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New Statesman
4 days ago
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
Hangovers I have known
Photo by Robert Norbury/Millenium It is now Wednesday, which means I am on Day Three of the hangover from lunch in London on Sunday. On the whole, things are much better than they have been. The nausea is largely gone, as is most of the trembling. The first day, though, was horrendous – as bad as anything I can remember in a life that has had a few belters in its time. The worst one ever was in 2005 in Umbria, when my friend D— came up from Rome with a couple of bottles of grappa which, he assured me, was the good stuff, and not the liquid made from battery acid, fermented twigs and rats' carcasses that gets fobbed off on tourists. To this day, I still feel slightly queasy when I hear the word 'grappa'; even typing it in full makes the stomach lurch. I can certainly never drink it again. As in that case, the excessive drinking last Sunday was the result of meeting up with a friend I hadn't seen in years. It was my old flatmate and partner in crime Razors, with whom I shared the original Hovel in Marylebone. I do not use the term 'partner in crime' entirely facetiously, but I am not going to say any more because that's all the self-incrimination I'm going to be doing for now. Razors, which is not his real name, escaped the clutches of Blighty and moved to Los Angeles, where he has been making lots of money doing something related to films. Occasionally I have asked him to explain to me what it actually is, but my heart is never in it when listening to the answer, and my mind wanders over to the important bit, which is that he earns a lot more money than me – a fact that he, too, is happy to return to. A few years ago family business called him back to the land of his birth, and he offered to buy me lunch at Rules, the venerable and incredibly expensive restaurant in Covent Garden. That was a washout: the night before, I treated myself to a kebab from what had up until then been my favourite gyro place on the Western Road: honestly, they were so good you could actually eat them sober. However, on this occasion, there had been some kind of breakdown in their health and safety regime, and I spent the next day and a half in agony in the bathroom; I was in no fit state to go to the chemist's for some Dioralyte, let alone get on a train to London to eat roast pheasant and spotted dick. So this time I was careful. For a couple of days beforehand, I ate nothing but dry bread and tinned soups, sterilised all my glasses before drinking from them and even took care not to go out in the wet in case I slipped and broke something. Rules was off the menu, though: some bean-counter has decided that you can't sit down for more than two hours at lunch, and two hours is no time at all for a decent meal when you have a lot to catch up on. So in the end he decided on Hawksmoor on Air Street, which we heard does a good Sunday roast, and that was what Razors was craving, because apparently in Los Angeles the only thing they eat is sushi. Quick food review: the roast beef was divine, with a nice smokey flavour, the roasties were acceptable, the gravy wasn't as good as mine but then no one's gravy is, and the Yorkshire Puddings… well, let's just say they need to go back to the drawing board with them. But the barman who made our pre-dinner Martinis knew what he was doing, so much so that we had two each, and this may be said to be where our problems began. By the way, when I said above that we had a lot to catch up on, that's not really the correct phrase. We do not really give a monkey's about what the other person has been up to. We just want to have a laugh, and Razors has a somewhat robust sense of humour that does not always go down terribly well in well-heeled circles in LA. A mutual friend of ours who happens to be female asked me, after our last meeting, how his children were doing (he has two sets, from two marriages). I replied that the question had simply not arisen, on the grounds that a) I didn't care and b) he had not flown several thousand miles across desert, mountain and sea to talk about child-rearing. Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe 'The thing is,' he explained, generalising terribly but with perhaps with a grain of truth, 'when women have a conversation, it's about information; when men have a conversation, it's about entertainment.' Well, it was jolly entertaining, and my eldest child, who, along with their siblings, got to see a lot of him on alternate weekends, joined us for a bit, and that was delightful. The evening then got a bit ragged: we went to several pubs in Soho, I think, having large and expensive Islay malts in each one; maybe these, along with the bottle of Malbec each that we had at lunch, and the brandies after it, contributed to my lack of well-being for the next three days. I finally got back to Brighton after midnight. Then I thought it would be a good idea to have a nightcap. It was not a good idea. Since then, I have signed the pledge: not a drop of liquor will pass my lips again. Well, maybe a little one. But not just now. [See also: Thought Experiment 11: The Harmless Torturer] Related
Time Out
