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2009 – Issue Seventeen – London


WWW.DRINKAWARE.CO.UK 42 BELOW and the 42 BELOW bottle design are trademarks and/or registered trademarks.


The Introduction Back in the day, long before Marlboro Lights, skunk-puffing adolescents and nicotine patches, it was believed that smoking a pipe encouraged thoughtful meditation. This 19th century assumption apparently gave birth to the catchphrase, ‘put that in your pipe and smoke it’. The saying stems from a more genteel era, when we had the time and desire for a tipple in the drawing room to ponder moral dilemmas. Today, when people state their case, they rarely ask you to consider their argument and its complexities. Until now, that is. In this issue, we asked our contributors to deliver a line of reasoning on a topic of their choice. The joy of the printed page is that it offers us an opportunity to withdraw into the wood-panelled confines of the mind. So, whether you’re on the bus, lounging in the Martini Bar or sat in a deckchair, this magazine is your paper pipe; go ahead and smoke it. To shake up the old order, Joanna Dudderidge has been taking photos of creatives in the place they choose to ‘let their hair down’. In this issue we present a jazz singer, video director and an actress. Clayton Littlewood’s Soho-based blogs led to a book deal, dinner with Elton John and an international fan base. In an exclusive commission, he takes on an old Hospital Club adversary, Sebastian Horsley. Sian Meades tackles the thorny world of womens’ publishing and Gareth McLean scoffs at the delicate egos which pepper the television industry. A pipe can lead to inspiration, chest infections and, potentially, psychotic episode, as one may understand after reading a confessional from Stewart Who? Billie Ray Martin was the soul stirring voice behind Electribe 101 and enjoyed an international solo hit with ‘Your Loving Arms’. She has a unique perspective on why the music industry is flailing in the winds of change. Phil Willmott considers the battle between online reviewers and the old masters of print and Glenda May Richards is a literary inspiration to others… with the hangover to prove it. In the last issue, you may have read about the Creatives in Residence scheme. This month, you can see the fruits of their labours at the showcase presentation on April 23rd. Live music fans are in for a treat when the Acoustic Night returns on May 13th and there’ll be disco fever and glitter at Studio 24 on May 16th. In the words of Mickey Mouse, ‘Put that in your smoke and pipe it’.






Where I Let My Hair Down

22 My Friends Are In Publishing, I’m In The Pub

The Horsley Riposte

24 The Hospital Club Happenings

Illustration: Camille Bozzini

26 Where I Let My Hair Down

Joanna Dudderidge photographs the techno-jazz queen

The Dirty White Boy Diarist meets the Crucified Dandy

She doesn’t like audio books but is great at embroidery

The parties, the laughter and the high life.

Joanna Dudderidge photographs an illuminated director

27 Papilionidea

10 A Bit of Snark & Glamour

Glenda May Richards is unpleasantly drunk on the success of others

Sian Meades ponders the disappearance of sisterhood

Simon Burrill spends time in a psychiatric unit

12 Room For Review

The Guardian’s Gareth McClean tells it like it is




A cautionary urban tale from Stewart Who?

29 Members Film and Events Highlight

17 Where I Let My Hair Down


Joanna Dudderidge photographs a bathing actress

The Value Of Nothing

32 Speed Dates

Billie Ray Martin takes on the music industry

Where to be and when.

33 Concise Calendar

20 Who’s Coming To Your Press Night

The best of The Hospital Club. Check out the website for full synopsis

Phil Willmott looks at the theatrical struggle between print and online

A concise list of screenings and events.

Glenda May Richards

Duncan Cargill

Joanna Dudderidge Stewart Who?

Simon Burrill Nik Mackey

Sian Meades Phil Willmott

Camille Bozzini Billie Ray Martin

Gareth McLean

Clayton Littlewood



Stewart Who? Creative Director:

Duncan Cargill Editorial team:

Fabia Palliser, Oliver Morton Sub Editor:

Suzanne Clode, Dan Thorne Art Direction, Design and Artwork: 01737 558 990

© The Hospital Group Ltd 2008. The copyright and contents of this publication are owned by The Hospital Group and no unauthorized copies of the whole or part may be made without express permission of The Hospital Group Ltd.



S-J, Jazz singer, Battersea Park S-J worked in dance music for 10 years as a singer, writer and producer. Now the statuesque blonde is known on the jazz scene for her unique approach to standards and pop. She can be seen letting her hair down in Battersea Park while walking her dog Chops‌even after heavy sessions in the studio or a night on the town.

Photographer: Joanna Dudderidge

07813 892744

Graduate of The Hospital Club Mentoring Programme 2007


By Clayton Littlewood

The Horsley Riposte Meard Street, Soho. I ring the doorbell. A window opens on the first floor. A head pops out. Sebastian. Sebastian Horsley.

cont... 5

‘Hello Romeo, Juliet here,’ he smiles. ‘Welcome to Horsley Towers. Hold on I’ll buzz you in.’

you been? I haven’t seen you for ages.’ ‘Oh I’ve been miserable of late my darling,’ he says, pulling a face. ‘More than usual. Sleep is good, death is better; but the best thing would be never to have been born at all.’

The door opens and seconds later he’s greeting me at the door, dressed in his usual attire - an Edwardian velvet suit, a bright red waistcoat and a tie with a knot the size of a baby’s head.

‘That bad?’ ‘Come in my dear. Come in. Make yourself at home while I make some tea.’

‘Life is traveling downhill in a car with no lights at terrific speed and driven by a four year old child. Oh well, if you can’t repair your brakes, make your horn louder I say.’

Sebastian’s flat has a Victorian feel to it. Wooden floors, a little builtin red velvet seat by the window, an original fireplace. Just above the fireplace is a display case lined with human skulls and underneath, a row of antique syringes.

‘Well maybe this will cheer you up…’’ ‘They say that laughter is the best medicine.’

‘Milk and sugar my dear!’ Sebastian calls from the kitchen.

‘It’s true.’

‘Yes please. Both.’

‘Well if that’s the case why is everyone dying of cancer?’

I carry on looking round. At the walls, plastered with press cuttings, quotes, photos of his crucifixion. At the huge, half-completed painting of a sunflower. I’m still looking around when Sebastian walks back in.

‘Err…I’m writing an article for The Hospital Club-’ ‘Those bunch of cunts!’ ‘You know the-’ ‘Oh yes, I know The Hospital Club and they are the stench billowing out from a pile of shit, the worm from a gorilla’s anus. I hate them!’

‘Here you go my darling,’ he says, handing me my drink. ‘Oh thank you.’ I sit by the window and take a sip. ‘So, how’ve


‘Why? ‘Look at this.’ He beckons me over to his laptop and the comments on his webpage. ‘Look what they wrote about my book.’ I’m sitting here in the book club at The Hospital where we have been discussing Dandy of The Underworld. Our verdict: Nobody has finished the book. All of us are leaving our copies here so we don’t have to bother carrying them home. Except me - I left it at home because I couldn’t be bothered bringing it in. It’s also the only book that has prompted us to get online, seek out the author and sledge him.. He points at the comment below. ‘Here’s what I wrote back…’   Dear the Hospital Book Club Group,   I am delighted you got as much misery reading my book as I got pleasure spending the money you paid me for it.   Suck My Nazi Cock. Then he shuts the laptop down and takes a seat on a red velvet upholstered throne. ‘Didn’t they realize? Most writers’ works are water. I know everybody drinks water. But ‘Dandy’ is not for reading. It is for injecting.’

