Tag Archives: ian hare

Sex Talk With Phoenix James – Love Freely But Pay For Sex – part 2

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What happens when the government opts to tax sex? ‘Love Freely But Pay For Sex’ follows a group of rogue filmmakers as they attempt to discover how the controversial legislation affects Londoners.

If you’re unaware of the government policy, watch ‘Love Freely But Pay For Sex’ at www.PayforSexPolicy.com, and if you haven’t already done so, read the first part of this article here Phoenix James in Frost before continuing.

For those who have, the credits reveal the government policy, the rogue film production company and the film itself is a concept created entirely by Hackney-based Phoenix James.

The multi-talented James is recognised as an actor, poet and spoken-word recording artist, but ‘Love Freely But Pay For Sex’ is his first foray behind the camera. Not someone to do things by halves, James wrote, cast, produced, directed, edited and sound-recorded the entire film.

“I had written down the concept in a series of bullet points back in 2007, and after having filed it away for some years, I came across it again in 2011,” says James.

“I began to see what I’d written as more of a visual concept and then started to develop those points into dialogue segments. This later became a film script and from that point on, I was driven to make the film.

“Shooting began in April 2012 and by the end of July, I had everything I needed. Working on some other film-related projects gave me some time away from ‘Love Freely’ and I was able to return for the post-production process with fresh eyes and fresh ears. It also helped me to focus it all in my mind and allowed me to remain true to what I initially intended the finished product to be.

“I chose the documentary angle for the film because I wanted to create and display a type of lingering realism that I felt would only come from shooting and presenting it as a real-life, documentary-style film. All of the actors I cast did an amazing job. They each took the dialogue and made it their own.

“I had a call from one local newspaper asking where my statistic quoting 89% of people in Great Britain pay for sex came from because they couldn’t find any information on it. That may be a reflection on the state of journalism in the UK, but I’d say it’s a good measure of how effective the documentary angle has been.

“The reception I’ve received so far has gone beyond anything that I anticipated or had hoped for. When you’re creating, you have an idea of how you feel that creation might be received or how you might want it to be received, but you never really know how it will be until it happens.

“When I set out, I initially hoped a lot of people would watch it and talk about it, but it’s gone beyond that. I knew what I was making was important and would have an effect, but I’m only just beginning to realise just how much.

“Making a film on such a major scale has been a huge learning curve. I was working from scratch for almost the entire filmmaking process. But I definitely felt energized and excited throughout. Any moments where I may have felt slightly overwhelmed just added to my determination to complete something I knew would not only be groundbreaking, but a great achievement for me as well as for everyone involved.

“I think what I’ve learned overall during the making of the film is that we can all truly do anything we put our minds towards achieving. I’m very excited about exploring different avenues, new ground and uncharted waters, discovering new ways of working and writing and filming – and expanding upon what I’ve already learned in creating this film.

“I’ve been infected with the joy of filmmaking,” smiles James. “Love Freely But Pay For Sex’ is the template by which I can judge my future film projects and growth. There’s certainly lots more to come.”

One Pill Makes You Larger – Raving Puppets

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So. Festival Season is upon us – at least, in those rare glimpses of summer between the monsoons.

And yet again, Glastonbury provided some superb spectacles, and I don’t mean Bono’s rain-spattered shades. No, I’m talking about all those sideshow acts and crowd-brought additions that give any show that bit of extra atmosphere.

My personal favourite was from Glastonbury 2005. While The Kaiser Chiefs rattled through their set, a giant, inflatable, long-necked dinosaur loomed over the crowd, watching the Leeds outfit with a beatific smile.

And carrying the theme through, Garbage’s Shirley Manson later borrowed an inflatable doll from the front row and used it as a prop during ‘Why Do You Love Me?’

Now, a Rugby-based company are taking that crowd involvement one step further.

Raving Puppets raison d’etre is to provide fun and interactive entertainment on the dance floor itself.

Says Edward Allan: “People are constantly complaining to me that there isn’t enough in the way of stuff to do or see in raves and this is something Raindance have always appreciated and approached by hiring performers such as dancers and stilt-walkers – turning their event into a proper mini-festival.

“We’re different to every other entertainment because we’re not on the stage or on the sidelines, we are actually on the dance floor with the clients – something no other entertainers can do.

