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I’m going to tell you something shameful. I hope you won’t judge me on it, as it was just for the craic at the time. A couple of years ago, I signed up on match.com… I am cringing just talking about it, but I’m open to trying anything once and at the time I was bored, single and ready to mingle (I say that with my tongue firmly in cheek). I’ve already explained that I am a lady who loves a freebie, and what better way to spend an evening enjoying free drinks and talking about my favourite subject – myself. Let’s face it, for a woman, dating is a ticket to indulging at a man’s expense whilst waxing lyrical about your life, hopes and dreams. Don’t get me wrong, I am a modern girl – I offer to pay my half, and who am I to argue when inevitably the offer is turned down. Men love to flash their hard earned cash – a wad of notes is like a peacock’s tail, it’s part of the mating ritual.
Anyway, it started from sceptically clicking through one of those flashing adverts on a website, ‘get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back.’ I had to see the kinds of geeks and weirdos that signed up to these sites. I searched for profiles in the Newcastle area and had to admit I was pleasantly surprised with what came back. At the time I was a sucker for a shaven headed, blue eyed, bulky muscled, tattooed hunk of manliness (I say ‘at the time’ because Kiwi has an abundance of dark curls, dark eyes and no permanent bodily markings – I guess there’s no accounting for change in taste). So, a particular profile caught my eye – he had it, muscles and all. In fact, several profiles caught my eye – I couldn’t believe it, match.com was a sea of hot, eligible men. And they weren’t all socially retarded – a few guys were back from years of travelling and were new to the area and wanted to meet people; a few were musicians who worked weekend nights and didn’t get the chance to properly meet people. Anyway, yes I am trying to justify the fact that I became one of the supposed geeks and weirdos, by signing up.
“get married and have 2.4 children within 2 months, or your money back”
I gave the aforementioned muscly skinhead (let’s call him Mark, for that was his name), a ‘wink’. A ‘wink’ is effectively just a nudge in someone’s direction, encouraging them to check out your profile. Mark checked mine out, liked what he saw and we exchanged messages. Much like meeting in a bar and chatting, with the bonus of knowing a few key pointers which may make or break an initial interest before conversing. (More justifying of my inexplicable new penchant for e-meeting men). Mark was 30, he was a Property Developer, we seemingly had a few things in common and to cut a long story short, we arranged a date.
This is where I forewarn you of the perils of Internet dating, for I was in for disappointment. I met Mark in Osbornes, Jesmond. I did a double take because the man I met was significantly smaller than the man in the photos I had seen (the hot, topless, holiday pics in which he was a tanned and toned Adonis). I could be forgiven for thinking that I had met up with his older, scrawnier brother. He wasn’t 30, as it turned out he forgot to add a ‘-’ in the middle of the ‘0′. He was 38. Oh dear. He wasn’t a sexy skinhead, he was balding. Oh dear, oh dear. Not to be rude, I decided that the night was young and although I most definitely had no plans for anything more than a platonic night of friendly conversation, he was a man with stories to tell and he may even teach me a thing or two. Mark had a unique plan for our night too, which I found irresistible. After finishing up a few drinks in Osbornes, he took me to Zonzo’s in Sandyford, where we had a starter, on what would be a 3 course meal across 3 restaurants. We enjoyed some beautiful rosemary bread, glistening with olive oil and with ample amounts of rock salt and rosemary leaves; along with the best seafood salad I have experienced. No batter, no breadcrumbs, just fresh squid (and not the rings – the whole baby squid, tentacles and all), dressed to perfection. I’m no food critic, but I recommend it.
“I couldn’t help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside”
The conversation flowed and amongst other things I learnt that Mark owned properties abroad and a motorcycle on which he had travelled across Thailand. He had some amazing tales, and I never once (after the initial shock, and before the night drew to a not-so great end), felt like the night was a mistake, or awkward in the company of a man 18 years my senior – I was enthralled to begin with. Next stop was a ride into town to El Torero, the tapas restaurant on Side. Here we shared a main course of several tapas dishes, and plentiful amounts of wine. Mark was a wine connoisseur, and throughout the night the alcohol was flowing – I mixed far too many cocktails, vino, liqueurs and spirits that night. A bar crawl through the Toon followed the main course, on which it seemed that Mark knew every bouncer in Newcastle, and I picked up a slightly Mafia-ish lifestyle of which I’m not sure I would have liked to have known the details. As the date went on I couldn’t help but feel like I was out with the Phil Mitchell of Tyneside.