‘It’s true. Your book is the most honest book I’ve ever read.’ He smiles. ‘Darling we need to move to America. We’ll never be respected here. Success in England inspires only envy. In America, hope. It is because life for the Americans is always becoming, never being. It is because they are unafraid of being positive. Poor old England. Sometimes negativity don’t pull you through.’ ‘But you’ve had some great press over here,’ I remind him. ‘Yes. Well. I’ll soon be tumbling back into that arctic abyss from whence I came. Tossed aside like a used condom. Oh well, it is better to live one day as a tiger than a hundred years as a sheep. What about one day as a sheep?’ He brushes his trousers with a camp flick of the wrist. ‘Actually, my darling, I was thinking about committing suicide. Take a look at this. It’s my suicide note.’ He reaches towards his writing desk and hands me a piece of paper. “I am committing suicide today on my 90th birthday. You see my darlings, I am rather worried about my future.” I laugh and put the note back down. ‘Oh don’t go! I’ll miss you,’ and I walk back to the window seat, looking outside onto the street below. ‘I miss everything

about Soho.’

the writing table. ‘There are many people who write but have no real need too. Cocteau says, ‘The muse ushers the artist into the empty room and points silently at the tightrope.’ Wilde says, ‘Well, the way of paradox is the way of truth. To test reality we must see it on the tightrope.’

‘But my darling, you haven’t really gone,’ Sebastian says reassuringly. ‘And Soho hasn’t really left you. You would not have sought it unless you had already found it.’ I turn round. ‘What do you mean?’

My head’s swimming now, but delightfully so, Sebastian being one of the few people who has this affect on me. He sits down again and continues.

‘Your book my dear. You looked into all Soho’s mirrors and saw yourself. You drew nothing from them that was not already within yourself. And it all helped explain you to Clayton.’

‘There is a line in my book, ‘Perhaps friendship should be limited to a very few - the fountain plays higher by the aperture being diminished.’ And I guess you could see art like that. There are only a few of us aren’t there? But this is OK. I don’t think we should feed back to the public its own ignorance and cheap tastes. If one has a heart, one cannot write or paint for the masses. The masses are asses.’ He takes another drag of his cigarette then puts it out in one quick defiant gesture. ‘The Hospital Club indeed! Tell them they can ‘put it in their pipe and smoke it!’

I look at him, concentrating on what he’s saying. ‘You see my dear, the artist tries to make himself whole through his work. Beethoven was deaf, Byron lame, Keats consumptive and the Guns’n’Roses singer is mad. It is a fair exchange. New roses for neuroses.’ He stands up and reaches for a cigarette. ‘Art is for the few and the higher the art, of course, the fewer the few. And the highest art of all is for one.’ ‘I’m not sure I understand…’ He pauses to light the cigarette and takes a drag. ‘…What I mean is that a real artist creates for no other purpose than to please himself. Those who create because they want to please others and have audiences in mind are not artists.’ He taps the ash onto a plate on



Illustration: Camille Bozzini

Camille is a French girl who landed in Camberwell almost 10 years ago. She went on to do a graphics and illustration degree at Central Saint Martins. After a year of mindnumbing retail jobs during the day and freelance design at night, she got a job at a tiny ad agency. The agency grew and grew and made its way to the top of various lists. She stayed there until the end of last year when she thought that it was time to go and see the world. She drove from New-York to Vegas in a wiggly line and came back to a creditcrunched London. Since then, she’s been working as a freelance designer and illustrator for clients ranging from construction companies in New Zealand to French theatres.


a bit of




By Sian Meades

“No! You’re not really fat!” Screams the headline across the front page of this month’s Glamour magazine. Er... thank you for that. I think. I haven’t even opened the magazine and already I’m cringing. Why is a magazine, with a bunch of writers who have never met me, deciding what I look like and what I should wear? They’re right. I’m not fat. But reading a headline like this made me think I might be. Well done, Glamour.


media. There are more of them being crammed onto the shelves, and they’re getting cheaper and cheaper (and more full of shitty perfume adverts as a result). As most of them are monthly, they haven’t really grasped the online version quite as well as other publications. They’re being left behind by daily online content. Monthly magazines don’t translate well into daily news feeds. Traditional print publishing companies just don’t put as much effort into their online content as they do the print titles. It seems that tomes like Cosmopolitan and Vogue, which ruled the last two decades, are getting lost. And women are losing interest in them.

his falls in line with the exhibition at the Women’s Library in Whitechapel, ‘Between The Covers’. An exhibition charting women’s magazines throughout the ages. Everything from the rags in the suffragette movement to the 1800s is covered (if you’ll excuse the pun). But what about the effect these magazines have now? Do we really need women’s magazines anymore? Surely we’re beyond doing “what kind of spender are you?” quizzes? The fact is, I already know I spend too much money on crap I don’t need (usually the crap featured in these magazines). I know how to relieve menstrual cramps, thank you very much. And I know that I’ll feel a whole load better if I have porridge for breakfast instead of a latte. But here’s the thing. I DON’T CARE. Really. I like my morning latte! Reading a magazine isn’t going to improve me. I like that new purse I bought that I don’t need! The one that you featured before telling me I was spending too much money!

I don’t have time to read a 150 page magazine from cover to cover anymore. Even if it does fit into my handbag, it doesn’t fit into my life. And I’m not sure what these magazines are trying to say anymore. When I was younger, they were pretty aspirational. Cosmopolitan was empowering back then (if a tad relentless with its “strong woman” message). Now, they just seem dated. They’re being surpassed by websites such as Jezebel and Perez Hilton. The

Traditional women’s magazines are quickly losing their place in the


National Magazine Company’s doesn’t really measure up, does it? Unfortunately, these websites are so extreme, seemingly to get away from the image and reputation that these print publications have, that they are actually damaging to women’s magazines and their position in the media. Only a few months ago, two of Jezebel’s key writers went on TV, pissed beyond belief and said that date rape was a woman’s fault. The sites are full of so much snark and bitterness. That’s something that women really don’t need any more of. The role these magazines have is changing, but whilst the larger names can’t quite grasp the online opportunities in front of them, they’re being pushed out by tacky online publications that patronise women. But despite what the people behind these snarky publications seem to think, we’re not stupid. The phase of this extreme online trash will pass. By that time, hopefully the publishing companies will have caught up to the online media boom that they, for some reason, seem oblivious to.

It is not, in the grand scheme of things, a hard-knock life being a TV critic. Certainly nowhere near as onerous as being a ginger orphan in Depression-era America - but it does have its downsides. Along with an overfamiliarity with the work of Julie Graham and developing an unwanted expertise in freaky eating habits, being accosted at shindigs by irate individuals who have been on the receiving end of a negative review is something of an occupational hazard.


By Gareth McLean


hile not up there with asbestosis or phossy mouth, having a finger jabbed in your face by someone emboldened by two-toomany glasses of warm sauv blanc can be a pain - especially when you're desperately trying to get the attention of the waiters who, for reasons known only to themselves, are working the room as though you were in the middle of a canape exclusion zone. But to complain about such circumstances is churlish indeed. After all, I pass judgement on others' endeavours and if you can't take it, don't dish it out. Actually, as I enjoy what Mrs Merton would call a heated debate, I really rather revel in such moments. Perhaps naively, I used to marvel that people took my opinion seriously - it's just my opinion, after all - but I now appreciate that, as I write for The Guardian and have done so for eight years now, it may carry some importance. Mostly, negative reviews are taken in the spirit that they're meant - as constructive criticism. Sometimes, mostly because it's fun and the temptation is too great to resist, I'm just plain mean. In a few lines, I might dismiss a programme that someone has worked on for months, maybe years. So who can blame said

someone for being sufficiently aggrieved or upset that they should take issue with me?

