And all the men are merely…WOAH! Wait…there are SO.MANY.LIGHTS. The blue one looks like it’s coming towards me…or does it look like …
AN EEL?
Oh. God. It is an eel. No nonononono it’s a light…yes…and so pretty.
Something soft is in my hand.
The ground is not even ground. There is so much mud I can only see my upper calves. I trudge.
What is in my hand? There are so many people in front of me that my right arm is being tugged and is pulling me forward but in front of me is stranger upon stranger being shoved as I am forced through their masses. All I can see are looming dark backs and lights everywhere. Ouch…pain in foot. Ballet pumps squidging with filth-o-mud.
I reach a small clearing and the warm mass in my hand transpires to be yet another hand. Hand. Repetition of the word hand. Must get thesaurus. Although is there another word for hand? Holding vestibule?
The holding vestibule is attached to a smiling Argentine. A small one but an Argentine nonetheless. Suddenly I can see more than the contorted black shapes of the dancers in front of me. In fact suddenly there’s a centaur…. no a topless man ON TOP OF A TENT BIGGER THAN MY HOTEL! He’s dancing right in the centre where the two tent pieces meet. There are more of his half-naked, sweaty kind hanging like nubile simians from speakers, which are suddenly all around me.
In front of the lovely Argentine is a vast tent filled (and filled like a Harrods’s jelly bean jar not a discount jacket potato) with car-sized disco balls spinning concentrically at different levels. At the end of the tent is a huge DJ booth and superstar DJ Tiesto spinning the crowd into a writhing, smiling, dark mob.
Aside from the MTV events to help us find Smirnoff 9, Tango lessons, exploration of the gay scene and late night steakfests (steaks aaaaahhh) this was my favourite original Buenos Aires nightlife experience. At the heart of it was a commercial DJ but the atmosphere wasn’t like any of the warehouse parties, festivals and raves I’ve been to in England. Instead of the usual hands in the air, wild flailing it felt more like an erudite sensory attack with invasive lighting, unfathomably large-scale speakers, decorations, tents, lasers and a wave of sound that took over everything deep in the middle of a park.
Do I sound like an 18-year-old in Ibiza for the first time? Sincerely hope not! It was on par with the jungle parties out in Thailand…go to BA…try it!
Friday, 16 November 2007
Monday, 12 November 2007
Come fly with me…
Day 1 (nearly) Buenos Aires (nearly)
Hours spent in air to get here…immeasurable at present without direct airhostess contact but allegedly 15 hours.
Hours of life magically lost in translation… due to be 4 hours.
Unexplained boxes of tampons found on plane seat…0
Moments of unadulterated joy after finding film eclipsed only in its brilliance by the sun…1
We meet again. I am on a plane bound for Buenos Aires and this IS the first chance I’ve had to write a single english word since Moscow.
Before we get down to any of that Moscow chat it’s important that I tell you about THE film so resplendent in its wonder that I am toying with ways to sustain a head injury so I can block it out and watch it all over again.
You will forgive me for this tangent after following my instructions to sell whatever you have to to buy a ticket to see/ copy of ‘Knocked Up.’ It is a fat kid sized slice of heaven. Forget all else. Forget work. DON’T GO TO WORK. Watch Knocked Up. Now, if not sooner. I have never been so indebted to in-flight entertainment. I realise this exuberance may be a result of high altitude and sleep deprivation but my instincts tell me no.
Rambling asidem let’s take a personal moment. I have left London for good. Very tricky that one. After being busy 24/7 in selection week then being tossed ruthlessly into training, media training, Smirnoff training, other words involving training and so on THEN going to Moscow, this is the first chance I’ve had to reflect. I’m not ashamed to say that in the cold light of the morning after my leaving party the prospect of being away from my delightful friends and family was in no way pleasing. Globetrotting or nay. Since then I have cried shamelessly in taxis, on tubes and once in the street after a homeless man played a particularly sad melody on a rusty flute. Am emotional wreck.
