Marc Jacobs Bang @ Harvey Nicks

Whilst out and about in London a week last Friday night, I came across one of the coolest shop displays I've ever seen. In fact, to call it merely a 'shop display' seems not only inaccurate, but almost disrespectful. This stuff was frickin' awesome, and more like a full on art installation.

This 'car' was pure horsepower:

Clothes-peg dress!

Cassette piano:

 

 I love the stool!

Time to get down to the nuts and bolts...

This one was tree-lly good:

Far, far better than that excruciatingly bad pun I just made (sorry!):

Ooooh. And finally, a spot of light reading:

You can read this man's face like a book:

AWESOME.

All the way along, I was so perplexed, thinking, what is this, what is it FOR? Answer:

All of this, for a fragrance? Wow.

If you're ever in Knighstbridge, check it out, it's definitely worth a gander.

Ode to Byron

From the outside, Byron looks, by all accounts, like somewhere or something I ought to hate. Painstakingly shabbified, it looks like it would be much more at home in Shoreditch than Angel, and cuts a slightly incongruous figure amidst the chains, boutique shops and cosmopolitan eateries of Angel's Upper Street. It also wasn't immediately obvious to me what it was... a new contemporary art gallery, perhaps? An opium den? Somewhere where all the cool cats congregate, dressed in, God I dunno, pyjamas and bowler hats? (I'm so not down with the kids....)

But no! Byron is, in fact, a restaurant dedicated to the art of hamburgery. It is also a chain, with ten restaurants around London, each with its own distinct flavour and decor. And I'm glad I overcame my initial prejudice because beneath the unvarnished, untreated veneer of pretentiousness is actually a bloody good restaurant, with lovely, friendly staff and possibly one of the best burgers in town.

My personal favourite (although, admittedly, it's the only one I've tried) is the Blue Cheese burger; the only word I can think of to describe it is: FIT. This, plus fries, plus Oreo milkshake (oh yes) = perfection. All the burgers at Byron are cooked medium unless specified otherwise. They come pink in the middle but not bleeding, juicy, and enveloped in a soft, white bun; a warning though, if you attack it with as much gusto as I usually do you may end up with an unattractive flour beard. Not a good look. I don't particularly care for the odd and rather sad looking gherkin garnish, but that's inconsequential. Best thing of all, it's possible to eat here for under a tenner. I've yet to try the desserts, but only because everytime I've been in I've been too full/satiated, but I bet they're delicious. Byron, I salute you!

mmmm

shabby chic

Sex and the City 2: a rant

Mark Kermode recently named Sex and the City 2 as the number 1 worst film he's seen so far this year. Whilst I struggle to understand how Twilight: Eclipse features as number 5 on his top 5 best films of the year (he's seen it 3 times...?!), I find it difficult to disagree with him on this one.

Sex and the City 2 is, unfortunately, a steaming turd of a movie. I say 'unfortunately' because I am a big fan of the series. I also did not hate the first film. In fact, having rewatched it fairly recently I quite enjoyed it. But this one... jeez Louise.

For a start, it's proof, if ever any more proof is needed, that simply throwing shitloads of money at a film and hoping for the best is not a recipe for success. It falls foul to sequelitis, an endemic problem in Hollywood, whereby 'bigger' does not translate into better, just ... dumber.

It's also overlong and pointless. The running time surpasses the 2 hour mark, and yet nothing really happens. If this was Beckett I might not mind, but it's not. The plot is paper-thin, if not non-existent, and the entire film consists mainly of the following: a ridiculously OTT gay wedding, complete with swans and Liza Minnelli gyrating through an ill-advised rendition of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies", a whole lot of interior porn, and a bit of a jolly in Abu Dhabi (actually a dressed up Marrakech). The film was marketed as the fun, light-hearted romp in contrast to its more serious and emotionally heavy predecessor, but laughs are few and far between, and you get the distinct impression that the cast and crew probably had a lot more fun making it than we do watching it.

For me, given that I have such fondness for the series, this is bad enough - better make no film at all than sully the original by making something dull and mediocre - but there are two particular scenes in the film where my mild boredom and disappointment turned into distaste. Both appear towards the end.