“We’re also a lot more interactive with the crowds, chasing people, dancing with people and playing tricks, like stealing hats and coming up behind people who are in groups – so everyone else sees them except the victim.

“Think mischievous spirits,” he adds.

The puppets are operated ‘muppet-style’ by a black-clad performer who wears the puppets on his or her shoulders, ensuring the focus is on the puppet.

Raving Puppets have appeared all over the UK, including Glastonbury, Reading and Raindance among others.

So, next time you’re approached by a 10 foot tall puppet who decides you’re the perfect dance partner, it’s probably not time to stop drinking or blaming the dodgy tablet a shadowy figure gave you earlier.

It might just be a Raving Puppet.

www.ravingpuppets.com

Chainsaw Barbie Gives New Greenpeace Campaign The Buzz

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After Dream Houses, Corvettes and a rather limp boyfriend, Barbie’s latest accessory is a genre-busting chainsaw.

Hundreds of Barbies have been hidden throughout the UK by Greenpeace as they launch their new campaign to stop manufacturers Mattel using material from the Indonesian rainforest in the doll’s packaging.

Greenpeace’s James Woolley says Mattel are putting the survival of orang-utans and Sumatran tigers at risk, while more than 150,000 Greenpeace supporters have already emailed Mattel demanding they stop.

And to help highlight the cause, Greenpeace volunteers have been hiding Barbie dolls – complete with pink chainsaw – around the UK.

Members of the public are invited to visit a map on Greenpeace’s website to locate a Barbie near them, find the doll and then register their find to get involved.

To get your own eco-terrorist Barbie and join the campaign, go to

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Lest We Forget – Last WWI Veteran Dies

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With the passing of the last World War One veteran, 110-year-old Claude Stanley Choules, on May 5th, the terrible battles of the Great War also pass out of living memory.

When we look at pensioners on the street, it’s difficult to imagine that they were once young and in many cases performed heroics in global conflicts that we, with our largely cosseted lives, can only guess at.

So, for once, I am going to break one of my cardinal rules and use Frost for an unashamed plug, because it’s a book that everyone should read – and remember.

Ebury Press’ ‘Forgotten Voices of The Great War’ by Max Arthur captures the first-hand accounts of the men and women involved in the bitterest of wars that cost the lives of some 37 million people.

Gunner Leonard Ounsworth: “In the evening, we went up to Trones Wood. There were no trees left intact, just stumps and treetops and barbed wire mixed together, and bodies all over the place. Jerries and ours.

Robbins pulled up some undergrowth and as we fished our way through there was this dead Jerry, his whole hip shot away and all his guts out and flies all over it. Robbins stepped back and then this leg that was up a tree became dislodged and fell on his head. He vomited on the spot.”

Private Charles Taylor: “I started crawling towards our lines and I had never seen so many dead men clumped together. That was all I could see and I thought to myself, ‘All the world’s dead.’”

Private Harry Patch: “ All over the battlefield the wounded were lying down, English and German asking for help. We weren’t like the Good Samaritan in the Bible, we were the robbers who passed by and left them. You couldn’t help them. I came across a Cornishmen, ripped from shoulder to waist with shrapnel, his stomach on the ground beside him in a pool of blood. As I got to him, he said. ‘Shoot me.’ He was beyond all human aid. Before we could even draw a revolver he had died. He just said, ‘Mother.’ I will never forget it.

Lest we forget too.

In The Realm of the Census – The Changing Face of Britain

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Any day now, postmen and women throughout the country will stumble, grumbling, to every residence in the UK delivering Census forms.

March 27 is Census Day. And every household will be legally obliged to complete it. Those who fail to do so, could, in theory, face prosecution, a fine up to £1000 and a criminal record.

For some, the ten-yearly pry into the affairs smacks of 1984 (what a shame that wasn’t a Census year) – and Big Brother.

The Government’s official line is that the Census is needed to ‘help government and local authorities plan the services and resources people need, such as transport, housing, healthcare and education’, although you can bet your last penny that there will be rabid frothing in a number of publications about immigration and Jedi Knights after the results are finally published.

The truth, at least according to the 2001 Census is more prosaic. Of course things have changed in 10 years, but the key facts of 2001 showed the population of 58.8m was lower than expected, a growth of just 17% compared to the European average of 23%. In contrast, Australia showed a change of 133%.