We finally finished the night around 2am, in an Indian restaurant on Quayside, where Mark chose an aperitif of eastern light bites, instead of a dessert. I just sat patiently, finger tapping and hinting at tiredness, as he was at the stage where he had had far too much to drink and was beginning to irritate me, as I couldn’t make much sense out of his inane drunken mumblings. Not forgetting to be a Gent, even under the influence, Mark caught a taxi home and dropped me off on the way. As we sat in the taxi outside my house, I had gotten my bag strap caught up in my seatbelt and frustratingly fought with it for a few minutes, getting more and more tangled (I was slightly tipsy afterall). Mark just looked at me, as if to say ‘what?’ and I asked him if he was planning to help me out. He looked me deadly serious, in the eye, thought for a moment and said ‘I think you’re a bit mad.’ Well, that was it for me – I tore my bag out of the taxi and slammed the door. I’m not patient when it comes to drunken rudeness.
“you’re a bit mad”
The following day, Mark tried ringing me several times. He then emailed me, asking if I’d got home alright as he’d had a ‘whitey’ and had forgotten half the night. I told him I had, thanks for an enjoyable night but I wouldn’t be seeing him again. He apologised for his drunkenness and said he’d like to make up for his behaviour. I told him to find someone his own age. And so, that was the beginning of my experience with match.com. I won’t say it was the end, because that would be a lie, there are a few more comedy tales to tell – and one nice tale, which could have gone somewhere, if we didn’t live such different lives.
Anyone who knows me, knows I am the Queen of blag. I guess even before buckling down to save for my move abroad, I have always had tight arse tendencies. I love vouchers, competitions and freebies – any chance of getting something for nothing, or nearly so, and I’m game. I have been known to walk around Fenwicks on a weekend, because on Saturdays and Sundays you can guarantee that the food hall will have food or drink samplers – and the portions are generous. I used to walk back and forth past Millie’s Cookies in Eldon Square during weekdays (as a student working shifts), just to grab the free cookie chunks from a basket on top of the counter. The basket has since been removed, perhaps they cottoned on. I also used to trawl Northumberland Street for any Marks & Spencer’s employees who used to hand out free coffee vouchers to passers by. More recently I actively hunt down the Kaffeccino’s owner who stands around Monument handing out vouchers for a free hot drink when you spend £1 or more, or make a detour past Starbucks to see what samples they happen to have on offer, either as free ground coffee, or sometimes free cake or mini frappucinos.
I have always considered myself pretty lucky in cheeky steals, ever since I opened a packet of Hula Hoops when I was 10, and found a little blue packet inside with a £10 note in. Once, back in the days as a barmaid at the Hilton in Gateshead, I cheekily picked up a raffle ticket for free – the tickets were £5 a pop, for guests at the ball that I was working at. I won a champagne meal for two at The Living Room on Grey Street. Over the last year I have won or managed to blag; a meal for two at As You Like It, 6 tickets to see Groove Armada at Carling Academy, 2 tickets to see The View, tickets to both the opening and finale performances at the NewcastleGateshead Comedy Festival, a free round of drinks at the Glasgow Radisson… in fact, there are too many occasions to remember the niggly bits I’ve also managed to net.
I have tried to use my lucky powers to the greater good of others. I always enter competitions for stuff I don’t want – like tickets to see Barney live, so I can treat friends from work who have kids, but as the law of sod predicts, I’ve not won yet. Currently I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a meal for four at Tavistock, a meal for two at Starters&Puds or £50 of Eldon Square vouchers. I’ll keep you posted. But in the meantime, a tip from me to you – pick up a copy of Citylife, produced by Newcastle Council. There’s always competitions in there, and you never know, beginner’s luck and all that… I might spark off the inner-blagger in you.
*UPDATE* I didn’t win the competitions above. Gutted… Could this be the end of my lucky streak?!
