Saturday, 2 October 2010
Ta ta Tristesse, Luz Morales and Churchie La Femme.
Jan has talked me into something I know I will regret.
He came for lunch today and his demeanour was not encouraging. 'What's up'. I asked.
'I feel like a child on Christmas day who has just been given a bunny rabbit only to watch his parents eat it for lunch.'
I quickly weaned him away from whatever disaster he was about to relate.
Jan has asked me (hence the luncheon meeting) to participate in a little scheme of his. It will end in tears as usual but how do you refuse a man like Jan Nieupjur!
We are going to open a cabaret/burlesque club thing; it will be called Ta ta Tristesse and happen just once a month at a venue yet to be decided. the venue will be as small as possible, maybe space for 40 people.
Acts will vary but regulars will be Luz Morales (Jan's new Muse) and Churchie La Femme ( a future star if ever I saw one).
Watch this space for more details.
He came for lunch today and his demeanour was not encouraging. 'What's up'. I asked.
'I feel like a child on Christmas day who has just been given a bunny rabbit only to watch his parents eat it for lunch.'
I quickly weaned him away from whatever disaster he was about to relate.
Jan has asked me (hence the luncheon meeting) to participate in a little scheme of his. It will end in tears as usual but how do you refuse a man like Jan Nieupjur!
We are going to open a cabaret/burlesque club thing; it will be called Ta ta Tristesse and happen just once a month at a venue yet to be decided. the venue will be as small as possible, maybe space for 40 people.
Acts will vary but regulars will be Luz Morales (Jan's new Muse) and Churchie La Femme ( a future star if ever I saw one).
Watch this space for more details.
The Cobden Club
Some days ago, having been sent packing by the doorpeople at the Cobden I posted a rather unflattering article about the place: http://jannieupjur.blogspot.com/2010/09/cobden-crap-taurus-trakker-plus-powa-at.html
Yesterday I received an email from the cobden expressing disappointment. I was invited to attend a gig last night. I replied stating that I would gladly attend and 'give it another go' (I removed my earlier piece). Later that day I was asked by an online magazine to review the show at the cobden that night. I was told that I was on the door list and I was given the names of two people who would be happy to talk to me about their event. They had been informed of my existence!
the email from the cobden:
Dear Tristan,
I came across your blog and was a little disappointed by your remarks. Firstly the Cobden is not responsible for taking money at the door that would be the promoter that is running the night. We are a private members club so we usually only let in members of the Club. If a promoter is running a night he is responsible for his guest list and any money that is being paid to attend his night. The night in Question is Café Rocks, run by Micky P.
Secondly the night was a great success and Joseph was all he is hyped up to be.
If you ever do want to come down to one of our live music nights, please do drop me an email and I’ll put you on the guest list.
Tonight we have the launch of You Bloom.. Let me know if you would like to attend.
The middle:
I walked to the Cobden (15 minutes) in the pissing rain only to be refused entry by the same piece of work at the door; an old lady dressed as some kind of cabaret/tart/ringmaster thing. I was told that I was not welcome there.
Fair enough! But why invite me in the first place?
The end:
The only part of the Cobden I can write about is the Door; it is wooden and I used it with relish.
I was right the first time; the Cobden Club is not very good!
Friday, 1 October 2010
Luz Morales: Light at the end of the tunnel.
Jan can be insufferable.
He has ( and at his age it is rather unpleasant) found a new muse; she is a Spanish seamstress and burlesque artiste apparently. And a third his age. Her name is Luz Morales; I asked Jan how they met. He told me this tale:
"I was round at Rusty's the other day. He had asked me to help with some adjustments he was making to a pear pie recipe; not enough almond was my opinion. While the trial pie was baking we got to drinking and talking and drinking and talking among men invariably leads to drinking and talking about women.
We got to talking about women while we were drinking.
Rusty is still hanging around burlesque stage doors in the hope of catching Babs ( I haven't got the heart to tell him that Babs is living on a dude ranch in Calgary with an oil sands miner). anyway Rusty was in Soho hanging around bars and clubs as usual when he caught sight of a charming young lady in a skimpy outfit handing out flyers. He got one of those flyers; it was for a burlesque club in Madrid called Ta Ta Tristesse, the girl photographed on the flyer was stunning wearing a tiny matador type ensemble and teasing a stuffed bull.