And while two areas of London, Newham and Brent, became the first in the UK to have a non-white majority, 87% of the population of England and 96% of the population of Wales gave their ethnic origin as White British. Only 9% of people in the UK said they were non-white.

As expected, London had the highest proportion of people from minority ethnic groups. Black Caribbeans accounted for more than 10% of the population of the London boroughs of Lewisham, Lambeth, Brent and Hackney. With the same figure for Black Africans in Southwark, Newham, and again, Lambeth and Hackney.

Yet countrywide, after white British and Irish, the largest ethnic population was Indian, accounting for a mere 2% of the population.

In the whole of England and Wales, just a little over 1% of people are Black Caribbean, while less than 1% were Black African.

Moreover, despite a media backlash over the Muslim community, Christianity is by far the main religion in Great Britain. There were 41m Christians in 2001, making up 72% of the population. In contrast, a touch under 3%  were Muslim – a total of 1.5m people. While that means that Muslims are now the second largest religion in the UK, people with no religion formed the second largest group, 15% of the population.

Under ‘Other Religions’, the largest of these were Spiritualists (32,000) and Pagans (31,000).  One cannot help but think TV programmes like Charmed and Buffy the Vampire Slayer led to a large surge in the 7,000 Wicca, eclipsing the 5,000 Rastafarians.

An internet campaign to have Jedi Knight recognised as a new religion failed to resonate with the Government, who lumped them with the ‘No Religion’ crowd. Nevertheless, 390,000 called themselves Jedis.

Whether the Jedis actually met women and fathered children remains a question for this latest census, but the questionnaire continues to provide a fascinating snapshot.

The Census was introduced in 1801, when the UK recorded a population of just 10.9m.

Unfortunately, not even Frost has the space to document every change since, but hare are some key facts of our lifetime.

1911 – Population 36.1m

The average number of children that would be born to a woman over her lifetime – The Total Fertility Rate – was 2.8, higher than it is today. Infectious diseases were the main cause of death.

Sadly, 110 out of every 1,000 babies died before reaching their first birthday – almost one in four.

A child born in 1911 had a short life-expectancy – 51 for a boy, 55 for a girl.

1921 – Population 37.9m

The 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic caused 152,000 excess deaths in England and Wales between June 1918 and May 1919. Most of these were infants, children, and adults under 40.

The Great War drastically reduced the male population aged between ages 20 and 40 with a total of 723,000 British servicemen losing their lives between 1914 and 1918.

1931 – Population 40m

With the loss of so many marriageable men, many women were single and childless. The Total Fertility Rate fell to just to 1.8 children per household.

However, improved public health and changing childcare practices lowered infant death rates, to 62 per 1,000 babies born.

Life expectancy was now 59 years for boys and 63 years for girls.

1951 – Population 43.8m

There was no census in 1941 because of World War II, so the 1951 Census highlighted 20 years of change.

The post-World War II baby boom led to a sharp increase in the number of children aged between two and four – 5.4% of the population.

Meanwhile, the impact of the National Health Service, introduced in 1948 boosted survival rates among all age groups.

Infant death rates fell to only 27 per 1,000. A boy born in 1951 was expected to live to 66 years and a girl to 71.

1961 – Population 46.1m

Most deaths were now caused by degenerative conditions such as heart disease, cancer and stroke, rather than infectious diseases.

An NHS programme of vaccinations again boosted survival rates with that of men aged between 45 and 64 catching up with women.

The late 1950’s/early 1960’s baby boom showed the Total Fertility Rate had gone back up to 2.8 children, matching the 1911 figure.

Infant death rates continued to fall – to 21 per 1,000 born. A boy born in 1961 had a life expectancy of 68 years, a girl 74.

1971 Population 48.7m

While the 1960’s baby boom boosted numbers in the younger age groups, the 1970s showed a falling birth rate, with a Total Fertility Rate of 2.1, due in part to the availability of the contraceptive pill for married women.

More people lived longer and fewer babies were dying, with just 17 out of every 1,000 lost before their first birthday.

A boy born in 1971 could expect to live to 69 years, a girl to 75.

1981 – Population 48.5m

In 1974, the National Health Service made free contraception available to all women, which contributed to a period of very low childbearing in the late 1970s. The total population actually fell by about 200,000.