I’m in the middle of pulling together my copywriting portfolio in order to create something spangling and attractive online for prospective clients, so I can dip my toe in the freelancing pond. Having taken a Marketing diploma, I’m procrastinating with thoughts about my target audience, market positioning, competitive enviroment and unique selling points. It’s supposed to help the process of refining who I’d like to work with and what I’d like to do (or rather write about), but really it’s an excuse to hold off just a little longer before taking the plunge. I’m unsure what’s holding me back, the fear of the unknown; will I be out of my depth?
I don’t know where the niggling worries of failure come from; I am experienced enough to know my own capabilities, but I am unaware of my limits. I have not come across anything yet that I’ve been unable to turn my hand to, but with the safety net of working within an established agency comes complacency. My portfolio highlights experience mainly in working within the cultural sector – copy for arts organisations and tourism marketing, writing what’s on guides, event brochures and websites. But outside of the bosom of employment, is there enough work in this particular ‘niche’ of mine? Having started out in new business, (and again, studied Marketing), I am aware of the difficulties of breaking into new industries – will my particular portfolio work with me as a strong presentation of expertise in an area, or against me to suggest I am lacking in abilities to branch out?
I feel a few weeks of work ahead; finding different publications from various industries, rewriting and creating new copy for them, in order to present some versatility. A ‘fake’ portfolio, if you like. At the end of the day, real client or no, how else am I to prove my abilities. And who knows, maybe I’ll discover a new niche for my writing style, or a gap in the copywriting market. I’ve just got to forget the fear, and dive straight in.
On Friday night, having developed cabin fever due to knock on effects of the credit crunch – no, not the actual credit crunch, but the one Kiwi has imposed on me so I stop impulse spending and start saving for our trip – me and Kiwi took the opportunity of what would otherwise have been a night in, to walk to the Quayside for one of ‘NewcastleGateshead’s‘ so called world-class events, Bambuco. I’m unsure when Newcastle and Gateshead became one uber-city of dual proportions – I believe it was for the purpose of a stronger application for the City of Culture award a few years ago. The plan backfired however, as Liverpool received it – it seems that the City of Culture award is given to the city that needs it most, and as Newcastle already has a thriving cultural scene it wasn’t deemed in need of support.
Gateshead on the other hand is, and may have been more successful in winning if Newcastle hadn’t been on the scene – it is crying out for funding and cultivation of the arts. Its entire offering is made up of The Sage and Baltic and iconic though they are, a city can not rely on just two buildings within a few hundred square metres to call itself cultural. For a short while Gateshead had Tyneside Cinema drawing the usually Newcastle centric crowd toward Gateshead’s centre, but that has now moved back to its original home, leaving the town centre to the perils of the Tescos buy-out of any business they can monopolise. Somehow I don’t think Tescos will be lending a helping hand in generating a cultural scene – the town centre will become a commercial asylum, with new office developments offering a lower cost alternative to the outlets North of the Tyne, keeping any sign of cultural activity South of the river firmly located around the small section of the Quayside known as Baltic Square.
“a city can not rely on just two buildings within a few hundred square metres to call itself cultural”
That’s a long winded digression, I began this post with Bambuco in mind, a review of what turned from a hauntingly beautiful idea into a frustratingly slow let down. Having walked down to the Quayside we were met by the sound of wooden instruments, which reflected the general theme of the event – bamboo. Bambuco is an art installation – a temporary bridge constructed out of bamboo. The bridge can not be crossed by anyone but the Bambuco team so it holds very little purpose during its three day stint, except for photographic benefit, adding a little something extra to the panorama of the Quayside’s already numerous bridges. Friday’s event marked the completion of the bridge, and the beginning of the SummerTyne festival, a weekend event for which occasion the bridge was built for. It seems bizarre to me, as the bridge has been under construction for three weeks, to have it taken down after three days, but I thought perhaps Friday’s event would make it all seem worthwhile.
I had read that over 700 flames would be lit across the bridge, as the Bambuco team skilfully crossed its wire platform from one side of the Tyne to the other, and had epic visions of tightrope walkers juggling flames as they tiptoed across using bamboo rods to steady their balance; perhaps fireworks. On arrival we could see a boat lit up with candles floating ominously across the river, and my imagination went into overdrive, picturing people traversing between the high bridge and low boat somehow – aerial artistry, something visually awe inspiring. As every time I hold high expectations, I was sadly disappointed. We stood for an hour as the Bambuco team rigged their way up either side of the bridge (two structures which resembled a giant game of Kerplunk), painfully slowly, simply lighting hundreds of candles on their way up.
