• It’s a giant iPhone.
• It doesn’t have a camera.
• Or multitasking.
• Or USB.
• Or flash.
• It costs twice as much as a netbook,
• it does half as much,
• and it doesn’t have a keyboard.
• It’s got a 4:3 aspect ratio…
• and a 90s-tastic 1024×768 native resolution.

In other words, it’s a barrel of shite with a rather nice touchy-feely interface. But somehow every other reviewer in the land is being paid stacks of cash or freebies or blow jobs or whatever to rave about this overpriced digital doorstop. Lucky for you then that someone at apple forgot to grease ol’ Chad’s palm or spit-shine his cock, so I’m gonna tell it to you like it really is.

If you buy an iPad, you are buying into a fundamental power shift in the user / device paradigm.

You are no longer a creator. You are a consumer.

Apple founded its reputation on being the creative’s choice. Long before it became the machine to be seen posing with while sipping your non-fat latte and working on your god-awful rom-com screenplay lovingly based on your own life, Macs were machines for graphic designers and musicians and other creative types who wanted to get shit done.

Then Apple turned evil. It started out small, with the iPod. But make no bones about it, this is where it started. The iPod is solely a consumption device. It’s to consume media. More than that, it’s a feed to encourage you to buy media. Remember when everyone used to just share music on tape or CD or Napster or Soulseek? Well, now you’ve got the shiny Apple iTunes store selling tracks at a ridiculous price for something that isn’t even real, taking an enormous cut, and basically dictating the direction of the music industry.

The iPad is Apple’s attempt to dominate the publishing industry in exactly the same way. Think about it. These fuckers want you to consume your books and your magazines on the iPad. That’s what it’s been designed to do, supposedly, if you believe the reviews, more or less perfectly. But do we really want Apple controlling our digital futures?

People rail against Murdoch for being monopolistic and attempting to dominate markets. Doesn’t the iTunes store now have more or less a stranglehold on the music industry? Apple aren’t the good guys any more, folks. They’re the evil empire pushing the little guy around. Just because they make shiny quasi-futuristic devices that look great and are easy to snort coke off, doesn’t make them the nice guys.

Think about digital bookstores. No more sharing your favourite book with your friend. You can’t just lend them your dog eared paperback. How’d you lend a DRM protected, encrypted file? Heck, knowing Apple’s track history, you probably won’t even be able to cut and paste.

The iPad is a device designed to get you to spend more money.

Think about the “app store” and the “app” revolution. What a crock of shit. You’re all a bunch of fucking asswipe dummies. 90% of “apps” are just a repackaged way of requesting, receiving and displaying data from the internet. And you’re paying through the teeth for the “convenience” of it.

Apple is a closed platform, folks. That means they’re in control of it. They control what gets uploaded to the app store and what gets deleted — if it’s got questionable content, it’s gone. If Apple had a similar stranglehold on the publishing industry, what else might get deleted? Would Lady Chatterley’s Lover be facing a new obscenity trial in the digital age — with judge, jury and executioner being some faceless suit at Apple HQ?

Basically, the iPad is shit. It’s a shit expensive portable monitor designed to encourage you to buy more shit, like apps to view newspapers and magazines that are available for free right now online anyway. The iPad isn’t designed so you can create. It’s designed to encourage you to consume. It’s like having an advert in the palm of your hand all the time.

Oh, and it can’t do Flash.

Chad Fanstor

Further reading: http://ipadmakesmesad.blogspot.com/

]]> http://thethingis.co.uk/2010/04/08/apple-ipad-sucks/feed/ 3 http://thethingis.co.uk/2010/02/01/the-limits-of-control/ http://thethingis.co.uk/2010/02/01/the-limits-of-control/#comments Mon, 01 Feb 2010 17:06:59 +0000 admin http://thethingis.co.uk/?p=492 When is a film not a film? Well, arguably, when nothing happens, and when the (unnamed) lead character has approximately ten lines of dialogue in a little under two hours. The Limits of Control is either a one star or a ten star film depending on who’s watching it. There’s simply no middle ground. To be honest, I fall into the latter category. I think.

The film focuses on the unnamed man, a suited-and-booted hitman who sits around in cafe bars meeting people who give him a series of cryptic instructions about where to go next. I’d say I’m going to spoil the plot for you, but the truth is, there is no plot. Or if there is, you’ll never understand it. But that’s the point. Even the denouement, where the hitman breaks into a heavily fortified compound, is a brilliant tease, a sleight of hand that leaves you reeling. One moment he’s outside. The film cuts away. He’s inside. ‘How the hell did you get in here?’ his target asks. ‘I used my imagination,’ the hitman replies.

