LONDON - Brit comedian Russell Brand was spotted attending the opening of a fetish club in East London called Porn Dwarf.
The dress code for the event on November 21 was leather, and it featured petite pole dancers, with a steamy X-rated video montage playing throughout the venue.
Brand, 34, was reportedly seen looking nervous as he kept dashing out to his car every 15 minutes to call his girlfriend of eight weeks, Katy Perry, 25, to update her on what was going on.
“Russ agreed to go to the club opening as it was being launched by a few of his mates. Everyone was wearing leather - it’s billed as a decadent fetish night, so Russell got into the spirit of things,” the Mirror quoted a source as saying.
“Dwarfs were working behind the bar and at one point Russell was seen having a deep and meaningful chat with a midget bouncer, gushing about the love of his life.
“Despite all the porn being played around him at the club, Russell didn’t seem that interested. In fact, he wasn’t drinking and was exceedingly well behaved.
“Not even the alluring pole dancing female dwarf caught his attention. There was even a rumour that Katy was going to show up too, but apparently she got wind of the nature of the club and pulled out at the last minute.
“Instead, Russell had to keep darting to his car to chat to her on the phone. So despite all the temptations, Russell was only thinking of Katy.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Friday 20 November 2009
Clarkson Rants and a Mention of Hackney
The enclosed article by Jeremy Clarkson was in this week's Sunday Times but has since been 'pulled' - probably by the subject of the article, Peter Mandelson. So much for free speech. But poor old manglebum fails to appreciate how the blogsphere works and in no time the article finds itself going viral round the world. Wonderful. Enjoy it - and feel free to pass it on if you did.....
Jeremy Clarkson - Sunday Times 8/11/09
I've given the matter a great deal of thought all week, and I'm afraid I've decided that it's no good putting Peter Mandelson in a prison. I'm afraid he will have to be tied to the front of a van and driven round the country until he isn't alive any more.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt
I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.
There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don't live in America .
Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can't understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it's racist.
And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had enough of this. I'm off."
It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?
You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for "organising" a plumber.
You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just can't.
The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.
Canada 's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa 's too risky, Russia 's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.
I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.
So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit. onto in the meantime.
He announced last week that middle-class children will simply not be allowed into the country's top universities even if they have 4,000 A-levels, because all the places will be taken by Albanians and guillemots and whatever other stupid bandwagon the conniving idiot has leapt
I hate Peter Mandelson. I hate his fondness for extremely pale blue jeans and I hate that preposterous moustache he used to sport in the days when he didn't bother trying to cover up his left-wing fanaticism. I hate the way he quite literally lords it over us even though he's resigned in disgrace twice, and now holds an important decision-making job for which he was not elected. Mostly, though, I hate him because his one-man war on the bright and the witty and the successful means that half my friends now seem to be taking leave of their senses.
There's talk of emigration in the air. It's everywhere I go. Parties. Work. In the supermarket. My daughter is working herself half to death to get good grades at GSCE and can't see the point because she won't be going to university, because she doesn't have a beak or flippers or a qualification in washing windscreens at the lights. She wonders, often, why we don't live in America .
Then you have the chaps and chapesses who can't stand the constant raids on their wallets and their privacy. They can't understand why they are taxed at 50% on their income and then taxed again for driving into the nation's capital. They can't understand what happened to the hunt for the weapons of mass destruction. They can't understand anything. They see the Highway Wombles in those brand new 4x4s that they paid for, and they see the M4 bus lane and they see the speed cameras and the community support officers and they see the Albanians stealing their wheelbarrows and nothing can be done because it's racist.
And they see Alistair Darling handing over £4,350 of their money to not sort out the banking crisis that he doesn't understand because he's a small-town solicitor, and they see the stupid war on drugs and the war on drink and the war on smoking and the war on hunting and the war on fun and the war on scientists and the obsession with the climate and the price of train fares soaring past £1,000 and the Guardian power-brokers getting uppity about one shot baboon and not uppity at all about all the dead soldiers in Afghanistan, and how they got rid of Blair only to find the lying twerp is now going to come back even more powerful than ever, and they think, "I've had enough of this. I'm off."
It's a lovely idea, to get out of this stupid, Fairtrade, Brown-stained, Mandelson-skewed, equal-opportunities, multicultural, carbon-neutral, trendily left, regionally assembled, big-government, trilingual, mosque-drenched, all-the-pigs-are-equal, property-is-theft hellhole and set up shop somewhere else. But where?