“I am the product of a society in which impatience is a virtue”
After the hour stood watching (im)patiently, wondering if there was to be an impressive finale, the candle lighters reached the top of the Kerplunk towers, and began to edge their way towards the centre of the bridge, still painstakingly slow. Realising there was to be no zip wiring with fireworks of any sort, me, Kiwi, James and Conor who had joined us, had had enough, and like so many others in the crowd, decided to disperse. It was a shame, because the idea was fantastic; the wind instruments offered an eerie addition to the mood lighting formed by the late summer’s eve sunset, and the twinkling candles made for a romantic atmosphere. But I am the product of a society in which impatience is a virtue – if we hadn’t wanted everything quick and easy, would the internet have taken off? And so, the ‘wow’ factor of the visually stunning ‘burning’ bridge was lost with each minute that crept by. A world-class event? I wouldn’t say so, but it was impressive nonetheless.
…I’ve been saving the post which talks about me, myself and I for a rainy day – an answer to the question “who is this girl who writes random posts about nothing imparticular?” Today is that day and I’m beginning to wish I had some Jeremy Kyle-esque life story to enthrall you with – you know the sort; “my father’s my mother, my brother’s my husband, I had the first of my ten kids at the age of nine and I’m only 24.” If you’re after something ground-breaking, you may as well go and buy yourself a copy of Pick Me Up, cause you’re more likely to find it in there.
One thing is true, I am 24. I have no children that I am aware of – in fact I’m certain I don’t, as after Ms Claire Voyant predicted a sprog (see Mystic Maybes, July 2008), I took a pregnancy test just to see if she knew something I didn’t – she was thankfully wrong. My life, in short involves growing up in Harpenden, Hertfordshire with my mum, dad and brother. Fast forward to 19 years old when I moved to Newcastle upon Tyne to do an English Literature degree at Newcastle University, and hence that is where I have stayed, five years on. To keep myself in trashy magazines, peanut butter, Kaffeccino’s muffins and impulse eBay buys (my vices in no particular order), I am a Copywriter. I wasn’t given that job title, I kind of took it upon myself to start calling myself one. But that is what I do, I began my current job in new business and have ended up copywriting out of circumstance, so I started to use the title in my email signatures, and that, to me, makes it official…
If you have read the rest of my blog, you will be aware I have a Kiwi as my other half. We live together with another couple (James and Conor, who I have also mentioned) in a lovely house in Elswick (and yes, Elswick and ‘lovely house’ do go in the same sentence). Kiwi and I are emigrating to New Zealand in January – well, I am emigrating, he’s just returning home. The plan from then on is to freelance as a Copywriter and try to make a living whilst travelling as much as possible. It’s my dream to write from exotic and foreign surroundings, and as I’m jacking in my job to move downunder anyway, it’s definitely the right time just to go for it and try to make that dream come true. I’m hoping to work with companies remotely; more specifically earning the pound whilst spending NZ or Aus dollars, or whatever currency from the country I happen to be in – be it Thailand, India or Canada (just a few examples of my top destinations list).
Saying that, I am unsure that there’s anywhere in the world that I will love as much as Newcastle, and it’ll be an emotional goodbye when we come to leave at the end of December. More to the point, I’ll miss my friends, family, my job, the people I work with – I can’t imagine feeling as comfortable and homely at work anywhere else. It’s the unknown that gets to me – the prospect of becoming unemployed, even if it is by choice, and how successfully I will be able to set up alone. And yes, I’m aware I should just shut up about my ‘woes’ because really I’m amazingly lucky and nothing else matters, what will be will be.
It’s still six months away, so for now I’m in limbo between starting to wind things down here, and prepare for the move. I’m sure this blog will become increasingly more about our preparations nearer to the time. Our holiday to Ibiza in September will mark the end of an era here, and the beginning of another, as on our return I will be handing in my notice at work, and beginning the process of arranging to have my life packed into boxes and shipped overseas; closing bank accounts; redirecting mail; spending quality time with the people I love. There will be tears and probably tantrums, but my Kiwi is my rock and I know he’ll make sure it’s an easy transition physically – even if mentally I might fall apart just a little. On that note, I’m feeling a little weepy – I really need to get a grip.