And that’s the thing. This is a thinking man’s film. It requires you to think. It forces you to think. ‘Sometimes I like it in films when people just sit there, not saying anything,’ says one of the hitman’s contacts. The characters then proceed to sit in silence, unmoving, for two minutes. Or perhaps it just feels like two minutes. Either way, it’s a long time. It’s longer than is comfortable. This is a film that will take you right out of your comfort zone. It isn’t a narrative, it’s a dissection — of motivation, of alienation, of existential nausea . It’s also beautiful. Every scene is like a slowly moving picture postcard. Avatar, it ain’t. But I’d rather watch this film any day.

The Limits of Control isn’t a film — in the conventional sense. In fact, it’s a film that deliberately breaks every possible convention, forcing you, as audience, to question every last formulaic trope in genre filmmaking. The naked girl on the bed. The cryptic cyphers. The ice-cold killer. The nature of reality. This film will make you question everything while revealing nothing. We’re so used to looking at moving pictures now, we never even consider the way they’re framed. This is a film that demands you take a step back into the meta-narrative of filmmaking itself — it’s self-consciously aware of its own existence as a work of fiction. You aren’t asked to suspend your disbelief. Quite the opposite. Here, nothing is real. You’re stepping into a dream.

Some people see nothing more than two hours of their life they’ll never get back. Others recommend you watch it with a couple of sheets of blotter acid. Me, I felt as if I was staring into the mirror for a couple of hours. Not because I saw any of myself reflected in the film, but because the film itself holds up a mirror to the way we view our lives and forces us to ask: in a world where we’ve come to expect predictable story arcs and neat, tidy endings, how do the films we usually watch really depict reality?

The truth is, in all its weird glory, The Limits of Control is closer to real life than any other film that’s been documented recently. Don’t expect answers. When the credits roll, all you’ll have is more questions.

Richard Allday

Worse, the release of this year’s ArtReview power list has seen him plummet from being Top Dog to being a tick-ridden no. 48 which is, I’m sure, the metaphorical equivalent to Mr Hirst of a royal crack to the knackers with a Doctor Marten boot — delivered while he’s already reeling on the ground. To the rest of us, it’s just a reminder that all glory is fleeting. A star is extinguished, not with a bang, but a very anguished whimper.

My point is that as some stars fall, other rise. That’s why I was tempted into going to the opening night of Lucas Price’s exhibition at the Black Rat Press, Rivington St, Shoreditch. I rolled my eyes when I saw the press release — another graffiti artist — but Price is proof that not every “urban” artist should be tarred with the same can of primer.

I’m going to use the B word. Sorry. But whenever graffiti is mentioned, his spectre looms larger than Banquo at Macbeth’s banquet. Banksy is the street art world’s Vettriano. Sure he does alright and he’s popular, but his work isn’t exactly challenging. Let’s face it, the only provocative statement that’s had Banksy’s name underneath it in at least a decade comes from the anonymous collective that wrecked his Stokes Croft mural by throwing red paint all over it.

I’m an old fashioned kind of guy. I like my art to say something. So it’s truly wonderful when you find art that not only says something, but says it from the heart. Lucas Price manages to do both.

He’s nervous. It’s his first big show and he’s worried about how people are going to react. But unlike a certain D Hirst, he’s not worried about his reputation in as much as it fattens his wallet. No, he’s got the same nervous need for acceptance that all recovering addicts do — a need that drives his entire body of work.

He needn’t be worried. Jesus Help Me find my Proper Place is a deeply personal collection that not only draws deep from Price’s years as a homeless drug addict, but also one that says volumes about his recovery. You feel as if he’s put his heart and his soul into his work and when an artist does that, something magical happens — art becomes more than mere technique and becomes imbued with meaning.

There’s a real sense of Price’s former disconnection and his struggle to reconnect with the world — in short, to find his place. A collage of photos of the Earth taken from the moon, shrouded in telling white space and bearing the legend ‘when you’re high it’s so warm… it’s like a blow job’ seemed to sum it up for me. As did his statement ‘I’ve decided to study real hard this year and become rich and famous.’ You get a real sense of an artist struggling to express himself in his work.

He’s definitely obsessed with death. Skulls abound, and there’s an open coffin placed in the centre of the room — the body in it is undoubtedly the corpse of his former self, the unlucky Lucas Price who never sobered up and discovered meaning. But it isn’t a morbid obsession. It’s a celebration of a deserved escape from the jaws of death.

Lucas Price’s work is warm and genuine. You might not think these are high accolades for pieces that can command up to 14k a throw. But they are. In fact, I can’t think of praise any higher.