All credit to Corden for his climbdown but what really struck me was how he honed in on a negative review when his and Ruth Jones's comedy was being garlanded with so many positive ones. Countless others hailed ‘Gavin and Stacey’ as wonderful. It has a large fan base and won a Bafta. It landed a transfer from BBC3 to BBC1. And yet my less-than-glowing critique rankled. Sensitive, much?

But there are those who get incommensurately indignant. Consider James Corden. At last year's Broadcasting Press Guild Awards, ‘Gavin and Stacey’ won best comedy  and, in his acceptance speech, Corden thanked the critics who voted for the awards. All except me. (That I wasn't at the time a member of the BPG and wasn't at the awards need not detain us here.) "Any Gareth McLean fans here?" Corden said. Silence was the loud reply to which Corden responded "He's a fucking twat." Much as I was slightly mortified that the ladies of ‘Cranford’, who were also present, should hear me described thus, I didn't really mind Corden's comment. I thought ‘Gavin and Stacey’ was twee, predictable, unsophisticated and overrated, and that Corden should take my opinion so seriously is a compliment of sorts. In a subsequent interview with Heat - yes, this story gets stranger still - Corden was asked about his outburst. He said: "He [me] doesn't like ‘Gavin and Stacey’ and then I said something I shouldn't have said... I've got to learn to keep my mouth shut."


soothe - which is to say, only as much as you let them. But how strange to take such offence at dissent. Do such people imagine that they are entitled to universal acclaim? Is anything other than total adoration intolerable? It certainly seems that way.

Corden is by no means alone in this almost-allergy to criticism. Another successful, much-loved and very rich writer/performer hates my guts on account of unflattering reviews I've given him. A well-known actress once wrote to the Guardian to complain that I was being mean about her when I simply suggested that she was going a long way on a little talent. And recently, I had a runin on radio with the writer of a successful drama that I didn't rate. So incensed was he that I didn't like his show, he announced that it wasn't for Guardian cultural commentators and proclaimed that "I get paid a lot of money to write it". So it must be good then.

But here's the thing; if you cannot entertain the possibility that someone may not like your work or appreciate what you imagine to be your self-evident genius, do not produce work that is open to review. If you have an ego like a great glass Zeppelin, do not fly it in public. It is a privilege, not a right, to have the opportunity to have your drama, comedy or whatever on telly. If you can't countenance criticism, don't read reviews. If you do, take the rough with the smooth. I, for one, am not a charity worker. (If I were, it would be in aid of donkeys or old people). To those to whom I have given negative reviews, by all means accost me at a party but don't expect me to backtrack or bow down. You're lucky to be in the position of having your work made and seen and responded to.

These individuals are no more obliged to graciously take my criticism, or any criticism, than I am to sing the praises of their efforts. Bad reviews may sting but only as much as good reviews may

If you think that negative reviews make you a martyr, I say this: get off the cross, we need the wood. Deal with it. Suck it up. Dry your eyes. Or, as we say in Scotland, ‘poke it up your hoop’.



Illustr Nik M ackey ww right.

The first time I met Shane Kelly was in ’88 at Spectrum, Paul Oakenfold’s seminal Monday night rave at Heaven. He tried to sell me pills, but who’d buy drugs from a Scouser with a ponytail? Not me…and I told him so. After laughing raucously, he gave me a pill on the house and melted into the lasers and strobes.


ast forward six months. I’m at The Lisbon in Liverpool, a week after arriving in the city to do a degree. Suddenly, the crowd parted, a frisson rippled through the drinkers and emerging like Moses from the whispering throng, was Shane Kelly. We chatted, he flirted, then he got into an argument and left. Following this departure, a retinue of queens took turns to enlighten yours truly. He beats his boyfriends, sometimes to death. He’s the biggest drug dealer in the north west of England. The Kelly family are notorious murderers/gangsters/armed robbers. Don’t ever speak to him again. He’s been in prison three times. Blah, blah, blah. Even when overlooking his scarred but handsome features, wicked charm and impressive physique, one had to admit he sounded interesting, no? Unfortunately, the Gay Mersey Chorus were right. His family were infamous. In an attempt to compensate for his sexuality, Shane had established himself as the most violent of five brothers. With more to prove and nothing to lose, even his decidedly psychotic

family were scared of him. Despite the reputation, Shane displayed old school manners. On several occasions, he’d ask me to leave a venue and wait in the car, prior to committing some gut wrenching carnage. He knew I didn’t approve, you see. On one occasion, a shower of glass, bone, beer and blood sprayed on my back as I hurried from a nightclub called the Coconut Grove. Before the incident, we’d been having a quiet drink in the half empty club when he turned and said, ‘It’s gonna kick off. Walk to the car and don’t look back.’

efficiency. ‘What’s that?’ I asked. ‘Crack,’ he squeaked, as a cloud of white smoke unfurled from his chapped lips. Fairy lights warmed the room with a rainbow glow, Lisa Stansfield oozed from the stereo and a man was smoking crack on my sofa. It didn’t feel like a bleak government funded film, nor was it particularly exciting. As Shane fired up another rock, I found myself asking, ‘Can I have some?’ He stood up slowly, grabbed my face with one hand and fixed me with his dilated pupils. ‘You can ‘ave soom, Stewit, but, if you eva ask me for it again, or I hear you’ve done it with someone else, I’ll bash your fookin’ brains in.’

You never had a dull night with Shane. One night before Christmas, he rocked up unannounced. His shellsuit was damp with sweat and he demanded a beer. After popping it open, he poured the contents down the sink. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. ‘Making a pipe,’ he snapped. ‘But you don’t smoke,’ I said, tentatively. ‘Get me a fucking pin, Dickhead.’ He stabbed holes into the empty can, produced a lighter and fired up a greyish crystal with smooth

Always looking after my best interests, that Shane. So, what was it like? Well, there was no big epiphany. No brain-frying rush. Perhaps it was the taste of the aluminium beer can, or maybe the crack itself, but the whole experience felt very chemical, harsh and modern. So, I did some more, you know, just to confirm it wasn’t that great and to ascertain the taste, like an amphetamine gourmand.

As the second cloud of crack smoke hurtled into my lungs, I heard a key in the door. My flatmate. Adam was a rugbyplaying electrical engineer, but he liked to party. ‘What are you boys doing?’ he asked. ‘Smoking crack,’ I said. Adam sniggered, put down his kit, greeted Shane and asked, ‘Can I have a toot?’ And then there were three. Eventually, Shane left as he had some ‘business’ to do and quite frankly, we’d smoked all his rocks. Adam skinned up a succession of joints, put Massive Attack’s Blue Lines on the stereo and gibbered away in his husky Brummie accent. At about 2am, after clocking we had lectures in the morning, our bedrooms beckoned. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my entire body taut with chemical tension, a strange emotion crept over mebitter fury. If Adam hadn’t come home when he did, there would have been a bit more crack for me. In fact, he really sucked that shit down. Greedy, thieving skank. Should I speak to him about it? I’ll wake him up. That’s if he is asleep. After all



that crack, MY crack, he’s probably really buzzing. Cunt. Somehow, I resisted the temptation to kick down Adam’s door and stamp on his head. Once the appeal of such actions had subsided and my usual demeanour returned, I suddenly understood crack cocaine and all the associated social problems. Mild experimentation had rendered GBH almost irresistible. That’s quite a personality change. No wonder crackheads rob their mothers, and then punch them, I thought. I worried what my dead mother might think of me. For brevity’s sake, my post-crack account isn’t as detailed as it might be, but rest assured, I wrestled with my conscience in a barbed wire boxing ring ‘til day break. Considering the short and unremarkable high, it was followed by an intense and exhausting trip to hell. As part of my drama degree coursework, we were required to create a Theatre In Education project. See! It wasn’t all crack smoke and psychopaths. This project involved using drama to convey a social message to a group of people who wouldn’t normally have access to theatre. We scrapped the idea of a child abuse musical for pupils at Pleasant Street Primary School and thought better of an ‘Anger Management Dance Workshop’ for the inmates of Walton Prison. Instead, we plumped for a ‘Drugs Awareness Improvisation’ with patrons of a Speke youth club. This was rather cavalier to say the least. When

we arrived at the single storey community centre in the middle of a seemingly endless housing estate, the local children threw bricks, bottles and a shopping trolley at our car. ‘Bet they don’t get this at RADA,’ I muttered, running across the car park, like a soldier in a war zone.

