Vintage at Southbank...another impression of the day.

I spent most of the weekend before last at Vintage at Southbank. Now I need to get one thing clear, I had a ball. This was because I was involved in the Chap Olympiad. This was with a group of the most committed yet most un-up themselves retro types you can find. The event even in truncated form is entertaining and the ‘great British public’ turned out to be great sports and the sun shone on us. In return for rolling up and making fools of ourselves for several hours and being photographed into oblivion we had free passes and some free refreshments. So for me it was basically a week with people I like and respect, helping others have fun. Win win really although quite exhausting, time had to be taken out of the day job the following Monday to recover.

The festival itself was an odd beast. The bulk of the vintage shopping available was outside as was the High Street which seems to be one of the distinctive features of this particular event. And both were free, as was the Chap Olympiad although sadly the organisational side of things was a bit of a mess, we were not signposted and helpers at the Hall didn’t know who we were despite the fact that the Olympiad was all over the printed publicity. I could not help feeling that the complaints of those who paid £60.00 per day for access to the Festival were understandable. Inside the Festival Hall the music/performance side of things appeared to be DJ top heavy and there were fewer live acts than I might have expected, especially as entry to the main Revues incurred extra charges on top of the entry cost. There was also no effective air conditioning so it was very, very hot. I have heard however that the Festival organisers might not be responsible as the Hall has been having problems with this in recent weeks. Sadly dancing in the Let it Rock and Black Cotton Club areas was near impossible as a result which was a shame. 

Sitting on the grass day 2

I am also, and this is me personally, ambivalent about crafting and painting workshop type events. I find them a bit ‘middle class person at a boutique festival’. I don’t want to trim a hat or make a skirt when I am skittling around with my chums drinking beer and looking for music. That’s not to say that fashion shouldn’t take a centre stage and in fact this is where I think the Hemingway’s are really on to something. I think more fashion, maybe millinery and make up demonstrations; talks and lectures would have been great. I felt these would be more effective than having girls queue up for ages to have a makeover. Perhaps rows of mirrors and hairspray and Kirby grips could be provided for them to play with. I would have liked far more fashion shows; in fact a day of them would have kept me happy. Although I am biased I really wish that last year’s Chap fashion show had been repeated as I was sad to miss it at Goodwood and I feel that self-styling is at the heart of British fashion. Featuring some of the major repro brands and perhaps a ‘sub-cults’ of Britain show would have been entertaining as would more menswear.

Unsurprisingly I loved the British Airways fashion show which I really enjoyed and which the organisers did a good job of sourcing. I liked the Style Lounge on the upper floor balcony which was some kind of discofied thing, not my cup of tea but the music suited the space and it looked like the people up there were really enjoying it. It was startling to see so many people dressed up and often dressed well, especially those who probably don’t do so regularly: all those young girls ditching asymmetrical bagginess in favour of a pretty dress and a flower in the hair was a refreshing sight.  I didn’t make it into the Warehouse Hacienda style basement as I just didn’t fancy that on a hot summer day in a hot building and being an 80’s girl I felt no need to revisit. Dancing the hokey pokey with hordes of jivers later in the day was however hilarious and the John Miller Orchestra who were headlining kept us happily there until late on Sunday night. As a local girl I also bitterly regret missing the opportunity to dance the Lambeth Walk around the Festival Hall!  The atmosphere, especially when the place thinned out in the evening reminded you of what an involved friendly and interesting crowd of people the Hemingway’s were (partially) catering for.

Bethan, myself and Fleur squaring up to Mr Wax..

Perhaps the festival was really intended to be a mass market taster for the general public tapping into the current craze for all things vintage rather than an event for the aficionado. Most big successful festivals do not start this way, they cater for a core group, and when they start doing that really well they naturally expand, and naturally make money.

It was an ambitious and no doubt costly event to put on, a first in that venue and held at time when we are watching our purse strings. Many festivals catering to the retro crowd are big but they are also very good value, having said that if a festival is good it is a crowd that will spend large amounts of money. I know people need to make money but the truism is these things work best when they are born out of enthusiasm, for music, era and the community attached to it and sometimes I got the feeling there was not enough love there. Actually that’s not entirely fair there were obviously lots of people involved who were very committed to its success. Certainly although we were there as Chap Olympiad peeps, we worked hard (particularly Bethan) to make this a good spectacle for anyone who turned up to watch/participate. Similarly I saw lots of people I know happily explaining their clothing to visitors, smiling at tourists and having their photographs taken with children; this is not a cliquey elitist bunch of people.

