Season’s Greetings

As I’ve mentioned before, the onset of winter is just about my least favourite time of year, but I’m not just going to rant on about the cold/damp/dark/frost/dry skin/static hair/chapped lips/sense of impending doom (delete as applicable or select all of the above) and all the usual wintry woes. This year seems to have developed several specific annoyances all of its own...

Bug Bites

I know it’s rained for 6 months and it’s almost Halloween, but by natural law, there shouldn’t still be evil little vampiric flies and midges everywhere. And don’t get me started on the mosquitoes. I’m pretty sure they never used to exist here even in summer, so why are they now hanging around in 6 degree autumnal darkness? Shivering under 3 layers of clothing and scratching insect bites simultaneously is a biological oxymoron and is causing unnecessary trauma to my brain. Make it stop.

Worldwide Webs

...and on the subject of creepy crawlies – is it just me or has there been some kind of spider population boom? I know from panicked facebook updates I’m not the only person to find a creature with far too many legs invading my bed recently, and they seem pretty determined to take over the rest of the house too – I even found something worryingly resembling a funnel web in the bathroom. I’d recommend the UK as the perfect destination for any arachnophobics currently wishing to partake in immersion therapy.

Headlight-Happy Drivers

I’ve long held the theory that my car sometimes randomly turns invisible, judging by the actions of other drivers towards it. However, conclusive proof has arrived on these dingy nights, when it seems like every single driver heading in the opposite direction to me fails to turn down their full-beam lights, despite my own (dipped) headlights glaring in their faces. Seriously, if you’re so visually impaired that you can’t see me coming from 50 feet away, you shouldn’t be driving in daylight, never mind in pitch dark. And however bitter you might be about your condition, it’s really no excuse to attempt to scorch out my retinas until I suffer the same affliction.

Waterworld

I think our island might be in danger of sinking a lot sooner than we thought. I live on the coast, and there is now hardly any distinction between land and sea. Roads are closed, crops are ruined (I’m thinking farmers should take up rice-growing from now on), new streams and lakes are popping up in the most unexpected places. Yet the clouds are still 10 feet off the ground, thick enough to block out the entire sky and pumping out more rain with unstoppable force on a daily basis. My wellies are usually reserved for mucking about in fields with horses and dogs, but I’m now seriously considering devising the all-in-one-full-body-welly-suit for all occasions. Or building an ark.

Oh well. Only 4 more months to go...

P.S. My apologies for the formatting of recent posts, I have attempted to repair the gaping holes in the black background, but so far to no avail. It seems Google, in their infinite wisdom, have unnecessarily changed something, and now nothing will ever be the same again...

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So much world, so little time...

Some time ago, I contracted a terrible disease. It’s not life-threatening, but it does seem to be lifelong, causing persistent, aching discomfort and inconvenience. There is no known cure, and treatment can be very expensive.

I was bitten by the harmful and highly infectious Travel Bug.

For many years, I was oblivious to the misery of this condition, as being just a poor girl from a poor family, I never left the tiny cluster of islands I call home until I was 21 years old. Until that point, I’d rarely even left the minuscule corner of England I grew up in.

My first trip away was a two-week holiday to southern Italy, and I cried at the shock and strangeness of it all on the day I arrived, but never wasted a moment after that. I was determined that my short break wouldn’t be wasted on beaches and bars, and it turned into such a jam-packed opportunity for exploration and discovery that I was exhausted when I left, and cried far more on the journey to the airport that brought me home. I’ve never been quite the same since.

Subsequent but sadly sporadic expeditions eventually took me outside Europe and into parts of the third world for increasingly longer visits and unprecedented experiences of personal growth. While these temporarily eased the symptoms, they ultimately stretched my mind out of shape so badly that it could never return to its original proportions and now barely fits in my head, which only worsens the long-term, skull-splitting effects of my ailment. This is not helped by the fact that I made a fantastic bunch of free-spirited, globe-trotting friends who regularly make me jealous of their amazing exploits, stories and photos.

I try to remind myself that travelling does have its downsides – it takes a lot of courage to leave for another country or continent alone, and it’s often hard to be away from the people you love and the familiarity of home comforts. I’ve seen some traumatic things, understood what poverty really means, been disturbed by alien cultures, felt lonely, endured some terrifying modes of transport, been robbed, got sick, got lost, slept in some painful places. As a vegetarian, I’ve had difficulty finding food, and as a redhead, I’ve suffered sunburn, reverence and ridicule, but none of that is enough to stop me yearning to suffer it all again in new places.

