Chap Olympiad 2010

The contestants await their fate..

The Chap Olympiad has come and gone, again and once more the Internet is awash with photographs; it is a very photogenic event. I am remarkably unphotogenic, I will always look like a double chinned housemistress enjoying a private joke.

Vivien of Holloway frock, vintage bolero jacket, hair by Betty.

But despite this I enjoy my one day of sanctuary, ensconced in a little green oasis of fecund Bloomsbury amongst hordes of other people that think (some) of modern life is rubbish. As you join the queue, or circumvent it (I’m a Magellan of queue circumnavigation) you are immediately struck by three things: the stylishness of the vast majority of the attendees, the friendliness and the familiar faces. There are people you only seem to see at the Chap Olympics. A familiar refrain is ‘where do they all come from?’ Well they come from all over the place. As do the photographers. Chap Olympians wonder who will win the Getty picture steeple chase every year….

My experience of the event varies, once I had to deal with a profoundly drunk bearded one who could only stand up when supported by a couple of burlesque dollies. Another saw a triumph in the gin martini relay, enhanced by a hat so large my unphotogenic face was largely hidden. Then there was a hot Saturday in Hampstead which basically involved sitting on a blanket knocking back cava and nibbling quails eggs until I was incapable of movement or indeed thought.

The Chap Olympiad has a number of things to recommend it, apart from the variety of potential experiences. One is that its resolute promoting of amateurism, eccentric sporting and events cocks an elegant snook at the revolting orgy of corporate arrogant dullardism that infuses all major sporting events. We don’t need their cocacolaMacanike extravaganzas in citizen murdering nations. Stuff ‘em.

Is it Bloomsbury or Casablanca.

We want the cucumber discus, and jugs of pink cocktails and twirly taches. In the spirit of this, whilst the organisers lay on the props and some vague semblance of organisation (albeit of the Dad’s Army variety of organisation) those in attendance make the entertainment.

Fleur de Guerre and the ultimate winner of the event square off.

There is pleasure in observing the well dressed hordes. NOT in ‘costume’, something I wish the meedja could get their heads around but in their Sunday/Saturday any damned day of the week best.

Then the snippets of conversation are endlessly amusing. There are the dogs in neckties, men in bathing costumes plus stevedores, dandies and vintage poppets strewn across the acreage gossiping, making arch comments or indeed talking absolute rubbish: in an elegant inebriated way. Several hundred tickets were sold and people were drinking steadily all day (hurrah!) yet there was not a single fight (well apart from the competitors).

As one virgin Olympian noted people were overwhelmingly friendly and genuinely interesting. It would not be going too far to say it is a joyful occasion. The Chap Olympiad crowd burst into song, impromptu umbrella duels and flamboyant congas at the drop of a top hat.

The gathering of the tribes that takes place is also refreshing: steam punks, tweedy gents, tattooed rock chicks and Victorian flaneurs loll about in what the editor of the chap, Gustav Temple, might describe as a state of ‘chumradery’.

Of course all is not perfect. The cakes sold out. And not even the Chap Magazine can legislate against the presence of the odd annoying charmless ‘look at me’ bore. Whilst gentlemen attendees had almost all made an effort a few young ladies had decided that as they were young and pretty they would just turn up in festival style crap. Lads, if you invite them next year, be kind and treat ‘em to a tea dress they looked like Poundland plastic tulips in a sea of real daisies.

However the sight of decadent ruin at 9pm when those having to return to the outposts of Chapdom had departed was reassuring. Dancing continued on the stage. Bodies lolled around on the grass, wine and cocktails were being consumed. Even the debris was stylish….

Some of the photos on here are from taras curiak's flickr account.

Double R Club.

I am a bit tardy reviewing this as I actually went to it last month! This is undoubtably one of the most entertaining cabaret nights taking place in London at the moment. And I am not only saying this because I really like the organisers (even though I do!). Again something to tempt me away from my native South London and much loved Soho to Bethnal Green Working Men's Club.

The Double R Club is, despite it's moniker, nothing directly to do with the Kray Brothers, although they may have known the area and may have enjoyed the evening. Rather the inspiration is taken from the strange twilight world of David Lynch's film ouvre, although arguably the look is more Blue Velvet than Elephant Man. However one of it's co-founders, the entertaining Rose Thorne has a burlesque act featuring the latter character, in a sense. Moreover some of the acts are dark in a music hall sense rather than in that strange American gothic vein seen in films such as Mulholland Drive.

Your host for the evening: Benjamin Louche.

Your host, and the paraffin glue that holds the night together is host Benjamin Louche, effectively channelling Dean Stockwell via Mark Almond with a nice line in obscenity. He introduces, performs and links the cabaret acts with panache, exhorting the audience to sing 'Lollipop, Lollipop', reading creepy poems and enthusiastically promoting the catchphrase 'so f*****g suave'. He works hard as this evening is particularly good value as the cabaret does not consist of a few girls tassel twirling and one singer but enough performances to fill two halves.