For what it’s worth, I’d happily have one of Damien Hirst’s new paintings hanging on my wall. But that’s the point. Hirst’s new work is art-school stuff that ought to be hanging up in someone’s bedroom. You really get the feeling that the work of Lucas Price belongs in a gallery.

In short, I think he’s found his place.

Richard Allday

Lucas Price: Jesus help me find my proper place
Black Rat Press, Rivington St, Shoreditch
October 15th – November 13th 2009

Click here for details

Housed on Bentwaters cold-war era air force base, and as mentioned, associated with a classical music festival, it has dash of the unlikely from its beginnings. Faster Than Sound is a festival of noise/avant garde/installation art based festival which seems to attract glow stick wielding ravers and the more experimental end of the opera fan spectrum.

The first year I went the ex command-centre of the base, complete with blast walls, hosted various installation pieces and a few small scale musical performances. It may have looked familiar to some of the audience – that’s because it was used for that Channel 4 series where reality TV wannabes were fooled into believing they were going into space; bits of the set were still visible. Two other stages had more conventional dance music. The organisers were apparently still worried that it might be a bit mundane, so threw in an aircraft hanger (complete with signs explaining what to do with unexploded ordinance still visible inside) with a giant framework ball which could be rolled around, causing it to make weird noises from electronics attached to each vertex. (I’m afraid that I can’t write that last sentence in any other way to make it seem more plausible.)

This year’s events were unfortunately a little more conventional. Performances took place in a sound proofed hanger designed for testing aircraft engines (where else?), and proceedings were reproduced through an extremely crisp 8 channel surround sound system. Stand out performances came from Exile and Plaid.

I’m told Tim Exile was using his performance as part of an MA course, in which he took live vocal samples from two trained singers who stood on stage in front of him, and melded them into his trade mark mash of distorted rhythms and processed samples. His performance shifted from melodic and repetitive through to a few moments of straight-ahead jungle towards the end, and he took full advantage of the massive PA to hammer the audience with occasional walls of noise.

Plaid produced the only genuinely accessible performance of the night, playing more or less their normal fare. However, uniquely among the artists, they made impressive use of eight speaker stacks encircling the audience, sending sounds spiralling round us and bouncing all over the place.

Site specific theatre group Punchdrunk also performed in the hanger, simulating air raid sirens, playing “it” with the crowd and trying to evoke a general sense of a fear of flying. I enjoyed the performance, however my friends were a little more sanguine and pointed out that in such a dramatic setting a little more might have been achieved.

This point was forced home latter when the electric doors of the hanger unexpectedly closed accompanied by the sound of a wailing siren. The fire brigade (who were already there, presumably in case an aircraft hanger sufficiently fireproofed to test aircraft engines should spontaneously ignite through the presence of 150 opera fans) rushed in and eventually the doors were reopened. It certainly constituted a dramatic use of the space.

I have to come clean and admit that that I can’t appreciate all the performances I seem to see where a musician uses an effects pedal to mangle the sounds of an attack on an orchestral instrument. Sometimes I think I’m getting something; other times I’m definitely not. However, what made the first year’s FTS so good was that when I got bored of a man playing a cello with a spoon accompanied by time-lapse videos of plant growth there were plenty of other things to go and look at.

This year really only had one focus of attention, and, unfortunately, frequently no focus, since many of the acts took 15 minuets to set up.

Having said all this, the basic premise still functions. Where else do you get to see a miniature mechanical orchestra perform in the darkened recesses of the nation’s cold war infrastructure? Gentlemen, you can’t use a sampled Theremin in here! This is the war room!

Jimmy Tidey (Follow me on Twitter)

The art was unexpectedly exciting too. I’ve really only ever experienced two kinds of art: very good and very bad. As has been noted so often before they sometimes bear an uncanny similarity. Somehow the show joined the dots between these two extremes. Previously the idea of buying art was opaque for me. Where was art bought and sold? What sort of person ‘bought’ art? I’ve see art in trendy pubs and bars, and its frequently less than impressive, especially when the price tag is in the hundreds. I can imagine the artist, but I can’t imagine the buyer of ‘pub’ art.

At the other end there is the art you see in museums and big galleries, and, of course, I have no idea how the dizzying values of the paintings contained therein are arrived at either. Sometimes I can see the art’s merit, sometimes I can’t — I sure as hell can’t imagine it over the mantel piece.