11-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Time Out
Robbie Williams at Manchester's Co-op Live: start time, tickets, potential setlist and what you need to know
There's no denying that Robbie Williams has bangers. From 'Millenium', to 'Angels', to that one where he ripped his own skin off in the music video ('Rock DJ', of course), Ar Robbie has been entertaining the British public for decades. He is, by all accounts, a legend – so, if you're headed to his live show, you're pretty much guaranteed to have a great time. The Britpop Tour, which coincides with his new album of the same name, will be playing massive stadiums across Europe all summer, and it's already kicked off here in the UK. Robbie's already hit Edinburgh and London, and Manchester is next on the agenda Yes, the legendary entertainer will be rocking up to Manchester's Co-op Live this Tuesday and Wednesday. So, if you've got a ticket, here's everything you need to know. When is Robbie Williams playing Co-op Live? Robbie's Manchester shows are on Tuesday June, 10 and Wednesday, June 11. What time do doors open? Doors will open at 6.30pm, giving you plenty of time to get a drink and get comfy. What time will Robbie Williams come on stage? It's not been officially stated when you can expect Robbie to make his grand entrance, but according to Co-op Live, the show will likely begin at around 8pm. It's worth getting in well before that though to get a good spot. What's the seating plan? Here's the seating plan for Manchester's Co-Op Live, according to Ticketmaster. Who's supporting Robbie Williams at Co-Op Live? So far, Robbie has been supported on tour by Manchester's own Lottery Winners and deep-voiced chart topper Rag 'n' Bone Man. It's not clear when they'll be taking to the stage, so get there early to avoid also brought out some very special guests at his London shows over the weekend - in the form on 90s throwback 5ive and 'Shout' songstress Lulu. So, don't be surprised if there's a couple other sneaky little additions. Setlist Robbie's setlist has remained largely the same thus far (save from a few additions to accommodate special guests) so it's a pretty safe bet that the Manchester shows will contain largely the same songs. Frankly, it's a setlist full of wall-to-wall bops, so if it ain't broke… Rocket Let Me Entertain You All My Life / Song 2 / Seven Nation Army / Rim Tim Tagi Dim / I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles) / Minnie the Moocher (The Ho De Ho Song) / Livin' On A Prayer (Singalong Medley) Monsoon Old Before I Die Rock DJ Love My Life Strong The Road to Mandalay Supreme Let Love Be Your Energy / Sexed Up / Candy (with The Lottery Winners) Relight My Fire Something Beautiful Play Video Main Stage Millennium Come Undone Kids She's the One My Way Encore Feel Angels Can you still get tickets? Yes, there are still some tickets available as part of Ticketmaster's verified resale. They're not cheap, though, with the lowest price currently sitting at £111.55. You can check them out on Ticketmaster here. What's Co-op Live's bag policy? Co-op Live doesn't allow large bags for security reasons. Ticket holders are allowed one bag per person, and it must be smaller than A4 size. Bag storage will set you back £15, and this facility can be found in the Official Orange Car Park on the Etihad Campus. Banned items Here's the full list of banned items at Co-op Live, according to their website: Bags over A4 size Food Glass, bottles, cans, plastic bottle tops, alcohol Large umbrellas Lighters Disposable vapes Professional cameras/recording equipment Weapons, ammunition, explosives Horns, whistles, drums Fireworks Flagpoles Any other item which in our reasonable opinion, may cause danger or disruption to any event or to other visitors (regardless of whether such item is illegal or is carried for specific purposes) Religious symbols of faith, where certain conditions for entry (policy available on request and/or as otherwise determined within our discretion), are not met. Laptops, iPads or Go Pro's (or any similar device) The word so far is that Robbie's still got it. The Guardian described the show as his ' Robnaissance ', calling Robbie an 'unparalleled British performer'. The Evening Standard said ' the showman does not disappoint ', and Metro wrote ' I thought Robbie Williams was overhyped but he can still kick it '. You're in for a treat.
Evening Standard
07-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Evening Standard
Robbie Williams at Emirates Stadium: 'a grand scale This Is Your Life'
If the latter was probably one odd step too far, then the rest of it felt like a grand scale This Is Your Life, helmed by a figure the entire stadium had grown up with. He brought Lulu out for a rendition of Take That duet Relight My Fire, surrounded himself with gold dancers for the once-timely Millenium, and serenaded a fan for She's The One. Across two hours, Williams spent approximately half the time chatting to the crowd, bringing up photos of his wife and kids, talking about a family member with dementia, and frequently referencing old moments across his storied career. On paper, it makes no sense as a stadium show; having earned, over 30 years, the sheer force of good will coming at him from the Emirates crowd, somehow it worked.
