SHAKE! Shimmmmy

Out to Marylebone for the Decanter wine tasting for which Jo has kindly arranged tickets despite the fact a) she no longer works there and b) she has gone off to ATP for the weekend. It is a new world event which means there’re a lot of men with Shane Warne hair and wine called Very Sexy Shiraz and Two in the Bush Chardonnay. Oddly, although I usually prefer Australian and South African vino to French or Italian, there’s nothing that really blows me away. We try a lot of sparkling Shiraz which is going to be the next big thing after rosé, believe me; the nicest of which is from Shingleback whose owner not only opens a new bottle of Sauv Blanc even though it’s 20 minutes to closing (after 4.30 p.m., most samples become a mere trickle - apart from the inebriated guy at the Pink Billy stand who pours me half a pint and shouts “you’re beautiful you know” to another stall holder), tells us that the sparkling red market needs more people “your age, in the 20-30 bracket”, and invites us over to Adelaide for a tour and a free wine-tasting at his vineyard. I bet he says that to the all the people pretending to be in the 20-30 age bracket. He also tells us that whilst the under £10 market is dominated by the Aussies, it’s hard to sell the more upmarket wines because supermarkets et al prefer to have Old World in the fine wines selection. Tesco want to sell his reserve Cab Sauv for £15, whereas it has a £30 price tag in Australia.

Anyway. We leave and go to the traditional post-vinous pub, the Hobgoblin, which is shut. The police have closed down the pubs in the area because of football fans returning from Wemberley and cricket fans from St Johns Wood. Yeah, I’ve often seen running battles between one set of old men in blue blazers and straw hats and a rival crew. As for the football, well, I hope it’s not an overstatement to say it feels rather police-statey to close down places in order to pre-empt trouble. Like banning a demonstration because they think it will get rough.

So we walk through a pleasant Regents Park to Euston and eat on Drummond Street. Because Jana and Andrea aren’t keen on vegetables, we choose the meat-serving Bhel Poori House (not to be confused with the wholly veg Diwana Bhel Poori House on the same road). The food is ok, but the service uninterested and the atmosphere non-existent. They don’t turn on the lights, but turn up the music. Unasked, they bring popadoms and then charge £4 for them (this is a restaurant experience which never fails to annoy me). So yeah, force your carnivorous friends to eat an aubergine rather than go there, dear reader. As we leave, I notice that during the daytime it’s a cybercafé; this may have been our essential error.

Jana and Andrea go home and Dave, Heike and I continue our walk, stopping off at a couple of pubs, one with a bunch of loud young people and another with a group of loud Chelsea fans complete with plastic FA trophy and a lot of anti-Man United songs (To the tune of She’ll be coming round the mountain: “If your dad’s Neville Neville, you’re a c—t”. They actually sing c—t, rather than fully pronouncing the word). However they’re not rioting down the street. Stupid police. The bar staff turn up the jukebox when they start singing.

We leave and go through quiet west end back streets to the Phoenix for the Smiths special of How Does it Feel. The guest DJs play a little too much 60s bubblegum for my liking, but Ian is on top form with Orange Juice, Lucky Soul, The Primitives, We’re from Barcelona, Martha Reeves, and of course the contents of the first Smiths album. I may be an old git but Hand in Glove sounds as fresh and exciting and different and honest as it did in 1983. It’s a cliché, especially amongst the 30-40 age bracket, to still adore the Smiths but then again it’s hard to break the habit of half a lifetime. It’s strange, at the age of 34 to know that you’re never going to fall in love again, with a person, with a popgroup. The last band that were truly mine would have to be Belle and Sebastian, the last time I thought a band were going to change the world, the last time a band made me feel a sense of belonging. Every band, like every lover, lets you down and I fell out of love with them at around the Fold Your Hands mark. They were terribly derivative but it was done so well! And they were imitative of music that was before my time – that’s the important thing. Bands nowadays who sound like (e.g.) the Jam make me wonder why they bother, but that’s only because I’ve heard it all before. Conversely, the popgroups that make me go wow: Jens Lekman, Lucky Soul, Suburban Kids etc sound like the kind of thing I loved 15 years ago. But I don’t think any band will ever again make me feel as discombobulated and alive as the Smiths, and that’s pretty sad.