went some way to explaining the behaviour of their siblings and parents. They’d never heard a first hand account of drug use, with all the ugly details. As the children of addicts, they’d only heard rumours, slurred words, silence and lies. For a couple of hours we bonded. It had never occurred to any of them that a kid from a council estate might end up doing a degree. ‘Look where it’s got me,’ I said, indicating the grubby room. ‘Right back where I came from.’

Surprisingly, the shell-suited children refused to embrace our vocal warm-up exercises. They didn’t really fancy our ‘dancearama’ class either. These kids had never met students before, let alone drama undergraduates - they didn’t want to learn about Brecht. They hated us. After about an hour’s stand off, they started to engage and we had a frank discussion about drugs. Aged from eight to fifteen, they’d tried most substances already and most had parents or elder siblings who were seriously addicted to crack, heroin or both. They fell silent with respect, fascination and awe when told of my night on the pipe. Like children and a bedtime story, they hung on every grim word. Were it screened on CBBC, they could call it ‘Crackanory’.

They laughed, but they got it. There is a way out. You can escape your roots…and crack ain’t the way to do it. It wasn’t an easy sell, but eventually, they put that in their pipes and smoked it. In case you’re wondering, my drama troop all scored first class marks for our T.I.E. project. The Speke Youth Group Facilitator, who’d proved useless when the kids were bricking our car, lavished us with praise and admitted he hadn’t harboured much hope for our project. And Shane? Well, we fell out when he pulled a gun on a friend, after using my student pass to access the university halls of residence. My last words to him were, ‘Shoot who you like, matey, but not with my ID.’

Okay, so it would be outrageous to claim that the tale of my dalliance with a gangster’s crack pipe saved them from a life of drug riddled misery, but it did have some impact. Like yours truly, they were shocked at how devastating the withdrawal proved. They asked heaps of questions and stopped ridiculing my accent. You wanted to hit your best friend? In his bed? After a couple of smokes? For a few of them, my pipe parable

He took my advice and is currently doing time for armed robbery and aggravated assault.

By Stewart Who?



Antonia Campbell Hughes, actress The Covent Garden Hotel Antonia likes to come here to let her hair down when she’s not working. Photographer: Joanna Dudderidge

07813 892744

Graduate of The Hospital Club Mentoring Programme 2007





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g n i h t no

hen I read the countless articles on illegal downloading in mags like Music Week, they never discuss why people feel music isn’t worth buying. They omit the most important point: record companies failed to nurture songwriters, acts, bands and talent. Instead, they churned out bad songs and predictable production in pursuit of short term gain. They demanded immature talent deliver nothing but ‘finished product’. This left the buying public with sub-standard albums and singles. Disillusioned, this arena created a resistance to purchasing releases boasting a maximum of one or two good tracks. Production standards also sank further, resulting in the trash brigade’s rebellion against industry standards. One could argue that at least it has sparked a whole new direction in music making. The question in my mind should never have been “how can we stop people from stealing”; but “when did we stop giving them something they would want to buy?” Thus raising the issue of the true value of music, which had long deteriorated to a point of no return.

The difference between copying a cassette of your favourite Depeche Mode album in the 80’s and the current trend for sharing files is not only the speed at which music can be shared, but also the fact that cassettes still contained music that ultimately was of desirable quality. This often resulted in the purchase of any given album after you had trashed the cassette and were left with

that really: ‘we are great and in this quarter we have sold this many albums’ etc. It’s a sad state of affairs which independent labels have done nothing to improve. Indies are mostly stuck in an insular world of sounds beyond which they do not venture.

tape-salad. We are a long way away from sitting on cushions on the floors of Virgin Records checking out the latest sounds and are now clicking: “download” whilst making a cuppa in the kitchen. Should we mourn times lost? I don’t think so. It’s just different.

When I first started downloading music a few years ago, before my DJ career took off, I grabbed a few files from free downloading sites and it felt weird. I had something on my desktop that to me, had no value and often I would delete the files after a few listens. Now I download a lot of tracks weekly from my chosen shops and pay my bills. I don’t DJ using mp3s, so I buy the more expensive WAV files and feel I have something that has value to me.

The demise of A&R, i.e. spotting and developing talent and the death of ‘management’ in the classical sense, taking the role of nurturer and developer where A&R had often failed, has left artists to their own devices, without outside guidance. What these devices are, no one is yet sure of. Will artists still pursue the ever-elusive and virtually nonexistent record deal, or go down the route of finding their own means of distributing their music more or less directly to the public? Which is the best route?

I archive my tracks and make sure they’re backed up on external drives so I won’t lose them. The important fact is that something or someone has convinced me that what I now have has value. This convincing was not done by labels or record companies but by the artists who have, in my opinion, created outstanding work that I’m glad to purchase. Labelling the CDs that I burn, I write: name of artist, song, mix. I don’t, however, bother with the name of the label.

Record labels and companies will not even listen to ‘product’ unless it is finished and ready to be released, leaving them in the position of being nothing but distribution administrators, with questionable success. With indie-labels the artist usually doesn’t fare much better, equally stuck in the trap of no money advances, no money later and no muscle or expertise in making it happen.

Here we have the ‘revolutionary’ thing; artists and producers are the ones out there now creating the value, whether they’re distributed by a known company or whether they’ve signed up to a digital download service or by whatever means they’ve managed to get their stuff into my laptop. Value has been created giving me and millions of downloaders the power to decide. Buying and selling music has admittedly become a

Major labels insulted the recordbuying public with their cynical display of worthless product, until their purchasing behaviour finally reflected the disbelief at what was being thrown at them. However, majors still pat themselves on the back when they come across a rare seller like Amy Winehouse. They then publish their stats which claim


business of pennies - people buy single tracks. But the freedom that comes with it is unlimited. Websites like ‘Soundcloud’ that specialise in letting DJ’s and producers share their freshly created music are where the future lies and there’s no telling where it will all lead. But it is exciting and I want to be part of it.

So what should an artist do, go independent and find their own way in the jungle of one-trackwonderworlds out there or maybe still try to get in with a major? A major label will now try and get some of their losses back by nailing artists they deem sign-worthy to so-called 360 degree deals, allowing them to earn money from all ends of the pie; video, merchandising, live touring etc. This forces the artist to decide whether signing away everything he/ she could possibly own for a long period of time is a good thing or not. Does the company have the muscle to sell thousands of units, making this kind of Faustian deal worthwhile? Or is it better to continue alone, selling less but at least getting the revenue generated? These decisions are not easy ones to make. These are “in-between times” at present, where majors haven’t totally disappeared. It’s a bit like the ‘collapse’ of capitalism, which in the end didn’t really happen. There’s no clear direction for the future yet, but the immense power of the Internet in distributing music bears no limits and oh, illegal downloading...who cares? As long as we live in a world where we are supposed to be convinced that Girls Aloud are really quite talented women deserving of awards, it would seem that lessons haven’t been learned and I say: Search and destroy.

