Latest Homes magazine

Andrew Kay on the dangers of being the oldest swinger in town

I’m 51 and hurtling towards 52. Not that it stops me doing what I want. For the last few months I have thrown myself into being out and about. I have been going to concerts. A fair amount of classical stuff but to this I have added a massive slab of pop and rock. I know, I should know better.

Live music attracts the oddest audiences. At Viva Diva I was in the youngest quarter of the sell out show. It was grey hair central. I sat very comfortably amongst them. A week before it was Motorhead and Alice Cooper. I looked like I was at the wrong event. Bikers have their own way of growing old – disgracefully. How they rocked in their ancient denims and raggedy leathers, many of them with mini-me offspring at their sides in matching clobber. There two more unifying traits, older bikers are either emaciated or morbidly obese – no in between.

‘‘Older bikers are either emaciated or morbidly obese – no in between’’

Mad Mica mustered another mob, this time kiddies and parents. It was rather sweet until the bimboy started to swear. The air prickled. Odd as parents had elected to buy tickets for their kids to watch this strange sexual creature thrust and grind his way through the vigours of a sexually charged set. What more damage could the odd eff word do?

Mica also attracted mad people. One seemed hell bent on winding me up. She danced at me, bumping into me and giggling wildly. I moved away, but she was having none of it. She merely danced at me with more momentum gathering speed as she hurtled through the crowd, hitting me full on then swiveling and looking up at me like a demented jackal. I politely asked her not to and she wobbled back to her crowd. No doubt she thought I was a kill joy. Had she been called Joy and had she continued the name might have been appropriate.

The ultimate experience came at the O2 Arena. What a place, so steep, the upper reaches require crampons and oxygen. I took my seat and was overcome by the tangible whiff of the hormone patch. The audience was made up of women of a certain age. Behind us a row of matrons in too tight (and too young) tops ranted away. They shouted so much it was hard to see why they had come. One repeatedly yelled in my ear “Come on misty boy” as if egging on a nag at the races. Normally I am very vocal when offended by people who spoil my enjoyment. When I shush, people know exactly what I mean. But we were a row below these monsters, on the O2′s upper escarpments – and they had so many advantages – height, weight and lager. They were drinking pints faster than I could throw one on the floor.

So what pop event could attracts these ghoulish girly gollums? Take That of course. Fortunately the utterly charming mancy scallwags have grown in every way and their breathtaking show managed to surpass the primal screaming of the mad bitches in the row behind.

Andrew Kay pays lip service to pornography and art

Ever since I was a student I have been facinated by synchronicity, the simultaneaous occurence of events that appear significantly related but have no dicernible casual connection. Yes, you’re right, that is a dictionary definition for something that you may easily define as ‘a coincidence’. But it does seem amazing to me that in a place as large as London I can bump into a sequence of old friends within the space of 24 hours in the oddest variety of places.

I spent last weekend in London and met one pair of old college friends at the Barbican. The current exhibition, Seduced: Art and Sex from Antiquity to Now, was, of course, the common link. The chances of being there on the same day at the same moment bizarre.

‘‘Tate ‘Disney’ is a more appropriate name for Tate Modern, London’s favourite family outing’’

Anyway we took advantage of Gill’s membership and went in. It’s an odd show. Not shocking, really. Most lovers of art will have seen most of what is on display at some time, as will most lovers of pornography. No, what is odd is viewing material of this kind as a collective audience. Erotica is on the whole (careful how I spell that), a solitary or intimate experience between lovers or sexual partners. Here we all were, on a cold Saturday afternoon, looking at a massive collection – en masse.

After a while you become complacent about the content. In such surroundings much of the magic is lost and the intimacy ruined. It must be faced that a large amount, art as well as pornography, is originally created solely for the purpose of titilation. It could easily be said that much of this is porn achieving the status of art.

