Suivez-moi en Twitter!

French speakers can now join the Twittering masses, the lucky people. According to the Twitter blog, more and more folk outside the States are Twittering (no way), so the organisation has been busy developing the social media resource in alternative languages to English. After introducing Japanese, and then, last month, Spanish, Twitter is now available in French, thus benefitting almost 30 Francophone countries (wow, so many?).

My favourite thing to come out of all this? The French word for Twitterers is "les twitteurs". Magnifique!


If you can read French, bob over to the Twitter blog post Nouvelle saveur: Twitter en Francais! for more.

A lovely toasty feeling

Here's a great pic of a great building: the Toast Rack in that funny no-man's land opposite Platt Fields Park between Rusholme and Fallowfield. I used to live in Fallowfield as a student (I know; I really am a walking cliche sometimes), so the Hollings Campus, as it is officially known, was a fixture on my daily commute for a year. It's one of a kind. I hope they don't pull it down, as is threatened.


I'm an architecture fan but no architecture student, so for more on this "perfect piece of pop architecture", check out the Manchester Modernist Society website. Here there is a great write-up about the history of the building and a warning on its uncertain future, plus some links to other articles and blogs paying tribute to the Wilmslow Road icon.

Goya Goya gone

Saturday saw four of us hop on to the free tram into town (well, when I say "hop on", what I really mean is "wait ages in the cold then shuffle into a packed carriage where the windows are steamed up so you can't see out and nobody knows to move along like they do on the Tube in that there London"). We made it pretty much unscathed to St Peter's Square, where the rain had finally stopped, and negotiated our way over to the subtly impressive City Gallery.

After bumbling about slightly lost, taking in some Bridget Riley, Patrick Caulfield and Francis Bacon, and having a possible celeb-spotting moment (one of the McGanns), we finally stumbled across the somewhat strange antechamber where the exhibition we'd come for is tucked away. And if you don't find the room within a room slightly odd; the 30 or so prints hung on the walls will certainly wrongfoot you. Fantasies, Follies And Disasters: The Prints of Francisco de Goya (until 31 January) brings together etchings that were either withdrawn or withheld by the artist in the opening years of the 19th century because of the bizarre, perturbing nature of the scenes of death and the undead. Even with a slight satirical streak running through, they carry a creepy and controversial edge.

An interesting addition to the display since October is Jake and Dinos Chapman's 1993 sculpture Disasters Of War (named after one of the three groups of Goya etchings; the other two being The Follies and The Fantasies), on loan from the Tate. The multitude of scenes portrayed using remodelled toy soliders are directly inspired by Goya's more gruesome work, and the display adds a valuable extra dimension to the exhibition and gives it a depth the Goyas wouldn't plumb on their own. The idea of toy soldiers torturing and mutilating other toy soliders is a jarring juxtaposition to what we accept as the norm, but then what is normal about the concept of toy soliders anyway? Disturbing isn't a strong enough word.

Location, location, location

Making conversation with various different people recently, I've asked what I have believed to be a pretty straightforward (although, I admit, entirely cliched and banal) question: where is it you work? In response, I have been hoping for the name of a company, probably followed by me looking blank, then the person providing a brief synopsis of what the organisation does, and me being able to glean a little insight into what kind of job they spend most of their waking hours doing. Eg:

"Where is it you work again?"
"Wonderland."
"Huh?"
"Well, they do a lot of tea parties and things, and I work in marketing."
"Sounds great. So did you see Spooks on Wednesday..."

Instead, on all these occasions, I have had to endure entire explanations pinpointing the actual physical location of their place of work, which serves no purpose: they work in Manchester, I work in Manchester, I live in Manchester, I know Manchester, they give me a huge long-winded frigging description of some place as if they're talking to their great aunt twice removed who's never been to Manchester. Fuck me, I know the question was boring, but what kind of dull conversation is that?

Last night, an acquaintance answered my question, "So where is it you work?", with: "Do you know Castlefield?" Er, yes. "Well, there's a bit where the canal kind of comes to an end, what do you call that?" A canal basin. So, Castlefield Basin, yes? "Yes, Castlefield Basin. It's just by there. There's an old building, kind of Victorian..." Another friend interjected with "Next to Dukes", which could have been said at the start, instead of going all round the houses (well, there aren't many houses round there apart from Lockkeeper's Cottage and a lot of fancy schmancy apartments, but you know what I mean), but I still didn't find out what he did. To be honest, I lost interest, and I went home soon after.

