Retro Futureverse
Lizz Brocklesby"This is not London. This is not 2007. This is the Retro Futureverse."
Dr Rupert G Hooper, in full Victoriana, complete with stage makeup and top hat, sets the scene; I seem to have found myself in some kind of homo-erotic cabaret.
Though it's not entirely homo-erotic, more just erotic, and the cabaret's interspliced with some kind of comedy fight club wrestling. Or is that, the wrestling's interspliced with the cabaret?
Either way, Bethnal Green Working Men's club has pulled it off again.
I'm at an evening of Lucha Brittania: '3 matches of hardcore lucha wrestling madness fused with cabaret siniestro'. I'm bemused, but loving it.
Looking up at the ring, which is plonked, awkwardly, in the middle of this seemingly ordinary, carpeted room, I feel underdressed.
My masquerade ball mask doesn't quite cut it next to the guy in the gimp suit and his burlesque date. In the corner a man in his work shirt looks sheepish; he stands out like a hippy in Kensington.
I feel better; at least I made an effort.
I have to say, despite the warning flyer, I wasn't quite expecting this. Though, in hindsight, I should have known that anywhere with a dress code pertaining to militaria, fetish and animal guise in the same breath, would probably result in an interesting crowd.
With a fiver off for dressing up, I can see why the girl on the door gives me that look when I try to explain that my mask is my outfit.
How wrong I am. I pay the full price.
The night kicks off with the wrestling. I get myself a drink from Sharron*, the transvestite, of a certain age, wearing a wig that keeps slipping to the side and a frumpy spangly dress.
(S)he proves to be the star of the night, joining us for a boogey later on.
So it begins.
We're treated to three rounds of crowd pleasing leaping around in lycra, this is the homo-erotic bit. A classic David-and-Goliath-off results in our pasty white Brit restoring what's left of any semblance of national pride by out-witting Bradford Bush, the great, great, great (affix greats ad infinitum) grandson of George W.
The two Mexicans, Estupido and Ultimo Perversio, give us the brawn while the giant O'Shaunessy, comes in as the underdog to destroy the reigning champ.
There's sweat, tears and ball grabbing, underhand nastiness and crazy leaps, with the obligatory escapees extending their antics out of the confines of the ring: on the bar, on the tables and back flipping on the antiquated carpet.
The room's a fantastically dark den of London's underbelly, smelling of tiger balm and aftershave, cyberpunks next to caped crusaders, gimps with their glamorous aids.
I get totally into it and whoop away with the best of them. Sharron's whooping along too, in between collecting empty beer bottles.
Then comes the cabaret.
When I say then, I'm using a certain amount of poetic licence to illustrate this; it is in actual fact one giant cabaret.
This is the plain erotic bit. No homo involved (he sings later).
Byzy Bizarre enters the ring, a beautiful Marilyn Monroe in 50's frustrated housewife get-up, and a pink wig.
There's whipped cream and a full-on burlesque-style strip show ensues. Only her giant knickers remain.
Next comes Dusty Limits, resplendent in glamour, doing a hilarious rendition parodying The Phantom of the Opera. It's just like the real thing, only he changes the words a little.
And they're dirty. And Andrew Lloyd Webber would probably be offended. And so would your mum. We also get a rather bizarre zombie autopsy and a stripping Madonna, complete with nipple tassels.
I'm ready for another drink.
The night, still young, turns into a disco. No, there is no other way to describe it, we are, after all, still at the working men's club and the vibe is that of a community centre, a somewhat bizarre community, but a community nonetheless.
A group of us break out and hijack the wrestling ring for dancing with a bounce.
Alas. All good things and all that.
The circus fetish freaks watch from the side while a girl in a bowler hat sways like something from a spacey Bugsy Malone.
My friends and I stand proud. Between us, a giant afro wig, 1920s glamour puss and a caped crusader. Sharron's joined us for a beer, which reminds me, next time I go, oh there's always a next time, I'll be digging out my suspenders.
This is Thursday night and I've got work tomorrow. I go outside, back to London, back to 2007, and wobble home on my bike.
Still wearing my mask.
Check out www.luchabritannia.co.uk for details of the next one.
(* Name changed)
Bullet-In
Olivia MadinAnd now for the latest news…
I could tell you about the lives lost in the Middle East
The soldiers blown up by synthetic criminals
The wailing children
The weeping crowds
As they prowl for air.I could describe the atmosphere after a gunshot
The remnants of a thirsty scene
The ground that drinks the gallons of unnecessary blood
Tears fighting for first place
A vehemently desperate flood.I could mention the corrupt governments
The hypocrisy of them as they busy themselves
With irrelevant issues and affairs
Whilst deathly results dance.Statistics are inefficient
How could they ever convey
The torment and agony?
The freedom at bay?But on our television programme
There is only so much we can tell
And there is no way we can justly explain
Their world
Better known as hell.
Power Kiting
James WilliamsI must be getting old.
It seems to me that everything we do now has to have an element of danger to make it worth doing. Kayaking is no longer about travelling down the river, contemplating ones existence and being soothed by the gentle lapping of the water.
No.
Today you have to disappear off a 20ft waterfall at 30mph with boulders the size of ambulances greeting you at the bottom.
If we see a hole we wonder if we can go caving in it. If we see a cliff our first thought is 'can we base jump off it?'
This is how we get our kicks nowadays.
Even the calm (well, what I thought was calm) activity of flying a kite is now subject to this sadomasochistic trend.
The days of running though a lush field with a kite trailing a path behind you are over. Today it is all about Power Kiting.
And I have to admit I'm hooked. I bought a 2.4m kite which I thought would be a 'bit of fun'. I am now a twentieth century adrenaline junkie with only the thought of my next 'fix' in my mind.
To those of you who don't know a power kite is like a massive Quaver crisp that has enough force to lift a 12st man 10ft in the air.
Sheffield seems to be a great place to try out this sport (I say sport as anyone who's tried it will testify to their aching shoulders the next day) as there's loads of flat, open land, and more importantly wind.
The kites range form about 1m up to a monsters at 8m. Something near the bottom end is recommended for beginners but if your enjoyment increases so will the size of your kite.
Some great places to give it a go are the field next the Sportman Pub on Redmires Road as there is a lot of open space and a good steady wind which is good for starters (no gusting).
For the more initiated they might want to give Stanage Edge a go as the wind picks up beautifully, but the space is a bit more limited.
For those of you who really want to push the boundaries I would recommend Froggart for all out crazy airs. The wind is strong and unrelenting. Awesome!
So give it a go. They're not expensive (£60 upwards) and they're great fun.
I'm off to pray to the Gods of Wind.