You can't go to France because you need to complete 17 forms in triplicate every time you want to build a greenhouse, and you can't go to Switzerland because you will be reported to your neighbours by the police and subsequently shot in the head if you don't sweep your lawn properly, and you can't go to Italy because you'll soon tire of waking up in the morning to find a horse's head in your bed because you forgot to give a man called Don a bundle of used notes for "organising" a plumber.
You can't go to Australia because it's full of things that will eat you, you can't go to New Zealand because they don't accept anyone who is more than 40 and you can't go to Monte Carlo because they don't accept anyone who has less than 40 mill. And you can't go to Spain because you're not called Del and you weren't involved in the Walthamstow blag. And you can't go to Germany ... because you just can't.
The Caribbean sounds tempting, but there is no work, which means that one day, whether you like it or not, you'll end up like all the other expats, with a nose like a burst beetroot, wondering if it's okay to have a small sharpener at 10 in the morning. And, as I keep explaining to my daughter, we can't go to America because if you catch a cold over there, the health system is designed in such a way that you end up without a house. Or dead.
Canada 's full of people pretending to be French, South Africa 's too risky, Russia 's worse and everywhere else is too full of snow, too full of flies or too full of people who want to cut your head off on the internet. So you can dream all you like about upping sticks and moving to a country that doesn't help itself to half of everything you earn and then spend the money it gets on bus lanes and advertisements about the dangers of salt. But wherever you go you'll wind up an alcoholic or dead or bored or in a cellar, in an orange jumpsuit, gently wetting yourself on the web. All of these things are worse than being persecuted for eating a sandwich at the wheel.
I see no reason to be miserable. Yes, Britain now is worse than it's been for decades, but the lunatics who've made it so ghastly are on their way out. Soon, they will be back in Hackney with their South African nuclear-free peace polenta. And instead the show will be run by a bloke whose dad has a wallpaper shop and possibly, terrifyingly, a twerp in Belgium whose fruitless game of hunt-the-WMD has netted him £15m on the lecture circuit.
So actually I do see a reason to be miserable. Which is why I think it's a good idea to tie Peter Mandelson to a van. Such an act would be cruel and barbaric and inhuman. But it would at least cheer everyone up a bit. onto in the meantime.
Towards a Fluid State
Over the past couple of years Angella has been putting together great events bringing people together for fine drink and food. Called The Tasting Sessions they’ve taken place in some of London’s more interesting spaces. This year culminates in the big event. Towards A Fluid State.
Full details below. It's fully recommend if you want to have a great time…..
On Saturday 05 December an edgy food and drink festival is launching in a secret warehouse location in Dalston.
Called “Towards a Fluid State” this festival will be the first of its kind. An immersive and informative food and drink experience profiling flights of Cognac, Whisky, Gin, Sake and Natural & Biodynamic wine matched with delicious morsels of food. Also a platform for some of the UK’s hottest emerging contemporary artists, musicians, set and fashion designers this will be a truly unique experience.
It’s not a farmers market nor is it anything like Taste of London. We are working with a fantastic range of independent producers, distributors and brands to deliver unusual and compelling experiences around what you eat and drink.
The festival will run from 3-11pm with timed entry on the hour. Each session will last approximately 2 hours. The exact location will be revealed a few days before the event.
Tickets start at £16.50 and are available here: http://www.wegottickets.com/af/127/location/3570.
For the full Tasting Sessions experience, we recommend you Liberate the State. For more information check out www.towardsafluidstate.com
Wednesday 11 November 2009
Possible new Banksy piece from Homerton - London
THE elusive street artist, Banksy, seems to have come back to the borough despite Hackney Council's determination to scrub out his iconic graffiti.
A new image has appeared on a brick wall in Homerton High Street, showing a little boy crying because his toy car has been clamped by traffic cops.
The artwork, set between two unusually-placed red phone boxes, uses the stencil technique and ironic political humour for which the Bristol-based guerrilla graffiti artist, whose distinctive paintings sell for as much as £250,000, is famed.
Banksy seems to be giving the council, which considers his work an illegal eyesore, the finger with his new creation adorning Hackney's walls even though the town hall has ordered other pieces of his to be erased in Dalston and Stoke Newington.
The council's decision to black out a much-loved Banksy mural on the side of a block of flats in Stoke Newington Church Street in August divided the community, with many residents accusing officers of vandalism.
Hackney music promoter and artist, Phillip Hall, said he was convinced the new artwork had been created by the notoriously mysterious Banksy, but that it should not suffer the same fate.