Because the truth is, the tough times are more than balanced out by absorbing every bit of spectacular scenery, seeing proper wildlife in its natural habitat, meeting interesting and like-minded people, engaging in cultural exchange, conquering fears, challenging limitations, appreciating the simple life and its simple pleasures, and learning more in a few short chapters of my life than I ever did in years of formal education. Then there’s the untold bliss of being completely off the oppressive media, telecommunications and internet radar for substantial lengths of time.

My return from three months volunteering in South Africa at the end of 2009 marked the point when the virus really took hold, and I became totally unable to settle back into ‘ordinary life’. I'd quit my flat and job before I left, and have never replaced them. Ever since then, I’ve wanted nothing more than to pack a bag and dedicate myself to similar endeavours for the foreseeable future. They might sound like lofty ambitions, but I want to do my bit to conserve endangered species and environments, teach underprivileged kids, improve disadvantaged communities and learn valuable lessons and new perspectives from everyone I meet along the way. It’s more worthwhile, fulfilling, rewarding and character-building than any career I’ve come across, restores a sense of childlike wonder, and inspires my writing more than any classroom-based workshop ever has.

In an ideal world, my therapy would involve voyaging to different places and volunteering on different projects, with occasional visits home in between. Alternatively, I sometimes wonder if I set aside a year or two to get around a few or all of the places and things I want to see, I might get the pesky germs out of my system once and for all and finally be healed. Unfortunately, the lottery win required to make either dream possible is not forthcoming.

It’s now been a whole year since I travelled outside the north-west of England, so my feet are infuriatingly itchy, my muscles jittery, and my restless mind is either going insane, becoming catatonic, or swinging violently between the two. Adventure doesn’t so much beckon as pester like an over-excited child in a toy shop, and the call of the wild is deafening. My underlying disorder of chronic neophilia only heightens this desire for new experience, and it’s a constant struggle to find a way to reintroduce that into real life, with all its obstacles, attachments, commitments and financial responsibilities.

So this blog is an appeal for the cure, or at least some extensive scientific research for which I would happily offer myself as guinea pig. Even if it doesn’t come in time to help me, then it may spare the poor, afflicted bohemians of the future.

Failing that, a generous donor willing to sponsor my ongoing treatment would also be most welcome.

Until then, I will just have to do my best to accept that the rest of the world will be there for the rest of my life, and believe that I’ll get to explore it when the time, circumstance, and preferably companion, are right. Oh, but it hurts so bad...

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Superhumans

After my tribute to the Olympians, it seems only fair to honour the Paralympians for providing a fortnight of excitement, entertainment and inspiration that equalled if not excelled the previous games, or the ‘warm-up’, as it was billed in the adverts.

It was officially the biggest and best Paralympics in history, with record numbers of countries, competitors, ticket sales and TV viewing figures so high that coverage was increased after the initial events. Once again, I was sucked in from the beginning and got so involved in the days that followed that the final event moved me to tears.

The opening ceremony literally brought us the moon on a stick, with Stephen Hawking speaking typically wise, moving and inspirational words from the stage beneath it. I had noted his absence during the celebration of our nation’s greatest achievers at the Olympic opening, and was so glad to see the Einstein of our times given such a big part in his rightful place – as a paradigm of triumph against adversity, mind over matter and living, awesome proof that disability definitely doesn’t equate to debility. As he said himself:

“We are all different. There is no such thing as a standard or run-of-the-mill human being, but we share the same human spirit....However difficult life may seem, there is always something you can do and succeed at.”

We were then treated to a celebration of enlightenment and empowerment, scientific discovery, books, and a spectacular amateur production of The Tempest starring a very non-amateur Shakespearian actor in Sir Ian McKellen, whose Prospero encouraged the wheelchair-bound Miranda to rise and break through a glass ceiling. It was all tied together with the outstanding music and circus skills of disabled performers and the unofficial British mascot that is the umbrella, which symbolised everything from the Big Bang to a sailboat and from the globe to the newly discovered ‘God’ particle.

Though the Channel 4 coverage lacked the slick professionalism of the BBC, the games themselves were every bit as emotive as their able-bodied counterparts and perhaps even more inspiring and motivational for all the extra effort and determination required to compete in them. Films and interviews about the athletes’ experiences put the self-pitying, sympathy-seeking sob stories of the X-Factor to shame and again redefined and set higher standards for role model status. Just as importantly, they educated the world about various physical conditions and allowed everyone to see the incredible ability behind the disability.

