Happy Days are Here Again

Last week: I saw Kitty Daisy & Lewis

The 50s are back. It's official. And I ain't complaining. In fact, I am embracing it wholeheartedly. I've always had visions of myself in a full circle floral print skirt on the back of a Harley D with my arms clinging to Arthur Fonzarelli's snake hips and I've been wondering for some time where you can buy those longline bras and corsets that create that cinched-waist bombshell look so well portrayed by Mad Men's Christina Hendricks.

Musically speaking, the 50s have never been big on my radar. But thanks to a recent invitation to dj in a Rock 'n' Roll/ Blues bar, I have broadened my horizons somewhat. One of my current iPod favourites is Shindig magazine-endorsed: Keb Darge and Little Edith's Legendary Wild Rockers, a compilation of rare surf/rockabilly numbers from the late 50s/early 60s which will have you reaching for the Brylcreem before you can say ramalamadingdong. I urge you to get your hands on a copy and lend it your shell-like asap.

Retro revival has been done to death over the past few years with Amy Winehouse paving the way for (or creating a monster?) anybody with a radio mic and a twinset, so I was in no hurry to listen to Kentish Town's family combo Kitty, Daisy & Lewis when I first read about their back-to-roots/Apple Mac is devil philosophy. A recommendation by friends followed by an invitation to a live gig persuaded me otherwise and, with some of their music available on 78rpm vinyl format, the siblings would more than likely strongly disapprove of my hurriedly (illegally) downloaded MP3s. After just a few listens, I was hooked. Their latest full-length offering 'Smoking in Heaven' (perhaps if it wasn't so retro, a more appropriatle title would be 'Smoking on a Heated Terrace Just Outside the Gates of Heaven') covers a wide spectrum of 40s/50s rockabilly, ska and blues sounds with rich vocals and vintage production quality.

Last week, the gig itself was quite an event to behold. Far better attended than I anticipated, Brussels' classy venue the Ancienne Belgique opened its doors to a crowd dressed up to the nines in authentic 50s chic. We had rolled up straight from the office, so didn't quite look the part, although I was secretly pleased I had spent my lunch hour at Toni and Guy having a short, round fringe cut in (alas, a little more Dave Hill from Slade than Bettie Page, however).

In my world, either you have beautiful straight, thick hair that perfectly skims the top of your arse, OR, you can blow a mean harmonica. OR neither. Kitty and Daisy BOTH have locks to die for and the ability to play more instruments than you can shake a shitty stick at. Together with brother Lewis, they exchange guitars, harmonicas and drums as if they were on a production line with each sibling's vocals complimenting the other's. It's a real family affair: Mister Kitty, Daisy & Lewis strums away at an electric guitar slightly set back from his offspring. Meanwhile, Mum joins in on upright bass. The double bass is a favourite of mine; a kind of mysterious creature; it evokes an air of the smouldering hot guy that's way out of your league, skulking in the shadows of a smokey underground club looking effortlessly sultry. The music as a whole fires us all up; unsure whether to skank or dosey doe, we just can't keep those hips still. One highlight was when legendary trumpetist Eddie 'Tan Tan' Thornton took to the stage, a worthy replacement for Rico Rodriguez who plays on the album version of 'Tomorrow'.

In the post-gig frenzy, my friends managed to get their merchandise autographed by Kitty (or was it Daisy?) while I found Lewis so cheeky cockney charming that I agreed to have my photo taken with him (!). The Durham family siblings were definitely not at the back of the queue when swarthy good lucks were being handed out and their trademark toothy gap that you could drive a bus between is, well, just simply the ginchiest, baby.


Watch out for that Number 59 to Ixelles, Lewis



The evening was rounded off rather pleasantly with a final beer and a little more rug cutting to the sounds of Thierry Steady Go, Brussels finest in retro djs.


In case you don't look the part, learn to speak some classic 50s lingo and you'll fit in like a glove: http://www.daddy-o.us/slang.htm

Would I try it again?: Only in a more intimate venue where there's room for me to indulge in some more serious shape-making.

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile

This week: I tried a new dentist.