H P Lovebox croons..

I was particularly taken by the evening's crooner, Mr H P Lovebox, joining us from the tentacled slimy deeps to sing amongst other tunes, 'I want to do bad things to you' and 'Dance with me' although I am quite sure the latter deviated in lyrics considerably from the original. Great fun for lovers of the old creepy Misogynist demon fiddler himself. Another unique act involved a birdman lip synching in a curiously engaging way. The only time a cabaret act has resulted in having to fish pine nuts from my..ahem..decolletage. Othe acts included a singer, a couple of burlesque performers and a fire eater.

A birdman warbles....

There are a number of arch cabaret evenings in London at the moment. This one is notable for it's unexpected combination of conviviality and gothicism. Rose wanders around dispensing her (delicious) home made mini-doughnuts, Emerald Fontaine mans a booth dispensing coffee cherry cocktails and glittery biscuits to attendees. During the interval those who found a knitted doughnut (Rose can knit literally anything) under their seat were inveigled into climbing the stage to take part in a doughnut- eating contest. The audience are a mix, some are there as Lynch fans (as decent scores in the Lynchian quiz revealed), some as cabaret fans and others just for the atmosphere. The tables were booked largely by regulars even though this club has only taken place for a few months. The next one is the night after this missive, but they happen monthly. Should a night of dark mayhem, camp giggles and sweet things appeal it is a highly recommended way to spend an evening.

http://www.myspace.com/thedoublerclub

Last Days of Decadence, Shoreditch.

When The Last Days of Decadence first opened I was impressed by the fact they asked some beautiful people such as the lovely Lawrence Gullo to adorn their opening. Sensible as the club's schtick is that it intends to recall the style and elegance of the past. The venue has made a visible attempt to revive this in their interior, utilising decorative glass, veneered walls and art deco flourishes. This is more successful upstairs where there is an element of ocean liner lounge about the place. Downstairs, (due no doubt to the exigencies of providing a stage, mc booth and dancefloor) is less atmospheric. I have been here a couple of times, and apart from problems dealing with serving drinks to crowds, always seemingly a set back in most newish venues, have always quite liked it. Last Saturday, along with Torquil Arbuthnot of The Chap, the ever-stylish Fleur de Guerre and her beau I dropped in on the venue's flagship night: 'Saturdays at the Last Days of Decadence'.

One of the venue's stained glass windows.

I did this with some trepidation. Not because of either the organiser who seems on the ball, nor due to the cabaret acts which have, I have noticed, been of a continually high quality. The thing I am always worried about is crowd control. This is because I possess a prejudice. I have come to dislike the typical Hoxton/Shoreditch/Bethnal Green type. Most are really young, so there is that unescapable problem: many but not all people under the age of 22 have nothing much of interest to say about anything. Then there is the 'look', it is just rubbish. That skinny jean, stoopid pork pie hat, poor attempt at a beehive ingenue geldof/chung/Lott look is really incredibly...boring. Oh, and then there is the general entitled boorishness and the poshness. So basically every sinew of this Londoner's body wants to scream 'back to the Home Counties Scumbags!' oh, and stop complimenting me on my 'costume', just because I know how to brush my hair. Can't tho..because then I am being rude. The problem is that this talentless demographic dominate the Easty areas (all the really fashionable are now in Peckham rumour has it, hmmm) and decadent style + Hoxtonite is an oxymoron. Someone had actually warned a chum off entering LDD (as I shall now call it) as the occupants would 'point and laugh' at him.

The upstairs bar at LDD.

Pleasantly, my fears were unfounded. I thought the crowd on this particualar night were polite and pleasant. Not all were dressed to the nines, which was a shame but Valentine's night shenanigans might have robbed to club of some of it's more flamboyant regulars. There was also that missapprehension that decadent retro = wrapping some type of ribbon or band around your head: flapper. But it is better than wondering around in in some crappy jeans and urban outfitter designed tea towel. Not good to be snobby but I can't help it however I thought a lot of the girls looked really sweet. I was also charmed to enter the place and find a pianist playing wonderfully, I was even happier to find that the first cocktail I received, a white lady, was well mixed. I also liked the proper table cloths and thought the door staff efficient and friendly, even though the group of girls in front of us seemed to be checking in all their worldly posessions! I suspect that they had changed in a toilet on the way.

Seating in the upstairs bar.

