Sick of being the only grey-tinged gal amid an ocean of bald blokes at gigs, Vicky Lindsay Warburton decided to start holding her own. Kind of. Grab your utensils and get ready to mosh not mash.
“Made with love” is the mantra chanted when said cake is presented and greeted with the now-traditional convulsive laughter and mockery, the standing joke being that my cakes are really crap. Family members ask for photos of my creations for their own amusement. Dry slopes (25 per cent gradient) of cake are standard, rescued a little by second-rate decoration. Don’t tell me the oven’s too hot, it’s not.
However, this year was different. Our family tradition is a party in the kitchen up to the age of five then NO. BLOODY. MORE. AT. HOME. EVER. Little ‘un turned six – result! A football party was planned and a voice at the end of the phone asked if I wanted to use their cake. I was perplexed.
Voice: “It’s a dummy cake love, it’s pretend.”
Me: “Er, alright. YES.”
The day of the party: at the moment of candles and singing the voice walked out with a MASSIVE flaming football pitch sprinkled with an array of mini trophies, footballers and a base coated in grass. Gasps were heard from the kids’ keepers.
One mother mouthed, “Wow, did you make that?” Of course I nodded and mouthed back, “YES”. A moment of Bake Off glory when food affected the mood of all in the room; children and parents were emotionally moved.
Cunningly, the voice managed to whizz the fake off from the kids; my own cheap offering from the local scrotermarket was sliced and distributed in the party bag. The kids stayed believers, but it wasn’t long before the polystyrene cake secret was out of the bag with the parents.
The glory was good while it lasted; this month’s tunes featured heavily in my kitchen while dancing and pretending to bake. Tuck in!
After an eight-year silence and 36 years since the band’s first album, The Pretenders have returned with a new LP, Alone, recorded in Nashville with The Black Keys’ Dan Auerbach.
In 1978 Chrissie Hynde met with Pete Farndon, now sadly deceased, and constructed their band. Hynde remains the one constant member. A front woman who was once the sexiest woman in rock, she’s now flying the flag for the cool ‘fuck you’ senior brigade and at 65 years young leads the way in eyeliner-for-life.
Her autobiography Reckless: My Life as a Pretender (2015) tells of a reality that reads like fiction. As the daughter of a Yellow Pages salesman she ditched the sunny colour and opted for a life of black and white and a career that’s helped pave the way for women in music.
Meilyr Jones is a belting young Welsh fawn who has produced a pop song with such great pop and classical composure we’ve been dancing our tiny feet off to it. A Northern Soul drum beat blasts off How to Recognise a Work of Art before the brass kicks in and really sets the kitchen dance floor aflame with some grade-A dancehall moves.
Jones is classically trained and recorded the album with a 30-piece orchestra, so if you see him live, the size of the stage determines how many people/instruments he can cram alongside his prancing self.
His debut solo album 2013 arose from the break-up of both a personal relationship and his band Race Horses. Out of the ashes rises a Welsh lad who has produced a genuine work of art.
In the deep freeze: Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead from the album The Bends
Living legends. The best band in the world. FACT. Nothing touches them, comes close to them or can evoke such feelings from the depths of a soul. They’re headlining the opening night at Glastonbury in 2017, and I will be watching from the front… comfortably – at home.
The lads found each other at school in Abingdon, Oxford, and A Moon Shaped Pool, their ninth and latest studio album, finds them still producing music with such emotional resonance it must make other bands feel like they’re stuck learning London’s Burning on the recorder.
Personal angst, isolation and wordless moans are the foundations of Radiohead’s genius, never mind the mind-bending complexity of their ever-evolving sound. In Fake Plastic Trees, Yorke sings of the pretence of life, people changing themselves to be part of society’s standards, the false shiny bullshit covering a messy inside.
Oh yes, it wears us out, and I hang my head in shame as the faker, the peddler of a reusable cracked polystyrene cake. Sometimes we all have to pretend.
After some more tunes to fuel the kitchen dancefloor? No bother.3868 Views
Vicky is reintegrating back into society as her children are now in school. She teaches mindfulness to teenagers, wears trainers and paddles through the nonsense of life.