After a friend recommended a Clairvoyant who had read her Tarot cards and predicted a series of events which have since unfolded as predisposed, I wanted to find out what the future has in store for me. I rounded up some friends for a night of wine and psychic action and arranged for – lets call her Claire Voyant – to pay a visit, partly for the craic and partly with the hope she’d reach into my soul and lay my life out on a plate… or just give me an insight into the next year or so. With so many plans involving turning my life upside down (literally down under); leaving my family, friends and cushy employment for the unknown, I needed some reassurance it would all be alright.
I was sadly disappointed however, not because Ms Voyant’s predictions suggested all would not go smoothly, but because she seemed to have no idea what was in store for me. And Kiwi’s Tarot reading didn’t shed any light for us either.
Having chosen 14 cards out of a pack of 78, they were lain out in front of me before I was given a narration of what they all meant. Claire Voyant decided to give me my ‘bad’ cards first, to get them out the way. She said there was to be no deaths or serious illnesses for me or people ’surrounding me. ‘ She spoke often of these people ’surrounding me’ and I’m still unclear as to whether she means my friends and family who I am emotionally close to, or my literally close neighbours, who I’ve never spoken to. But, whoever she meant, they, like me, will spend at least the next two years alive and in reasonable health. She did, rightly, tell me that I have IBS but it’s just a petty stomach problem, but this was about the only thing she picked up on.
So, for the ‘bad’ cards, Claire Voyant believes I am in for a shock. That’s it. Just a shock. I watch scary movies quite regularly, so perhaps she could be onto something. A little more specifically, she predicts ‘there’s going to be an argument, it’ll start quite petty, but it’ll escalate.’ Apparently if I swallow my pride, I will win the argument anyway. Don’t forget this argument, for it comes up later. The last ‘bad’ thing to prepare myself for was the most specific of all. There’s a liar and petty thief in my life, who will steal £5 from me. £5, Ms Voyant was very defiant, ‘it’s not much, but it is if you work hard for it, and they’ll lie to you.’ Keep this in mind too, for she might have been right.
The rest of her predictions were so general, Claire Voyant didn’t go into depth:
I’m going to go travelling; there’s a proposal, a wedding and a birth; I’m going to sign a legal contract in the next two years; a man with blue to hazel eyes will offer me three jobs which I must consider seriously; I’m going to get a promotion and a pay rise at work; I’m not going to move house in the next six months; a woman called Laura will come into my life and be a good friend; there’s a silver car (I see hundreds everyday, I have no idea what she means); a man with naturally dark skin and dark eyes means money for me (Kiwi has Maori blood, so he’ll be the dark skinned man, woo bonus, I have a sugar daddy in the making); I’m going to do a course (I still have one module left of my uni course to complete, so she’s sort of right there).
Generally, Claire Voyant says I’m just plodding along nicely in my life and I should just keep plodding, because I’m winning – I will be successful in everything I do. My cards were all good, and she says when I travel I will never go hungry, there will always be money, and I’ll make a friend wherever I go. She sensed a lot of boredom in my cards – this is true, I have the attention span of a 3 year old and I get bored very easily. She says I’ll travel because I just want to see what’s out there, just for the sake of it, because of this boredom. She didn’t predict my planned journey to New Zealand.
When she read Kiwi’s cards, she told him he’ll move to London for two years before moving back to Newcastle. And considering she told us there will be no break in our relationship, I have no idea how this will work with him in London and me travelling… Also, she predicted we were going to have a baby relatively soon. Cue the argument from earlier – it started off petty – just a conversation about what we’d do if I was pregnant, sparked off by Claire Voyant herself. It soon escalated to how differently we’d bring up this baby, and so the prediction was correct. One thing we did agree on is that Kiwi can consider my womb Fort Knox – he can double up, babies are not part of the big picture quite yet. On the up side, all Kiwi’s cards pointed to one thing – money! He’s going to set up his own business and he’ll be successful, there’s riches in his cards. But no travel – I’m surprised she didn’t even make the assumption he’d move back home based on his accent.