Infant deaths also fell to just 10 per 1,000 and survival rates among older people improved too. There were now noticeably more people aged 65 and over.

Life expectancy at birth reached 71 and 77 years for boys and girls respectively.

1991 – Population 49.9m

Births once again gradually increased throughout the 1980s. This was due to a combination of the 1960’s baby boomers having children and anxiety over the safety of the contraceptive pill – in particular, the link to breast cancer in 1987.

Life expectancy at birth was now 73 years for boys and 79 years for girls.

2001 – Population 52m

The 1990s again showed slow down in the birth rate, to just 1.6 children per household. The infant mortality rate also continued to fall, with just six babies dying before their first birthday for every 1,000 born – a massive sea change from the 110 per 1,000 in 1911.

2011 – ?

Census 2011 is likely to be an eye-opener. The population of the UK is estimated to be a touch under 62m. And there will undoubtedly be big changes in the diversity of the UK in all areas.

It remains to be seen whether the plethora of Harry Potter books and films, Twilight and True Blood lead to a UK  full of wizards, witches, vampires, werewolves or Lonely Ones.

Watch this space.

Male Cancers – A Whole New Ball Game

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A triumphant, red-shirted Bobby Moore, proudly hoisting the World Cup while chaired by his victorious teammates, is English football’s most iconic image.

But the famous 1966 tableau represented more than just a sporting milestone for Moore. Just two years earlier, the West Ham United talisman had been treated for, and beaten, testicular cancer.

Regrettably, it proved only a respite for England’s favourite footballer, who tragically finally succumbed to bowel cancer in 1993 at the age of just 51.

The figures can be frightening. Prostate cancer is the most common form of cancer in men in England, counting for one in four of all male cancers, while bowel cancer is the second most common cause of cancer deaths in the UK, resulting in the deaths of around 16,000 people every year.

And yet, NHS research shows that while incidents of bowel and prostate cancer increase with age, awareness is relatively low.

Considering that early diagnosis increases the chances of beating the disease, the fact that men are less likely to visit their doctor than women adds to the risk.

Understandable embarrassment is one factor, allied to the fact that bowel cancer symptoms can be non-specific. According to Cancer Research UK, the presenting features of colon cancer can be weight loss and anaemia due to blood loss.

Rectal and distal colon cancers, on the other hand, usually present themselves as bleeding and/or altered bowel habits. Symptoms can also overlap with less serious, and more common conditions, such as bowel obstruction.

The causes of bowel cancer can vary. A high intake of red and processed meat will increase the chances of developing the disease, while a diet rich in fibre will reduce it.

An inactive lifestyle also increases the risk, with at least 10% of colon cancers in the UK related to overweight or obesity. Research has also shown that people drinking more than 30g/day of alcohol (around four units) have a greater chance of contracting the disease.

But just taking a small dose of aspirin (75 mg/day) can reduce the risk of dying from colon cancer by a massive 39%.

For prostate cancer, the strongest risk factor is age, with a very low risk in men under the age of 50, which then increases. And the disease can often be common among families. Men with immediate relatives – such as a father, son or brother – diagnosed with prostate cancer have an increased risk of being diagnosed themselves, especially if the relative was diagnosed before the age of 60.

West African men and black men from the Caribbean have a higher risk of prostate cancer than white men, while men born in Asia have a lower risk than men born in the UK.

The symptoms can be similar to prostate enlargement, namely frequency and difficulty in urinating, and occasionally blood in the urine. If untreated, bladder obstruction can occur, while men with more advanced disease may experience pain where the cancer has spread, especially in the back.

Meanwhile, testicular cancer in the UK is rising, particularly in Caucasian men and has doubled since the mid-70s.

Whether this is because widespread campaigns to encourage self-examination aren’t working, or contrarily, because many more cases are being treated as a result, isn’t certain. However, the facts are that around 2,000 men in the UK are diagnosed with testicular cancer every year and while it is rare before puberty, it is the most common cancer of men aged 15-44.

Despite this, if there is any good news story in cancer, testicular cancer is the one. Since the introduction of combination chemotherapy in the 1970s, survival rates for testicular cancer have risen every year. The cure rate is now over 95%.