That’s where the Fair illuminated me. Here was a mass of paintings with a clear purpose: to be bought. Not by me, but some of the works were ‘affordable’. You could pick up a 1 of 10 print for £600. Not only that, but the paintings often appeared, even to my inexpert eye, fantastically well executed. One of my slightly-arty-friends-who-often-makes-their-own-Christmas-cards couldn’t hold a candle to the paintings on display.

Even more importantly, if you had one of these in your living room you can bet that everyone who came by would ask you about it. There were many, many paintings on display that I would be delighted to see every morning. Here’s a test that I’ve thought of to decide if art is any good or not: Imagine burglars break in and see your painting, it’s big, and it’s a bit of hassle to steal. If the art is really outstanding then I reckon that uncouth burglars ought to be going “shit, what’s that?”, even if they don’t know anything about it. If it’s good, they’ll nick it. Ok, it’s probably not a test they’re going to be using at Sotheby’s any time soon, but applying this test to the paintings on show I think buyers would be wise to get some insurance.

It sounds ridiculous, but as I continued to explore the fair, the concept that art is made to be purchased and enjoyed occurred to me for the first time. That’s not so obvious when you go round some international museum. Purchase there is off the cards, and by the very nature of being the ‘best’ it’s often the least accessible. It’s a rubbish introduction to art. I don’t want to sound mercenary about the purchase of art, it’s just that I could suddenly see it as a practical item, not an intellectual exercise.

Another thing that surprised me is how much collecting the stuff appealed, even though that’s clearly not much of an option. Obviously collecting something that costs thousands of pounds per item is off the cards for a lot of people, on the other hand how many people do (or did before the era of the download) spend thousands on music each year?

Sadly there was more than a little evidence that some people with a poor money/sense ratio were getting their wallets out. Ten people had already purchased a picture of Amy Winehouse at £2,500, (there were 100 prints of this image available). Maybe I misunderstood, maybe it was a great picture, but I just wince to imagine some early 20s city types trying offload some of their cash on culture and then finding a picture of Amy Winehouse. Fair enough if one person wants one, who wants to be the 10th guy on the list? The show had only been open about 2 hours.

I’m sure it’s not only rich idiots making purchases though, if only I could spend all my nights out at openings with free booze I could probably save enough for a painting myself…

Jimmy Tidey
Illustration by Thomas Doran

For the uninitiated: Sonar runs over three days – Thursday to Saturday – each day split into Sonar by Day, taking place in various venues around Barcelona centre, and Sonar by Night, in four massive arenas a short ride out of the city.

We arrived on Friday afternoon. First up was DJ Rupture, playing in Sonar Dome. Accompanied by his band Nettle – a bevy of international looking types – pulses of hypnotic, arabic flavours washed over the crowd. With our energy levels sapped from the flight, we needed something more involving.

Hot-footing to the Escenario Hall, we caught the last few seconds of Mira Calix’s set, next on was fellow Warp stalwart Clark. Like Rupture, another highly talented knob-twiddler with a penchant for organic sound, Clark was accompanied onstage by a live drummer. Any welcome thoughts of a bolt of junglism to my jetlagged bones suddenly diminished.

Having seen the artist formely known as Chris several times, I much prefer his sets minus live percussion – more danceable, less head-nodding – like he played at Bloc weekender. A recent Clark gig at Cargo in London was also spoiled by some man-child on the skins. It’s perplexing that a producer like Clark, obsessed with the idiosyncrasies of sound, would employ a drummer that (a) looks like he shouldn’t be out past 9pm, and (b) can’t keep time.

Having heard murmurings about Haswell and Hecker, I was intrigued. In the fittingly high brow surroundings of Barcelona Modern Art Museum the crowd were subjected to a white noise onslaught – like a ghost in the machine trying to get out – and schizoid lasers. Impressive stuff, but not conducive to getting my dance on. If that appeals and you don’t mind involuntary nose-bleeds, Hecker’s forthcoming ‘Recordings for Rephlex’ drops on that label later this year.

The Beastie Boys were the headline act at this year’s festival, playing on Thursday and Friday night. Unfortunately, I missed their Thursday night instrumental performance where they dispensed with microphones (cue collective sigh of relief) and got all funked up (the instrumental ‘jams’ of Ill Communication are some of the best stuff they’ve ever done) Alas, we arrived for the evening to the sight of the Brooklyn three bounding about the Sonar Club stage like embarrassing dads in School Disco fatigues. Amazed at how popular they still are, the huge air craft hanger-sized building was humming with revelers. The obligatory Ad Rock b-boy stance was the final straw, we got our bodies moving, towards the bar. Modeselecktor followed the Beastie Boys. A welcome antidote, flashes of rave-era sonics and straight-up dancefloor bounciness, all under-pinned by buoyant bass. Nice bowler hat as well.