Quivering emotional status aside I have to tell you at least something about Moscow. Since my last twitterings we had to do some interviews and have pictures taken and such. I built my first official human pyramid at a press conference which was a high point as they don’t usually get capured in a media capacity. After that I went to Red Square with FHM to kick off our partnership with them and did a lot of leaping around on request.
MORE TO FOLLOW ON RUSSIA… ANIA DRAGGING ME OFF TO FILM…
Hours spent in air to get here…immeasurable at present without direct airhostess contact but allegedly 15 hours.
Hours of life magically lost in translation… due to be 4 hours.
Unexplained boxes of tampons found on plane seat…0
Moments of unadulterated joy after finding film eclipsed only in its brilliance by the sun…1
We meet again. I am on a plane bound for Buenos Aires and this IS the first chance I’ve had to write a single english word since Moscow.
Before we get down to any of that Moscow chat it’s important that I tell you about THE film so resplendent in its wonder that I am toying with ways to sustain a head injury so I can block it out and watch it all over again.
You will forgive me for this tangent after following my instructions to sell whatever you have to to buy a ticket to see/ copy of ‘Knocked Up.’ It is a fat kid sized slice of heaven. Forget all else. Forget work. DON’T GO TO WORK. Watch Knocked Up. Now, if not sooner. I have never been so indebted to in-flight entertainment. I realise this exuberance may be a result of high altitude and sleep deprivation but my instincts tell me no.
Rambling asidem let’s take a personal moment. I have left London for good. Very tricky that one. After being busy 24/7 in selection week then being tossed ruthlessly into training, media training, Smirnoff training, other words involving training and so on THEN going to Moscow, this is the first chance I’ve had to reflect. I’m not ashamed to say that in the cold light of the morning after my leaving party the prospect of being away from my delightful friends and family was in no way pleasing. Globetrotting or nay. Since then I have cried shamelessly in taxis, on tubes and once in the street after a homeless man played a particularly sad melody on a rusty flute. Am emotional wreck.
Quivering emotional status aside I have to tell you at least something about Moscow. Since my last twitterings we had to do some interviews and have pictures taken and such. I built my first official human pyramid at a press conference which was a high point as they don’t usually get capured in a media capacity. After that I went to Red Square with FHM to kick off our partnership with them and did a lot of leaping around on request.
MORE TO FOLLOW ON RUSSIA… ANIA DRAGGING ME OFF TO FILM…
Russia (post Ania)
Takeshi and I were dispatched to interview Mark Ronson and Kelis for MTV Japan. Not being Japanese in any discernible sense this was a lucky break and decided to capitalise on it by remaining very still and silent and letting Takeshi have his moment. Unfortunately we had a few Dave* moments where we both looked at each other then back at Mark Ronson/Daniel Merriweather/Kelis staring expectantly at us with their big multi-album selling eyes, and were like ‘uuurrrrrrrrggggghhhfortheloveofgodthinkofaquestion mmmmmmmmmmmmmm’.
Mostly we survived though and struck up enough of a rapport to have a late night chant-a-long in our hotel lobby after the event without too much awkward dithering. The choice of dressing gowns as attire (as seen in the pictures) I will leave to your imagination.
The event itself had something of a 3000 Russians meets Midsummer Nights Dream, bathed in red with a few more trees thrown in (birch if you must know) and a stage suspended way above the baying crowd. Upon said stage Kelis cantered along on the cacophony of wailed ‘ohohohohoho’s’ (Trick Me) and Ronson led Merriweather through an original rendition of Stop Me. From our perch in the V.VIP (which John and I had snuck into using the last reserves of our charm and guile) we then witnessed the huge ‘Smirnoff Experience’ projection part with the flick of a canvas to reveal Faithless floating onstage in a cloud of charisma to meet the Russian Orchestra. This was pleasing. Having occupied myself mostly with swing dancing and enthusiastically seeking out snacks in between acts I was quite ready to settle into Jackanory mode and plant myself on a high stool to watch them from the balcony. This continued… with increased head bobbing during Maxi Jazz’s on spot bouncing.