So, to the first. Disgraced by Samantha's sexual indiscretions on the beach (though she insists they were 'only kissing'), the girls race through the souk, at risk of missing their flight. Samantha, struggling with menopausal hot flashes, strips down to a strappy top and short skirt. Miranda implores her to cover up, as they start to attract unwanted attention; men nearby become incensed at this show of public indecency. A kerfuffle ensues. Samantha falls down, and her bag falls open, spewing its contents out onto the floor. Shock horror, amongst the make-up and other lady accoutrements is... a string of condoms. Of course, this being Samantha, it's not just one or two; closer to twelve maybe. The fervour of the mob increases. Samantha, in defiance, holds the condoms aloft, like a cockerel puffing out its chest feathers, shouting, "YES. I HAVE SEX. SEX!" and with every utterance of the 's' word, waggles them boorishly in the faces of the nearest male bystander.

Samantha in New York is all about pushing the bounds of propriety, and I am all for that. Her antics are frequently outrageous and hilarious. She has balls. She does whatever the hell she likes, and she doesn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Most of all, she gets away with it. We love her because she says and does things many of us would never even dream of. But this Samantha, in Abu Dhabi? It's not funny, it's just sad! It's positively tragic. Though it sounds like a bit of an oxymoron, even when pushing the bounds of propriety, there's a time and a place and this clearly isn't it. And so in under a minute, one of my favourite characters crosses the line of good taste and transforms into a loud, brash American, inappropriate, insensitive and in-your-face. In short, a bit of a dick. A little part of me died of embarrassment.

Things swiftly go from bad to worse. With Samantha's outburst, the girls find themselves in a real pickle, but they are rescued by the furtive glances and gestures of a handful of mysterious figures, bedecked in burkhas. These women take pity on the four hapless Westerners, sympathising with their plight from patriarchal censure and oppression. The next five minutes are even more excruciating than the last, as these Abu Dhabi women, excited to hear that their newfound friends hail from New York City, doff their burkhas to reveal flashy outfits underneath, from a wide variety of famous Western designers. Female solidarity. Yay. Prompted by this impromptu fashion show, Carrie reflects on how, though she and her friends are a thousand miles away in a strange and foreign land, these women are really, underneath, Just Like Us. *vomits* WHYYYYY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT. It felt like being patted on the head. With a hammer. Incredibly patronising, incredibly annoying, and also quite painful. Cookie-cutter feminism at its most offensive.

So there we have it. This film is about as subtle and as funny as my dad. I.e. not very. It's also about as respectful to the memory of the series as turning up to its funeral in a bikini and pissing on the casket. I think the worst thing about it though is that, for any newcomers to the series, naysayers or skeptics, it will probably confirm their worst suspicions about why they shouldn't bother. Which is a real shame.

Ad watch: Old Spice

A friend recently introduced me to this stroke of advertising genius. Considering Old Spice is like the quintessentially uncool Dad/Granddad aftershave from yesteryear, engineering this complete turnaround is mightily impressive. And hilarious. I'm now trawling my way through the twitter response vids and pissing myself. SWAN DIVE!

Ad Watch: Madeira? More like Oh-dear-a!

If you're living in London and are a regular Tube goer, look out for this ad:

Whilst travelling up or down an escalator, you may come across 3 or 4, (or if you're in Angel going up the reaaaally long escalator, it's more like 5 or 6) which will give you plenty of opportunity to look, look again, and maybe think to yourself as I did: WTF??

I think this might be the worst advert I have ever seen. It looks like something my 9 year old self might've bashed out in Word at 11 o'clock at night for a piece of IT homework. All that's missing is a shitty 3D WordArt title, some clipart of a kooky little stick man enjoying a cocktail, and a gradient. And maybe some Comic Sans, just for good measure.