On the way to catch Ed Banger, stopped by the British dubstep contingent, holding fort on Sonar Lab’s outdoor stage. I wasn’t majorly bothered when I learnt Skream, Oris Jay and Kode 9 were playing Sonar, spoilt by the abundance of dubstep nights in London and Bristol. Though credit where it’s due, Kode 9 and Spaceape’s set was phenomenal; drenched in dread, with deep, intertwined, techy undercurrents. Arrived as Mary Anne Hobbs played her last tune of the opening set, it’s name escapes me, but it’s a Mala one with a childlike “I love dub music” repeated coda. It set the tone for the rest of the showcase. By the time Skream came on at 2.15am, there were about 7,000 people skanking away, including Jamie Cullum! A great night for a scene still finding its feet on the international stage. I’m sure many left converted.

Ed Banger head honcho Busy P presided over the Sonar Pub stage with supreme confidence. His roster were given a huge 5 hour slot, fitting for a clique very much flavour of the month. DJ Mehdi was pretty good, didn’t catch Uffie, went to see Dizzee Rascal and then Richie Hawtin. Justice stormed the 3.30 to 5.00am slot, garnering a huge response from the crowd. It was good, no doubt, unashamedly fun, though I wanted them to play more of their own stuff.

Dizzee made the best out of a difficult slot, 4.00 to 4.45am. Coming on to ‘Jus A Rascal’, flow electric and effortless as ever, backed by DJ Semtex and MC Scope. ‘I Love U’ was a personal favourite, those unrelenting gabba stabs sounding heavy on the always impressive Sonar rig. Dizzee’s schooling in grime raves served him well, hyping up the crowd during those crucial less upbeat moments – like ‘Paranoid’ from the new album – when the crowds attention starts to flag. Unlike the dire Ugly Duckling who performed at a similar time slot at last years Sonar and justifiably went down like shit sandwich.

Finished the first night with Sonar’s favourite son Richie Hawtin. He commands an unparalleled level of reverence at this event. Even more impressive that not since Simon Le Bon has a man pulled off a New Romantic fringe with such aplomb. Techno was pretty good to, not as minimal as I’ve seen him before, banging but still polite.

Saturday’s Sonar by Day saw Claro Intelecto and Andy Stott. Enjoyed both sets, Stotts in particular, especially the last 20 min where he upped the bpm’s. Nice bit of warm-up business in the sun. Junior Boys were also perfect, sun was out, sangria…blah…blah…blah.

From here on it got a bit blurry, one must suffer for their art. All I know is at Sonar by Night Dave Clarke smashed it. To bits. The final set of the festival, 5.00 am to lights up. No laptop, no frills, just a big British bastard playing uncompromising, upfront hard techno. Though my judgment may have been somewhat impaired by this juncture.

Remember a bit of Miss Kitten, not as good as last year. Had grand plans to see Jeff Mills and Cursor Miner, but to no avail. When all the fun was over, went to Anti-Sonar (a car-park commune with anti-corporate pretensions and enough communist chic to put a gap year student to shame) The usual suspects were all present and correct; gabba techno, three-legged dogs and po-faced weekend hippies. This was all well and good, though If I wanted to go to a free party I can go to Thetford Forest, I’ll stick with Babylon for now, see you next year.

by Alex Forster
Illustration by David Brewster.

But this was no fear and loathing. In fact, it wasn’t even nearly loathing. A little like popping a Valium before meeting up with an ex-beau for a drink, I spent much of the weekend sinking into a steady state of indifference as events unfolded around me. As a festival, Latitude is so inoffensive at times you might feel as if you want to take it home to have tea with your parents. The worst thing that happened to me during the course of my weekend was being bumped from first class on the critically overflowing train that brought me to my destination. There were no further hitches. I quickly settled into the clean, orderly campsite and took a look around.

Billing itself as ‘more than a music festival’ Latitude places a heavy emphasis on performance, a fact that was immediately emphasised by the start of The Irrepressibles’ set in the woods between the campsite and the main stage. A real standout, the set went on for four days (with breaks, one presumes) with the aim of creating a complete performance of music and dance during that time rather than just the traditional one hour set of the indie music festival. There was definitely more to the festival than just music, though, with Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey headlining the comedy tent, a wide selection of films being screened in the film tent, a caberet tent, a theatre tent, and even two separate tents for literature and poetry. Latitude’s organizers were nothing if not ambitious.