In its first week the producers of the teen angst, indie-rock musical Spring Awakening announced they had sold every ticket for the first phase of its off-West End try-out at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith. Nothing odd about that, it’s a great piece and they deserve to do well. But something unusual had happened. Every seat had been sold before any reviews had come out. The bunch of theatre junky social misfits who pronounce nightly judgement on London’s theatre, including myself, didn’t even get a sniff of it. Instead the show had been cleverly marketed using “yoof” friendly websites. We, as critics, were an irrelevance.


o it seems perverse that some leading PR agents have recently decided that amateur internet reviewers, as opposed to those who write professionally for print, should be discouraged from attending press nights by only allocating them single tickets rather then a pair. Predictably the critical establishment has felt unable to offer support for their web-mates in this matter. Little wonder perhaps. The traditional newspaper theatre critics feel increasingly threatened by the internet jackals snapping at their heels. They, unlike the people who allocate press seats, have spotted that newspaper reviews have a dwindling influence on ticket sales for the top shows whilst young audiences are increasingly turning to theatre blogs for recommendations. I’ve been a part-time theatre critic for over ten years now. It began, DHSS officials will be delighted to hear, when they made signing on so difficult that I was forced to figure out some other way to subsidise my erratic income as a fledgling director. Since then I’ve reviewed for the late lamented ‘What’s On’ magazine, BBC London’s local news and website, and currently for the Gay Times magazine and website.

To attend a show as a critic you need to pass the gatekeepers - the PR reps who allocate tickets. You quickly learn where you are in the hierarchy. The most valued critics are automatically invited to the opening press night, whilst there’s a second press night for everyone else. If you’re a blogger, the night you’re invited to depends on the value a particular PR person places on web coverage. Gay Times confuses them, it’s both a print magazine - one of the country’s top selling lifestyle titles - but my reviews can often end up on the website. As a result, one day I can be dealing with a charming, courteous rep and find myself at a champagne first night reception. The next day, I can be pleading for a second or third press night seat from some poor PR assistant who’s been given license to be as rude as possible. The other day I watched a flustered young PR arrive late to distribute tickets for the second press night of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical (the press night for the web critics). In the middle of the foyer she excused her unpunctuality to management by exclaiming loudly and publicly “Don’t worry, there’s no one important in tonight”. She should look at the Spring Awakening sales figures.

The big difference between an internet reviewer and a newspaper critic is that the critic is a paid self-declared expert, whilst Miss Internet, who usually also has a proper job, just tells it like a punter. There’s often a clear disparity between the expert and the amateur review. Take, for example, “actor-musician” shows in West End theatres - musicals that have transferred from regional venues where there’s been no money or space for scenery and where the performers have had to play the musical instruments themselves. Critics love the novelty of seeing big shows presented in this way – real people don’t. Unlike the critics with their free tickets, real people have paid a lot of money and they want to see a full show. A view you’ll see forcibly expressed on the web but seldom read in the paper. Is it any wonder that more and more ticket buyers are influenced by the fresh, honest perspective of the amateur internet critics? I believe we should be making it easier for them to blog intelligently about West End theatre – not harder. But I think the print critics can relax – and some of their Spring Awakening reviews, in which they battled to sound “down with the


kids” were embarrassing - they do still have a role to play. A rave print review can still make a big difference to a fringe show with little marketing budget, so why don’t we ban the pro critics from the West End and send them out to the fringe, where they could actually make an impact promoting new talent. Meanwhile, we could leave reporting on West End shows to the internet bloggers. OK, that’s not going to happen, but there is a serious point to be made here. If West End producers want to take full advantage of the web’s marketing power they need to re-think their attitude to its amateur theatre critics. So what if there’s more and more of them? In the past free seats at otherwise empty previews would be given to ticket agents, hotel concierges and cab drivers – people who could spread the word about a show. A special preview night where the internet scribes (and their plus ones) are not only invited but treated with courtesy and respect could help sell a lot of tickets, as demonstrated by the Spring Awakening sales. With a recession set to discourage spending on Arts and Leisure, the theatre needs all the champions it can get.

By Phil Willmott



By Glenda May Richards

Some of the world’s great drinkers were successful writers – Hemmingway, Dorothy Parker, Charles Bukowski. I’m a great drinker who knows successful writers... who don’t drink. With tee-total friends like these you totally don’t need enemies.


hat are technically called black-outs I’ve always called whiteouts – they always happened when I drank white wine and like the typing correction fluid, they obliterated any sensible thing I had said or done earlier. I decided to blame the wine industry. I became convinced that, since white wine had become such a popular drink with women, heartless grape growers were adding hormones to white wine so it would ferment faster and get distributed to dipsomaniac dolly birds double quick. And these growth hormones react with female hormones to create a volatile combination of tears, tantrums and tyrannic behaviour which I named WWW aka the White Wine Witch. I checked in with a few female friends and they too admitted that white wine made them tipsier faster and prone to hysterical outbursts. One friend in particular was very interested in my theory, so much so that when she wrote her book on how she quit drinking and got a so-called life, she purloined the phrase and ‘www – white wine witch’ became the selling point of her memoirs and popped up in all her press releases and reviews. Grrr… When I saw it repeated in Cosmopolitan and other women’s magazines, I realised that my adroit moniker had entered the social lexicon with no credit to its creator. But what

was I to do? Walk into a bar and demand a free glass of Chablis? ‘Hey buddy, you’re looking at the original White Wine Witch. Now pour.’

the time I smuggled ecstasy into Mallorca, the morning I woke up in Barcelona and said ‘How the fuck did I get here’? Even the story about how I bought a KFC bucket one night, threw it at my husband, and wondered why there were chicken bones all over my Brixton flat in the morning. Shame she didn’t just stick to the international tales – perhaps it was making my life sound, god forbid, interesting as well as amusing.

What I did do was go to her book launch, forked out ten quid to buy the book, then walked up to her and asked her to sign it. ‘And please can you address it to Glenda, the original White Wine Witch?’ I asked sweetly. She looked embarrassed, mumbled something about how it was her publisher who had pushed the phrase in the press and scrawled what I had requested. I felt more benevolent after that, hung around the party (even she had to capitulate to intransigent book launch rules and have free booze) and departed with a tentative promise to “meet up for coffee, it had been years”.

But hey, she had written a book and I hadn’t. As Gore Vidal says, ‘Whenever a friend of mine succeeds, a little something in me dies.’ Gore knew that sinking feeling in your gut when a friend has done something you wish you had. Apparently there is a German word for it – Erfolgtraurigkeit – but don’t ask me to spell it, especially when I’ve had a few.

Then I actually read her book…and understood why it had been years.

To use another German expression, did I feel a twinge of schadenfreude (delight in another’s misfortune) when I heard that shortly after being published my friend had a stroke? Um, a bit, and when she started to milk it for myriad newspaper articles, I realised all is fair in love and words.