I knew at once she was the one! I rushed home, called Fluente (he is in Madrid on a Mexican waving tour) and asked him to check her out; he did, got her email address, I emailed her, we became great friends immediately.
I plan to visit her soon"!
He then took a photograph from his pocket. "Here". He said. "Ain't she something".
He has ( and at his age it is rather unpleasant) found a new muse; she is a Spanish seamstress and burlesque artiste apparently. And a third his age. Her name is Luz Morales; I asked Jan how they met. He told me this tale:
"I was round at Rusty's the other day. He had asked me to help with some adjustments he was making to a pear pie recipe; not enough almond was my opinion. While the trial pie was baking we got to drinking and talking and drinking and talking among men invariably leads to drinking and talking about women.
We got to talking about women while we were drinking.
Rusty is still hanging around burlesque stage doors in the hope of catching Babs ( I haven't got the heart to tell him that Babs is living on a dude ranch in Calgary with an oil sands miner). anyway Rusty was in Soho hanging around bars and clubs as usual when he caught sight of a charming young lady in a skimpy outfit handing out flyers. He got one of those flyers; it was for a burlesque club in Madrid called Ta Ta Tristesse, the girl photographed on the flyer was stunning wearing a tiny matador type ensemble and teasing a stuffed bull.
I knew at once she was the one! I rushed home, called Fluente (he is in Madrid on a Mexican waving tour) and asked him to check her out; he did, got her email address, I emailed her, we became great friends immediately.
I plan to visit her soon"!
He then took a photograph from his pocket. "Here". He said. "Ain't she something".
Wednesday, 29 September 2010
Beat at Charlie Wright's. The comeback tour begins.
I shall be doing some poems at BEAT on Monday the 4th of October. Please come along. I have a feeling it will be a good night:
BEAT:
| This time around, BEAT stomps up a wide range of brilliant male beasts and some lovely, hugely talented, ladies, for a night that could just be something out of the ordinary. It's free to get in but it might cost you a few braincells to get out! BEAT - a poetry night like no other lines up: Amy Acre - lovely, hugely talented, brilliant wordsmith and performer Tristan Hazell - the beast of Nothing Hill promises to hit you with some flamingly hot material Nial Spooner - Harvey - brings the unique to unique performance poetry Captain of the Rant - angry, topical, political - just the way we like it Michelle Madsen - when she's not conjuring up her special brand of laid back, humorous scribblings, Michelle also finds time to co - run legendary London poetry night - Hammer & Tongue Heaven Afrika - our new kid on the block + your twinkled eyed little host, Dr Martin(aka Mr Grant) |
| Charlie Wright's 45 Pitfield Street, N1 6DA London, United Kingdom |
The secrets of magic.
Things started getting out of hand when the dog got run down in the street out side our window. She had watched it happen and when I got in from work she was standing there in tears. I held her for a while then took her to bed.
I’d first seen her in Stanley Park one afternoon when a bunch of us were sitting around with guitars, playing whatever came into our heads and generally fooling about. A number of kids had congregated to catch the mood and catch the sun, she sat away from the others under the shade of a tree; long thick hair the color of new pennies burning against almost white skin. She wore a green summer dress and red Converse.
I knew she was there but not really there until Gus came along in a daze, stood among us and announced Kurt Cobain was dead. For real! Shot himself in the head and was dead! I looked at her then, alone under that tree; tears running black from her eyeliner. I told myself she needed comfort only really it was me who needed her. So I went to her and held her. She sobbed into my white t-shirt.
We practically stayed like that for the rest of the day, talking about Kurt and singing his songs. Then somebody played ‘In Memory of a Free Festival’ on his boom box and after that the only thing to do was go home or someplace else.
She came back to my place.
We ate pizza and listened to Nirvana CD’s while she cried some more. She laughed when I told her she looked like a clown with her make-up running. We kissed before she left me knowing I would see her again.
Soon we were living together and making plans. Sex wasn’t that great but I put that down to anything I could think of except the truth. I wasn’t going anywhere near the truth back then.