SHAKE! Shimmmmy

Out to Marylebone for the Decanter wine tasting for which Jo has kindly arranged tickets despite the fact a) she no longer works there and b) she has gone off to ATP for the weekend. It is a new world event which means there’re a lot of men with Shane Warne hair and wine called Very Sexy Shiraz and Two in the Bush Chardonnay. Oddly, although I usually prefer Australian and South African vino to French or Italian, there’s nothing that really blows me away. We try a lot of sparkling Shiraz which is going to be the next big thing after rosé, believe me; the nicest of which is from Shingleback whose owner not only opens a new bottle of Sauv Blanc even though it’s 20 minutes to closing (after 4.30 p.m., most samples become a mere trickle - apart from the inebriated guy at the Pink Billy stand who pours me half a pint and shouts “you’re beautiful you know” to another stall holder), tells us that the sparkling red market needs more people “your age, in the 20-30 bracket”, and invites us over to Adelaide for a tour and a free wine-tasting at his vineyard. I bet he says that to the all the people pretending to be in the 20-30 age bracket. He also tells us that whilst the under £10 market is dominated by the Aussies, it’s hard to sell the more upmarket wines because supermarkets et al prefer to have Old World in the fine wines selection. Tesco want to sell his reserve Cab Sauv for £15, whereas it has a £30 price tag in Australia.

Anyway. We leave and go to the traditional post-vinous pub, the Hobgoblin, which is shut. The police have closed down the pubs in the area because of football fans returning from Wemberley and cricket fans from St Johns Wood. Yeah, I’ve often seen running battles between one set of old men in blue blazers and straw hats and a rival crew. As for the football, well, I hope it’s not an overstatement to say it feels rather police-statey to close down places in order to pre-empt trouble. Like banning a demonstration because they think it will get rough.

So we walk through a pleasant Regents Park to Euston and eat on Drummond Street. Because Jana and Andrea aren’t keen on vegetables, we choose the meat-serving Bhel Poori House (not to be confused with the wholly veg Diwana Bhel Poori House on the same road). The food is ok, but the service uninterested and the atmosphere non-existent. They don’t turn on the lights, but turn up the music. Unasked, they bring popadoms and then charge £4 for them (this is a restaurant experience which never fails to annoy me). So yeah, force your carnivorous friends to eat an aubergine rather than go there, dear reader. As we leave, I notice that during the daytime it’s a cybercafé; this may have been our essential error.

Jana and Andrea go home and Dave, Heike and I continue our walk, stopping off at a couple of pubs, one with a bunch of loud young people and another with a group of loud Chelsea fans complete with plastic FA trophy and a lot of anti-Man United songs (To the tune of She’ll be coming round the mountain: “If your dad’s Neville Neville, you’re a c—t”. They actually sing c—t, rather than fully pronouncing the word). However they’re not rioting down the street. Stupid police. The bar staff turn up the jukebox when they start singing.

We leave and go through quiet west end back streets to the Phoenix for the Smiths special of How Does it Feel. The guest DJs play a little too much 60s bubblegum for my liking, but Ian is on top form with Orange Juice, Lucky Soul, The Primitives, We’re from Barcelona, Martha Reeves, and of course the contents of the first Smiths album. I may be an old git but Hand in Glove sounds as fresh and exciting and different and honest as it did in 1983. It’s a cliché, especially amongst the 30-40 age bracket, to still adore the Smiths but then again it’s hard to break the habit of half a lifetime. It’s strange, at the age of 34 to know that you’re never going to fall in love again, with a person, with a popgroup. The last band that were truly mine would have to be Belle and Sebastian, the last time I thought a band were going to change the world, the last time a band made me feel a sense of belonging. Every band, like every lover, lets you down and I fell out of love with them at around the Fold Your Hands mark. They were terribly derivative but it was done so well! And they were imitative of music that was before my time – that’s the important thing. Bands nowadays who sound like (e.g.) the Jam make me wonder why they bother, but that’s only because I’ve heard it all before. Conversely, the popgroups that make me go wow: Jens Lekman, Lucky Soul, Suburban Kids etc sound like the kind of thing I loved 15 years ago. But I don’t think any band will ever again make me feel as discombobulated and alive as the Smiths, and that’s pretty sad.