New Statesman
22-05-2025
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
The BBC Sounds series Stalked is thrilling and worrying
Photo by Tim Robinson/Millenium It all started with a selfie. It was 2015 and Hannah Mossman Moore, a 23-year-old graduate, had just arrived at her first London Fashion Week, bristling with excitement. Mossman Moore was interning with Alighieri, a jewellery start-up. Her job involved rubbing shoulders with models, fashion insiders and journalists. She was searching, among the hordes of well-dressed somebodies, for a cash-rich foreign buyer. And it wasn't long before she found one. Mossman Moore was introduced to an elegant Hong Kong national who seemed, to her, to be a big player in the Asian fashion market. The pair took a selfie together, and swapped contact details. This seemingly innocuous chance meeting would change her life, forever. Stalked, a ten-part podcast series on BBC Sounds, tells how Mossman Moore's life was upended after meeting the man. For most of her twenties, she was stalked by a barrage of faceless creeps: each day, she received thousands of emails, texts and messages from unknown accounts who seemed to know everything about her. These anonymous tormentors somehow knew details of her private life, her family, her job and her location. She had to change her phone number over and over again – but still the messages kept coming. Mossman Moore was the stepdaughter of the journalist Carole Cadwalladr, who joins her as the co-host of this podcast. Cadwalladr has had her own experience of vicious cyber-stalking, following her investigation of Cambridge Analytica and the weaponisation of social media in the wake of the 2016 Brexit referendum. In this thrilling yet deeply worrying series, Mossman Moore and Cadwalladr work together to uncover the stalker's identity. They are fearless in their pursuit. Using sensitive reporting of an extraordinary personal story, they highlight the shocking lack of care being taken to safeguard victims of stalking. Stalked BBC Sounds [See also: Misogyny in the metaverse] Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Related
New Statesman
23-04-2025
- Entertainment
- New Statesman
Clothes unmaketh man
Photo by Joe de Kadt/Millenium Another sunny weekend, and Ben and I and his wife decide to go to the chippy on St James's Street, Little Jack Fullers, which has been said to be the best chippy in Brighton. This is a bold claim, for Brighton abounds in fish-and-chip shops. I have promised to buy them all lunch in return for the countless number of times they have fed me. Walk past the place with its neatly painted sign and bright-red window frames, and you might be forgiven for thinking that this is going to be one of those overpriced chippies with a sit-down at the back, but no, it is an honest chippy, and £30 fills us all to a bursting stupor and they are probably the best fish and chips I have ever eaten. I had suggested we eat them on the beach and then get a pint at a seafront pub. But it takes a special kind of stupid to imagine that you will find a square foot of beach, or a pub by the sea with less than a ten-minute wait time to be served; hoi polloi have arrived in their regiments, for it is a delightful Saturday afternoon. I keep forgetting that Brighton is like this on the weekend, for decades of freelance life have eroded the distinction between weekday and weekend. So we eat our f and c on the little chairs outside the restaurant and we are happy. I then suggest we go to a pub round the corner I know. Here things went a bit weird. The landlady was colourfully coiffed and made up in a way which suggested the kind of broad tolerance for which Brighton is famous. But she took one look at us and, in a tone of voice which at first suggested she was joking, refused to serve us on the grounds that we had had enough already, especially Ben. This was an outrage. Ben had only had one tin of San Miguel before lunch; his wife had even forbidden him wine, on the grounds that it made him grumpy. Well, he was grumpy now. We left the pub politely but outside, he seethed. Earlier in the week he had been telling me stories about Brummie Owl, a friend of his from the days when he was a football hooligan. (I have mentioned Ben's sense of civic duty before in this column; back in the day, he considered one of his chief civic duties to be beating up Spurs fans.) Brummie Owl was back in town and suggested a meet-up. Ben said I should come along. After hearing about not only Brummie Owl's talent for violence but his short temper, I said I was worried he might take an instant dislike to me. 'Just say you don't follow football and only like cricket and rugby.' 'But I hate rugby.' 'All right, just say you're not into any sport at all, and especially not any ball games.' Subscribe to The New Statesman today from only £8.99 per month Subscribe Anyway, as we left the pub in search of a pint, Ben kept muttering dark threats about the form his revenge was going to take. The recruitment of Brummie Owl played a large part in his fantasies of vengeance. After a miserable walk trying to find a pub with a single seat in the sun – I was so full of chips I felt like fainting, never have I felt so weary – we had a thoughtful pint inside a not too crowded pub, but the joy had been sucked out of us and I went back to the Hove-l to lie down. Later on I had a thought, and passed it on to Ben: 'I think I know why that woman didn't serve us. Consider how we looked. You with your Harrington jacket and Fred Perry shirt, and me in my tweed jacket and waistcoat and a fresh haircut and with dark glasses that make me look like Judge Doom from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. It is perhaps unfortunate that your Fred Perry shirt is in the colours that have since been adopted by the Proud Boys of America. She must have jumped to an unwarranted but forgivable conclusion. She was not to know that you are firmly on the centre-left and worship the noted columnist Rafael Behr so much you toy with the idea of kidnapping him so he can be your friend, like Rupert Pupkin, Robert De Niro's character in Scorsese's vastly underrated film The King of Comedy.' And yet a funny thing happened to me later that evening – that time of night when a gentleman feels compelled to go to the all-night store and buy some Haribo Twin Snakes and a packet of Walkers Cheese and Onion French Fries (I had recovered from lunch). Outside the shop I fell into conversation with a group of about seven young men, I'd say a third of my age, all dressed in starkly modern clothing of the same colour – black – which suggested gang affiliation. I can't remember how the conversation started because, um, it was late (the landlady would have been, by now, well within her rights to refuse me service, let me put it like that) and the talk turned to my outfit, unchanged from earlier in the day except now with a neckerchief. They fingered the jacket (Burton, older than me) reverently and expressed complete admiration and respect for my ensemble. There was not a trace of irony; indeed we went so far as to swap names and bump fists. I don't know what that was all about but it certainly helped to cheer me up. [See also: The dark side of the Moomins] Related