Barry White, dogs and bagpipes. Three of my deeply ingrained phobias. But these three combined, pale into insignificance when it comes to phobia number four: the dentist. Like many phobias, my terror of the dentist stems from traumatic childhood experiences. As I type, I am literally shuddering in my own skin with the recollection of the variety of atrocities that I have endured in that dreaded chair throughout my 38 years.

At one point in my early years, I had a really lovely dentist. Mr Goldup was gentle and smiley and I always left his surgery laden with lollipops and cartoon stickers proclaiming the benefits of flossing in between your peggies (just a slight contradiction, now I come to think of it). My phobia set in after this teddy bear of a man left for pastures new and we changed surgeries. With the bedside manner of Harold Shipman, Mr Lomax took visible pleasure in administering various forms of torture regardless of my tender years. Unfortunately for me, I was blessed with too many teeth and the task of extracting them was bestowed upon Adolf Lomax, who went about this with the delicacy of King Kong doing his afternoon shopping at Villeroy and Boch. I would have been in less pain if he'd attached them to a HGV going 150km/hour. And this was in the days of general anaesthetic.

I spent the 4 or 5 years leading up to puberty looking like a James Bond villain, thanks to the wonders of modern orthodontics. Every six weeks or so, I got half a day off school to take a bus trip to Liverpool and visit a lavish Georgian terrace on Rodney Street with an enormous front door painted in beautiful eggshell blue. This spectacular building housed the orthodontic practice of Mr Birkenhead, whose soft wavy hair and winning smile cleverly disguised Lucifer himself. With a CV boasting a wealth of Nazi war crimes, Mr Birkenhead refused to lay down his tools until my bloodcurdling screams could be heard from the Wirral. Each new brace was screwed on tighter than a duck's arse in winter. And then I hopped on the bus again, straight back to school to be greeted by my classmates with the inventive new nickname 'Metal Mickey'.



84 Rodney Street: The Gates of Hell

 It will come as no surprise that I have failed miserably in terms of dental welfare, when left to my own devices. During my adult life, appointments have been very few and far between and putting any kind of trust in someone yielding a drill is something that is just quite simply beyond me. I have only visited a dentist under duress and when confronted with the prospect of imminent agony. After a recent throbbing tooth episode, I reluctantly made an appointment at a surgery close to home where my friend Antoinette is the dental assistant. And when the pain subsided. I phoned up and cancelled, telling a big pack of lies about an imaginary emergency meeting at work (yeah, right, like I'm that important). Antoinette saw through this ruse and with some gentle badgering, finally managed to coax me there earlier this week, with my husband holding my hand and my face like a robber's dog.

On entering the corridor leading to the surgery, when we attempted to switch on the lights; nothing happened. Everything was pitch black. Who in their right mind would enter a dental surgery in the dark? I refused point blank. I would rather stand in Harrod's window naked on Christmas Eve. With the lights finally on, Antoinette comfortingly put her arm around me and said, "Don't worry, Bri's here and I'm here, what else do you need?". "My Mum", I muttered sulkily. Pathetic. With a capital P.

The new dentist, fully aware of my fears, was approachable, mild-mannered and reassuring. He listened to my concerns, some irrational, some genuine, and discussed honestly but sensitively the treatment he deemed necessary for the preservation of my toothy grin. Most importantly, he didn't come anywhere near me with that nasty implement with the hook on the end that most dentists like to poke into your gums. I left armed with a special toothpaste that I later found out tastes of soap and mouthwash that creates a kind of rabid dog effect. All in all, I felt less anxious and prepared to make the required effort to keep all 28 of my pearly whites in place well into my old age.

Would I try it again?: I have an appointment booked for 22 September, but something tells me that I could be called to an emergency meeting...

A Strange Kettle of Fish

Last week: I had a Fish Pedicure

A French girl I once met declared that I had the ugliest feet she had seen in her life. Better than the ugliest face, you cheeky bint.

Most people have suffered from problem feet at one time or another. Without going into too much detail - in case you happen to be eating your breakfast whilst reading this - the heat brings out all manner of complaints when it comes to my plates of meat. And let's face it, you only have one pair, so it's absolutely vital to take care of them. It's only since the discovery of Camper and Crocs that I can walk around comfortably, without being half crippled in the summer months. And before you turn your nose up at my peculiar fashion sense, check out the Crocs website; they don't just stock models that you'd only wear to a day out in your local morgue.