As stated before, with any cancer, the earlier the diagnosis, the greater the chances of survival.

It’s a standing joke among men that we fondle our testicles every day – albeit not for a medical diagnosis. But with the most common symptom being a painless lump or swelling on one of the testicles, men – and their partners – need to take careful notice.

Other warning signals include testicle enlargement, an increase in testicular firmness, pain, an unusual difference between one testicle and the other, an ache in the lower stomach or groin and heaviness in the scrotum.

In advanced disease, symptoms can include chest tenderness, back pain, shortness of breath and coughing up blood.

In short, guys and girls – don’t be shy. And don’t be scared. I know from bitter experience that when you read a set of symptoms in a medical book, or in an article like this, it can feel like you have them all – and your world falls apart.

Remember, these symptoms can all be a result of something completely different, minor and sometimes, maybe, almost laughable, but your GP won’t care if it turns out to be nothing.

I had a cancer scare at the age of just 22. In the end, it was something relatively minor, but here’s the thing. It may not have been.

So. Simply. If you have any doubts at all, visit your GP. And now, I know it’s a cliché, and it’s one I’ve used before, but it’s valid. So here you go: “If one person gets checked out and something is flagged up, and if this piece affects even one person, I class that as job done.”

http://www.cancerresearchuk.org/bobbymoorefund

http://www.cancerresearchuk.org

The Scream of the Butterfly: Katie Jane Garside

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Artist, musician, poet. Katie Jane Garside can make a claim to all three, and yet remains completely anonymous to most.

Words like Queenadreena, Daisy Chainsaw, Ruby Throat or Woom will mean nothing, but for those who are familiar with Garside’s incredibly diverse output, she represents a hidden and fragile treasure.

Her life story reads like a blend of fact, fiction and fairy-tale. It can be difficult to separate the myth that time and an air of mystery has wrapped around her like a vine.

Although sometimes appearing ill at ease, she’s not averse to giving interviews, but is inexplicably seldom questioned by the mainstream media. Instead her interrogators seem, in the main, to have been fans. Whether they have been so dumbfounded by her presence to be rendered mute, or just hold her in such esteem that to veer off the trodden path and into the realm of intimacy is impossible, the questions put to her have tended to be slight – largely focusing on her music and rarely stripping away the outer veneer.

But the truth is that Garside’s starkly unusual upbringing is one that has cause to be explored. There is little doubt that hers created an exceptional woman who walks her own path unashamedly, even though that route has been beset by hazards along the way.

Without the chance to confirm their validity, the facts appear to be that she was born in 1968 in Salisbury. She was plucked, aged 11 along with sister Melanie to sail the world with her parents. The youngster would spend the next five formative years afloat, at one time not going ashore for 47 days.

Only she can say how such an unconventional childhood affected a girl of such tender years. Suffice to say, years spent with infinity above and countless black fathoms below must have been a revelatory experience.

Speaking to Belgium’s toutepartout, she explained the experience as ‘seamless days of ocean and two little girls with dolls.’ Her confession regarding her eventual return to terra firma set the tone for what was to follow. “I just carried on making dolls but this time the doll was me. I was the puppet and I was the one that pulls the strings,” she said.

And it’s this introspection that has coloured Katie Jane Garside.

In the 1990’s, she joined the band Daisy Chainsaw after answering an advert from guitarist Crispin Gray. One album, ‘Eleventeen’ followed, spawning the single ‘Love Your Money’ and a live outing on cult programme ‘The Word’.

The performance is reminiscent of a homemade bomb. Barely contained and threatening to explode in different directions, it mirrored her brittle state of mind.

The apocryphal story suggests that during a live show while touring with Daisy Chainsaw, she took a razor to her dreadlocked hair, cutting both follicles and flesh. Either way, she succumbed to a nervous breakdown and retired to Rigg Beck, The Purple House, in the Lake District to rest and recuperate.

Some seven years later, Gray asked her to join his new project Queenadreena. Older and wiser, she embraced her demons and returned to the stage, where watching Katie Jane Garside perform remains both an entrancing and schizophrenic experience.

Whether it’s a legacy to years exposed to the vastness of the oceans, she wears very little on stage in an almost child-like innocence. But these are no Fashion Week model-draped outfits. Her self-designed clothes bring to mind a concentration camp – ripped, flimsy and stained. One of her fashion creations was simply entitled Treblinka, complete with internee number.