Team GB did us proud with valiant efforts, records and medals across the board, and gave us new heroes in the shape of David Weir, Jonnie Peacock, Sarah Storey and Ellie Simmonds amongst many others. It was also great to watch Brazilian gold medallists such as runner Alan Oliveira and the fantastically colourful blind sprinter Terezinha Guilhermina emerging ahead of the Rio games in 2016.

And the moment that made me cry? South African  ‘bladerunner’ Oscar Pistorius’ extraordinary defence of his 400m title on the final night, after a week that had seen him lose his titles in both the 200m and 100m and lose his head in displaying some uncharacteristically diva-ish behaviour (for which he later apologised) following his first defeat. His victory was thoroughly deserved, not only for his astonishing performance in the race, but also for the years he has spent fighting the corner and raising the profile of disabled athletes worldwide. He has personally shattered the glass ceiling between the Paralympics and Olympics for all those who follow him and is a true champion of the games in more than one sense of the word. He may not be 'the fastest man on no legs' any more, but wherever his career goes from here, his past successes and wider accomplishments should never be forgotten.

Again, the only disappointment was the closing ceremony. Although it brought us a gothic ‘festival of fire’ which was admittedly visually spectacular, it ultimately turned into a Coldplay concert. Am I the only person who just finds them overrated, bland, whiny and dull?! But even that didn’t detract from the much greater performances seen in that stadium over the last two weeks, or a ceremony that paid tribute to the athletes and volunteers who truly made it possible. Head of the IPC, Sir Philip Craven’s impassioned, down-to-earth, humorous, endearingly northern-accented and above all uniting speeches came as a delight after all the stiff-upper-lipped formality, excessive patriotism and occasional thunder-stealing of certain British politicians and public figures. After the handover, Rio did a great job of generating excitement for their sporting carnival in 2016. Hopefully by then, further developments in medicine, technology and humanity will make it possible for even more nations to provide the training, equipment and support necessary to compete and advance the Paralympics even further.

If we had a lot to learn from the Olympic games, then surely the Paralympics had even more to teach us. Though the flame has now died out for the foreseeable future, the fire lit by these games will hopefully burn on. There is much more progress to be made, plenty more ceilings to be smashed, attitudes to be changed and spirited Paralympians to make it happen. It can all be summed up with some more great advice from Professor Hawking:

“There ought to be something very special about the boundary conditions of the universe, and what can be more special than that is there is no boundary… And there should be no boundary to human endeavour…Look up at the stars, not down at your feet.”

Regardless of mental or physical ability, we could all take something from that.

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Olympic Gold

I really didn’t expect to enjoy the 30^th Olympiad. I have no previous record of either closely following the games or being proud to be British, I didn’t go to see any of the numerous torches as they made their seemingly endless tour of our tiny island, and I didn’t for one second think that two weeks of the entire BBC and every other channel’s news programmes falling victim to chronic sport fever would change that. But I’m here to announce that my name is Shelley, and I’m an Olympiaholic.

As a longstanding fan of Danny Boyle, I was only initially interested in the opening ceremony and how such a modern and visionary director might portray our strange, declining nation to the world, but when I settled in front of the TV that Friday night, little did I know how many more hours I would spend tuned into the coverage from that stadium and its surrounding arenas.

So this blog is my celebration of and thanks for the London 2012 Olympic Games, which I found to be a surprisingly entertaining, inclusive, inspiring, moving and exhilarating fortnight, which left me in awe of every single athlete who proved themselves remarkable enough to take part, whether they took the gold medal or the last place in the qualifying heats. It’s obvious from the happiness, excitement and unity that lit up the previously downtrodden and divided British public like the sunshine we’d been lacking this summer, that I wasn’t the only one.

My personal highlights:

The Opening Ceremony

Yes, at first I was worried that we were in for a two hour history lesson ramming our ‘glorious’ empirical past down the throats of the rest of the world (again), but I think it pulled the rug out from under everyone. The staging and effects were spectacular, from the medieval village making way for the forging of the Olympic rings, to the Queen’s unpredictable daredevil entrance, the medley of pop culture, the flying doves, the fireworks, the audience’s animated pixels and the future Olympians lighting the beautiful cauldron which brought together the individual copper petals offered by each nation. Then there was the marvellously controversial celebration of our NHS and its staff, which had Tory MPs and the Daily Mail alike raging at its ‘left-wing propaganda’ while the rest of us saluted Danny Boyle’s audacity for including it.