I endeavour to look after and treat my feet as much as possible. I've rarely been tempted to squeeze my size 7s into dainty stilettos and, although I can't really afford extravagant pedicures, I occasionally indulge in the odd self-pampering session. My Body Shop loyalty card ensures that I am kept in healthy supplies of Peppermint Foot Lotion and I am the proud owner of rows of little bottles of varnish covering every shade of the spectrum (I don't recommend yellow). I even have some of those squidgy toe separator things, although my main application of them involves me amusing myself by walking around the house pretending I have webbed feet.

On Saturday, three of my girlie friends and I headed into town to try out the latest pampering fad to hit Belgium: the Fish Pedicure. The hour long treat entailed a 25 minute fish pedicure followed by an essential oil foot massage with a glass of champagne thrown in to boot. It was all very Sex and The City, if you think whiter than white towelling slippers rather than Jimmy Choos.

This curious procedure involves rolling up your trouser legs and immersing your feet into a tank full of water and small, wriggly fish called Garra Rufa all the way from Turkey. In no time at all, your new friends set about attacking the problem areas of your feet by nibbling away any hard, dead cells, leaving you with hooves smoother than a Luther Vandross album.

Beforehand, I had pondered the logic behind this. Is there any kind of training involved? Do these fish make minimum wage? On further research I discovered that these little creatures make a beeline for the dead skin on your feet as they see it as a rather tasty source of protein, no motivation necessary. Personally I'd prefer a nice juicy chicken breast, but, whatever floats your boat.

On my first encounter with the Garra Rufa, I succumbed to incontrollable fits of giggles which were received slightly disapprovingly by our hostesses at the Aquaderm Spa. But it was just a knee-jerk reaction - the sensation was so uncomfortably ticklish that I couldn't help myself. I had to concentrate on relaxing my body and focus on my breathing rhythm and, once I had mastered this, it was actually rather pleasant. I guess it was not unlike massaging your feet with an electric toothbrush, not that this is something I put into practice on a regular basis.

Maria claimed that the fish were only interested in her left foot and, as she took her turn before me in the same tank, I also wondered why they were still hungry enough to feast on my bunions and verrucas, the greedy little blighters. No wonder they have doubled in size since they first arrived on Belgian soil, as the girls at the spa explained.

 

Maria stars in "My Left Foot".


As we sauntered out of the spa heading for the nearest ice-cream parlour, we all agreed that the difference to our previously weathered feet was remarkable and that the fish had executed their task extremely well. Our tootsies felt almost as good as Fergie's after an afternoon with John Bryan. And for a mere €22,50, we felt we had got our money's worth (although, they could have served us the remainder of the bottle of champagne).

Would I try this again?: I'm thinking about investing in a tank built into the floor, about two metres away from the telly.

Everybody Needs Good Neighbours

Moving from an isolated house to an apartment has taken some adjustment, but I think we've pretty much managed to adapt without much hassle. We don't play music so loud, keep our voices down if we roll home in the small hours and try not to parade around scantily clad when it's daylight. Our relationship with most of the neighbours has yet to extend far beyond the usual pleasantries of "Hello" and "How Are You?", but we've had a few conversations with Nathalie and Luc from downstairs, bumping into them at a local bar and having a beer together, discussing their recent holiday in Thailand when taking out the rubbish, etc.

This morning I got to know Luc a little bit better.

As I left the building and entered the courtyard, ready to hop on my bike and head off to the station, there was Luc in his ground floor bedroom - lights on, curtains open, windows impeccably polished -wearing nothing but a smile. In the altogether. Full frontal. In his best birthday suit. Now, I'm no prude and ordinarily this wouldn't overly concern me, but by sheer misfortune we had complete eye contact during this nanosecond of an unfortuante incident. So not only have I seen him naked, he knows that I have seen him naked, I know that he knows that I've seen him naked and he knows that I know that he knows that I've seen him naked, if you catch my drift.

Mortifying.

It could only be worse if he'd waved and said "Fancy a slice of toast?".

Forgive me for not including any photographic evidence to illustrate today's delightful experience.