Other People's Lives: Film Journalism

It is always particularly awkward when you ask another blogger to write a little something for you only for their witticisms to outshine your own by a mile. Anyway here (completely unbegrudgingly) is an insight into the life of a lovely gentleman and talent writer. 

Title
Junior Web Editor (on my contract), Deputy Editor (on my email signature), Editor (IN MY MIND)

What does that mean?
I do everything the real editor does, but slightly less well and for quite a lot less money. However, I don’t wear clashing outfits as often as she does so I’m winning in the style stakes.

How do you get up in the morning?
Slowly. I’ve been considering investing in one of those alarm clocks that don’t stop shrieking until you’ve done something taxing like lift weights or hit a target with a laser pistol, but shopping around for one would cut into my dozing-at-my-desk time. Generally speaking I set my alarm for 6 so I can catch up on freelance work before I go to the office, then ignore it until quarter past nine and have to shower in forty seconds and wear a band t-shirt that I bought in Year 9.

What do you get up to on a typical day?
I procrastinate, pontificate, perambulate and occasionally percolate (although the cafetiere’s broken at the moment, and I don’t really like coffee anyway). In between I have fag breaks, flirt with the interns and try to remember why there’s a photo of a burrowing owl stuck on the wall by my desk.

What are the job perks?
Going to festivals of films (nominally) connected to the work of transcendental Swedish mystic Emanuel Swedenborg.

And the worst bits?
Trying to conceal my relentless pâté consumption from our ferociously vegan HR manager.

Anything else you’d like to add?
I’m working on a plan to electrocute Little Mix’s tits at the Olympic opening ceremony. It’s going to be pretty special.

Margarita anyone?

The Covent Garden Cocktail Club

 

I seem to be on a bit of a role with the cocktail clubs at the moment. I do love a good margarita or five. This week's margarita was sampled at the Covent Garden Cocktail Club, another supposed "members club" located down a set of stairs on Newport St just shy of Leicester Square station. This time with decor that would do the likes of Dashiell Hammett and Raymond Chandler proud.

Having visited here twice now I can confirm that walking in as a group of girls or with a date seems to grant you "membership" status for the night. Try to gain entry as a group of more than two males and be prepared to be treated like you are wearing neon signs flashing "probably going to try it on your girlfriend" before being told that you can sign up for membership "online". They do like to pick and choose their clientele in these bars.

If you do make it past the door though you are in for a treat. A lovely basement bar with deep leather couches, low lighting and candles makes for a great date venue. You'll gain extra points for "just knowing" this romantic little bar smack bang in the middle of Soho.

The cocktails are as delicious as the bar man, who will give you plenty of flirty chat regardless of gender. Though the French Martini was sweet enough to give me toothache, I highly recommend the margarita, straight up.

Have I mentioned that I like margaritas?

Happy Skullmas

I really want this print. Like, really want it. However it is Christmas, which means less money for me, and more injected into presents for everyone else. My solution was that I would buy this for my little brother (who would never do anything as brotherly as regularly check up on my blog), which was an idea quickly squashed by the large OUT OF STOCK next to the price. Fail. I am almost tempted to sneak into my old schools art department and do some late night screen printing like the creative rebel I am.

There is something amazingly appealing about happy looking skeletons. If I wanted to appear like a really pretentious twat I would delve into an analysis of the varying attitudes towards death across the world. I won’t though, instead we’ll just leave it on the thought that perhaps I’m a bit morbid, and find smiling skulls that look like they have walked out of a bar in a Raymond Chandler novel around Christmas time very soothing.

Other People's Lives: Graphic Design

I have coaxed another friend to tell you an honest account of their working day.
He likes bagels.

Title
I'm a graphic designer.


What does that mean?
I kind of do what it says on the tin. Like literally designing what it says on the tin.. or website or brochure, I also make promotional films. What I do is versatile but it's all wrapped up in a strategic branding blanket. 

Give us an idea of a typical day...
I get up like everyone else and amble in to work about 9:30, at which point I have a cinnamon and raisin bagel and check emails. I then sketch my way through the morning until the clock hits 1:00, at which point I toast another bagel and laden it with the 'cheese of the day'. I go back to my desk and click, copy and paste my way through the afternoon until about 16:00 at which point I might have another bagel. I think our studio are single-handedly dragging the New York Bagel Company through the tide of this recession. 