Oh, one thing I neglected to mention is that there’s going to be two ‘lovers’ for me. Claire says I have an admirer at work who will make themselves known and I will make a choice between them and Kiwi. Interesting, considering she told Kiwi that there will be a third party in our relationship, and he will make the choice. It’s all a bit conflicting and confusing. Plus, I think the guys at work would rather gaffa tape my big gob than offer themselves to me. One last thing she was right about was that £5 though. I paid £5 of Kiwi’s fee to Claire Voyant, and he refused to return it – I never had him down for a petty thief…
So, of my Clairvoyant experience, I would be intrigued to meet a real Clairvoyant. I truly believe they do exist – I’m a big believer in fate, and I do think there must be people out their who can read your chosen path. But not this particular lady, she was worth it for entertainment value; but Kiwi, myself and our phantom baby are not convinced.
Kiwi and me went to see the musical Eurobeat, Almost Eurovision last night, and had to make a quick post about it simply because it was immensely funny. Think lycra-clad, tangoed men, greased up to the max and prancing around; horrendous, below-the-belt innuendos; xenophobic jokes and a mixed bag of fake accents, all together in a celebratory parody of the best of the Eurovision song contest. And you even get to feel like it’s the real deal as the Audience votes for their favourite countries to win.
What made it even better (if it were possible) was the addition of the legend Sir Terry Wogan himself, introducing the show with his dulcit tones. Plus, if I wasn’t such a tight arse at the moment, (self-imposed, I refuse to spend any money until I get to New Zealand and my bank account trebles into NZ dollars…) I digress – if I wasn’t tight, I would have purchased every piece of memorabilia available to me – hand clappers, horns, flags, badges, a CD of all the tracks, with which to intensify the Eurovision fever. If you missed it, or if you want to relive it, there are video clips online. Clicky here.
I have always considered myself somewhat anti-feminist. Not in the sense of being a misogynist – it would be difficult, if not bizarre to hate one’s own gender – but in the sense that I am a believer of absolute equality between the sexes. Feminism, to me, represented the oppression of men, rather than the advocating of equality. I could appreciate and thank how many years ago the Sufferagettes fought for women’s rights where there were none, but current feminist issues I have completely misunderstood as taking a step too far to unbalance the gender scale at men’s expense.
I am of a complacent generation where women’s rights are a given – and taken for granted. I’m not at a stage within my career where I am experiencing differing pay scales between myself and any male colleague due to gender issues – difference in salary is based on my age and therefore relative experience. I’ve had my eyes completely closed to the possibility that there’s more to feminism than social equality, salaries and voting rights, until today when the Guardian forcefully peeled my eyelids open and encouraged me to stop sitting on the gender fence.
“current feminist issues I have completely misunderstood as taking a step too far to unbalance the gender scale at men’s expense”
Kira Cochrane’s article, Now the Backlash, points out how women’s bodies are considered public property – to be scrutinised and picked apart within the media. If you’ve read my post The Great British Body, June 2008, then you’ll be aware that this hits a sore spot for me. It is the growing media obsession with bodies that has left me lacking in self confidence of late. And as Kira aptly recognises, women are derided for being too thin, too fat, having cellulite, spots, veins… “what is implicit but unsaid is that there is no objective standard of beauty, no level of perfection that a woman could reach at which her body would be perceived as acceptable and in control.”
Women have lost something which I feel to be far more important that the matter of a few grand between male and female colleague’s salaries. We’ve lost ownership of our own skin, lost strength of self and gained an inferiority complex within our own sex. Male chauvinists are no longer the enemy – other women are. When values have become so materialistic, women of my generation are somewhat weaker than before. We’re (myself included to an extent) fighting to be the skinniest, well-toned, golden skinned, silken haired, and if we’re not then we’re left feeling inferior.
“We’ve lost ownership of our own skin… Male chauvinists are no longer the enemy – other women are”
With women in the limelight being criticised more than ever, and a lack of female unity as the criticism stems from within our own sex (it’s not men who sit around in the Heat offices, circling cellulite patches on celebrities), I can only wonder if we’ve taken step back to times when women were expected to be little more than eye candy and spend their days concerning themselves with how to best look attractive to men.