I realised the woman with whom I had once, for fun, mixed vodka and Berocca, had been squirreling away tales of my ‘nuttiness’ to enhance her new-found sainthood of sobriety. Now, I don’t mind being referred to as the ‘Zelda Fitzgerald’ of drunks but it’s a bit rich when you are written off as merely a source for people’s party anecdotes and then are used for exactly that throughout a book. All the stories were there….the night I took my trousers off and danced on a table at a bar in Cannes,

Then there was the time I dated a Booker Prize winner. Despite living in France for years, he didn’t drink wine or any other alcohol. We first met at a more minor literary award evening, pre-Booker, where he had


scooped up a not-so-minor amount of three grand for his first book of short stories. He took me out to dinner and I ordered a half-carafe of wine. He had hot chocolate. When the bill came, he split it and then asked if I would pay for my wine, since of course, he hadn’t had any. ‘Where are you going?’ he said as I left the table in a huff. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Well,’ I explained frostily, ‘I’m going to the bank machine. I’m not the one that just won three thousand dollars.’ He looked suitably abashed and agreed he could cover the five buck cost of the carafe. When he sent me a letter saying I should visit him and that, hey, he would pay for my bus ticket, but only if I went on a weekday because of the 10% discount, I realised he was a true cheapskate. All that money he was saving from not drinking, he was obviously not spending on the art of seduction. I mean, Maus, a graphic novel about the Holocaust, is obviously a worthy book but not one to give to a gal you are trying to bed. It was when he offered to buy me lunch at the all-you-can-eat-but-absolutely-nada-to drink Hare Krishna buffet restaurant that I decided, successful writer or not, this boy was not someone I wanted on my bookshelf. About a year later, he won the Booker prize with an odd novel about a shipwrecked boy and tiger. Perhaps tee-totalling is a trigger for your imagination. I’ll never know. All I know that, in the words of the cynical NYC band, Interpol: ‘Friends don’t waste wine when there’s words to sell.’

So many fun and exciting things have been going on at the club over the past few months; from Fashion Week catwalk shows, to live music nights, to all the wonderment that accompanies the monthly Back to Ours. We thought it would be a good idea to show you just how many creative and party pies we have our fingers in‌




Adam Powell, Music Video Director His flat, London Adam Powell is a Music Video Director. He’s recently worked with The King Blues, Jamie T and The Gallows. When he’s not working he likes to let his hair down by hanging out at home in his flat, where he has a great view of London from his window at night. Photographer: Joanna Dudderidge

07813 892744

Graduate of The Hospital Club Mentoring Programme 2007


By Simon Burrill

Creative in Residence Film




Laura looks around...

rotund) wipes down a skirting A CLEANER (41, Mexican, female, board THICK WITH DUST. in a view of the sterile room. She pauses for a moment, taking

Maude chuckles cruelly. Laura gestures ‘what you looking

dotted around, all engaged in A varied group of PATIENTS are different activities. -like) is listening to his Isolated, PETER (24, podgy, child . ched atta er play no with es headphon s lovingly into the eyes of MAUDE (mid-60s, grumpy) gaze

Maude turns her attention back EYES.

crouched in a corner, back to LAURA (27, geeky and gangly) is k to the wall surrounding stuc us. Sheets of white A4 paper are her. doing, but her hand appears to It’s hard to make out what she’s be furiously moving. rving her. Laura turns to see the Cleaner obse als she’s Stepping back a little, Laura reve outline of a FLOWER.


Laura decorates the wings with little

a little drool emanating He smiles sweetly and excitedly, th. mou his of from the corner re, delighted to play the Laura points to the butterfly pictu game with him. to count, as does Peter. Laura closes her eyes and begins

drawn a child-like

s in a ‘make a wish’ pose, and

3... 2...


ppointed. Nothing happened. Laura is disa

Peter is amazed.

seeing a BEAUTIFUL Laura is MADLY EXCITED upon in the room nd arou ing flapp RED BUTTERFLY imate head. The butterfly lands on Ralph’s inan

MAUDE tuts grumpily. Laura notices. a.

Maude pulls a grizzly face at Laur

a, astonished

Maude spots it, then looks to Laur


Laura, noticing, brushes it off... ‘idio


Laura triumphantly GIVES MAU

see Laura scribbling again.

Peter giggles, slightly hysterically

It’s a picture of a car.

window and leaves the The Cleaner - unaware - closes the iding a perfect note. prov tle whis ical mus 50s room, her d. Laura is both thrilled and vindicate

Laura connects eyes with Maude.


Once again, Laura shuts her eyes


TADAAA AAA! They open their eyes

lly, then gets back to work. The Cleaner smiles sympathetica

Gestures Maude to watch. A chal

of the corner of her

Maude cynically sneaks a peek out eye

AAA!’ gesture.

Maude stretches her neck out to


She notices Peter watching.

She shuts her eyes, closes her hand counts (internally) She opens her eyes - a ‘TADAAA


She draws a cute doodle of a BUT



to Ralph’s LIFELESS

Laura returns to her scrawling.

The Cleaner’s intrigued. Excited, Laura motions ‘watch this.


which sounds like a The Cleaner - now whistling a tune a RUSTY WINDOW. nostalgic 50’s musical - cranks open wiping up dust, She moves along the window sill, rest of this scene). the ough (thr continuing her whistle


Cleaner smiles.

, feeling sorry for Laura.

Peter observes this all unfolding


RALPH (60, vegetable, frozen, kind

ld be happening, isn’t.

Disappointment. Whatever shou

and counts...



TADAAA AAA! Opens her eyes... 27



In The Loop Director: Armando Ianucci Cast: Peter Capaldi , Tom Hollander, James Gandolfini, Chris Addison UK / 2009 / 106 min / BBC Films, Optimum Genre: Comedy

Armando Ianucci, the razor sharp satirist behind TV series The Thick Of It, is writer and director of this political black comedy about the inner workings of US and British relations in the build up to war. The spin and inner workings of the political circus are laid bare, together with bucket loads of vitriol, bone dry hilarity, and creative swear words.

The Music Sessions


Creatives in Residence Showcase The new website for the Creatives in Residence programme is almost ready. You’ll be able to see regular updates on the progress of the Residents’ projects, so if you’re interested in getting involved you’ll have a better idea of what’s going on. We’ve had a fantastic response from members and staff who have worked with us so far on shaping the programme and making it happen; CIR is developing organically and is a great support for the residents. Look out for the website launch in April.



Members’ Events Highlights

For those of you that loved last year’s music sessions in our studio, you’ll be pleased to hear there’s more on the way. We’re partnering up with our friends at the Mercury Prize to bring you some of the most essential and unique music that the UK has to offer. The Sessions will be a great opportunity to catch some of the most promising upcoming music talents live. In last year’s live sessions we had everyone from Martha Wainwright and The Zutons, to Elbow and Stereophonics playing live in the studio. There’ll be an announcement soon about who are kicking things off in April, so keep an eye on the website.

highli 24

Ethical Fashion Forum Swishing Event

Swishing? Yes, this is the new fashion buzzword of the times. Bring a fabulous item of clothing that you can barely be parted from; something you’d be proud to hand on to the new lucky owner. Then, consult the Ethical Fashion Forum Innovation designers (who will also be profiling their latest designs), browse, try on whatever’s on offer. Walk away with something new and gorgeous. Party, have a giggle, play at dressing up.


Back to Ours presents Junk Rubber

Celebrating the world of competition table tennis, The Hospital Club will be staging a tournament. It’s little tennis with a big vision. We invite you to join the Ping Pong league of the future, Junk Rubber. To participate you’ll need to don some terry toweling, polish your moves and form a team of 2 players. Unconventional grips must be preregistered and approved by the HCPPA (Hospital Club Ping Pong Association).

Warm up sessions and heats will prelude the knock out system on the night, however competition will be fierce so we’d advise you to commence well in advance of Back To Ours Junk Rubber. Junk Rubber (definition): In table tennis, junk rubber is an informal phrase used by many players to describe rubber that they find awkward to play against. E.g. “My last opponent was using junk rubber on his backhand.”