But what about me? What was I there for? The prospect of being on my own at a festival for four days was somewhat daunting, but I’d made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t spend all my time hiding in the press tent talking to people on MSN. For the first two days, I even denied myself the lifeline of Facebook. I was completely on my own, surrounded by music and culture. I might have been more enthusiastic if there was someone there I could share it with, but as it was there was only one thing for it – I decided to get absolutely, terribly, utterly stinkingly drunk. I quickly succeeded, rolling around the festival seeing acts I’d vaguely heard of before, sharing drinks with complete strangers and generally protesting ‘but I am a proper journalist, I’ve got a badge and everything.’ Of course the sad fact is you can probably get a badge saying that you’re a writer by collecting tokens in cereal packets these days. Nobody has any respect for the writing profession these days: least of all me. The only time the literature tent really filled up was when everything else closed down. Likewise, to a lesser degree, the film tent was often empty, despite some truly great pieces were being screened. I caught a John Smith retrospective and an airing of Turner Prize nominated artist Phil Collins’ latst work. Then I went back to getting drunk.

Latitude is a small festival with big ambitions. On paper, it looks amazing, punching well above its weight in pulling in some really big acts – Jarvis Cocker and The Arcade Fire being the main highlights. But in another very important sense, it lacks that spark that makes festivals such an experience. There was none of the squalor or seediness you might hope to find at a festival, and absolutely no dance music whatsoever, pretty much meaning that the hippie contingent never showed up. This was a festival that had been cleaned up, not for the masses, but for the elites. I had somehow stumbled into a smiling, happy, family-friendly middle class holiday camp. Radio 4 even broadcast live from the festival over the weekend. I wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire cast of The Archers showed up for a weekend break.

Though none of this is a bad thing. Of course, I lamented the lack of any electronic music, but it was a great opportunity to see a lot of live acts in a very intimate setting. Standing in a crowd of maybe a little over three thousand, I finally managed to see what all the fuss over CSS was about, though I’ll still never, ever, ever trust any woman who utters the words ‘kiss me, I’m drunk,’ no matter how seductively she says it. Personal reasons. And I was jostled by a crowd of over-enthusiastic new ravers at New Young Pony Club in a tent so small that you’d be forgiven for thinking it had been pitched in someone’s back garden – but to my surprise, I found myself enjoying it far more because of the small size. I even bumped into some people I knew and spent hours catching up, sitting in strategically placed deckchairs beside a bucolic lake. The festival had its own flock of sheep painted in pastel colours. I’m not kidding.

There’s no doubt that this was the middle class at play. I bumped into a very pretty girl wearing some kind of evening dress who offered to sell me MDMA before realising that she’d left it in the boot of her car. Presumably it was a Mercedes C Class or a Chelsea tractor. I declined anyway – a man on drugs at this festival would have stood out more than, well, more than a pastel coloured flock of sheep. The sheep themselves were a testament to the true nature of the festival. Nobody tried to set them loose, nor did I notice any drug crazed acid casualties trying to bum rape them, as would surely have happened anywhere else. I heard a rumour that someone did jump in the lake, but he was fished out quickly.

As I said, this wasn’t even nearly loathing – I quickly settled down into the swing of things and treat the whole weekend like a dose of diazepam: calm, relaxing and utterly sedate. There was good music to be watched, good films to be seen, and terrible white wine to be drunk. By the end of the four days, I felt more refreshed than exhausted. There were a lot of families with kids there and I found myself playing with a few while I waited for Jarvis Cocker to come on. A very polite mother thanked me profusely for humouring them. ‘That’s okay,’ I said, because hanging round with the kids I finally felt as if I’d absorbed a little of the innocence that surrounded the festival.

‘More and more of my friends are talking about marriage,’ I confided to an old friend I bumped into on Saturday night. ‘Some of them are even talking about having kids.’ I think this fact used to scare me, partly because it reminded me of how old I’m getting. But life, a little like festivals, doesn’t have to be about drugs and debauchery. There’s an adult alternative, there’s growing up. When I left the festival on a sunny Monday morning, there was a smile on my face. At times it felt like Latitude was definitely a festival for grown ups, but for a brief moment I had seen the whole thing through a kid’s eyes. Everything felt new and exciting again and it seemed like a shame to be going back to London. Nonetheless, I boarded my train – it was packed, again. I was heading back into the rat race. Latitude had been a great weekend out of it, and I think I’d like to go again. Next time, though, I’ll take friends, and we can be middle aged and middle class together. Now, what’s on Radio 4 tonight?

Richard Allday

The overriding style in Maidenhead was distinctly ‘Scally Chic’: a milieu I feel, if not at home with, then most definitely able to visit the home of- for a pot noodle, perhaps. So my dining partner and I, bedecked in our finest silken track-suits, hailed a cab without fuss from the ranks parked next to the ranker- and then it was time to go up in the world. On announcing “the Fat Duck, Bray, please” the driver’s inward groan and shudder were unmistakeable.