Making a mountain out of a montage

I've been invited to this evening's preview of the Cornerhouse's new run in the galleries, entirely dedicated to the Polish artist Artur Zmijewski as part of Polska! Year. Unfortunately, I have to admit that I couldn't muster up the enthusiasm, even despite having recently travelled through Poland. I'm just not that into video art, I'm afraid. Plus I'm very very busy.

To make up for it, I've been having a shufty at the work on show elsewhere in the Cornerhouse: Behemoth And Other New Paintings by David Wightman. I'm giving you my thoughts here under the guise of both words (read on and you'll see why) and fixtures (both the date of the show and the fact that paintings are fixtures. Get it?). I'm not so fond of the abstract geometric stuff in the far end of the cafe, but I am curiously drawn to the mountain landscapes scattered about the place.

The largest, Behemoth, takes its title from a mythical beast, which apparently features in the Bible (more precisely, I'm told, the Book of Job). But then, what would I know? Behemoth, to me, means some massive big thing. And this painting is indeed that, taking up pretty much the entire wall that divides the seating in the bar (still a work in progress itself) from the downstairs loos. In the context of this painting, says the blurb in the exhibition press release, the word 'behemoth' is used to 'evoke the sense of terror and isolation inherent within mountain landscapes in opposition to their usual association with sublime beauty. This sense of terrific awe in scale and subject matter is curtailed by the use of pastel colours and collaged wallpaper providing a darkly humorous contrast'. [Head on side.] Oh yeah. It is the shade of strawberry Angel Delight, which is darkly humorous, I guess, in its own way.

Puella Mea is hanging above the stairs, so, as you make your way back down from the first floor, stop annoyingly mid-flight and appreciate the bumps and humps in the glaciers created by a choice use of textured wallpaper. It's worth the tuts and sighs, I assure you.

The one I traipsed all the way over there to see, however, is Cathedra. Trouble is, I couldn't actually find it on display, despite being reassured by staff that it is up, so I'll have to make do with the reproduction in the brochure (and below). In all the gubbins airy-fairying on about Wightman's work, there's talk of landscapes being something of a kitsch genre these days, and what with the woodchip and gaudy colours, you can't get much kitscher than this. A cathedra, it turns out when I Google it (the word isn't listed in the rubbish My First Dictionary I have for some reason decided to furnish my temporary work desk with), is the chair or throne of a bishop ('cathedra' is Latin for 'chair', from the Greek 'kathedra' meaning 'seat'); and a cathedral is a church into which a bishop's official cathedra is installed. See, you learn things here. And, indeed, study the picture closely and you can see the mountains do resemble a throne (look, just squint, will ya?).

Cathedra, 2009, acrylic on wallpaper and canvas, 90 x 120cms

Behemoth And Other New Paintings is on at the Cornerhouse until
16 December.

What a load of pony

Oh dear, it's not just bankers and journos who are feeling the cut and thrust of the recession; now fashion designers are wobbling to the wall on their ultra-high heels, too. First up: English eccentric Luella Bartley, who announced yesterday that her ready-to-wear label Luella was for the chop.

This is a surprise: Bartley was crowned British Designer Of The Year in 2008 and she's been at the top of the fashionistas' cool pile for a while now. Ready-to-wear is usually where the money is made, so I suppose that's pretty much that. Shame. She put out some fun stuff - loads of quirky prints and ditzy florals, and plenty of overblown bows, sweet hearts and, if I remember rightly, Mickey Mouse ears - and one of her collections was called Daddy I Want A Pony. Now, that's a name for a show.

Not so dim up north

Less than a week after Guo Yue and Clare Farrow wrapped up the Manchester Literature Festival with their magical Children’s Bookshow bookend, the city isn’t ready to close its dustcovers just yet. Even The Guardian has picked up on the bookish buzz of the place with an article about Manchester’s Literary Renaissance by Manchester University lecturer and MLF trustee Jerome de Groot, which the city’s literati and Twitterati have been proudly disseminating (see The Manchizzle and The Art of Fiction blogs for starters). In it, Manchester is described as ‘one of Europe’s most creative and dynamic cities’, so it’s no surprise that even the sleepy suburbs are a hotbed of talent. (Read this article in its entirety on the Manchester Literature Festival Blog.)



Down in the south of the city, Chorlton Book Festival is now officially underway, with stacks of events lined up over the next couple of weeks to entertain even my most highbrow cravat-wearing neighbours. The Words & Fixtures social calendar is currently fuller than ever (oh, the dizzying heights of being an award-winning blogger!), but I'm going to do my utmost to squeeze something in. One definite now penned in the diary is A Writer's Guide To Social Media, just in case I don't know all the tricks to upping my online presence. If you're reading this, Mr Slatcher, you may have your work cut out. Other than that, I am of course always tempted by free cake, while the pub quiz also has a certain je ne sais quoi...