After the dog I started to find more ways to make her cry so I could comfort her. During the day I would make up sad stories to tell her at night. And I would buy her eyeliner and mascara, the cheap stuff that ran, and encourage her to use it.
But I should never have told her about the clown.
.
They found her on the sidewalk, crumpled and broken, except for her face, which, undamaged by the 30 foot fall from the window, she’d made up like a clown’s. Bright red mouth – I’d never known her to wear lipstick - and thick black weep lines running from her eyes. She had cropped her hair. Gelled it so it stood up like a fright wig.
Just like Bepo the clown who at my 8th birthday party led me into the cellar to show me the secrets of magic.
I’d first seen her in Stanley Park one afternoon when a bunch of us were sitting around with guitars, playing whatever came into our heads and generally fooling about. A number of kids had congregated to catch the mood and catch the sun, she sat away from the others under the shade of a tree; long thick hair the color of new pennies burning against almost white skin. She wore a green summer dress and red Converse.
I knew she was there but not really there until Gus came along in a daze, stood among us and announced Kurt Cobain was dead. For real! Shot himself in the head and was dead! I looked at her then, alone under that tree; tears running black from her eyeliner. I told myself she needed comfort only really it was me who needed her. So I went to her and held her. She sobbed into my white t-shirt.
We practically stayed like that for the rest of the day, talking about Kurt and singing his songs. Then somebody played ‘In Memory of a Free Festival’ on his boom box and after that the only thing to do was go home or someplace else.
She came back to my place.
We ate pizza and listened to Nirvana CD’s while she cried some more. She laughed when I told her she looked like a clown with her make-up running. We kissed before she left me knowing I would see her again.
Soon we were living together and making plans. Sex wasn’t that great but I put that down to anything I could think of except the truth. I wasn’t going anywhere near the truth back then.
After the dog I started to find more ways to make her cry so I could comfort her. During the day I would make up sad stories to tell her at night. And I would buy her eyeliner and mascara, the cheap stuff that ran, and encourage her to use it.
But I should never have told her about the clown.
.
They found her on the sidewalk, crumpled and broken, except for her face, which, undamaged by the 30 foot fall from the window, she’d made up like a clown’s. Bright red mouth – I’d never known her to wear lipstick - and thick black weep lines running from her eyes. She had cropped her hair. Gelled it so it stood up like a fright wig.
Just like Bepo the clown who at my 8th birthday party led me into the cellar to show me the secrets of magic.
This is an extract from:http://tristanssecretsofmagic.blogspot.com/
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
John Sweeney 'Loose Tomato' Scientology shock! Why has the BBC been silent?
The following is a press release from the Scientologist sect. It was personalised and emailed to journalists at the BBC today...
MONDAY, 27 SEPTEMBER 2010
Re: How the BBC fools the public with their fake investigations
In May 2007 BBC Panorama reporter John Sweeney achieved global renown as the infamous “exploding tomato,” uncontrollably losing his head and screaming insanely at the chief spokesperson for the Church of Scientology. (Watch the video Panorama Exposed at www.freedommag.org.)
Stunningly, three and a half years later, on Tuesday, 28 September, Panorama’s John Sweeney will again report on the Church of Scientology. But just what dubious methods does Mr. Sweeney use in his so-called “investigation”? And what on earth could have prompted the BBC to fund a programme which could only be an attempt for Mr. Sweeney to recover the unrecoverable—his reputation.
Find out why Sweeney’s “investigation” is now the subject of a new documentary programme released internationally today by Freedom Magazine at www.freedommag.org.
We welcome your feedback on the video and any information you may want to share with us on John Sweeney’s BBC Panorama Scientology “investigation.” We would also be interested in whether you think John Sweeney’s programme warranted the expenditure and if his report was in fact balanced or fair. Please be assured that if you so request, your identity will be kept confidential.
Yours sincerely,
Freedom Editor 
Oh, and if John Sweeney is such a 'loose tomato' why is the sect spending time trying to discredit him? Coincidentally John Sweeney is on the BBC breakfast news this morning!
It would be interesting to hear the reasons for the BBC remaining rather quiet about this...