16 Director: Jody Hill Cast: Seth Rogen, Anna Faris, Ray Liotta USA / 2009 / 106 min / Warner Genre: Comedy

Ronnie the mall security guard has a rather unsavoury problem on his hands. A flasher is on the prowl and is on a seemingly unstoppable rampage of vulgarity. It’s time to step up and clamp down on this filthy bounder, hopefully beating the local police to it and fulfilling delusions of grandeur. As Ronnie puts it, “I have been chosen… to be the protector”.


80’s Night

Be sure to take this down in your file-o-fax; a celebration of that decade of yuppies, shoulder pads and cool synthesisers. We’ll be picking the best of the great tracks from the time. Deck yourself in terrifying colours, coiffure your hair into something truly ghastly, revisit the 1980’s and leave your inhibitions at the door.



Halston, Gucci, Fiorucci. So said Sister Sledge in their Chic-produced hit, ‘He’s the Greatest Dancer’. People fought to get into Steve Rubell’s infamous Manhattan club and before long they’ll be clamouring to gain entry to Studio 24, the Covent Garden portal to disco insanity. Expect groovy funk, high NRG, stomping soul and classic disco. Delving into his big eclectic collection will be DJ Stewart Who? Be decadent. Be dazzling. Be disco, darling.

high 13

Observe and Report

Image courtesy of


Studio 24

Faber Academy at The Hospital Club Following the successful launch of the Faber Academy at the club in March, we at The Hospital Club are happy to announce the first in a series of specially designed members’ writing courses. The courses, focused on fiction writing, will be delivered by published authors associated with Faber and Faber. As an intensive 3-day workshop, the course will consist of both practical advice and exercises, so that all you aspiring writers can develop and hone your skills.


Acoustic Night


Following the success of our last acoustic night with cheeky upstarts Stereo Decade we’ll be profiling another up-and-coming band for your delectation. Check the Social Network for more details in the very near future.

Star Trek Director: Cast: Chris Pine, Zachary Quinto, Karl Urban, Simon Pegg USA / 2009 / 126 min / Paramount Genre: Sci Fi / Action / Adventure

Prequels, franchise re-boots, repackaged for a new generation, it’s all the rage now. Young rebel Jim Kirk needs reigning in, he’s a space-ship crashing rebel without a cause. Perhaps that sensible and logical Vulcan lad Spock would make a good yang to his yin. Promises to be not just for those hardcore Trekkies who have intimate knowledge of the Klingon phrase book (we hope).


Cabaret For those who look at the cereal variety pack of life and want it all, Cabaret comes to The Hospital Club. Entertainment is the name of the game. Song, dance, drama, hilarity. All flamboyant human life is here. Further details to be announced.


Cocktail Competition & Drinks Tasting


Members’ Events Highlights

A new twist to Drinks Tasting evenings: the chance to learn and taste your way through the intricacies of our featured spirit, Bacardi Superior Rum. Create your own cocktail and present it to the discerning palates of our mixologist panel. Get the flavours right and you could also win a bottle of the tipple all to yourself. This is a monthly event, so if you miss out there will be plenty more to book into.

hlights The Last Thakur Director: Sadik Ahmed

Cast: Tariq Anam, Rubel Ahmed, Jayanto Chattopadyahay UK / 2009 / 81 min / Artificial Eye Genre: Action / Drama

A lone gunman comes to a Bangladeshi town intent on vengeance and intent on discovering family secrets of his unknown past. Along the way he gets involved in the rivalry between two leaders and the tension builds around a bitter, long-standing feud. Searching for the man responsible for his mother’s death, the stranger may get more than he bargained for.



Director: Matt Aselton

Cast: John Goodman, Paul Dano, Zooey Deschanel USA / 2009 / 98 min / First Independant Genre: Comedy / Romance

Brian the mattress salesman is trying to adopt a baby girl from China. Then he meets a quirky (and rather wealthy) young lady called Happy who makes a big impact in his life. Her dad however, being the overprotective type, has other plans which may or may not have something to do with a hit man; a premise that is likely to disrupt the situation.


Year One Director: Harold Ramis Cast: Jack Black, Michael Cera USA / 2009 / 90 min / Universal Genre: Adventure / Comedy

The Year: One. Slackers Zed and Oh are banished from their tribal village and set out on a journey across a biblical land in a Life Of Brian style comedy romp. They get into some scrapes with Kane and Abel, encounter Adam and Eve, and wander into the city of Sodom. All the fun of the ancient world, without the need for boring historical accuracy.





2 - 26 Spill: Festival Of Performance

13 -24 May Cannes Film Festival

11 D&AD Awards

Live art! Experimental theatre! Footless tights and spittle! Soak up the vibrant culture- be amazed, bemused, confused. Home grown and international artists will be taking to the boards in an effort to expand your imagination. Sample quote from the programme: “Casting himself as ‘operator’ rather than ‘performer’, Robin Deacon confronts indeterminate fears regarding the passage of time and the process of ageing by presenting a series of actions in strict adherence to a forgotten railway timetable.”

Since 1946 the hems of movie legends have kissed the Cannes red carpet, arguably La Reine of the film festivals. French actor Isabelle Huppert has been named jury president for this year’s Cannes film festival, the fourth woman to head the panel in the event’s six decades. With new flicks from Almodovar, Lars von Trier, Ang Lee and Tarantino, there’s plenty to anticipate. If you don’t have a yacht, helicopter or private jet…surprise people and reflect the current climate by arriving in a shopping trolley.

Since 1962, this has been the definitive awards ceremony for UK creativity, design and advertising. The D&AD Awards recognise everything from environmental design to billboard adverts and animation shorts. Last year, Apple scooped two Black Pencils for the design of the iMac and the iPhone. In case you were wondering, Black Pencils are like the Oscars of the design world.

14 -16 The Great Escape Festival, Brighton

If you like faux 60’s hippy nostalgia, coupled with the comfort of plentiful riot police and friendly sniffer dogs, then you’ll love the Isle of Wight festival. It comes with the added benefit of being able to see the whole festival in one single field. You can douse yourself in cider and let the entertainment parade in front of you, rather than having to don hiking boots for a trek to the Fields of Sacred Healing in time to catch the tail end of Billy Bragg.

18 - 19 Shakespeare’s Birthday Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Or a cloudy day in April? The Globe Theatre celebrates the Bard’s sonnets, first published 400 years ago, with a series of events including guided walks around Tudor London and plenty of interactive activities on Sonnet Sunday. Plus theatre season kicks off on April 23rd.

25 venues across sleepy Brighton host tons of new bands and upcoming talent, with music industry seminars and cheap entry for all. Organised by Barfly, so expect less processed pop and more off key Camden shoe-gazers and nu-rave indie disco freaks. Highlights include the Brighton based Macabees, Texan rockers White Denim and NME Radar Award winners 2009 The Big Pink.

24- 26 Bang Face – The Weekender

If your idea of a fun weekend is day-glo neon, breakneck techno and MDMA-fuelled children of the corn, all housed in a Hi-De-Hi holiday park, then head to the charmingly named Bang Face. It’s been described as “an explosion of acid house, jungle, rave hardcore, drum ’n’ bass, breakcore, dubstep, techno and electronica”. If the very thought of this makes you want to lock all the doors and hide under a warm duvet, avoid Camber Sands in East Sussex at the end of April.