Even dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, she would still exude vulnerability. While she’ll bound across the stage to wrestle with Gray and bring him crashing to the floor, you find yourself waiting for her unwinding clockwork to bring her to a grinding halt.

Her only stage props are a bottle of wine and a rickety chair. Suicidally, she’ll clamber onto the piece of battered furniture with half the bottle downed. As she teeters, literally, on the brink, you have the urge to rush on, hug her and bring her down to safety.

At other times, she’ll curl onto the seat in a foetal position. From somewhere among the womblike figure, a breathy voice emerges, quivering and scarcely audible. Anyone who’s ever heard her version of ‘Jolene’ prostrate on the stage, alone and lit by a single spotlight can’t fail to be moved.

The overriding feeling when watching Katie Jane Garside is the desire to protect her, wrap her in cotton wool, and enclose her in a glass jar so no one can hurt her – and yet that’s undoubtedly doing her a huge disservice.

She has an unguessed at inner strength. Confessing to being watched at home by a voyeur with binoculars, she used the experience in her CD and DVD 2005 release ‘Lalleshwari – Lullabies in a Glass Wilderness’.

In the films, ‘At the Window’ and ‘In the Kitchen’  she uses herself as the subject – a lone figure framed by her lighted window in a pitch-black house as an unseen watcher slowly creeps ever closer. It culminates in a chilling close-up as the voyeur watches his unaware victim from immediately outside.

Using herself as both muse and canvas recurs frequently in her work.

Part of her 2007 art installation, ‘Darling, they’ve found the body’ in Birmingham art studio, Woom, contained Polaroids of herself looking like a victim among shattered mannequins. In others, she posed naked save for an equine mask for ‘Trixie and the Mule’, while shots simply entitled ‘Garden’ portray her again wearing nothing but an eagle mask and butterfly wings while posing among the trees and branches.

It suggests the actions of a woman who’s become happy in her own skin, although only those close enough to peer behind the performer’s mask could say for certain. But what doesn’t appear to be in doubt is that she seems at her most content in her most recent musical project, Ruby Throat.

Seeing guitarist Chris Whittingham perform on the tube, Garside told website Dieselpunks: ‘This man’s imperative brings the wild ocean of the South Pacific to the London underground. I could do nothing but immerse and fall in love.”

As the vocalist in Queenadreena, Garside switches between the haunting melodies of compositions like ‘Pretty Polly’ to the voice-shattering ‘Pretty Like Drugs’ as she tries desperately to compete with Gray’s chain-saw guitar and the tribal drums that shake every internal organ.

It’s no coincidence that Ruby Throat have taken ‘Pretty Polly’ into their own sets. Many believe it’s the softer work where Katie Jane Garside soars highest.

The minimalist Ruby Throat set-up, a duo, with Whittingham’s superb guitar accompanying and complementing her lone voice, gives her the freedom to both fly and dive, and explore her range and her lyrics.

And it’s this, her writing, which really exposes what makes up an extraordinary woman.

To read her, whether its her poetry, her blogs, her websites or her lyrics is to realise that she operates on a slightly different literary plane from most writers – in any field. Her words feel slightly out of kilter and you are left with the unshakeable impression that her phraseology somehow shouldn’t make sense – and yet it does.

Without speaking to her face-to-face and hearing her spontaneous replies, it’s impossible to say how much of this is a construct, but it’s doubtful. Instead, it feels a genuine part of her larger all, fitting in with every other multifaceted part of her.

Describing ‘Lalleshwari’ – which was a painstakingly self-produced and self-packaged release complete with genuine one-off personal effects inside in each one – she said: “This is my work. It’s a fingerprint, I’ve been barricaded into a room, but managed to slip it out through a crack under the door.

“It’s a message in a bottle caught in returning currents, a child on a desert island discovering these footprints are her own. It’s ingrown and corrupt with a terrifying impermanence and therefore safely beyond a critique,

“It asks everybody else’s opinion whilst ignoring its own motion and knowing it’s feet are bound and hobbled but I did the binding, she chooses her reflection in incarceration because she knows she could have the sky.