Enough from me. You decide what tickles your literary fancy. For the all-singing all-dancing whizzy Chorlton Book Festival programme in Issuu, click here.

Walls, I scream

As I'm sure you've all heard endless times already today, it's 20 years since the Berlin Wall came tumbling down; a pretty momentous occasion. No arguments there. For me, I was pleased to see the back of the Cold War as it had been the cause of some quite serious stay-awake-at-night worries of all-out nuclear destruction. As if being a teenager isn't bad enough. I don't suppose watching Threads helped, or listening to Frankie Goes To Hollywood with their Two Tribes sirens. And what about all the propaganda? We all knew full well that, in the event of an attack, we were to immediately take cover under the classroom tables. Like that was going to be a fat lot of use in the event of a mushroom cloud climbing high into the stratosphere over Manchester.

But back to Berlin, where I'm sure this day 20 years ago made rather more of a difference to ordinary folk but where life seems pretty normal now. Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of being able to pass through the German capital on my breakneck tour round Europe, and while pootling around on hire bikes got to see a few preparations being made for this very day.



We sneakily took these photos of an Italian TV crew recording a programme near the one stretch of Wall that remains in situ. They were having to do the same take over and over again because various passing cars and people kept getting in shot. We thought the presenter was funny because he looked all smart and serious up top in his jacket and tie, but was wearing baggy jeans and white sneakers on his bottom half (presumably, they'll only be focusing on his head and shoulders on the programme, which is probably showing on Italian telly right this minute).



This is the new Balancing Act sculpture by Stephan Balkenhol, which was inaugurated in May and stands outside the Axel Springer Building, home of the Bild newspaper. The 5.70 metre-high piece of a man balancing on a wall is framed by 11 original pieces of the Berlin Wall and (so the official Axel Springer website says): 'in the heart of the capital of a united Germany, it symbolizes the power of freedom and self-determination'. Weirdly, we saw the same papier-mache-looking statue standing about in a foyer near the Brandenburg Gate. He obviously gets around.

A passing thought on Sesame Street

When I was 10, I moved house and had to change school. It was already apparent that we had gone up in the world because we now lived in a detached house and the neighbours didn't scream at each other after closing time and my dad no longer turned the hi-fi speakers round to face the party wall and blast out prog rock. Things were different now. Plus it was the 80s.

When I went to my new school, it was also apparent that we had gone up in the world. Everybody except me used fountain pens and had ink-stained fingers. I had a stubby bit of pencil and a rubber. Thankfully, I was quite good at spelling (imagine!) so at least my new classmates couldn't pick on me for being thick. Thankfully, too, my mum had persistently told me off for pronouncing things scousely so I didn't have too strong an accent.

One memory of many I have from the whole two years I spent at this school (others include: sneaking into the headmaster's office to look at the academic achievement records; learning all the songs from Cats, and having a massive war of words with a horrid girl called Kate) was sitting in a sun-filled room watching a video about grammar. There must have been a teachers' strike or a pandemic or something because a) there were loads of us in the room watching the tape and b) we never watched TV at this school; it was, of course, considered too low-brow.


What I remember from the show (which I'm pretty certain wasn't one of those schools and colleges productions but was in fact Sesame Street - happy 40th birthday Big Bird et al, BTW. Great show, guys) was the explanation of punctuation, and the memory aid for remembering the word itself (which adds to my confusion as to why we were watching this programme - weren't we a bit old?): Punk (accompanied by a sequence of a man with a mohican-style hairdo) - Chew (with a shot of bubblegum being masticated and blown) - Asian (footage of a person of Asian decent walking by). Crazy.

Righting the wrongs of apostrophe placement

If there's one thing you all know about me by now (and, in the words of the ginger-haired Manc one, if you don't know me by now, then you'll never ever know me. I sat next to him once in the "legendary" Hacienda, BTW. There's one to tell your grandchildren), it's that I'm a stickler for grammar rules. I get particularly peeved by the misuse of apostrophes, and believe on-the-spot fines should be introduced to weed out the worst offenders.

Imagine my joy, then, when my good friend technicalfault sent me this handy guide on How To Use An Apostrophe. And if you can't work out the correct usage of the popular punctuation mark after perusing this picture-plentiful tutorial, I will be contacting the authorities to revoke your A-star GCSEs! I'm serious. This is the power I wield.