May 23rd – Aug 15th The Cherry Orchard & The Winters Tale Director Sam Mendes returns to stage directing with two productions showing at The Old Vic, Chekhov and Shakespeare respectively. This is all part of The Bridge Project, linking The Old Vic with the Brooklyn Academy of Music. Not literally of course, though a bridge to Brooklyn from London would be very handy for all those who’d rather walk than sit in economy. 21 -31 The Hay Festival

Speed dates

London & International

Less about literature and more about the culture of writing…and probably more fun as a result, this is a Glastonbury for thinkers and drinkers alike. This year’s highlights include David Simon, creator and writer of top TV show The Wire, acerbic comedian Dylan Moran and the wise, bearded and very holy Rowan Williams. National treasure, Alan Bennett, will be reading from his diaries and Tony Curtis will be charming us with his Hollywood anecdotes.


12 - 14 Isle of Wight Music Festival

12 – 14 Download Festival

There’s something for all the family at Download. Well, maybe the Addams family. Those dirty rotten scoundrels Faith No More are making an appearance after an 11 year absence and Slipknot are sure to jolly up proceedings with their creative mask making and growling workshops. If that’s not your cup of Darjeeling, then The Prodigy are sure to get your foot tapping. All together now, “I’m a firestarter, twisted firestarter/You’re the firestarter, twisted firestarter”. 21 - 27 Cannes Lions

Lavish dinners, Krug and luxury suites will be less in evidence this year, but don’t expect sack cloth and Ribena either- this is the ad world’s biggest annual awards competition and trade show after all. Speakers include Barack Obama’s campaign manger David Plouffe, part of a series of talks cunningly titled ‘The Audacity of Successful Brands’. 24 - 28 Glastonbury Festival 2009 Take a coin and call it, heads or tails. Will it be a soaking, sinking muddy year of misery, or will Mr. Sun have his hat on for an incredible weekend of musical delight, dancing with crusties and chemical misadventure? If you haven’t already got your tickets and you don’t have a hand-glider at your disposal, then you won’t be getting in. Unless of course you’re a member of Blur (who are headlining, incidentally), or you design wellies for Kate Moss.

Concise Calendar








50 Dead Men Walking 9pm (SR)



Rob da Bank DJ Set 9pm (ML) The Young Victoria 7pm (SR) The Uninvited 9.30pm (SR)

Race To Witch Mountain 2pm (SR) Tony Manero 7pm (SR)






In The Loop 8.30pm (SR) Writing Salon 7pm (RR)

Poker Night 7pm (FR)

Drinks Tasting & Cocktail Competition 7pm (FF) Let The Right One In 9pm (SR)

Dirty Stop Out 8pm (ML)

The Age Of Stupid 7pm (SR) The Young Victoria 9.30pm (SR)

Confessions of a Shopaholic 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) The Damned United 7pm (SR)







Duplicity 7pm (SR) Outlander 9.30pm(SR)

Monsters Vs. Aliens 2pm (SR) Traitor 7pm (SR)


Quiz Night 8pm (GR) In The Loop 9.30pm (SR)






Encounters at The End of The World 8.30pm (SR)

Creative Capital 7pm (GR)

Is Anybody There? 9pm (SR)

Creatives in Residence Showcase 7pm

Back to ours - Junk Rubber 8pm (ML) The Damned United 7pm (SR) Knowing 9.30pm (SR)

Studio 24 8pm (ML) Dragonball Evolution 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) The Boat That Rocked? 7pm (SR)







Synedoche - New York 8.30pm (SR)

Book Club 7pm (RR)

Cheri 9pm (SR)

The Beaches of Agnes 7pm (SR) Fast & Furious 9.30pm (SR)

Coraline 2pm (SR) Crank 2 7pm (SR)







Writing Salon 7pm (RR) First Tuesday 6.30pm (FF)

Management 9pm (SR)

Drinks Tasting & Cocktail Competition 7pm (FF)

Chiko 7pm (SR) State of Play 9.30pm (SR)

Dragonball Evolution 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) Observe & Report 7pm (SR)






State of Play 7pm (SR) Fired Up 9.30pm (SR)

Studio 24 8pm (ML) Hannah Montana The Movie 2pm (SR) X-Men: Wolverine 7pm (SR)



Anything for Her 7pm (SR) 80’s Night 7.30pm (ML) Star Trek 9.30pm (SR)

Coraline 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) X-Men: Wolverine 7pm (SR)



Last Chance Harvey 7pm (SR) Angels & Demons 9.30pm (SR)

Hannah Montana The Movie 2pm (SR) Fighting 7pm (SR)



Night at The Museum 2 7pm (SR) 44 Inch Chest 9.30pm (SR)

Dragonball Evolution 2pm (SR) Blood: The Last Vampire 7pm (SR)



Angels & Demons 7pm (SR) Year One 9.30pm (SR)

Bambi 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) 12 Rounds 7pm (SR)



Terminator Salvation 7pm (SR) Drag Me To Hell 9.30pm (SR)

Studio 24 8pm (ML) Hannah Montana The Movie 2pm (SR) tbc 7pm (SR)



tbc 7pm (SR) The Last House on The Left 9.30pm (SR)

Transformers 2pm (SR) Last Chance Saloon 4.30pm (SR) tbc 7pm (SR)

Sugar 8.30pm (SR)






Poker Night 7pm (FR) Acoustic Night 7.30pm (2nd) Awaydays 9pm (SR)


Fugitive Pieces 8.30pm (SR)



Quiz night 8pm (GR) Obsessed 9pm (FR)



Book Club 7pm (RR)

Star Trek 9pm (SR)




The Writing Salon 7pm (RR) Looking For Eric 8.30pm (SR)

First Tuesday 6.30pm (FF)

Drinks Tasting & Cocktail Competition 7pm (FF) Kisses 9pm (SR)





The Last Thakur 8.30pm (SR)






Poker Night 7pm (FR) Night at The Museum 2 9pm (SR)


Rudo Y Cursi 8.30pm




17 Quiz Night 8pm (GR) 12 Rounds 9pm (SR)


Gigantic 8.30pm (SR)


24 Terminator Salvation 9pm (SR)



Johnny Mad Dog 8.30pm (SR)

Book Club 7pm (RR)

Members Event Pre-Release Screening Screening Children’s Screening

(SR) Screening Room (TV) Studio (ML) Martini Lounge (FR) Forest Room (GR) Games Room (BB) Bellini Bar (G) Gallery (CR) Club Restaurant (RR) Rocket Room (FF) First Floor (2nd) Second Floor (L) Library

Members’ events and screenings are released for booking on the 20th of the preceding month. Free Admission. To book call 020 7170 9303 or visit If you book and have to cancel please let club reception know so that another member can have your place. 33

From The Basement

Maguffin/Sky Arts HD

Jonas Brothers

EPK & Live Performance.

Albums of the Year

Live performances and multiple live broadcasts. Nationwide Mercury Prize

Frock Me

Fashion & Music Series. Superbox/C4

Christmas Voices

Advent Music & Interviews. BBC Religion & Ethics/BBC One

Club Music Sessions

Members’ event

Strictly Come Dancing

It Takes Two. Daily Fanzine Show. BBC Entertainment / BBC Two

4 Music Specials

Including Coldplay & Pink. Eyeworks/T4


Links & Music Days. Eyeworks/T4

With 250sq m of studio space to play with, The Hospital Club Studios are all about flexibility. As the first multi-camera HD studio in Europe, we can facilitate any live or pre-recorded productions. We have HD, SD and multi-track music recording capability, luxury green rooms, dressing rooms, make-up facilities and production offices. To find out more please call Anne Marie Phelan on 020 7170 9110 or email

'h' issue 18  

The Quarterly magazine for The Hospital Club members