As we’d been so busy with the event, we had to scramble to fit in some more Russian nightlife before we left and decided the best place to start (as with any quandary) was with midgets. So we headed to the inventively named ‘Vodka Bar’ to…I’m going to say ‘get down’ but don’t worry I don’t mean it…to some Russian trancey dance while enthused midgets danced above us on a flame covered bar. We also went to some uber swanky bars and restaurants but in terms of originality they were up there with beans on toast. They do have an ultra nice policy of ‘face control’ in Moscow though where basically if you’re not rich or beautiful you are encouraged not to darken their doorstep. We’re talking Prince Philip rude. In fact he’d probably be blushing were he through a cosmic twist of fate to find his royal self in a queue for a Russian nightclub.
So, from Faithless, pyrotechnics and Doorman cruelty, now it’s onto South America where we shall sharpen our spears and hunt and gather some rreeaally original nightlife and grab two new members while we’re there. I would say something like ‘stay tuned’ but I wouldn’t mean that either.
*Dave; Male, 35, Balding, Found in the Banyan Tree at Glastonbury 07…paused in the middle of performing a particularly fruity version of Champagne Supernova, looked hastily right, left, right again, stopped, seemed to see for the first time the 50 or so soggy strangers staring back at him rubbing mud from their eyes. Then. Calmly got up and left.
Mostly we survived though and struck up enough of a rapport to have a late night chant-a-long in our hotel lobby after the event without too much awkward dithering. The choice of dressing gowns as attire (as seen in the pictures) I will leave to your imagination.
The event itself had something of a 3000 Russians meets Midsummer Nights Dream, bathed in red with a few more trees thrown in (birch if you must know) and a stage suspended way above the baying crowd. Upon said stage Kelis cantered along on the cacophony of wailed ‘ohohohohoho’s’ (Trick Me) and Ronson led Merriweather through an original rendition of Stop Me. From our perch in the V.VIP (which John and I had snuck into using the last reserves of our charm and guile) we then witnessed the huge ‘Smirnoff Experience’ projection part with the flick of a canvas to reveal Faithless floating onstage in a cloud of charisma to meet the Russian Orchestra. This was pleasing. Having occupied myself mostly with swing dancing and enthusiastically seeking out snacks in between acts I was quite ready to settle into Jackanory mode and plant myself on a high stool to watch them from the balcony. This continued… with increased head bobbing during Maxi Jazz’s on spot bouncing.
As we’d been so busy with the event, we had to scramble to fit in some more Russian nightlife before we left and decided the best place to start (as with any quandary) was with midgets. So we headed to the inventively named ‘Vodka Bar’ to…I’m going to say ‘get down’ but don’t worry I don’t mean it…to some Russian trancey dance while enthused midgets danced above us on a flame covered bar. We also went to some uber swanky bars and restaurants but in terms of originality they were up there with beans on toast. They do have an ultra nice policy of ‘face control’ in Moscow though where basically if you’re not rich or beautiful you are encouraged not to darken their doorstep. We’re talking Prince Philip rude. In fact he’d probably be blushing were he through a cosmic twist of fate to find his royal self in a queue for a Russian nightclub.
So, from Faithless, pyrotechnics and Doorman cruelty, now it’s onto South America where we shall sharpen our spears and hunt and gather some rreeaally original nightlife and grab two new members while we’re there. I would say something like ‘stay tuned’ but I wouldn’t mean that either.
*Dave; Male, 35, Balding, Found in the Banyan Tree at Glastonbury 07…paused in the middle of performing a particularly fruity version of Champagne Supernova, looked hastily right, left, right again, stopped, seemed to see for the first time the 50 or so soggy strangers staring back at him rubbing mud from their eyes. Then. Calmly got up and left.
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