What I found most interesting was the audience’s behaviour. Throughout the exhibition there are small screening rooms with U-bend entrances to minimise light spilling into the projection rooms. Inside there were seats, but you could hardly get to them for the clusters of people jamming themselves in the narrow entrances, desperate to see but too scared to go any further than the door.

Was this perhaps a fear of penetration? A reaction to the content that questioned one’s level of commitment? Maybe the curators should have provided a free supply of hooded prophylactic anoraks to afford the crowds a sense that they were indulging in ‘safe’ sex.

On a more positive note, the exhibit is not open to under 18s, unlike the Gilbert And George retrospective at Tate ‘Disney’, a more appropriate name, I feel, for Tate Modern, London’s favourite family outing. Here I spent far too much time avoiding three wheel buggies and inquisitive toddlers. Yeuk!

Andrew Kay calls for us to reclaim our beach

Walking along the beach this morning, exercising the dog as I do most days, I bumped into a couple with two dogs. They were rather distressed at the re-appearance at Black Rock of a large encampment of travelling folk. I’m not even going to to try to categorise which group of travelling folk they might be, nor am I going to condone or condemn their life-style choice. Travelling is what they do, whether it be from historic or genetic roots or from a more recent life-style decision.

The couple were upset that the route of their normal walk from the Marina was now interrupted by this rather unsightly encampment. One of their dogs, an elderly chap, was disturbed by the camp dogs, and access to the small beach where he would normally take a daily dip in the sea was now restricted.

‘‘My gripe is that Brighton’s grip on parking goes by the wayside when it comes to caravans’’

I sympathised, my dog is not comfortable with the camp dogs. It’s not that they have ever done anything physical to offend, but they do tend to bark in a rather aggressive way when we approach.

My personal gripe is that Brighton’s vice like grip on parking seems to go by the wayside when it comes to these caravans. Whole swathes of our lovely seafront are restricted making access to the beach in the early hours difficult. Many of us go anyway and flaunt the parking restrictions but it’s always at the risk of getting a ticket.

So why is it that we rate paying residents should fear using one of the best commodities that the city has to offer, the beach, when these ‘visitors’ seem to be able to move in and live on it? It’s hardly fair.

As I chatted to the couple a lone figure in woolly hat carrying a transistor radio approached from the other direction, ranting loudly as he loped toward us. “Oh dear, we have already crossed twice to avoid this one.” they cried. I took a look and decided to do the same.

So there we were, trying, like so many others, to enjoy the beach. Encampments to the east of us and raving pedestrians to the west. My car is illegally parked on a double yellow line, in a spot where it offers no potential danger or nuisance I hasten to add. With one eye watching the ranting woolly hat, the other scanning for traffic wardens and my ears fixed on the distant barking of caravan dogs, my early morning walk has become an assault course of hazards.

It strikes me that if we reviewed the parking at the eastern end of Madeira Drive and encouraged people to walk there in the mornings and evenings it would feel like a safer place. The more of us that use it the more comfortable we would be. As it is now it’s a windswept no-mans land.

Andrew Kay on the art of managing disappointment in the modern world

I have just eaten one of the most disappointing lunches of my life. It’s been a busy week, my diary is bursting, my brother and family are about to arrive for a three day break, and my desk looks like it has been ransacked. I had to pop out at lunch to buy a forgotten birthday present for a ten-year-old nephew and in my eagerness to get things done, I decided to pop into the new supermarket across the road from Latest Heights and pick up an easy lunch.

How confusing it is buying a ready meal. It’s not something that I do often but at work they can offer a quick fix on a busy day. I went down the appropriate aisle and started to ponder the choices. My word, bargains, healthy options, family feeds, and posh nosh in packaging that uses a lot of black ink in the hope that it will appear sophisticated.

‘‘Posh nosh in packaging that uses a lot of black ink in the hope that it will appear sophisticated’’

I’m all in favour of clear labelling and the listing of a product’s nutritional value, its calorific content and its lack of GM products or organic street cred. But pile all that up high and really it’s like doing the research for a PHd rather than buying lunch.