I'm not sure what upsets me more. Perhaps the photographs themselves - a series of uninspiring cut-and-paste jobbies of semi-unattractive people looking happy doing random 'fun stuff' (e.g. the smiling bride and the man in a chef's hat - what is this meant to imply exactly? Come to Madeira, where people sometimes get married, and, erm, eat food that someone else has cooked?) - or the fact that whoever pooed this out in 5 minutes seems to have purposely chosen not to align the 2 photos at the bottom, in order to create a 'jaunty' but visually chaotic little step effect for the sub header to sit on.

I don't know why this ad offends me so much, but it does. :P I think what adds to my bafflement is that there are SO MANY of them dotted around the London Underground - the Madeira tourist board clearly have the money to place these ads, so why didn't they pay someone to actually do a decent job? I half think it'd be better to just have a big headline against a plain background saying something like: "Madeira....it's where the cake's at." It'd certainly be less, shall I say.... half-baked??

The thing is, I was so bugged that I actually google-searched Madeira to see if I could find a version of the ad online so that I could share my pain with others. Turns out I didn't find anything, hence having to resort to photographic evidence, but you know what I did find out instead? That Madeira actually looks really nice. And full of tropical flowers, dramatic landscapes, crystal blue sea, and posh marinas:
http://www.madeira-web.com/PagesUK/index.html

So, this got me thinking. Is this the worst ad ever, or is it in fact a cunning stroke of genius? I'm starting to lean towards the latter, cos the irony is, I knew nothing about Madeira before, but now it's established itself in my brain as a potential holiday destination, and not an unappealing one either. Ooh, Tourist Board, you little scamps.

St Pancras Grand: champagne and afternoon tea

In general, I would say that 'train station' is not usually synonymous with chic, gourmet dining. Most train stations have nothing more than a little booth selling Kit Kats and crisps and offensively overpriced chewing gum (50p?? really???); if you're lucky they might have an AMT (try the Chai steamer, it's delish). And then the bigger stations may have a Burger King, or a Harry Ramsden's, or some generic Wetherspoon's type pub. But on the whole, convenience is the defining factor - style and quality are usually sorely lacking.

Not so with St Pancras, but then this isn't any station. Now I'm not, like, some anorak-donning train station enthusiast, but it's hard not to be impressed by the grandeur and elegance of St Pancras station.

On the first floor of the station, brushing shoulders with the Eurostar, is the St Pancras Grand Restaurant, Oyster and Champagne Bar.

Toptable is currently running several different offers at St Pancras Grand, one of which is "2 for 1: champagne afternoon tea". Last Saturday, my good friend Helen was visiting for the day; we're both big fans of afternoon tea and the station was a convenient link for both of our homeward journeys, so we decided it'd be a perfect opportunity to check it out.

Inside, the decor is all leather and mahogany, clean lines and art deco flourishes. However, when we arrived, at about 5pm on a Saturday, the restaurant was pretty empty, aside from a group of merry, well-to-do looking women in front of us who clearly had a similar brainwave.

After traipsing round Hampton Court Palace all afternoon in the sunshine on an empty stomach, our hunger and excitement were palpable. We wasted no time ordering our tea. The champagne came first. It was pink and very drinkable. I felt tipsy after one sip, but then I am a ridiculous lightweight.

Soon after came our 'tea' (for the uninitiated, traditional afternoon tea usually takes the form of finger sandwiches + cakes + scones accompanied by tea, so not really tea at all!). My first impression, I have to admit, was not great. I've only ever had champagne afternoon tea once before, so admittedly I don't have much precedent for what to expect, but in my mind, afternoon tea embodies a concept of quaint 'Englishness'. I think of dainty blue and white china tea cups, and Jane Austen.

There was nothing quaint about this afternoon tea. It was served on a three-tiered stand - pretty standard - but the stand itself seemed freakishly big. It took quite a lot of rearranging of side plates, glasses and cutlery to fit both of the stands on our table. To go with the giant stands were giant white plates, on which sat our sandwiches, scones, and three cakes, looking tiny and forlorn in comparison.

'Is that it?' I said to Helen, with a rude, champagne-fuelled grimace. I eyed the scones with particular skepticism - firstly there were only two, which seemed a bit stingy to me, and secondly they were quite flat and had a suspicious, oily sheen to them.

