Latest 7 magazine

Blue Eyed Boys shows a selection of portraits of gay men with blue eyes, from the ‘Bear’ world. Painted by Isle of Wight resident (and former Lewesian) Nick Martin and inspired by the style of Holbein (including the factual information included within the works), they represent members of the gay community who celebrate being big and hairy.

Although based on digital photography and drawings of the men who sit for their portraits, the artist aims for a naturalistic result based on strong classical drawing – in keeping with Renaissance painting.

Nick Martin: Blue Eyed Boys, Café Balcony, Brighton Museum & Art Gallery, until 3 February

Craig Driver talks to Colin Firth about his new role in the modern adaptation of St Trinian’s

How would you describe your character in St Trinian’s?
Oh, I’m a suit again. Basically, it was “Do you want to play the Minister of Education?” Yeah. I’m very much the stooge, the patsy, the guy who’s set up for a fall.

Do you have fond memories of the original St Trinian’s films?
To be honest I have almost no memory of them. I don’t think I’ve seen them since I was quite young. I was a bit frightened of the girls. I fancied them. Even though I was young, I found them attractive and rather frightening. I’ve always been attracted to frightening girls! I’m married to one!

How would you describe Rupert’s take on Miss Fritton? Like a pantomime dame? It’s not a pantomime dame. I’ll say that. Rupert plays her convincingly as a certain kind of woman. But Rupert and I have a love scene at the end of the movie. I can vouch for how difficult it is to grapple with all that extra material!

Did you get to meet Russell Brand? How did you find him?
Well, we don’t have any scenes together. But it’s interesting. Our job is trying to inject some freshness and excitement into a very dull job description, which is repetition. To work effectively in a film, you have to repeat and work consistently. Basically, you shoot a big master then you do close-ups. You’re supposed to be in the same moment, the same thirty-second moment, for a day. The skill of a good actor is to make it always seem like you’re in that fantastically spontaneous moment. Very often, a stand-up comedian has a different instinct, which is to reinvent. I think Russell’s a bit more than a comedian.

How was it dealing with the scene where the dog humps your leg?
It was a bit of a pain. There was a little ball of nylon, which they used to substitute the dog, because the dog was not co-operative all the time. But there was a real dog. The only dog they could find in England that was prepared to shag me was a female called Dolly, who proved not to want to do it when the time came. Dolly would intermittently be persuaded to play the game for two or three seconds. Then they gave up and they stuck the nylon on me instead.

You’ve worked with Rupert before. How has the relationship evolved?
It’s quite hard to say how it’s evolved over this afternoon! It is piss-taking but I think there’s a slight feeling of us being a couple of survivors, really. It’s almost a quarter of a century in a business that does claim a lot of fifteen-minute flash-in-the-pan scalps. And meeting again after Another Country, where we famously didn’t get on, [for The Importance of Being Earnest], even the fact we didn’t get on very well 18 years before was already a source of connection somehow.

I believe he trained at the drama centre where you trained.
I was totally ambushed! There’s one portion with a drug story and Rupert thought that might bother me but that wasn’t my problem at all. I was ready for legal action over him accusing me of wearing sandals and of strumming a guitar and singing a limp Sixties protest song, which I have to say did capture my soul! Rupert said I brought the guitar to the set and started strumming Lemon Tree Very Pretty! But I never brought it to the set.

St Trinian’s is out now

Jo gets into the festive spirit with Dita Von Teese, Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett

Last week was definitely party week and I kicked off by going along to Burlesque-beauty Dita Von Teese’s festive party in Marylebone where she treated an intimate audience of friends and fashionistas to a pre-Christmas performance of her latest show – inspired by Cointreau, of which she is the new face. The spectacular show featured the pint-sized pin-up frolicking in a giant Champagne glass. And what is the temptress looking forward to in the New Year? “My divorce,” she quipped. “I’m not looking for a new boyfriend just yet but men who put fun and experiences at the forefront come first with me.”

From there I dashed across town in a taxi to Ladbroke Grove for the annual bash held by animated band Gorillaz which was hosted by the band’s creators Damon Albarn and my old mate, Worthing’s own Jamie Hewlett. The party was held in a huge marquee on their studio roof, which overlooks a flyover. Inside was a fully stocked bar and a huge vodka luge in the shape of a half peeled banana – ding dong. We danced the night away to great old school classics before heading home in the wee small hours.