In the end I went for a healthy option which repeatedly stressed what a wise choice I was making given its rather marvellous content. They seem very keen to let us know how good something is for us or how tasty it will be. What they don’t tackle is managing our disappointment.

Yes, it was a let down, I may have eaten healthily but it left me wanting more. Low fat but pleasure free.

I also picked up a peach that claimed it was ripe and ready to eat. Well if it had been a turnip it might have passed muster but as a peach it did not. It was crunchy and tart, as far from ripe and ready to eat as is possible. Oh I know I should have taken it back but it was sticky and dripping, and remember, I am a busy person today.

On the way out of the supermarket a bevy of busty beauties and a token fit lad thronged towards me, brandishing leaflets telling me all about the various benefits of my store card thingy, and with it came a bar of chocolate.

At the end of the day they had saved themselves with a promotional freebie, a bar of choc that, whilst being in no way gourmet, did at least kick start the clever work that they do on free radicals. Aaargh! They’ve even got me at it now, I’m rationalising the act of eating chocolate, justifying it with science. I feel soiled, the pleasure has gone, it was a sweetie bar, a sin, a naughty pleasure and even I want to sanctify that pleasure, make it clean and sin free. I need help. No I don’t, I just need another bar of chocolate.

Andrew Kay salutes the elderly

When I first moved out to salubrious Saltdean there was dissent amongst my friends. Some thought it brave, some thought it foolhardy, but universally the opinion was that Saltdean was full of old people. It was not, you need to go far further afield to find high densities of pensioners.

This summer I discovered where many of them go as I decided to take my annual holidays in the UK. It was partly circumstance and partly conscience. I will not claim that I was actively trying to reduce my carbon size tens in any way, but I was pleased that by accident I was actually doing so.

‘‘Some thought it brave, some foolhardy, universally the opinion was that Saltdean was full of old people’’

I ended up camping on the edge of Wiltshire and North Somerset with the lovely Marian. Marian is like my big sister, totally judgmental and utterly forgiving. Everyone should have a Marian.

In each others company we can while away endless hours playing Scrabble, Snatch or Elasund – yes we are board game geeks – and with a few beers and some rather nice nibbles we are as happy as Larry. This Larry must have been a really happy chap to have become a national bench mark for people’s moods.

I digress. As well as playing games, shopping for local foods and beers, we also did some heritage. We popped into the local Tourist Information Centre and left with a terrible amount of paper. It seemed that we were in National Trust country and the choices were wide.

The next day we headed for Laycock, an entire village owned by the Trust and a popular film location for costume dramas. It was also home to Fox Talbot who lived in the Abbey, a building of extraordinary ugliness and beauty combined.

Anyway Laycock turned out to be crumbly central, more elderly people per square metre than anywhere I have ever visited. The roads were literally littered with walking frames and everywhere people were pausing to catch their breath. I even noticed that the pub menu had a high percentage of dishes requiring little jaw action.

Don’t get me wrong I like the company of old people, I am almost one myself. Above all I love there strange outlook on life.

As we ambled through this heritage haven we happened to overhear the most wonderful conversation. ‘‘Has Dorothy got over loosing her Ted yet?’’ ‘‘No, have you not heard, she has started to carry a teddy bear around with her everywhere she goes.’’ ‘‘A Teddy, how sweet, in his memory?’’ ‘‘Well sort of, she has stuffed it with his ashes.’’

Andrew Kay asks why the need for meeters and greeters?

As roving ‘Jack of’ for Latest Homes my travels take me pretty far and wide. I spend a pleasant amount of time in restaurants, bars, hotels and clubs and after 14 years of reporting on the same I feel I have perhaps earned the right to pass comment with impunity.

Last weekend I made my third trip to Glyndebourne Touring Opera this year. I loved all three and on the third visit we decided that, having arrived early, we would go to a restaurant there for tea and cake. We walked up to the entrance and there was a sign asking us to wait to be seated. After a couple of minutes a charming dinner-suited gent came across and asked us what we would like. “Tea and cake,” we cried. “Please find yourself a table gentlemen,” was the reply.