But then any skepticism gave way to sheer hunger, and we tucked in, working our way down from the top (however, the size of the stands meant that we had to actually get up from our seats to reach the sandwiches).

Things vastly improved once the actual eating began. Even the scones, though they appeared slightly unappetising on first appearance, were warm and soft and delicious.

Ironically, in the end, neither of us could finish, each conceding defeat to one last cake, so any doubts I had as to the size of the portions were ill-founded. I blame the plates!

Afterwards we went outside to have a couple of glasses of bubbly at the Champagne Bar. The majority of the seating in the bar takes the form of comfy little booths which run alongside the length of the Eurostar platform, and from here you can look out onto the concourse below. I quite liked the buzz of travellers milling about beneath us, and the station hustle and bustle formed a pleasant backdrop to our evening drinks. However the Eurostar trains are pretty loud as they pull into the station, so the Tardis-like grinding and whirring every half hour or so was less ambient.

My sister mentioned that she had been to St Pancras Grand once before with clients, and her verdict was something along the lines of: "Yeah, it's nice, and great if you're on your way to or from somewhere, but I'm not sure I'd go out of my way to go there specifically."

I can see what she means. But I'd definitely recommend the St Pancras Grand. It offers a stylish little respite from the madness that can be travelling through London, in beautiful surroundings, and if you take advantage of the offers it's really good value.

supperclub: near miss or missed opportunity?

Yesterday, the sun did something funny to my brain. After so many months of wet, grey, dreary weather, the sudden appearance of sunshine, warm and golden, was like being hit by a big (squishy) bat of hope and optimism. I was suddenly seized by the desire to do...something! One of my madcap ideas was to hop on a train and get out of the city for the day, to Bath, or Brighton, or somewhere (crazy, I know :P), but unfortunately I couldn't recruit someone to go with me at such sort notice.

Eventually, I settled on West London as my destination of choice, seduced by the idea of drinking Pimm's in a pub somewhere and wandering down Portobello Road, happy-snapping blossom trees and multi-coloured Georgian terraced houses.

However at the time I made this decision, it was lunchtime and I was hungry. So off to Toptable I went, looking for somewhere nice to go for lunch or dinner. Along my travels, I came across a very intriguing looking place called 'supperclub'. At this stage I should have realised something was potentially iffy - after all, any eating or drinking establishment which insists on putting its name in lowercase usually has something to hide. If it were a person it would probably be stroking its beard and peering ponderously at me over thick, oversized black frames muttering something about Sartre.

But maybe that's a bit unfair, so I'm going to let the blurb from Toptable do the talking:

Step inside Notting Hill’s supperclub and you will feel like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole. All white inside, the supperclub is an extension of a worldwide brand of restaurant which was originally launched by a group of Amsterdam artists. Instead of being seated at tables, diners lounge around on oversized white mattresses while being fed kooky four-course meals by waiters in conceptual fancy dress that would put Lady Gaga to shame. Despite the overly avant garde approach – supperclub is actually a lot of fun and plays a great mix of electronica, camp disco and 80s tunes throughout the night. Fussy eaters beware – there is no menu to choose from – you simply eat what you are served.

Interesting eh? It sounds quite good on paper, but the phrases 'originally launched by a group of Amsterdam artists' and 'overly avant garde approach' rang more alarm balls in my head. Only a few weeks ago I suffered the crushing disappointment of a night out at Shunt, where I was served four courses of 'pretentious wank' with a side of 'attitude', and where 'tunes' were, sadly, strictly off the menu.

Anyway, the google reviews finally clinched it for me - an average rating of 3 stars out of 5, and the 3 most recent reviews all gave supperclub a measly, damning 1 star. Suddenly the prospect of spending £45 at a place described by Fluid Foundation as "not cool, chic or classy in any way what so ever" became very unappealing.

Here is the official website:
http://www.supperclub.com/

What do you reckon? Should I have gone? Should I maybe try it on a Wednesday or a Thursday when there's 40% off? I'd be really interested to hear from anyone who's been before.

Luckily, though, the day was not a waste. I did have Pimm's, and I did happy-snap a blossom tree! :)