The fun didn’t stop there as the next day I found myself helping out at a new print gallery on the Charing Cross Road. Owned by Steve Lazarides, the gallery stocks the very best in contemporary art prints – mostly signed limited editions, plus books and a bit of sculpture. The booze started flowing at midday and carried on until 5pm. Our party then decamped to Soho House where it seemed that every media type was having an early Christmas party. I bumped into an old client and ex-Blue Peter presenter Diane Louise Jordan who was accompanied by the
rather gorgeous Tim Vincent. After a few glasses they were showing us the very best Christmas-wrapping techniques involving lashings of sticky back plastic!

Back home again to unpack and then re-pack as I took the office on our annual Christmas jaunt – this year the destination was Paris. After kicking off the trip in the world’s longest champagne bar at the fabulous new St Pancras International, we spent a fantastic few days in the beautiful City of Light, marred only by a sighting of the odious Jonathan King.

Before we headed home to ring in the New Year, we had time for one final festive photo call. This picture should warm everyone’s cockles – a lovely group of carol-singers from St Mary’s Catholic Primary School in Portslade who won Southern FM’s Xmas Factor competition. The group triumphed over many other local schools with their live on-air rendition of The Holly and The Ivy, winning the opportunity to make a professional recording of the carol at Southern’s studios. What a lovely Christmas gift for their Mums and Dads.

Jo Brooks is director of Brighton-based PR company JBPR Ltd
01273 622555, www.jb-pr.com

This week Katie makes a career move and goes for the money honey

By the time Slash suggests I go back to his room for a threesome, unluckily for him, I have crossed the point of alcoholic-no-return and abandoned getting laid in favour of getting well and truly wasted.

I look into his big brown eyes and suggest he orders some more champagne, which he does. I like Slash. We’ve already come close to being kicked out of his hotel for smoking in the bar and now he’s let me drag him to what I temptingly promised would be ‘the worst strip club you’ve ever been to in your life’.

Barely paying attention to the half naked girl writhing around our table I fill my glass and slurring tell him.

“I think you look better in a top hat. Like that video, White Wedding, that was the best – when you did that solo on the hill you looked so cool it was the best thing I can remember about being a teenager.”

“Yeah”, Slash grins and gives me a wink, “White Wedding was Billy Idol, you’re thinking of November Rain”. Oh yes, yes I am.

Getting messy with Slash is a brilliant way to end a better night. Already when I stumbled into the hotel where he was staying and found him next to me at the bar I was clutching a story that I knew would have my editor singing my praises for weeks to come. To top that I’d stood alongside Cilla Black and bopped away to Stevie Wonder at the opening of The Wonder Room at Selfridges.

Now I was alternating between sipping pink champagne, making small talk with strippers and grilling Slash for silly anecdotes (then running back and forth to the toilets to scribble down in my notepad). On my next such trip, a newly memorised quote burning away in my head, I stop to order a Jack Daniels and coke and I think to myself, with a smile, that no matter how much I spend on drinking tonight, tomorrow I’ll make it back when I sell my stories. I ask for a double and take a minute to think about how much I love being a journalist, and why I’m so damn pleased I moved to London…

“London was like the sensible, boring, suit wearing boyfriend, I was having an affair with, I didn’t really like him”

I didn’t know how to tell you I moved to London. I thought you might be mad, might think I was a traitor. But if it helps, I really, really did not want to come here.

Having to leave Brighton was like breaking up with your alcoholic, hippy boyfriend that you’ve known since you were a teenager. You know career-wise it’s the right thing to do – but secretly you’re worried, maybe you can’t do better.

London was like the sensible, boring, suit wearing boyfriend I was having an affair with. I didn’t really like him, but I started seeing him for his money. A few months later he had me addicted to swanky restaurants and designer cocktails. He’d promised me a Mulberry handbag for Christmas – there was no way I could leave.

I only came to London because I wanted to be a journalist and I didn’t want to do it on The Argus. The lure of a city where every major paper was jostling for stories within a 10 mile radius was too much to resist. If that column on The Guardian was ever going to be mine I was going to have to start somewhere.

So before I knew about Slash, about gossip columns or editors or parties filled with free champagne, in fact before I even had a job, I got a flat in Notting Hill. I gave the team at Latest a big hug goodbye and came off to the big city to seek my fortune. I felt like Dick Whittington. But I was dressed in Primarni. Before I left my fairy godmother, Julie Burchill, armed me with a pair of deeply expensive red heels and the best piece of advice ever given to a journalist, “If nothing happens, then make it happen”.

I blagged myself two weeks unpaid work experience at the Daily Mail and three shifts on The Standard’s Londoner’s diary. Joe drove me and all my possessions up to Notting Hill and I wondered if I’d make enough to survive to the next rent day… (tbc)