Tuesday 10 November 2009
Number 38 Bendy Bus changes to Double Decker on Saturday
Passengers must board through the front door only and touch Oyster cards in on the yellow reader.
Both bus services run through Dalston and the changes have been made as part of Mayor Boris Johnson's plan to scrap bendy buses.
He said earlier this year: "These writhing whales of the road have swung their hefty rear ends round our corners for the final time. Pedestrians that leapt, cyclists that skidded and drivers that dodged ... will breathe easier.
"Bendy buses on other routes are on borrowed time."
For anymore information, see the TfL leaflet.
Monday 9 November 2009
Soho versus Shoreditch
For anyone who has spent a fair amount of time in London, Soho and Shoreditch are household names synonymous with nightlife and the cultured young. Ask anyone where is good to go out and these two names will pop up. But these two areas and the people who inhabit them are as far from each other as the West to the East – and this isn’t just in terms of geography.Soho makes me think of fake-tanned girls in miniscule dresses and killer heels. Also gay clubs.
Some of the bars have semi naked oiled men dancing about, or failing that slideshows of hot models on their large television screens.
Shoreditch on the other hand is a whole different world. Here the people are cooler than cool itself. When friends come and visit I always insist on taking them to the infamous Shoreditch - it’s an experience in itself. I used to give them one piece of advine - wear something checkered. Check shirts were so last year, yet when I take my check detector to Shoreditch it still goes off the Richter scale (my check detector is merely me saying, “check” every time I see something checkered). A typical walk down Shoreditch High Street sounds something like this: “Check, check, check, check.”
I find it amusing that such cool, individualistic, trend setting folk are in such a habit of dressing like each other. All the guys are rather skinny, with sleek side parted hair, black skinny jeans and Pimsoles. For girls it is all about looking vintage. A lot of black, dainty shoes, some fur, a bow here and there and a sultry expression.
Ahh, but you see, Shoreditch is becoming so passé. Dalston, Dalston is the new Shoreditch. Dalston is where the real alternative trendsetters head to these days. I can’t help but smile to myself; I lived in Dalston for over 3 years. Does this make me Dalston cool? I’m not convinced, but I’m going to try claim it anyway.
So you see I am a victim of my own mockery. As much as I dislike the cool kids down by Shoreditch Church, there is something about the East Side which keeps drawing me back.
There is something so dynamic, and well, cool about East London. No one takes tubes - it has nothing to do with the reason that tubes in East London virtually don’t exist. The borough of Hackney is best served by buses, or even cooler – bikes.
Failing that just walk, the street life is huge. There is such an eclectic mix of fruit and vege stalls, markets and general bric’n’brack.
Bricklane is a favourite. On weekends it is always full of trendy people, overflowing from the cafés, markets or roaming the streets eating from the huge range of culinary options.
So you see, I am a Londoner, and my heart lies in the East side. I even have the I Heart Hackney badge to prove it!
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Leona Lewis Makes Live Debut in Hackney
The U.K. singer, who became a worldwide star after winning "The X Factor" in 2006, grew up in Hackney and chose the borough's famous Hackney Empire theatre as the location for her live debut last night (Nov. 2).
"I first performed here when I was 13," she told the audience, "So it seemed fitting to come back and do my first live show here."
Despite her lack of live experience -- and heavy security at the gig after Lewis was recently attacked at a London book signing - Lewis showed few signs of nerves during the gig, even when technical problems dogged her guitar player during "Better in Time."
Beginning with "Brave" from sophomore album "Echo," due Nov. 16 in the United Kingdom on Syco/Sony Music, and a day later in the United States on J, Lewis sang nine songs in total, including three other songs from the new record. "I Got You" and lead single "Happy" -- currently No. 98 on Billboard's Hot 100 -- were trademark Lewis ballads, but "Outta My Head" marked a change in direction with its high energy dance sound.
A troupe of semi-clad male dancers featured on several songs, while at one stage Lewis performed behind a giant hologram projection of herself.
Lewis also performed "Whatever It Takes" and her worldwide No. 1 "Bleeding Love" from her debut "Spirit" album. Lewis paid tribute to "the power" of the latter song, noting "because of that song I've been able to travel and do so many amazing things." She also played her cover of "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" before ending the set with her version of Snow Patrol's "Run," a U.K. No. 1 for her in Dec. 2008.
Lewis is expected to tour next year, although no dates have yet been announced.
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