It was odd, unexpected and a bit barmy at times, but what better way to represent the unique sense of humour and eccentricity that is often forgotten on our small island in recent times. In contrast, I thought the closing ceremony was a little disappointing and badly cast at times, but Eric Idle’s delightful appearance amongst dancing Romans and rollerskating nuns singlehandedly made up for it.

Great British Role Models

Team GB did us proud, not just with the medal count, but for the variety of events they did well in, and the way they conducted themselves as committed, enthusiastic, focused individuals who never gave up and weren’t afraid to publicly show emotion when it overtook them. In a nation where kids usually look up to the fake, superficial dramatics of Katie Price and the TOWIE cast, it was great to see our struggling youth admiring genuinely talented, hard-working and healthy people, dedicated to achieving their dreams through practising years of sheer physical, mental and emotional strength and determination. Some of them even managed to look great doing it, but that was never the most important thing, which made a refreshing change.

One Giant Leap for Womankind

I don’t for one second mean to downplay the achievements of the male participants, but for me, it was the women of the world who really got themselves noticed this time around. For the first time, we saw women allowed to compete in all events, making history and setting world records along the way. From Serena Williams achieving the last remaining world championship title available in her sport, to the introduction of the incredibly brave female Saudi athletes and women boxers who will hopefully open up a whole new phase of equality, it was fantastic to see so many amazing women flying the flag for whatever country they represented.

As far as Britain was concerned, the women kicked ass, from much-plugged poster girls Jessica Ennis and Victoria Pendleton to the surprise successes of Gemma Gibbons in the Judo, Jade Jones in Taekwondo, Charlotte Dujardin in Dressage, Nicola Adams becoming our first female boxing gold medallist and Laura Trott and Lizzie Armitstead emerging as cycling forces of nature with massive girl balls. That’s without mentioning the rowers, sailors, swimmers, pentathletes, or the hockey team. The GB girls amassed an impressive12 gold medals, 8 silver and six bronze between them, as well as contributing to further medals in the mixed equestrian and tennis teams.

It was an encouragingly inclusive games all round, with Syria permitted to participate and Oscar Pistorius pushing boundaries to become the first paralympian to compete in the mainstream track events. From a home perspective, it was also uplifting to see that due to lottery funding and perhaps even a little progress on our part, that elitism was less of a factor in Team GB, and athletes from more ‘ordinary’ backgrounds seem to be on the increase in some sports at least. The London crowds and those of us watching at home got behind all the athletes even in the obscure events and the finals we didn’t qualify for. It was also fantastic to watch the assembled nations of athletes working together with such dignity and respect, and partying together at the closing ceremony. There’s a poignant lesson to be learned from all this which needs to be applied on a much wider scale.

Bolt and Blake

The unstoppable and unflappable Jamaican showmen enthralled and entertained at every appearance, as much with their pre and post race posing and performing as with their incredible sprint speed and athletic prowess. I’m not even sure what Yohan Blake said in his post 100m interview as he spoke even faster than he ran, while Bolt’s coolness and cockiness in mocking the royal wave and chatting up a track volunteer immediately before wiping the floor with the competition in the 200m had to be seen to be believed. I half expected him to come out in his Richard Branson beard at some point. The Jamaican team’s record-breaking run in the men’s 4x100m relay had to be one of the most impressive sights of the games – their times averaging out at an unbelievable 9.21 seconds each, but I suspect the last two legs were completed even faster than that. The swapping of the Mobot/Lightning Bolt celebrations combined with the obvious joy and mutual respect of Mo Farah and Usain Bolt in receiving the last of their multiple gold medals was my favourite photo opportunity of the games. By the time Rio 2016 comes around, Blake will be 26 years old, and Bolt approaching 30. It will be very interesting to see how the speed and smugness scale tips then, if they haven’t decided to play for Manchester United or form a bobsleigh team instead.

The Forgotten Heroes

First of all, let’s not forget the 70,000 volunteers, whose hard work and happy helpfulness contributed to the spirit and smooth-running of every event. And as for the athletes, there are too many to give personal credit to in an already lengthy blog, as so many ‘underdog’ nations provided so many memorable moments.  Special mentions go to Sarah Attar receiving a standing ovation for finishing last in the qualifying heats for the 800m despite her home country Saudi Arabia labelling her a ‘prostitute’ for her efforts; Ethiopian distance runner Tirunesh Dibaba showing superhuman powers in winning the 10,000m; and South African swimmer Chad Le Clos’ astonishing triumph over Michael Phelps in the aquatic centre, supported by his extremely excitable father. My favourite was Kenyan David Rudisha, who celebrated his outstanding 800m world record with such beaming, soft-spoken humility that for me, he became the understated, anti-Bolt hero of London 2012.