I would have liked to have said hello to Mr Hemingway himself but I didn’t see him (although I get the feeling he is probably growing sick of seeing us). It must appear that people are possessive and critical of an ‘outsider’ barging into ‘their’ scene but I don’t feel that is really the case. When things go wrong it is easy to be smug when my attitude is that I want to see people do well. I have also always respected people who do things rather than sitting around talking about them.

Chap olympiad peeps day 1

The organisers should get some grass roots people from the various scenes together to see what did work and what might work better rather than relying on people supposedly higher up the food chain. I do think there is a market for a festival inspired by the past which includes cultural, style and fashion elements in addition to those already out there. Disorganisation, rude minions and the odd useless PR person can be set against the most cheerful jive and lindy instructors in town, Viv the Spiv exhorting observers to get dancing and those house fans going nuts on the balcony.

Pictures nicked from Ed, Manthe amongst others...

Were you there, what did you think?

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.

Not a field in Somerset but a Square in Bloomsbury...

"My wife got dressed up like Worzel Gummidge, put some bog roll in a bag and roared off in her Aston Martin to watch a bunch of useless teenagers singing in the rain at Glastonbury. I think she may have gone mad."

- Jeremy Clarkson

I am writing this because if I post it now, you dear reader still have a chance to get a ticket for the one festival I can wholeheartedly recommend and to another which is brand new and I would go to if it were not for a pronounced aversion to tents. That last sentence was probably enough to suggest that the ‘festival’is not my natural environment. I can see why teenagers might enjoy it, they enjoy just about anything that doesn’t include their parents and does include drugs.

In the past I’ll admit the open-air music festival did have an air of rebellious camaraderie. The exterior location redolent of pagan jollities, bandit festivities, revolting peasants and inclusive of recreational pursuits plus large bonfires was appealing. The lack of hard-sell, the cheapness of comestibles and the ad hoc entertainment made enduring hadean toilets, people peeing against your tents and indeed the struggle that is the tent itself tolerable. I can tell you that applying full Goth makeup in a 2 metre tall sodden Woolworth’s tent is no mean feat! The only establishment figures in evidence were a few disgruntled young policemen and the St John’s ambulance chaps providing a remarkably good natured ‘drunk’, ‘drugged’ or ‘ill’ triage service. There were very few twats, very little money and a great variety of people generally misbehaving in a harmless manner.

But look at festivals now. Hienously expensive mega-events that cost a week’s wages to attend. Tent segregation with the rich in their gypsy caravans and yurts. Sponsorship by major corporations. Pages on festival-fashion in the Daily Mail. Some festivals such as Bestival or the Secret Garden party attempt to carve a niche or be different but they cannot do much about the costs or some of their clientele. If I wanted to spend a weekend surrounded by accountants or management consultants Glastonbury would be absolutely the place to go. The urban working class type have no place unless they are serving burgers or looking after a bouncy castle. Nowadays an Oxbridge May Ball is more ‘alternative’.

However this years brand newVintage at Goodwood festival looks intriguing. If it attracts retro-types there will be an initial weeding of the festival goers. However it has extended its brief to cover the 70’s and 80’s so there may be a few twatkids in the mix, and like a mozzie in your room at night they are difficult to ignore. Nonetheless if I were not busy I would fancy it as a day ticket is not too expensive. The problem, as ever, is accommodation. The dreaded tent. There are the usual posh options which are unaffordable. Herein lies the rub. I know I cannot look nice staying in a tent, I know I will not sleep, I know they are insecure and my stuff may well get stolen. I cannot afford to spend the money I would spend on a holiday abroad on resolving these problems. Moreover I suspect that a major appeal of this festival is its shopping possibilities. But it may be worth a visit, Goodwood has form in organising retro events and I know some very nice people who will be there.

However I will get to go to the Chap Olympiad (a mini-me version of which is appearing at Vintage Goodwood). This was originally conceived of by the bearded one, as an antidote to events such as the Olympics; tainted as it is by it’s association with Coca Cola, corruption, winning at all costs and bad politics. The Chap Olympiad supports ideals of amateurism and fun leavened with a generous dose of surrealism. Competitors enter events such as ‘The Gin Martini Relay’, ‘Umbrella Jousting’ and ‘The Cucumber Sandwich Discus’. It is unsurprisingly organised by the Chap magazine, a publication with a long established anti-corporatist pro-eccentric stance. The Dandy Fop Anarchist hordes are gathered into Bedford Square for a day that promotes losing stylishly, or winning stylishly…if you must. The atmosphere is hard to describe but one friend felt it redolent of an episode of the Avengers. Certainly neither Steed not Mrs Peel would look or indeed feel out of place.