“It blames itself for blaming and chooses for herself a violent lover. The auditory is fractured and whispering in the blindspot, torrential downpour and splintered broken water. She is in another room, inches and a world away. Some collaborated and chose to stay the night so she fights me using his hands to throw the punches. I wash her face and hands and eventually sing her to sleep.”

The devotion Garside gives to her projects is phenomenal. Ruby Throat’s “The Ventriloquist’ came bound and laced in leather and diagonally wrapped in an individual page from a dictionary.

Their latest offering, ‘Out of a Black Cloud Came a Bird’ arrived in a mock-up of an office internal envelope, complete with prints of Garside’s own artwork and more personal items.

Such is the reciprocal devotion she inspires in her fans, a recent collection of individually hand-written poems – on paper and in script that seems as delicate as her – was released with her explicit plea that they should not be reproduced on the internet. A quick search reveals that her secret remains safe. It is difficult to think of anyone else where the bond between artist and audience is so unbreakable.

The ties are strong because simply, she appears adored by men and women equally and attracts those who were likely to be the talented, artistic misfits in their own sphere.

For men, her openness and seeming innocence brings feelings that are paternal, fraternal and sexual. To the young women who flock to her performances, she appears inspirational, aspirational and mesmeric. It would not be an exaggeration to say she holds them in thrall.

Whether it’s because she remains largely unknown, to be part of Katie Jane Garside’s world is to feel a solidarity with like-minded souls. The object of their affection, however, somehow stills feels remote, even when she is performing, literally, inches away.

While she will occasionally reach out, close in and hold a member of her audience, there still feels an unbridgeable gap.  She’s paradoxically untouchable and somehow alone even when surrounded.

She says in the poem ‘Meniscus’:

“dancing on a window ledge

15 stories high

i take it up upon myself

to learn me how to fly

i got a step on natures brim

and a head above the clouds

to take the leap

and dive right in

and learn me how to fly

the surface tension

snapping back

her walk-on-water eyes

consoled for mysteries deepest depths

would let me down to cry

would angels borrow me their wings

a surface tension lied

to tease me up against the brink

and learn me how to fly

but fear all made corruption be

her twisted wings denied

she could ever reach the stars

so i lay me down to die.”

It should be pointed out that there is much light among the dark in her work, but she has seen literal and metaphorical depths that most can only imagine.

To have once plumbed so deep, Katie Jane Garside may never reach the stars, but she can still fly.

Acknowledgements:

Ruby Throat picture taken from www.katiejanegarside.com

Main pic courtesy of Claude Z. Daisy Chainsaw 1991 pic courtesy of Mick Mercer.

www.katiejanegarside.com

www.toutpartout.be/adreena/adreenaRbody.htm

www.dieselpunks.org/profiles/blogs/interview-katie-jane-garside

Beating Around The Bush – The Hairy Issue Of Pubic Topiary

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Those of you who read Frost regularly will know a number of my colleagues love fashion. Nothing wrong with that, I just wish I could afford it.

I once had an eye-opening trip to Milan where I went into Prada and had the epiphany that designer clothes aren’t actually TK Maxx stuff with a nice label sewn over the top of “Croydon Denim Inc.”

The assistants were, naturally, Italian, universally good-looking and stunningly dressed. They made me feel like a British string-vested oik with a knotted handkerchief on my head, broiled a warming lobster red.

So ladies, I get it. Well, most of it.

I physically want to get hold of Jennifer Love Hewitt and shake her until her brain falls out of her ears every time I hear her self-gratifying and terribly twee quote of: “After a break up, a friend of mine Swarovski-crystalled my precious lady,” she said. “It shined like a disco ball so I have a whole chapter on how women should vajazzle their vajayjays.”

It’s not just the Swarvoski bit, although that screams, ‘look at me, I can afford to stick over-priced jewellery on my ****’, it’s ‘vajazzle’ and ‘vajayjay’.

Personally, if anyone, man or woman, used the term ‘vajayjay’ in a conversation with me, I’d be looking for their doctor, or possibly their carer. But ‘vajazzle’ seems to be passing into an accepted term where women decorate themselves with clever designs around their nether regions.

Maybe I move in the wrong circles, but I have NEVER met a woman who admitted to decorating herself. Which is probably fortunate. I have enough issues with topiary.