I could go on to deeper feminist matters about the sex industry, abortion, working motherhood and rape convictions, but it’s all too depressing…
I took Kiwi to Glasgow for his birthday last weekend. He bought me an iPod Nano, pretty in pink and engraved with ‘Always’ for mine, so I did consider splashing out on some gadget for him in return – a Wii, an Xbox or PS3, but the fact is it would end our relationship. I wouldn’t be able to peel him away from the TV screen, and he already has an especially time-expending habit with his computer, being a web designer, so I wouldn’t like to actively encourage any other technological dependencies. So, I treated us to a weekend away, to a city where neither of us had been before, on the recommendations of my parents who took a trip a few weekends ago – call it the gift of memories rather than material possessions.
It turned out that Glasgow is home to one of the world’s top 50 clubs, The Arches, as voted in some DJ magazine that Kiwi has kept in the hope of fulfilling an ambition to visit every club on the list. Unbelievably (to me), Newcastle’s Digital is also on the list. I can’t make my mind up about the place – student nights used to be good craic, but weekends are a different story. It’s not the DJ sets – Kiwi and I saw Arman van Helden there a few weeks ago and the music was immense, but my experience was completely marred by the large number of self obsessed punters surrounding us. The atmosphere is unwelcoming and intimidating, and it takes a certain type of person to feel at home there – one of the “mini Kate Mosses, Pete Dochertys and Amy Winehouses,” that I have mentioned before (see Blu Bambu, June 2008). Whilst trying to dance next to Kiwi, I was physically bumpered out of the way and pushed around until I was nearly on the floor by four mini-Kate’s, incessantly offered drugs by one mini-Pete, then generally made to feel frustrated and upset by mini-Amy’s throwing insults at me when I deigned to wash my hands where they were gathered around the taps in the Ladies.
Digital is too packed to move, the toilets are filthy, the dance floor is covered in broken glass, and it’s just generally unimpressive. So I’m stumped as to how it got onto the list as one of the world’s best. I didn’t hold my hopes high for The Arches, so I was happy to find that I loved my experience of it.
“as though your personal enjoyment and the atmosphere you were part of was inspiring an original mix, live”
Unsurprisingly, The Arches is set in some arches, so the interior is reminiscent of dark and dingey tunnels on a dark night – damp brick walls sloping overhead and concrete floors, but all adding to a unique atmosphere rather than taking away a sense of comfort. The club is divided through 3 arches – first with a bar and seating area, second with a dancefloor and DJ box, and third with another bar, dancefloor and second DJ box. Without doors dividing the arches, walking between the two ‘rooms’ is an aural assault, clashing rhythms until you’re not sure where one DJ set ends and the other begins. The club is unpretentious, made obvious by the lack of dress code and men walking around topless – something Digital would never allow for fear they would be perceived as a relaxed, friendly, unassuming establishment. Why is it that a club is more sought after if it has an arrogant air about it?
The welcoming feeling of The Arches was supported by its all encompassing filming of both the DJ and the crowd, played back on giant screens at one end of each arch. Rather than being up on a pedestal – set back under a veil of darkness, the DJ’s appeared at one with the crowd, their every move and expression up on screen, enhancing the experience of the music as though your personal enjoyment and the atmosphere you were part of was inspiring an original mix, live.
Lastly, The Arches attention to detail – water jugs and plastic cups on the bar for all to access; a cleaner in the Ladies keeping it stocked with toilet paper and soap; a first aid point – restored my faith in the club industry. I wouldn’t call myself teetotal, but I don’t drink much if at all on a night out, so I’m never too bladdered to care about the state of where I’m dancing. It gets on my tits to have to paddle through piss-soaked floors, hover over a toilet seat and just when you’re feeling a bit grubby, have no access to soap. Or to fight my way to the bar to ask for tap water and be told I have to buy bottled and it costs more than a vodka and coke…
I used to think maybe it’s just me, I’m not cut out for clubbing, but I’m beginning to think that some clubs just aren’t cut out for me. We’re off to Ibiza in September, to go to another three clubs on the top 50 list, so I’ll just have to wait and see what lies in store, and come to a conclusion then…
He said, then she said...