomato and chips (£14.35) and fresh fish grilled or battered with chips and mushy peas (£10.40), not to mention a range of pies (£11.00 each).

On the slightly more adventurous side, the menu also boasts such tempting delicacies as smoked mackerel fish cakes, served on a bed of wilted spinach with lemon and parsley butter sauce (£9.95), baked trout with lemon and white wine on roasted sweet potatoes and steamed rice (£10.50) and seafood linguine with courgette, chilli and cherry tomato (£10.40).

The desserts are much the same; we have the British standard of bread and butter pudding, jazzed up with honey icecream (£6.00) and a selection of (of course, British) cheese with real ale chutney and biscuits (£6.25), offset by fruits of the forest berry crumble with white chocolate icecream (£6.00) which has a slight touch of the brasserie about it. Basically, the bread may be foccacia and come with olive oil but the fish chips is still very much fish and chips.

After sharing our fusion platter of duck spring rolls, tempura king prawns, spiced chicken skewers, prawn crackers and a chilli squid and prawn salad (£12.00), without any disasterous spillages or dribblings, and enjoying a bottle or two of Mitchell Estate Riesling (£21.95), it was time for the journey home. And let’s just say, Mr Mysterious got himself a third date and ain’t that mysterious any longer.

The Bluetones - LIVE AT KOKO

“So; the Bluetones. Do you think they’re an example of Brit-pop ‘survivors?’” As I stand idly in the queue for Koko in Camden, a young, enthusiastic and apparently guileless amateur journalist for winkball.com waylays me and my boyfriend. I’m not prepared for questions. After all, I bought these tickets for my boyfriend as a treat.

What do I know about The Bluetones being “Brit-pop survivors”? I mean, I’ve always liked The Bluetones, but tonight I’m only popping along for the ride. That and to make sure I’m in my man’s good books for the next few weeks.

But, as we order our first drinks from the bar, the question ways on my mind. Despite the fact that their break through single, “Slight Return”, was first released in 1995, in the halcyon days of the jangle and swagger of Blur and Oasis, the truth is that The ‘Tones have never been a band that are defined by any era.

The fact of the matter is, The Bluetones might not fashionable but they are very definitely stylish. Most people consider The Bluetones to have died out before the start of millenium but they couldn’t be more wrong. Still a jobbing band after fifteen years with thirteen top forty singles and three top ten albums, Mark and the gang are tenaciously holding onto their loyal followers.

These ‘followers’ are plain to see tonight. As Harry and I find a place behind the mixing desk (with an excellent view and coveted enough to allow no surreptitious sneaking off for fags), the sheer enthusiasm of the crowd is tacitly evident. And Koko is certainly the ideal venue to house the sort of intimate gig that perfectly suits indie stylings. As the opening chords of ‘Bluetonic’ reverberate around the venue, every body starts to sway. After all, you can’t ‘mosh’ to the ‘Tones.

Mark’s vocals, though characterised by his distinctively higher timbre, ache with a deeper richness that can only come from an old hand at the mic, whilst Adam, Scott and Ed provide a dependable and tight backing, delivering the cheery funk which defines The Bluetones’s sound.

Following their opening trio of popular classics (‘Bluetonic’, ‘Marblehead Johnson’ and ‘Hope and Jump’), Morriss, Morriss, Devlin and Chesters hit the ready crowd with material from their sixth studio album (not yet released) and shrewdly follow each new offering up with more memorables such as ‘Mudslide’, ‘Four Day Weekend’, ‘Slight Return’ and ‘Head On A Spike.’

Watching the crowd of diehard fans singing along to the final song “Keep The Home Fires Burning,” a single which hit the charts nine years ago, it reminds me that, in a city where gigs are often just an excuse to see the ‘latest thing’, it’s certainly refreshing to see people who genuinely love the band and the music and have probably done so for years. And their cult following knows only too well that a band with true longevity, charisma and steadfast skill can inspire a following for life.

So in answer to our erstwhile ingenuous hack, no I don’t think The Bluetones are Brit-pop survivors. They’re just a damn good band with a loyal faction of fans who will provide them with an audience for many years to come.

...Damn, if only I'd said that at the time...