So in the end, seven years of planning, an obscene amount of money, hype and cynicism about the organisational abilities of the London committee all turned out to be worth it. It’s one of very few occasions when I’ve felt proud of something my homeland did not only for itself, but for the rest of the world, and I hope that the newfound optimism, inspiration, peace and unity in my fellow citizens survives long after the extinguishing of that magnificent flame.

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Deed Not Breed

Our nation was rightfully appalled last week by the tragic conclusion to a story that was a sad representation of a major issue in many parts of the world, when innocent Lennox the dog was murdered in the name of Breed Specific Legislation.

For those who haven’t followed the campaign to save Lennox’s life, he was seized from his loving family – a disabled woman, her husband, their 11-year old daughter and another dog – in Belfast two years ago. He was five years old at the time, had been responsibly owned by the family since he was a puppy, was licensed, neutered, microchipped, insured, well trained and cared for and had never shown any signs of aggression or dangerous behaviour toward people or other animals.

His crime? The way he looked.

Despite it being proven that Lennox was a crossbreed, with Labrador and American Bulldog blood, Belfast City Council’s ‘experts’ deemed Lennox a Pit Bull ‘type’, the definition used to amend the UK Dangerous Dogs Act and allow any dog displaying ‘some of the physical characteristics’ of the banned Pit Bull Terrier to be persecuted purely on the basis of those physical characteristics, regardless of their temperament or quality of ownership. It was later revealed that Lennox’s brother from the same litter had been assessed two years earlier and deemed not to be of Pit Bull Type, despite the only difference between the two dogs being the colour of their fur, adding to the preposterous nature of this law.

It is illegal to own a dog of ‘Pit Bull Type’ in this country, despite the infinitely broad spectrum that this vague and meaningless description covers. Only government officials and experts can declare whether a dog fits the ‘type’ or not, and there are no indisputable blood, DNA, behavioural or breed tests to justify this, the dogs are purely judged on physical conformation and appearance, leading to the process being branded ‘death by tape measure’ by its many critics. Dogs fitting the ‘type’ that are proved not to be a danger to public safety can be registered and returned to their families providing certain conditions are kept – including neutering, muzzling in public, etc, but since 1991, there has been no provision for owners to register and legalise their dog themselves.

Instead, dogs are seized by wardens or police officers without warrant and detained while assessed, which can take several weeks or months. Owners are not given details of their dog’s location and access to visit animals is denied. If the dog is deemed as ‘type’, then a court order is issued and the owners must prove that the dog would not constitute any danger to public safety in order to save their lives.

As it is obviously impossible to conclusively prove this of any dog, regardless of breed, these destruction orders are rarely overturned. The High Court has even declared that the behaviour of the animal is ‘relevant, but not conclusive’ in determining the outcome of the case.

In the case of Lennox, top animal behaviourists had assessed him and testified that he was a ‘charming’, ‘sweet’ and ‘gentle’ dog with ‘good self control’, but it was the evidence of a Belfast Council expert that he was ‘unpredictable’ which sealed his fate. I question what dog wouldn’t be unpredictable when taken from his home and family, caged in isolation and continuously poked and prodded by complete strangers. Lennox’s family appealed the decision to destroy him twice, with huge public support, yet he still lost his life having never been allowed to see his loved ones or return home. As a last ditch attempt to save him, Lennox was offered fully funded relocation and rehoming in the US, where he would be allowed to live legally as a pet, which was denied without negotiation.

To add insult to injury, the family’s daughter’s request to have his collar as a keepsake was refused, they were all denied the right to see him before he was euthanised, and even the right to take his body home afterwards. Questions had already been raised as to his treatment and welfare in custody, and this unnecessary callousness on the part of officials only generated further suspicion. The family were later consoled with the promise that they would receive ‘some of his ashes’ in the post.

Once, in my work for an animal welfare organisation, I met a family and their dog who had just been returned to them after being held in custody for two months, having being assessed as safe. They were furious, full of accusations and determined to sue the relevant authorities, as their formerly healthy dog came home a nervous wreck, had lost a lot of weight and condition, and suffered with terribly swollen and irritated eyes, the cause of which was unexplained and the symptoms apparently left untreated. It’s little wonder that so many dogs are deemed unstable when they receive treatment like this during their unwarranted detention.