Monday, 27 September 2010
supperclub London. Best Restaurant Bar Award @ London Club & Bar Awards
I was invited to supperclub by the Playlister boys; Ben and Dan. I had expected to not enjoy the place but was pleasantly surprised. And Femi Fem is cool.
check it out! I'd go again. It is of course (the Dutch chef I guess) Jan Nieupjur's favourite night spot!
Join DJs Femi Fem and Sam Hanbali for a truly fun, sassy scene for an enigmatic crowd ready
to party & relax. , Bow the Dutch Chef, Burlesque show La Gateau
Chocolat. You have to experience supperclub London live; a most
welcoming service, the best food, performance & dj's ...
check it out! I'd go again. It is of course (the Dutch chef I guess) Jan Nieupjur's favourite night spot!
Join DJs Femi Fem and Sam Hanbali for a truly fun, sassy scene for an enigmatic crowd ready
to party & relax. , Bow the Dutch Chef, Burlesque show La Gateau
Chocolat. You have to experience supperclub London live; a most
welcoming service, the best food, performance & dj's ...
I'm giving cocaine to a child this Christmas!
Unlike puppies children are Just for Christmas.
Each year millions of us give pointless rubbish to children (invariably the nauseating, spoiled offspring of friends and family) in the name of Jesus Christ. Children do not need the stuff; of course they want the stuff, that is what children do; they want stuff, but they do not need it. No-one needs it.
Some stuff is needed by children; invariably it is the stuff that no-one wants to buy children because no-one wants reminding that there are poor kids whose lives could be made dramatically improved by a fairly small donation from You. Or me.
I have noticed that the coke heads of Notting Hill do not talk much about needy children... they talk about needy coke heads; the need to score, the need to talk about self.They talk about etc etc etc.
Let's change all that! This autumn I am campaigning for all coke heads to give the cost of one gramme of Colombian to a Burmese orphanage. Cool eh! Because once you have done it you can talk about your generosity for months ahead; Wow! And even if you are not a coke head you could give the cost of a gramme of MDMA, or the price of a bottle of poo (poo is Notting Hill for Champagne) or even the price of six pairs of socks as you don't seem to wear any under your penny loafers.
To make it even cooler I have come up with an edgy name for the act:
I'M GIVING COCAINE TO A CHILD THIS CHRISTMAS!
I need to get some badges made and then identify the right orphanages and stuff like that but I think this might work.
Yes let's all say it together: I'M GIVING MY COCAINE TO A CHILD THIS CHRISTMAS!
Each year millions of us give pointless rubbish to children (invariably the nauseating, spoiled offspring of friends and family) in the name of Jesus Christ. Children do not need the stuff; of course they want the stuff, that is what children do; they want stuff, but they do not need it. No-one needs it.
Some stuff is needed by children; invariably it is the stuff that no-one wants to buy children because no-one wants reminding that there are poor kids whose lives could be made dramatically improved by a fairly small donation from You. Or me.
Burmese orphan
Let's change all that! This autumn I am campaigning for all coke heads to give the cost of one gramme of Colombian to a Burmese orphanage. Cool eh! Because once you have done it you can talk about your generosity for months ahead; Wow! And even if you are not a coke head you could give the cost of a gramme of MDMA, or the price of a bottle of poo (poo is Notting Hill for Champagne) or even the price of six pairs of socks as you don't seem to wear any under your penny loafers.
To make it even cooler I have come up with an edgy name for the act:
I'M GIVING COCAINE TO A CHILD THIS CHRISTMAS!
I need to get some badges made and then identify the right orphanages and stuff like that but I think this might work.
Yes let's all say it together: I'M GIVING MY COCAINE TO A CHILD THIS CHRISTMAS!
A poem in honour of the Papal visit...
Tristan Hazell: Secrets of magic: God comes to a child in a dream.
Click here: Tristan Hazell: Secrets of magic: God comes to a child in a dream.: "Visiting a childrens cancer ward in my capacity as poet I knelt beside a bald headed child studiously writing tongue out deep in concentrati..."
Click here: Tristan Hazell: Secrets of magic: God comes to a child in a dream.: "Visiting a childrens cancer ward in my capacity as poet I knelt beside a bald headed child studiously writing tongue out deep in concentrati..."
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