Charming introvert

Both comforting and familiar:

"He spoke like a shy schoolchild startled at being called upon to speak in class. But in top form, and in private, he was wickedly witty and funny." -- Andre Leon Talley remembers Yves Saint Laurent (Vogue, August 2008)

A timid YSL preparing to board, 1950s.

This obituary in The Times probes deeper into fashion's gentle recluse.

Ay Dios Mio!

I think the London Lite has come out with the best review so far of Mamma Mia! amid all the sequined, gold lame, and glitter-filled mania:

"A glorious sunny summer treat to make you positively want to rip off your clothes, dance off Watterloo Bridge and dive headfirst into the Thames singing Fernando. Meryl Streep is a delight, and if you can get past the fact that her wedding-bound daughter looks barely old enough to be out of nappies, you'll be swept up in the frivolous, musical fun."

Need more be said? Incidentally I also felt like diving headfirst into the Thames after watching The Dark Knight, summer's Other blockbuster, but more out of disappointment than giddiness.

Flocking to London

Is the tube (i.e. subway) still the fastest way to get around London? Probably not, but it looks like the recently-unveiled £30 billion worth of plans to upgrade London's tube system has attracted new commuters.

Running without Scissors

I felt a little like a bull in Pamplona as I took part in the British 10K London Run last Sunday. With 25,000 participants, the running was pretty much incidental to the event. It felt more like a street party than a race, with live music, DJs, balloons, a brass band, banners, and bystanders lining the entire route. While there were a handful of elite athletes present (recognizable by their sleek Nike-sponsored gear and absence of body fat),  there was surprisingly little of the usual sharky, testosterone-fueled competitiveness that saturate most sporting events. It was all good, in spite of the cold rain and icy gusts of wind pounding down on us that morning.

I saw grannies, very old men, mothers and daughters, dads with prams, couples, and groups of friends in varying states of fitness join the race, cheerily huffing and puffing their way past each other. The Chef, viewing the spectacle from Big Ben, even saw a one-legged man hobble past. There were several costumed runners, including a few guys who ran the race dressed as trannies (minus the stilettos), a rhinoceros, a fuzzy sunflower, Spiderman, and a few Hulks. And why wasn't Jollibee in the race, representing?? Lazy son of a bee!

Most ran on behalf of charities or obscure causes (i.e. Save the Rhinoceros Fund, Children's Society), which made for interesting shirt browsing during the race. In spite of 9.35am being the official start time, I only managed to get past the start line at 10.00, having waited for the first 10,000 participants to inch their way toward the start before me. 

I found the first 3Ks tiring, but eventually paced myself with a pair of middle aged men wearing matching purple 'Pancreatic Cancer UK' shirts all the way to the finish (1 hour, 5 mins). Thanks, guys. 

Incidentally, Turner Prize winner Martin Creed has launched (or should I say released?) a live exhibit at the Tate Britain called Work No. 850. Turns out 850 is a person who runs up and down the Tate grounds at full speed, all day, every day.  Explains the artist:

'Running is the opposite of being still. If you think about death as being completely still and movement as a sign of life, then the fastest movement possible is the biggest sign of life. So then running fast is the exact opposite of death: it's an example of aliveness.'

Work No. 850 runs for its life until November 16th.

*All photos from the official ASICS British 10k London Run website

Don't worry, it's safe to eat here...

Because the owner also eats here (apparently). In fact, that might even be the owner sitting by the window. If so, there should be a little arrow pointing in his direction.



Spotted along Gloucester Road in Kensington. I'm still not sure how this was supposed to be encouraging (?) 

Hogwash

The trouble with Neil LaBute's 'modern comedy' Fat Pig is that it seems to hold the pretensions of being a 'hip,' fun satire on the trappings of modern life -- its superficiality and materialism, its prizing conformity over individual happiness. But, ambitions aside, it's just a bad play -- period. In fact, it's probably the worst play I've seen in London.  

The characters are about as convincing as sock puppets, and the 'society' that it seems so critical of doesn't seem to exist outside of American high school cafeterias. Everything falls conveniently under one polemic or another: good or bad, thin or fat, attractive or ugly, cruel or compassionate. Its script is lazy, and even patronizing at times. And this is a comedy? Where? Stale fat jokes don't count. Never are the talented quartet of actors given a chance to probe deeper into their paper-thin characters, which makes it impossible to relate to or commiserate with any of them, including the angelic fat girl. 

The only highlight of the play was the scene where Robert Webb (with a convincing American accent) pretended to be hard at work on his MacBook. I began to zone out and imagine him slipping into his Mac vs PC skit. It was also around this time that a large man, who was sitting beside the Chef, fell asleep and began to snore.

How I wish the Greatest Bitch of All Time, A.A. Gill, would pick up this stinker and toss it to the abattoir. Or, better yet, I'd love to see the late, great In Living Color Men on Art duo (video below) also take a swipe or two.  

Hated it!!!