Polls show that 88% of people in the UK believe that BSL is ineffective and 71% want it repealed. There is no evidence to suggest that it reduces the number of ‘dangerous’ dogs, or dog attacks, and there are strong calls for a new legislation promoting breed-neutral responsible ownership to replace it. I think it’s of utmost importance to remember that every breed of dog had their specific characteristics chosen for them by the purposeful meddling of humans, that any breed of dog in the wrong human hands can be a danger, and any breed of dog in the right human hands can become a delight. Personally, I’m all for a law which holds the owner ultimately responsible for their dog’s control, training and behaviour. Maybe then we’ll see a change in attitudes, ownership, and in this horrendously unfair and unsuccessful law.

I hope that poor Lennox’s death will not be in vain, and that he will be remembered as the last needless victim of what is effectively canine fascism.  As with every brand of fascism, it is only perpetrated by human beings and is wholly unacceptable in the modern world. This time, let’s not allow any further pain, persecution, or pointless loss of innocent life before we force the change that we’re all responsible for making.

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Deja Vu

You’d think that seeing the same two-hour play twice in three days might get a little repetitive, but not when there are such drastic differences between the two performances.

Those of you who’ve read the blog before will be aware of my penchant for Victorian literature, particularly the gothic. This week, I combined this long-held love with my long-neglected love of the theatre to take advantage of the phenomenally good idea that is the National Theatre Live. Since 2011, stage plays have been broadcast to cinemas across the world, both live at the time of the performance and in ‘encore’ screenings after the run has ended. As well as allowing everyone to see sought after and often sold-out events, it makes them accessible to those in different countries, and those of us in the same country who can’t handle the hassle and expense of a trip to London.

During my student days (damn, I miss those concessions), I was a regular attendee of stage productions in and around my home city, in London, and at the RSC in Stratford, so I’m a little ashamed to admit that I haven’t been to the theatre since 2005, and even though it was on a cinema screen, this production made me realise how much I miss it. The play in question was Nick Dear’s Frankenstein, adapted from Mary Shelley’s novel and with a director I’ve always admired (except when he made The Beach!) in Danny Boyle. As an added bonus, the cast was led by Jonny Lee Miller and my new favourite actor and possibly person, Benedict Cumberbatch, who famously swapped roles between Victor Frankenstein and the Creature on alternate nights throughout the three month run, in an ingenious representation of master becoming slave and vice versa.

It’s always annoyed me that Hollywood persistently reduces the story of Frankenstein to a typical scary movie, and its monster to little more than a zombie, and that those who haven’t read it aren’t aware that it’s so much more than just a gothic horror story. Even Kenneth Branagh’s more faithful film, in which Robert De Niro finally portrayed a credible monster, tried to justify Victor Frankenstein’s selfish actions with a soppy, invented back story. Really, it’s a cautionary tale of artificial creationism and ‘playing God’, a warning against meddling in things we know nothing about, a lesson in never judging a book by its cover, and a devastating illustration of the effects of rejection and revenge. Readers are rarely on Frankenstein’s side by the end, despite the monster giving as good as he gets. Plus, I always have admiration for women like Shelley, who write a long way outside of the genres and themes expected of them, their age and era. Especially when they share my name.

I can’t say enough good things about this production, which I could quite happily sit through both versions of again. The play begins with the startling ‘birth’ of the creature, falling out of his artificial womb and clumsily getting to grips with the functions of his body beneath the amplified sound of his heartbeat, regular electric shocks and cries of pain and frustration. It does cut out a lot of Frankenstein’s obsessive work in creating him, but by allowing the creature this evolution, his voice, and his side of the story, it captures the essence of the novel in being sympathetic to the monster, rather than the man. The performances were astonishing, moving, and hugely impressive, and not just because the scene requires the actors to writhe around in tiny pants for the first twenty minutes.

In the first screening, Cumberbatch played an impaired, innocent Creature, who came across as half developing child, half recovering stroke victim; uncoordinated, vulnerable, joyful, eager to learn, frustrated, hurt, irreparably damaged and ultimately vengeful. Miller’s Frankenstein felt cold, calculating and inhuman in comparison, attached to nothing and no one, ashamed and fearful not only of his creation, but his own abilities. It was a sad, pitiful retelling with a desperate, needy end.