The downsides were small and not uncommon. The choice of music played was spot-on, very good selection of 20's/30's/40's ditties; but wayyyy too loud. Once you have to yell at your companions any effort to be suave, louche or stylish is damned to failure, unless you are stranded on a sinking ocean liner. But this may be down to my advanced years. I didn't venture downstairs for the cabaret as I was familiar with the line-up, a good one again. It seemed ,when I poked my head down for a look, very crowded and lively so nothing wrong there. Sadly the cocktails chopped and changed in quality and speed of delivery once the bar was under pressure; all cocktails from a bar should be the same. But they were not cheating on the alcohol content, and I know how hard it is to produce cocktails at speed. A couple of bar meetings and that could be sorted.

Stained glass windows from the street entrance.

I'd summarise the evening as a worthwhile expedition from the West End, I think it is probably, in fact, the only worthwhile Saturday entertainment in the area. If you are brave enough to march your quiff/cravat/evening dress/victory rolls/sublime drag past some of the groups of young scruffy men from Guildford looking for 'edge' outside the other bars it's certainly worth an expedition. The quibbles were small, and this is as pleasant a place, and a lot pleasanter than many in Soho to spend the weekend. I think it is better suited to a party night out with friends than assignations. And those stained glass windows are terribly pretty. So all in all a thumbs up for this night and the club in general.

Chap Anarcho Dandy Ball Saturday 5th December

As some know the bearded one is very involved with that remarkable publication 'The Chap Magazine' which celebrated it's tenth anniversary with a ball at Holborn's Conway Hall on Saturday the 5th of December. In view of this fact and the rarity of Chap parties (the last being five years previously) it was highly anticipated. Red legs put on her favourite 30's evening hat, a long frock and some slap and headed off into a rainy night....

The venue is an interesting spot, a gathering place for humanist and ethical groups it was an intriguing combination of fine wooden panelled town hall circa 1930, school gymnasium from Daisy Pulls it Off and Scout hut. I was particularly taken with the jellyfish panel on one corridor wall featuring sea life made out of mysterious plastic substances. Upon entering the hall one was greeted by a charming trio of chaps singing cheerily and playing the saw. Also by the entrance was a stall selling little cakes and sausage rolls, untouched early in the evening a few hours and several gins later guests fell upon them. In addition there was the Mao Tse Tung lounge run by the stellar Louise, a Hendricks gin bar and the main hall.

The atmosphere was interesting, the guests were an amalgam of various distinct groups, nearly all were dressed up to the nines, those that were not stood out. What a pleasant change from the pervading norm! As Twin and Tonic and Mr B performed I had a fine view from the balcony. It revealed gothy ladies in peacock feathers twirling to Glenn Miller tunes, chaps in tweed plus fours waving their pipes in the air and throwing shapes and the skillful and not so skillful dancing, completely democratically to whatever music played. The floor was littered with paper aeroplanes from an act I had missed but which were intermittently retrieved and hurled through the air to land in surprised chapettes' gin and tonics. The acts I saw were good, but I missed many. More fun was to be had catching up with people not seen for an age. It was a pleasure to see the military uniforms from various eras, the steam punk contingent combining tweed with mechanical swagger, Vivienne of Holloway giggling with a small coterie of perfectly dressed fifties rockabilly poppets, the 40's types lindy hopping far too proficiently, the pale skinned flappers and lots of ladies with pin curled hair and gents with real facial hair. Shame however on the few fake tache wearers, grow them gentleman please! An honourable exception was one chap with a preposterous big black Dennis the Menace merkin-like facial attachment which, of course, worked perfectly.

Mr Gustav Temple looked splendid in his topper, Mr Sebastian Horsley stood out in his remarkable chimney of a stove piper and Mr David Piper provided an elegant, laconic contrast to the chap hoppers in the front row. Mr Micheal Attree's paranormal chaporgasmic presentation was educational but I am concerned that he may be in trouble with the Save the Mermaid rabble. Louise looked marvellously oriental in her kimono and Mr Torquil Arbuthnot was elusive, red legs spent a great deal of the night searching for him.... In short there was enough chaos and sillliness to remind those there that the Chap has never been the resort of the young fogey who wants to be an aristocrat or of the disenchanted hooray...but for the intelligent flaneur who walks through life with paradoxical disdain for modern vulgarity coupled with a great enthusiasm for, modern vulgarity.

Of course there were set backs, perfection is always elusive. The chaps and chapettes characteristically drank one of the bars dry of gin, the queues for bar and dressing room were overlong but the greatest problem was a) that it finished too early and b) we might have to wait another five years for the next one. Mr Temple listen up your people need you!

oh la la! French frolics in Fleet Street...review and pictures.

