Why we should talk to the hand

An audience is not, apparently, happy with simply a great show. They want something edgy fresh and new. This year at the Edinburgh Fringe three ventriloquism acts rolled up their sleeves and attempted to reinvent the art to keep you talking to the hand.

Paul Zerdin’s understated charm and charisma, his exceptional skill and of course, the fact he is very, very funny make this one of the best shows I’ve seen. His first character, adolescent potty mouth Sam who looks like an extra from Avenue Q, is an instant hit and the audience are audibly distressed when he is crammed back in the ominous black suitcase at the end of his skit. An incontinent pensioner and a bizarre looking baby follow on the guestlist, both of whom showcase different though equally polished aspects of the puppeteer’s skills.
Traditionally the ventriloquist dummy assumes the role of the naughty tyke but Zerdin shows a bit of his nefarious side as he wanders out into the audience regaling them with anecdotes involving his unusual skill. One such example is that of throwing his voice in busy lifts and informing those inside that not only are the doors closing, but the cable is snapping.

Nina Conti’s ‘Talk to the Hand’ is another joyous hour of comedy, marred only by the guest appearance of the rather dull Abi Titmuss on this particular performance, who was more concerned with quoting Macbeth than engaging with the playful banter being offered to her by a monkey.
As with Zerdin, Conti’s charm envelopes her audience, of course her infectious laugh, relaxed movements and cheerful good looks help. As usual, we meet a number of oddball characters from her luggage, all of whom delight in chattering with the audience with some great comebacks that even Conti herself giggles at.
Playing with her act, Conti informs us she has a new puppet which is, so far, voiceless. Seeking ideas from onlookers she test drives a number of possibilities from Liverpudlian to Rastafarian, subtly showing us the range of her talents.
However, it’s when Conti manages to take a drink whilst still speaking that she gets major kudos from her audience.
A new apparatus on the ventriloquist circuit makes an appearance at both Zerdin and Conti’s show, that of the human dummy mask. As sinister as it sounds, the plastic contraption fits around an unfortunate audience member’s mouth as the ventriloquist in question controls the voice and mouthpiece, playing off the embarrassed victim’s movements. Cruel, perhaps but damn funny.

Strassman’s show ‘Duality’ is a departure from the comedy to that of Zerdin and Conti. Instead, the audience go unnoticed, voyeuristically witnessing a man delve into the psyche of the ventriloquist, exploring his apparent personality disorder.
Despite posing dark questions this puppeteer doesn’t bring the audience down with his existential angst, instead he cleverly interjects his bouts of analysis with light hearted banter and even some whimsy. The narrative dips between rehearsing show material and everyday chatting and squabbling.
While Strassman’s skills themselves are not as polished as Conti or Zerdin’s, he makes up for this with an intelligently mapped act which ends with a twist. On more than one occasion I found myself remarking on the clever orchestration which inhabits your thoughts long after you leave.

Ventriloquism certainly made its mark on the Fringe this year. There’s a strong willingness to believe what these guys are doing, to involve yourself with the character and we leave, feeling like we’ve met an interesting new person, despite being told all along they’re not real.
These shows combine all the elements; that of comedy, whimsy, the absurd and the intelligent. Taking the ingredients but cooking up something unique and highly polished, much to the gratitude of their nightly audience.

Pish Posh

I found myself irritated today.

Apparently, Carol Vorderman was snapped wearing a dress that is not only last season (gasp) but appeared on none other than Victoria Beckham. People were outraged at her audacity, not only in wearing such an outdated relic, but copying Posh.

My reason for my irritation is twofold.

Firstly, – and I don’t know about you – your average woman does not, generally ship an outfit off to Save the Children because it’s ‘so last season’. How absurd. I’m not embarrassed to admit that I have a number of dresses, tops and jumpers that last me at least a year. In fact, if they don't I want to know why. Not so much the 50p pants but I’ll live with that.
We’ve all got that piece in our wardrobe. It could be a raggedy old knee length cardigan that you simply can’t part with. Or it could be the sexiest dress you’ll ever own. More often than not, these things are years old and could be from some dreadfully uncool shop or clothing line, like George in Asda. We love it just the same.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t claim to be the most thrifty of females when it comes to my clothes. I’ve stored numerous boxes in the loft with the same hopeful labels as the rest of you: ‘summer’, ‘skirts’… ‘might fit later’. But there has to be a limit to these things. And chucking it out because you’ve worn it before is, I think, careering past it.

Yes, I know, I know, fashion is a trend thing, a refreshingly everchanging and evolving force. I can almost understand a designer not wanting to appear outdated but Carol Vorderman, although famous, is still one of us. She's just better at maths. Who knows, she might even buy her knickers from Debenhams or Marks.

Ms Vorderman wrote in the Daily Mail that she found the kafuffle over her wearing the dress ‘hysterical’. I’m glad she’s keeping her head - as well as the dress - and not entering into such a banal argument.

The other issue which perplexed me is that Carol was slagged off for wearing the admittedly hugging dress and it was even suggested she carry a sign reading ‘Wide Load’.

The woman is a size ten.

Even more ridiculous was that she was pictured alongside Victoria Beckham in the offending gown and I actually thought she looked better. Her curves filled the dress while it looked like it limply hung off Victoria.

If you want to be a size four; fine, if you want to be a 16; fine. But a size ten sure as hell does not need to come with a warning sign.

It would be better if we could all just play nice. A celebrity wearing an out of season garment is not high on my list of things to worry about. Think what we could achieve if we chanelled some of this obsession with fashion and celebrities into things that actually matter.