For me, the most electrifying scenes were those where the two characters were caught in conflict; at their first meeting in the mountains, where Frankenstein faces the consequences of his actions; at the creation and subsequent grisly killing of the Creature’s bride, where the monster realises the horror of his own beginning; and at the Creature’s shocking retaliatory murder of Frankenstein’s new wife, leading to their bleak co-dependence in the Antarctic.

The settings were fantastic, a revolving stage with trapdoor, some simple scenery and fantastically impressive lighting all that was needed to transport us from a creepy laboratory in Switzerland to its forests, mountains and Lake Geneva, and from grave robbing in the Orkney Isles to struggling for survival in the south pole. Gorgeous and terrifying music by Underworld added to the stark contrast of nature and industrialisation, man and beast. After the first performance flew by, I couldn’t wait to see if the actors each had a different take on their opposite characters in the next screening.

I wasn’t disappointed, and the same play was transformed by Miller’s creature, who was a lot more baby-like, with a dash of chimpanzee and at the end, even a hint of Gollum. Despite speaking the same lines, he was somehow less articulate, more brutish and full of rage. Cumberbatch’s Frankenstein was colder still, but very much attached to his inflated ego. He may not have been proud of his ‘Adam’, but he was certainly proud of his own superiority in creating him. In this version, both characters seemed less rational and more antagonistic, deliberately taunting each other at every opportunity. My favourite scenes remained the same in both performances, which gives credit to the writing and direction as much as the interchangeable actors, but in this version the end felt a lot more tormenting and disturbed.

All in all, it was a fascinating, ‘compare and contrast’ experience, a remarkable achievement, and I take my proverbial hat off to both actors for the phenomenal amount of work and dedication this project must have taken. While a bit more expensive than the average trip to the cinema, it was worth every penny, and I kind of wish I had spent ten times that amount on a weekend at the National theatre itself. If the screenings tour again, or if it gets the much demanded DVD release, I recommend it to anyone who’s a fan of the book, the director, the cast, or the theatre generally, although it’s probably not for the faint hearted.

On our way home from the second, we were still so excited about the whole thing that we discussed our desire to see the first one again, the possibility of editing the best bits of both versions into one, or splicing together two new versions in which the actors play opposite themselves. This is your universe, Frankenstein...

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Art Imitates Life

I’m writing this post purely to sing the praises of one of my favourite writers, because once again his work has deeply affected me and I’m sad that everyone questions who he is whenever I mention him. His name is Dan Rhodes, and he’s written two short story collections and five novels, all of which have been works of largely undiscovered genius. I’ve just finished his latest, This is Life, and it’s made me want to do whatever I can to increase his readership, because the man deserves so much more recognition than he’s already managed to achieve.

His style might not be for everyone, he deals with dark, outlandish and often far-fetched subject matter and characters, and I suspect he would have the ‘Marmite’ effect on a lot of readers, inspiring only extreme love or hate with no in-between. But he also possesses such unique voice and imagination that I would find it impossible to compare him to any other author, and an incredible ability to move you from laugh-out-loud hilarity to heart-wrenching poignancy, sometimes within a single sentence. He may be weird, but it seems I’m exactly the kind of weirdo he appeals to, and reading his books comforts me that there are others out there who think like I do.

In case you’re intrigued about his previous work, which I hope you are, his short fiction consists of Anthropology: a collection of 101, 101-word stories, and Don’t tell me the truth about love: a selection of bizarre, bitter, barmy and beautiful accounts of romance. His novels are The Little White Car: the story of the Fiat Uno seen in the Paris tunnel at the time of Princess Diana’s death that’s probably closer to the truth than any conspiracy theory; Timoleon Vieta come Home: which is like a subversive and heartbreaking take on The Littlest Hobo; Gold: a tale of love, loneliness and strange villagers, and Little Hands Clapping: a macabre tale of a museum that has become a suicide hotspot, and the caretaker’s unusual method of dealing with it.

The newly released This is Life is Rhodes’ longest and probably most accessible novel to date. It is another Parisian story about a girl and her irresistible best friend, two controversial art projects driven by the same misguided reason, and a very unfortunate baby. But most of all, like all of his books, it is about humanity, life and love, viewed from a different perspective. Critics have commented on its unexpected lightness and optimism and the fact that most of its characters are given happy endings, even suggesting that he has taken this approach to gain popularity, and going so far as to describe it as chick-lit. But I think they may have missed the point of his previous books, and possibly this one too. Despite its life-affirming whimsy, it still has plenty of moments of murkiness, misfortune, black humour, and pulling the rug out from under the reader just as they’ve got comfy on it. To me, Rhodes’ writing has always been about the contrast of likeable and despicable characters; of light and dark, and how one inevitably leads to the other. Because that’s what life is like, and exactly what makes it so beautiful, profound, fragile and unpredictable an experience.