A little bit of France in rainy London

The New Sheridan Party took place last Saturday. Despite losing a few of our favourite members to the Rythm Riot plenty of others braved the gales and driving rain to make it to the Punch Tavern. Actually the stormy night made what is one of the most attractive pubs in London even more welcoming, and once through the door one was greeted by Torquil de Arbuthnot, replendent in waiters garb. In fact the committee were all dressed as waiters, I should watch out next time you visit your favourite bistro. The interior was mirrored and full of the twinkling of candles and, later on, gentlemen's monocles. One of the greatest pleasures of the night was watching the flamboyant guests arrive in small groups, shaking the rain off.
The entertainment of the night included Marcel Lucont, a French styled comedian who had nice line in droll dry wit and a dislike of the London Tube system. In addition the lovely Maria Trevis warbled her way through a selection of French, and not so French ditties, teasing and involving the crowd (always a brave move at the NSC). In the games room onion battle, a variation on the game 'orange battle' popularised by the Burlesque Brunchers was played. Pinning the legs on the frog, well a frog of distinctly non-French origin anyway, kept things going. The raffle was keenly followed and to celebrate the club's anniversary the 'Northern Contingent' represented by Mr Rupert Bell presented the committee with a monster sized French Fancy.

It was a splendid night. Attendees were as ever eclectic yet stylish, berets, can-can ruffles, plus-fours, corsetry, feathers and uniforms, napoleonic or otherwise were much in evidence. The New Sheridan Club bi annual parties are small, perfectly formed and in my experience of London's night life unique. Antique victorian ankle boots, hand sewn ruffles, rainy tits, rogue moustaches and absinthe induced languor were all in evidence.
The pictures below give some indication of the flavour of the event. Hopefully I will see everyone again at the Chap ball for a bit of seasonal fop-anarchism...

Claudia and Krista discussing X factor...(no not really)
Bon vivants!
Mr Rupert Bell





The cure and Jessie


Its that gentleman again.....
Baron and Baroness of Bermondsey

Pretty ladies

Liberty, fraternity and crisps...
Oi! who nicked my tickler?!
Suave guests...
Hmm, not sure if I'd want to run into this lot on a dark night in Montmartre..
Laurence tells JJ about his plans for world Alpaca domination
The Earl of Waveney points at Catherines drink...

Grace certainly can-can as Chuckles and Harry indicate..

The committee in their pinniesMr Arbuthnot .

More photographs can be seen on the NSC flickr page here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/sheridanclub/sets/

And also here, taken by Mr Bertram: http://www.flickr.com/photos/thebeatnut/sets/72157622738743489/

Enchanted Ed Wood some photographs by Red Legs...

Halloween at the Fox...

A few choice pictures for Halloween, not naming names .. they know who they are! The Fox in Shoreditch looked suitably Autumnal. Full of bits of twig and leafiness, I had visions of Fleur heading to her local park wearing a burglar's mask and wielding seccateurs.  I was informed that the exuberant English country side adorning the window ledges was actually sourced from the...English countryside. There were also naturally jack-o-lanterns and other such things and the Tim Burton Ed Wood Biopic was shwing on the noctovision.  The bar staff looked very elegant in rather severe black cocktail dresses and the treats for early birds were absinthe toffee apples and jellies which I suspect were alcoholic. Well Torquil Arbuthnot was eating one despite the beard vs jelly dilemma.  The cocktails were themed but Red Legs stuck to cranberry juice, vodka and bubbly.

The vintagey crowd meant that there were rather a lot of spiv/40's and 50's stuff, the lindy hop crowd not being known for their imaginative approach to clothing. Exceptions included Lost Soul and his splendid fez, a rather convincing dead pin-up, some voodoo loungers of the old school and a gentleman of the steampunk persuasion who was doing beastly things to a stuffed rabbit. The rabbit got its own back in the loos when its tormentor had to negotiate the rabbit and a long apron in order to relieve himself. Not that I was in the gents loos...for once.

Music wise there was some traditional stuff at the beginning, Addams family theme and such like which is essential. The band, the Sax Pastilles played two storming sets but really orientated to the jivers and lindy-hoppers, and the energetic amongst those. I must admit though I really hankered for some Siouxsie and Sisters, is this the first Halloween I have had without hearing 'This Corrosion'?

The performances were popular, or rather sounded popular, the popularity of the event meant that unless you were quick you couldn't get into see the acts due to the enthusiastic crowd but it is a new club and the organisers will be able to gauge things really well next time. Didn't worry me in the least apart from missing Rose Thorne's performance, proper cabaret burlesque with dramatic verve and wit.  Naked ladies and tassels are a bit passe IMO, but cabaret never loses it's appeal. We did catch Emerald Fontaine walking on the bar with a snake.  The serpent in question seemed quite cheerful, but one of my friends was not so impressed, convinced that it had it's snakey eyes on her! and to be honest maybe it did.

All in all a good evening, made by the efforts of the stirling organisers but most of all by the friendliness of the crowd.  Pleasant clubbable people is the thing most hard to find at night in London.  People don't have to be uber stylish, trendy, every word an aphorism as long as they are pleasant and interesting and yes, just a bit insane.  The next event has a 'hula' theme so expect grass skirts and hawaii shirts to take over Shoreditch!