Waistcoat Not, Want Not

I have a passion for waistcoats. They’re a forgotten accessory, an indulgent addition to our wardrobe. Do they accomplish much? Not really but they look fabulous which is reason enough.

I know, traditionally the finishing touch to the gentleman’s 3-piece-suit, but the possibilities definitely cross over to the other gender where we’ve nipped it, tucked it and made it all a bit more feminine and sexy.

Since we are talking about a conventionally masculine look here, it’s essential, I think, to add a feminine twist. Fitted (always fitted) snugly round the bust and waist nails the look. Single colours and simple patterns are often the most striking; blacks, chocolate browns, dark green tweeds. Team them with a brighter shirt and dress trousers or pin skirt and you’re in business.

There are now countless designs, shapes, colours and cuts of waistcoat that could flatter most figures. I own four, most of which are from Benetton and most of which are worn with a fitted white shirt and black waist high dress trousers. It's been suggested to me it's borderline magician but nonetheless, a good look. If I’m feeling brave I step into my brown tweed miniskirt, don my brown boat-neck waistcoat with oversize buttons and ‘hey presto!’. Perhaps my favourite is my All Saints mahogany brown one with the black lapel. The collar folds to show the black underneath but also forward for a more punky look.

So what’s the attraction? For me, the waistcoat is a classic example of style - it has been around since the 1600s. I still think the best outfits are the ageless ones ; the little black dress, the peep toe high heel, the A-line skirt. I enjoy the ups and downs of fashion as much as any girl, but I have always drifted back to the classics, when choosing a bikini, a skirt, a shirt, a dress, a coat, high heels… These simple styles just look… better, more confident, ‘classier’ (forgive the obvious) and women look… womanly. The deluge of shapeless dresses and tops currently inhabiting every high street clothes shop is just a no-no for me. I don’t want my clothes to suggest I’m bigger than I am. I can name few women who would.

I still think the women in the forties had it right. Fitted suits, sexy loosely curled hair and hats! How I enjoy a hat. But that's another blog for another day.

Brussels Sprouts

‘Andy’, she said quietly, peeping her head round his door.
‘Yeah, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, nothing. I just brought you a slice of strawberry cheesecake, I know you like it and I’ve not bought it for a while’, she said smiling, holding out the wedge of red ooze.
He could feel his face get warm and he turned his back to her to climb off the bed, hoping she wouldn’t notice.
‘Thanks’, he smiled. It was Andy’s favourite.
She passed him the cake and watched as the boy settled back on his bed, spearing the fork into the mush and watching as the cream explored its way around the bowl.
He looked up at her and spoke through mouthfuls of sticky dessert, ‘Wos wrong?’
‘Nothing dear, why do you keep asking’, she said puzzled but still amused at the obvious enjoyment of his treat.
‘I’ll leave you to it’ she said softly and the door clicked closed behind her.

Andy liked the texture of cheesecake the best, the runny top with whole strawberries, the creamy middle that stuck to the roof of his mouth and the crunchy biscuit that tasted like broken up digestives.
‘Andrew!’
He froze on his bed.
‘Andrew come here!’ she snapped from downstairs.
He leapt from his bed, taking the stairs two at a time while holding onto the thick wooden banister to steady himself. He sped through the hall and hurtled into the kitchen.
‘Andrew, what’s this?’
She held a scrunched up piece of soggy kitchen roll containing four squashed brussels sprouts.
He looked up at her and she jabbed the offending objects towards him, ‘Well?’
‘I dunno mum’ was the reply.
‘Andrew…’ she began but she didn’t seem to want to finish the sentence.
The boy curled his fingers round the sides of his t-shirt.
‘I dunno mum’ he said again, quietly, unsure of where his denial would get him.
‘I found them next to the plant pots behind the shed.’
‘Mum I really don’t know.’
She sighed and dumped them unceremoniously on the kitchen worktop.
‘Your gran made them especially’, she said and the boy thought his mum looked a bit sad.
‘I know and I don’t know why. Can’t she bring cake or sweets or if she’s gonna bring dinner stuff can’t it be sausages or mash or something nice. Mum, who brings brussel sprouts round for dinner?’ Immediately he felt a slightly ashamed for saying it but it didn’t change the fact it was true.
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it again.
‘I just want you to try them. Fruit and veg are really very important for little boys and I think if you gave them a chance you’d start to quite like them.’
‘But they look like brains mum. I don’t want to eat brains.’
At these words her lip curled and she breathed out a measured, slow breath.
‘Well, no, I suppose few of us do.’
Andy smiled tentatively.
‘I ate one mum, I did. But it was horrible and mushy and it made me think of brains, not just how it looks but the taste as well, when I bited into it it sloshed around my mouth and it was cold and I swallowed it anyway. And I ate the carrots mum, I ate them and I don’t like carrots that much but they’re better than brains and I ate my sweetcorn because I like sweetcorn can’t I just have sweetcorn instead of the brains mum is that okay?’
There was a pause.
‘I see you’ve thought about this’, she said as she leaned back against the worktop.
Andy looked hopeful now, ‘Well it’s just if I have to eat this stuff, can’t I just eat other nicer ones instead?’
‘I’d still like you to give them another try’ she said smiling at him.
Andy looked down at the floor and shifted his feet when his mother bent down to tie one of his grubby shoelaces.

As Andy loped slowly back to the stairs he passed the bathroom and glanced in. He gazed at the toilet for a moment and slowly began to smile to himself, suddenly he wasn’t dreading his next dinner with gran so much. With that he bounded back to his room to finish off his cheesecake.