“‘Tea and cake’ we cried. ‘Please find yourself a table gentlemen,’ was the reply”

Now why the catering firm in charge require a Tuxedo-ed man to tell us to do what we could quite clearly do without his kind instruction is beyond me. It was also remarkable that we had to ask three times for some milk to go with our beverages. When milk did come it came three times. There seemed to be rather a lot of chiefs and too few injuns.

A few days later I happened to be in London and realised that if we did not eat there It would be rather too late to eat when we got back to Brighton. We dived into Chez Gerrard at Victoria where once more we were met by a bevvy of serious looking meeters and greeters. This time an utterly charmless guy in a tired suit asked us what we wanted. “ We would like to eat,” we cried. “One moment sirs, I will see what I can do.”

The place was half empty with immaculate tables laid with linen and the like. He eventually returned and led us to a distant corner where a bare table was surrounded by two chairs and a small sofa. Mr L, with whom I was dining, took a seat and I went for the sofa. I lowered myself gingerly down and, as I expected, it was ridiculously low, even for a man of my height. We stood up and went back to the front. “Can we please have a proper table at which dining will be possible?”

A second and far nicer lady took us through to a cramped table in a busy corner where we had trouble getting in without removing the napery from the adjacent tables. From there on the service was better and the food not bad either.

A week earlier I went to Fortnum and Mason for tea, oysters and champagne actually, all very good. There a maitre d’ made sure that we had the best table possible, the best service and a throughly good time. I tipped handsomely. It’s easy to see why they boast so many royal warrants. Fortnums is a pearl and if it’s good enough for that queen then it’s certainly good enough for this one.

Andrew Kay discovers that where there is a will there’s a way

In recent weeks my brother and I have been thrown into slight panic by the parents. Sturdy beasts they were – until the last few years – when niggling ailments leave them frustrated and vulnerable. Dad, a skilled master stonemason, a committed yoga enthusiast and now retired yoga teacher, and a serious cyclist still at 74 years old, has, since retirement, endured the indignity of two hip replacements and a multiple by-pass. A non-smoker and very occasional drinker with an obsession with fitness it just doesn’t seem fair. Mum has wobbliness, no firm reason but she tumbles over rather a lot and hurts herself. I can cry at the injustice of this and sometimes I do, as if rampant ageism were not enough, to work all you life only to retire and become sick seems like the final indignity.

“As if rampant ageism were not enough, to retire and become sick seems like the final indignity.”

Of course, we now face the issue of increasing infirmity and dependence. Can they cope? What can we do? Given that the pair of them are stubborn old mules it’s not easy. Mum insisted that Dad walks with a stick but resolutely refuses to do so herself. “There’s nothing wrong with me love,” she cries, when clearly there is.

This week Dad spent an hour on the phone berating the local cleansing department about the fact they they have to walk their waste and recycling a good 100 metres from their front door to a communal collection point. In the end, the man on the other end put a note in the file to authorise an assisted pick up. Quite right too as they both have disabilities. “Well done!” I cried. “Yes, I’ve just wheeled it all round the front for the last time I hope.” I pointed out that he should have not done that as they would no doubt report back that, despite the note, the residents of the cottage are clearly quite capable of delivering the rubbish to a common pick up point in order to make the official cleansing operatives’ lives easier. He could not see the point.

Discussions of this kind are always difficult so imagine the horrors of broaching the subject of wills and ‘arrangements’. It’s not easy, I know because I had my will properly written and that was painful enough.

“We have nothing to leave in a will.” they insist. It’s not that simple. We want to know what they want and not what they have got. Without clear instructions and guides what do you do?

I suppose we could send Mum off to ‘I Can’t Help Falling (In Love With You)’ and Dad to a rousing chorus of ‘Rock Of Ages’. I plan to show them this in the hope that it might jolt them into action. Feel free to do the same if you are in a similar position.