What particularly marks it out is the variety of attendees: steam punks preen, chaps wander around twirling moustaches and the only ‘rock chicks’ here are resplendent in fluffy skirts and kiss curls. Also how you enjoy yourself is up to you, no herd mentality. One year I am ashamed to say I was captain of the winning Martini Relay team, another year I spent in a champagne induced haze under a parasol. Unlike other festivals the portaloos are clean, the ticket prices reasonable and the only tents are protecting those carrying out such important jobs as providing tea or gin. Nor will it be commentated on by Edith Bowman or feature caterwauling indie bands or talentless R & B stars. The only powder encrusted around one’s nose will be loose face powder and Top Shop will not be selling Olympiad themed clothes manufactured by children in Laos. The only potential hazard is the lesser-striped moustachioed quail egg scoffer but even he asks first. In short the Chap Olympiad has the drugs (snuff), the sexy people (seamed stockings a go-go) and the Rock (and Roll) So get yourself a ticket …and if you do buy me a drink because this blogging is a thirsty business!

http://www.vintageatgoodwood.com/home.aspx

http://thechap.net/content/section_news/?p=356

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!

Big night out = Life is never simple

I don't want to look like this......

I want to look like this !

An event to go to, in this case the wonderful Chap Ball. Huzzah! What could be wrong with this? The Chap magazine celebrates Anarcho-chappism in a dada-situationist way, it will not be full of Twatkids or Hooray Henrys but friends. There hasn't been one for 10 years, I love the acts so what can happen.

Almost Immediately, being female, the challenge of apparel rears it's head. How I envy the chaps who just grow some whiskers and whip out their finest tweed/black tie/all in one pvc romper suit. Suddenly I start thinking, long skirt? short skirt? hair? up? down? makeup? hell I don't want sleeveless, or if I do I will have to buy a bolero or shrug, ooops oh no more money, I don't have any money, everyone has more money than me, everyone is younger than me, and slimmer, and can wear sleeveless and WAAAAAAHHHH!

So I find myself wandering through the hell that is Oxford Street on a damp Friday suspiciously eyeing up a selection of eye wateringly tacky sequinned shifts, I love sequins but if I were one I would be offended. Wagdom via a 1980's that I really don't recall, and I was there. I give up on the shops catering for the young and cheap with the short and cheap and head for the more ..ahem.. stately department stores. More luck here, try on a few dresses and they are all terrible, or rather a foot too long, with no waist. I finally find one, emerald green, quite a late 40s/50's look and with a little bit of sparkly stuff to stop me looking too matronly. Also its an unusual colour, not at all in fashion, quite unusual really. Turns out that two other friends are planning to wear green, it wouldn't matter if it were not for the fact that both are a) extremely pretty b) very svelte and c) much much younger than me. Otherwise the team green photographs would be fun, but little old round me next to two Chap magazine pin-ups? hmmmm. I think again, and order a dark blue dress on-line and am hoping vaguely that it might actually fit me. If not I will wear the green and embrace my elder stateswoman status by getting drunk, wandering around burping and telling everyone that the noughties are 'pants' and generally being an old bag.

Dress worries aside, my skin has decided to go wrong, it always does when I have something nice to go to, whenever I want to look ill, ie after I have been ill and return to work it looks perfectly fine. But what am I worrying about? two glasses of cava in and my face will be bright pink....
which brings me on to the subject of whether having my hair dyed a marmalade colour on Friday is a good idea? Still I think of Vivienne Westwood.. she gets away with it. I'm not even going to go down the shoe road, it leads to a circle of hell, you know the one with lots of women impaled on the massive heels of Jimmy Choos they cannot afford. Weariness envelopes me if I cogitate on the subject of jewellery and accessories and as for make-up, pah! Well it will all go wrong on the night, my skin will fall off and I'll end up looking quite a lot like Vivienne Westwood...

Only one thing for it: to remember the bearded one seems to like me whatever I wear, to recall that red hair is the rarest type in nature or un-nature and that the thing is to have a bit of a spree. So I plan to have fun, drink bubbles and have a laff. Even if I do look like a little round Christmas tree - do say hello if you see me there!

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/