The drive from Maidenhead to Bray was seemingly an ascent into a rurally English Valhalla: the miserably huge office blocks under grey sky shrinking and morphing into (admittedly still gargantuan) Tudor cottages under a quaintly charming drizzle. I had turned my head uncomfortably backwards on my neck to catch a further glimpse of a bungalow flashing by that had seemingly been constructed from gold or some such, but my dining comrade announced with a succession of shrill little yelps that we had arrived, and it was gone.

Ah, The Fear. I knew it would come at some point.

Bray reeks of cash, or rather, plastic. Looking around me I could well imagine it to be a theme village constructed somewhere in California, so flawless were its lawns and window boxes. Those lawns seemed to have been strimmed to a precision that could only have been deemed atomic. No blade of glass was more than a molecule longer than its neighbour and the flowers were obviously genetically engineered to the point of low level sentiency. No hooded gangs of blacks here! And lucky for them- they would probably instantly have been lynched and hung from one of the many willow trees, so Constabley (is that an adverb?) overhanging the river.

Looking longingly at The Hind’s Head Hotel, the other establishment of the Fat Duck’s head chef and proprietor (the now ubiquitous Heston Blumenthal), I yearned for the pints of cider and Roast Dinners that undoubtedly were available within. But we were here to pretend. And so, every step seeming to increase me in size until I was a lumbering, many limbed Cyclops, we stepped into The Fat Duck.

Located in what seems to be the front room of an old, tumbledown little cottage, what is regarded by many as the ‘world’s best restaurant’, and subject of years of histrionics from the Indy, is also the British font of ‘molecular gastronomy’- a concept so stupid that only a true genius could have thought of it.

On entering, the pleasantly soporific atmosphere outside in the high street is shattered. Plate captains of all hierarchical significance intermesh like yokel barn-dancers (unfortunately sans banjo and ‘yee-haws’), under an impossibly low beamed ceiling that is clearly intended to instil some sense of servitude in the patrons. The maitre d’ greeted us with a smile so short lived it could have been described as quantum (perhaps the next phase of gastronomy?) and led us to our table. I covered the journey in one huge stride, my gigantic limbs contorting and straining hard to not send anyone’s dinner, or indeed table, hurtling embarrassingly across the room. After having squeezed myself into my chair, I looked lovingly at my companion and we shared one micro-second of intimacy before The Service began- I estimated us to have had at least six waiters, all performing their allocated task flawlessly, mechanically, in what looked like autopsy overalls by the end of our meal. First, the maitre d’ checked we were ‘all right’. Whether this was a genuine inquiry into the Gnome’s mild back trouble or an insinuation that we weren’t to be trusted by the mafia, I could not ascertain because he had swooped off before my mouth had opened to reply, indeed before my brain had begun to consider.

Just as I really was beginning to doubt myself, my own ‘all-rightness’, my crisis was curtailed by the arrival of the Sommelier, bearing what appeared to be a copy of the bible. Leather bound and around three inches thick, my partner later described it as a ‘weighty tome’ after it had turned out to be the Wine List. When I asked if he could recommend a bottle, he laughed laconically, replying thus: “hundreds”. He then asked us to ‘think about it’, telling us he would return so we could ‘discuss it with him’. It was at this point that I felt very much out of my depth. Opening the list gingerly, it became apparent immediately that not only was I out of my depth, but that I was about to drown, about to drown in wine that ranged from £25 to, often, well over £600 a bottle. We had just settled on a White Burgundy, a 2003 Aligote Dom. Fichet at £26 a bottle, when the Sommelier returned, accepting our protestations of ‘limited financial resources’ with good humour and fetching us our booze forthwith. When my partner had ventured bravely to the toilet he popped over to chat to me about the wine’s ’structure’: I mumbled something about gooseberries, and he fell silent and moved away, shaking his head.

Returning some hours later from the bog, the Gnome announced that she had been outwitted by the automatic tap, just before we were given the a la carte menu, another leather bound, but this time five dimensional piece.
To say the food looked exquisite is an understatement- (I believe the word exquisite always is-how can one adjective possibly hope to synopsise such subjective and complex qualities in so many different things?)- it looked insane. Suffice it to say that instead of describing what each menu item was, the menu merely conveyed the constituents of each item on it. Choosing by pointing with eyes shut at what was described as ‘Crab Biscuit, roast foie gras, crystallised seaweed with rhubarb and oyster vinaigrette’ to start, followed by ‘Best End of Lamb, gratin potato and confit lamb shoulder with jellied lamb consommé’, I then blindly selected a ‘Mango and Douglas fir puree, bavarois lychee and mango, blackcurrant sorbet and green and black peppercorn jelly’ for, well, pudding. But this bore no real relation to the meal to follow.