Yes, I understand the arguments about hygiene – and swimwear etc. etc. Anyone who’s seen the “Smack The Pony’ sketch with an unshaven Doon Mackichan and Sarah Alexander will probably keep a lifetime’s supply of Veet or razors in the bathroom cabinet while examining themselves every five minutes in case of strays. But it seems there’s now an increasing pressure for women to conform to a perceived accepted norm.

I blame it on celebrities and porn, or maybe celebrity porn.

Porn, of course, gives the impression that all any man wants out of sex is a woman with bleached blonde long hair, false eyelashes, false lips, false breasts, veneered teeth, long nails, high heels worn in bed, an orange spray tan, a overwhelming desire to be spat on – and in porno terms – a shaved pussy.

As an aside, I’d expect any woman receiving some brain-dead bloke’s spit to stand up and kick him in the bollocks so hard, he’ll never find them again.

Anyway, thanks to countless, easily accessible porn clips on the internet, a generation of boys have grown up with shaven women and see it as the norm – and expect their teenage girlfriends to do likewise.

Don’t fool yourself ladies. Shaving came about on film just so slavering men could better see the ‘oh, so realistic’ lovemaking. OK, it’s called a Hollywood, but if you ever see Hollywood actresses in nude roles, they’re invariably sporting a neat natural triangle. Nope, the Full Monty on celluloid is almost exclusively the domain of the sleazy side of the industry.

Then the Brazilian came into its literal shining glory. Originally from Brazil (ah, so that’s where the name comes from) Brazilian girls had been shaving themselves for decades for the Rio carnival and its ilk so they could they wear the tiny thongs that South American countries favoured without fear of causing offence.

Not bad in a predominantly Roman Catholic country. Of course, maybe some priests approved because it reminded them of children.

Poor joke aside, that’s one of the arguments often put forward against shaving. A number of people of both sexes think it’s a sinister way of getting a woman to look like a little girl.

I should say that this is a point of view that conveniently forgets that the woman in question is an adult with a right to choose. Instead, I’d hazard it says more about the state of mind of those putting forward the argument. No, my thoughts are purely about aesthetics. Very simply, it’s a myth that every man wants a hairless woman.

In the 1970s, razors apparently didn’t exist. Anyone who’s seen ‘Emmanuelle’… (OK, bad example given that actress Sylvia Krystal was Dutch in a French film and therefore revelling in hair). Anyone who’s seen the ‘Confessions of’ films, or a Mayfair magazine from the era would know that women never shaved – or certainly not to the extent that they looked like they had.

And I can attest that was equally true in the 80s and into the 90s.

Now, 20 years later, women are being both pushed and encouraged to bare all in a complete u-turn. It’s a matter of centimetres as to whether a woman has a Brazilian, a Playboy, a European and even a Hitler. No doubt Der Fuhrer would be very proud that his legacy didn’t completely run to world devastation.

And now, men too are getting in on the act. Yep, brothers are doing it for themselves.

It’s odd. As a guy, I can reveal that we spend our puberty years praying we won’t be the last to grow pubic hair. Anything not to resemble a little boy in High School and so successfully stave off years of abuse. And now some guys are shaving it off?

These have to be men who obviously never play sport or appear in any environment where they have to undress in front of other men. Even when all grown up, the ridicule would be unbearable – no pun intended.

Men who shave their chest hair are in a tiny minority and really, really need to have that model physique before revealing their quivering man boobs shorn and shivering. I also know, in the straight world, a ‘back, sack and crack’ wax never set the male imagination alight.

Perhaps in the more body conscious male gay scene, a smooth operator is more desirable, but now that ‘bear’ has taken on a whole new meaning, I doubt it even more.

I don’t know. Do ladies prefer their men bare down there? Or are some men so blinkered that it produces an optical illusion of a few extra inches. If so, chances are that they’ll be found out if they ever find a woman who wants to sleep with a plucked chicken.

The money shot is that men don’t shave to please their woman and it’s all about a misplaced vanity. Equally ladies, shave and shape if that’s what makes you comfortable, but don’t do it just to please your man, or because you think it’s what every man expects or wants. You’ll be wrong.

We love you the way nature intended too and if a man isn’t prepared to accept you that way, he’s a clearly an immature boy – still desperately waiting for his hair to sprout.

Photo: Beware, merkin, by Miriam Nathan Roberts, 2006