What is the best perk of your job?
Not ever having to open Excel. And having to think creatively every fucking day.

And the worst part?
Having to occasionally open Apple's equivalent to Excel - Numbers. And having to think creatively every fucking day.

Anything else you’d like to add?
Who are you and why are you calling me? Can I go get a bagel now?

Aubin & Wills Literary Salon

Aubin & Wills Christmas Literary Salon with readings by Jessica Fellowes and Laura Lockington


I learnt an important lesson yesterday. When someone tells you to turn up at a venue to DJ, it may possibly be a good idea to look up the details of the event your meant to be playing at. If you don't you might just run the risk of turning up to an Aubin & Wills hosted literary reading night accommodating a host of middle-class, pearl wearing, champagne drinking 30 to 40 somethings dressed like something out of Lost Boys and with a laptop full of dance tunes.


Pulling my shrinking denim shorts low enough to be decent I hunted around the dusty corners of my iTunes for remnants of jazz and blues while knowing perfectly well that I would probably end up hiding behind the considerably more competent and taller DJ beside me.


Some soft jazzy tunes and nostalgic Christmas readings later, the wine was flowing and the mince pies were a plenty.


A lovely start to the Christmas season.

Other People's Lives: PR

Ever wanted an honest look into someone else's professional life? Well now, with a certain amount of coaxing, bullying and trading in sexual favors, you can!

Right from the horses mouth... (that's funny, you see, because she likes horses ...I think I need a nap)

Industry:

PR

Title:

I get to choose. Main determining factors are who I'm lying to with regards to my importance on that day, or which part of the company I'm pretending to work for. Both are my bosses attempt to "make the company sound better" - Reassuring.

And that means…

It means I'm everything and nothing. It means if I left then the company would fall apart...which actually says more about the company than it does about me.

How do you get out of bed in the morning?

I have employed a small sherpa type dude who pokes me from a distance with a very long pokey stick. He had to sign an extensive insurance waiver prior to starting - I tend to have a lot of wrath first thing in the morning so it was for his own benefit.

What do you get up to on a typical day?

Well, as I'm filling in this form, clearly not a lot. When I'm not searching blog sites under the premise of "Scouting for press" (what do you mean Justin Beiber's new haircut isn't relevant?!) I'm generally shitting myself about one social media post or another and praying no-one notices my incompetence.

Job perks?

The fact that I get to read FHM and Zoo as standard. Try bringing up the fact you spend "all day staring at boobs" at a family dinner party. Priceless. Also, I pass a nero on the way in - the free coffee I earn when I've drunk another 9 tastes like the best coffee in the world.

Job nightmares?

Social Media. My every mistake is witnessed by over 1 million people. Thankfully, I've been worn down to the point where I have lost the ability to care.

Anything else you’d like to say to the nice people on the Internet?

My job has driven me to drink. That, and I secretly wish I was a penguin. This could be the only way to restore my sanity. If you don't believe me watch Frozen Planet...

Behind the doors of Soho: Part Two

The Experimental Cocktail Club

Between dumpling dives on Gerrard st

I am sometimes wary of the choices made by this particular friend. The week before had comprised of an outing to The Nordic Bar, where after spinning what will now forever be known as the "shot wheel of misery" I managed to drop call friend number 2's boyfriend to rant at him (for a reason now lost on me) before finding said friend slumped on the ground in the loos.

On this particular night friend number 2 and I were taking our steps towards Gerrard St gingerly, and with fully lined stomachs. 

We needn't have worried. The ECC is a London extension of the original Parisian cocktail club of the same title that hides behind another worn out looking doorway right in the heart of Soho. The doorman (who seems quite notorious after scanning some reviews), rudly claimed we couldn't enter without a booking, even after Friend Number 1 pointed out that she did last time. Just as we turned to walk away he called us back, gave us a look up and down and let us in. 

Excusing him the bar is beautiful, opulently dressed without being garish with a strong nod towards the prohibition era in the design of the bar. A very handsome barman served us cocktails that live up to the name, with my second choice of the St-Germain-des-Prés (a mixture of Hendrick's gin with elderflower liqueur, egg white, chilli, lime and cucumber) being my recommended choice. If you are a braver soul than I and choose the one with Budweiser and marshmallows I would love to hear about it.

At £11 a pop it isn't your Friday night local, but we left with Friend Number Two fully conscious, which is always a plus.