Immediately after having ordered, we were presented with vinyl-sized bowls with something microscopic in the centre- so this is what they meant by molecular gastronomy, I thought, as I watched the thing for any sign of movement, life, or indeed, growth. I watched the Gnome’s face crinkle up in suppressed laughter at the sheer size of it. But we had both been given the same thing- and we hadn’t ordered it- some kind of mustard ice cream with red cabbage gazpacho. But why? We both ate this tiny, unexplained thing in less than one mouthful, like greedy giants and wondered if we had just eaten our starter or perhaps someone else’s. But there was no time for worry, or conscience. Before we knew it, there were two lumps of wood replacing the huge bowls on the table, with what appeared to be a giant crustacean on each, resting on a huge mound of wet salt crystals, filled with some unidentifiable goo/flake/mollusc mix with a bit of lavender on the side. Was this insanity to be expected for the rest of the meal?

Eating these gewgaws in as maladroit a fashion as was workable, we really began to get the fear. What the fuck was going on? Were we being tested? Was this what this was all about? I knew this much: we were definitely being watched: there was no bottle of wine on the table, but our glasses stayed full. And if it was a test, what would happen if we failed? Maybe I’d been watching the X-Files too much. The waitress gave us an odd look as she took the shells away. I began to wonder if I had just eaten a table decoration.

Soon, we got into our stride. Along came the starters we had ordered, and we realised it was all going to be ok. Pulses slowed, irises became less white- ringed. Apart from the fact that my fast- growing digits were having trouble grasping, and indeed selecting, the cutlery, and the incriminating stain in the middle of the table from where I had tried to feed the Gnome some of my crab sat, evil-eye-like, all seeing, for the rest of the meal, everything was now proceeding beautifully. Even when I was given a glass sphere, one small hole cut into the side and told theatrically that it was a ‘prelude’ to my main, I took it on the chin. I tried to get my knife and fork through the tiny hole and into the damned thing to no avail, trying to get at that stuff at the bottom, eventually conceding defeat and resorting to the use of a teaspoon.

It was with the arrival of the mains that we were finally assimilated into our surroundings. Though I still felt out of place, lumbering and clumsy, the paranoia had gone. Surreality became reality, the fantastic became tangible, the pretence was real. We were rich wankers! I was Zsa Zsa Gabor, Princess Di, fuck it! The Queen! We had been accepted, were peaking, ecstatically with all the spine-tingling intensity of the first time on acid. Even the Gnome, a lifelong Green and general liberal, began to worship this place, this altar of excess, this temple to entropy.

The lamb was scarcely real: it was a psychological and illusory monolith. Description does not come close, I should know, I tried to tell my Mum about it and failed. The texture, the flavour…..We both lost our composure. This is what food should be like. The Gnome’s eyes rolled back into her skull and flickered worryingly sexually with every bite of her venison. We were truly in the land of the bourgeoisie now, minus the rather un-refined spasms of pleasure that frequently racked our malnourished bodies. But, as the (admittedly decent sized) portions began to dwindle in size, the Gnome, once again, said it all. “It’s ending!” she cried. And she was right. Once again, I was reminded of the first time, peaking on acid and coming down, back to the horror of the real, after the deliquescence of a beautiful glimpse of eternity. And indeed from then on, we were coming down- I nor my partner have sweet teeth- and save for the quick upward jolt of the arrival of a ‘pine sherbet fountain’ and ‘carrot lollipops’ due to novelty and surprise value before the dessert, it seemed that the further we were from our mains, the further we were from perfection.

After some time and an admittedly excellent cup of earl grey, we left, reluctantly, the Gnome walking with a new-found elegance, me striding painfully straight into an oak post. And as we wandered over to the Hind’s Head for a pint, not only did I wonder if I would ever be able to enjoy eating again, but if I would ever return to my normal size. I still felt, and feel clumsy, stupid.

I felt like I had glimpsed too much. Like I had come too close to perfection, an Icarus who, instead of his wings of delusion having been melted by the Sun, had had his mind liquefied by a piece of lamb in a pretentious, expensive restaurant.

Later that night, eating a Somerfield pie, 67p, and drinking from a box of red wine, I began to weep bitter tears, and to plan my escape from the underclass.

Mark Edwards