So whether you’ve read his previous books and loved them, if they haven’t been for you, or even if you’ve never heard of Dan Rhodes until today, I recommend This is Life to everyone as a quirky look at what it means to be alive. It will carry you along with all its arbitrary twists and turns, just like the real thing. And personally, I’d like to thank the author for renewing my faith in love at a time when I wasn’t convinced any man would ever be able to do so again, which is a remarkable achievement in itself. Give him a try and see what he can do for you.

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Summertime Hues

All bets are now off, because this year, it was the end of May that brought the intense and unpredictable 3-5 day heatwave that annually constitutes summer in the UK. As usual, it came quite literally out of the blue, immediately following a dreary and lengthy spell of stormy, autumnal weather that left us wondering whether we’d have the opportunity to do our time-honoured and traditional ‘it’s hotter than the Costas’ routine at all.

But, last Wednesday, the ritual commenced, as our largely caucasian nation stripped off all superfluous clothing (and in some cases, necessary clothing), before claiming territory on grass, sand, decking, concrete, roof space, or any other free surface, and exposing ill-prepared and unacclimatised skin in worship of the newly visible sun-god. As is customary, all this occurred amidst loud and relentless complaints about the soaring temperatures we have spent months yearning for.

After almost a week of performing this very British ceremony under very un-British bright, clear skies, the streets are now full of underdressed, overcooked people, pleased with the results of their attempts to forcibly alter their DNA. Having toasted themselves under every available ray for every available daylight hour, the topless men, and the women wearing less than the average prostitute will now spend the rest of the year showing off their parched, permanently damaged skin interspersed with glaring white marks caused by the garments that public decency laws forced them to retain.

Apparently in our 21^st century culture, this stripy, scorched look is significantly more attractive than simply accepting the complexion our weather dictates, and being a bit pale.

As a redhead/daywalker/borderline albino (I’ve heard them all), who can’t even produce enough melanin to create freckles, I could be accused of being bitter. Indeed, I’ll admit to being slightly offended that people also spend extortionate amounts of time, effort and money having their skin artificially stained various shades of orange all year round, just to avoid looking like me. But I can assure you it’s not inability to join in that makes me mock this process, it’s total refusal. I too could venture out in clothing totally inappropriate to my figure, age and location if I choose, it’s just that instead of being bare-skinned, burned and patchier than a Friesian cow, I’d be galvanised in a coating of ultra-strength SPF and dazzling the sneering passers-by with the glare from every inch of my soft, healthy, youthful skin. And there’s also nothing to stop me resorting to the sprayed, bottled, ingested or even injected fakery to fit in with current ideals, but the point is, I neither want nor feel the need to do so.

To me, it makes a sorry statement about the human condition. I know people always want what they haven’t got, and that our modern perception of beauty in the UK seems to be defined by the darkest possible tan, real or otherwise, but it’s people’s desperate desire to radically change their physical appearance and the notion that it’s their most important quality that saddens me most. Wouldn’t the world be a nicer (and arguably more aesthetically pleasing) place if people ditched all the superficiality, fakery and surgical modification and instead put all that time, energy and faith into improving self-esteem and learning to love their natural state? One of the most fantastic things about our species is that everyone is different, and I fail to understand why we don’t celebrate that diversity instead of obsessively trying to conform to a uniform image cynically perpetrated by corporations that manufacture the means to create it. Nobody is perfect, and no expensive consumable product will ever make them so.

While I may be mostly treated as a freakshow in my homeland, when I travel to other countries, my fairness is the reason I’m practically hailed as a Goddess, stopped in the street by both genders just to be complimented, marvelled at and touched. Those in the service industries fall over themselves and even fight each other to attend to me. No matter what living in our excessively image-conscious society has conditioned us to think, there will always be others who see our little ‘imperfections’ as exquisite, or be prepared to look past them at what lies beneath. And why care for the opinions of those too shallow to do either?

So remember that while you might always wish to change the way you look, there is always someone else who would wish to look just like you, exactly as nature intended. Plus, nobody need suffer those unsightly white bits again if, like me, you rebel and allow yourself to stand out as one, giant, evenly toned white bit. While my fellow snow-white citizens of these rainy, grey islands continue to enjoy and make the most of the rare bursts of sunshine, I hope more will join me in my campaign to remain pasty and proud.

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