Good day from beyond the northern border, ladies of the louche, as I present you with a brief but encouraging assurance that the Bacchic way is truly alive and well up here in Edinburgh.
I say brief because really, there is little I can say about what I have seen of the Festival thus far other than that there has genuinely been a whole lot of gin about these past few days.
Case in Point #1: The Royal Mile – a stretch of road to be avoided at all costs if one happens to be of a nervous disposition and therefore likely to be distressed by the sight of multiple escapologists doing remarkably similar things on opposite pavements or the ever-present threat of being attacked from any or all sides by oddly dressed undergraduates in funny hats, begging you to come and see their cutting-edge piece of physical theatre: Hamlet Part 8 – The Revenge, which will be performed naked on a bouncy castle in a venue called The Gilded Balloon (and you think I’m kidding). Last year, granted, the Mile was disturbing enough, what with its slightly drizzly Notting-Hill-Carnival-on-a-crap-year vibe, but this time around, I’m afraid I can only attribute the transformation to the obvious side-effects of gin. You may argue that I tend to see the side-effects of gin everywhere and yes, maybe I do think that whoever designed that barnyard revolt of a Burberry Photoshoot for the Watson Witch had probably had more than his week’s worth (no Lucy, we are indeed not discussing it) but nonetheless…the Mile this year has been like a day out with an absinthe drinker’s remaining neurons.
Not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t think I have ever seen so many parasols, bustles, glittery signs, unitards or tragic examples of all-over body paint going disastrously wrong. The Royal Mile this year has been like I imagine Victorian London would have been if the great smog had actually just been down to a rather catastrophic accident at an opium den. There is no rain, there are no inhibitions and god but doesn’t everyone want me to come and see their play? And am I likely to be rather more convinced to see something if the person trying to sell it to me happens to be clad in spats and a red cummerbund? I should say I would.
Although I’m afraid Hamlet Part Eight is still very much out unless someone can promise me he’s going to pull a Jean Grey.
Case in Point #2: A genuinely stunning amount of shows this year have been quite wonderfully preoccupied with our friend ethanol, and not even in a depressing Frankie Boyle way. No, even to begin with, a surprising number of the comedians I have seen this time around (even, and I say this with real shock, Marcus Brigstocke) have been touting very genuinely cheerful shows, and this is true too in what they have been saying about the Bacchic ways.
Rich Hall went on at length about liking to drink an enormous mug of coffee as an upper and then immediately follow it up with absinthe, just to see what his pupils do when he looks in the mirror. Adam Hills and his usual charming talk of leglessness was replaced with a different kind of leglessness when he talked about being a cheerful drunk (“I respect you. I think you should find your inner POTENTIAL”) and gave sage advice about how to drink responsibly…(A Tip: If you ever drink that teeny bit too much and feel you may be about to do bad things to your lovely university shower, just eat a KitKat. It won’t help, but at least when the whole bottle of Rose catches up with you it’ll taste like KitKat).
Most appropriately, however, was John Bishop (looks like Bez but talks like a real person), whose greatest moment of wisdom went thus:
“Don’t put petrol in a diesel car. Doing that is just like giving gin to a woman. It’s stupid, dangerous, and will result in nothing but certainty that at some point in the next couple of hours, there is going to be a breakdown.”
Well perhaps, Mr Bishop, but I am afraid that what you completely fail to appreciate is that whilst putting petrol in a diesel car is generally accepted to be a bad idea, the ride you get before the inevitable breakdown is freaking hilarious.
So yes, Bacchants, I can report to you with true triumph that the gin-in-the-woods mentality is alive and well in the city, especially if the Big Issue seller who approached me yesterday in the queue for Marcus and told me I looked like a girl who enjoyed a good Vodka and Red Bull was anything to go by. Yes, he may have been a little off the mark, with regard to how far my eyes tend to pop out of my face if I touch Red Bull, but since he was wearing an “I Heart New York” style t-shirt which said “I Heart Pies”, I can forgive him for that. And anyway, he was still tapping into the kind of free-wheeling drink-and-joy attitude I am trying to explain to you here.
And in case you’re not yet convinced:
Case in Point #3: There is a gin and tonic stall, a beer stall and a cocktail stall outside every single main comedy venue here.
It it here, therefore, that I feel I must reach, once more, for the rulebook:
“Bacchantism #4: There is always gin. It may not be good gin and it may not be nice gin, but there is always gin. Take this gin and head for the comedy tent.”
Scotch love out.
xoxoxoxox
It’s my first cocktail here, I’m allowed to get a bit fancy.
inauguration
For this you’ll need:
Monin (or other) Rose Cordial
St Germain (or other elderflower liqueur)
Champagne (or cava if, like us, you are a lowly student)
In a champagne flute, or a tall glass, mix 1 measure each of both the rose cordial and the elderflower liqueur. Top with chilled champagne.
“Bacchantism #3: The bubblier the drink, the bubblier you are.”
I could break everyone in easy, I suppose. I could talk about the new and random fetish for sequins that seems be cropping up everywhere, or why Chanel’s back in my good graces, or, if I really wanted to whack open Pandora’s box, Emma Watson’s oh-so-wooden Burberry shoot.
Let’s not go there, Julia. Not yet, anyway.
As it stands, my obsession of the last few days has been…underwear. It’s been cropping up everywhere. Colleagues at work having Ann Summers parties. Tales of sizing woe texted from changing rooms. And actually, that’s what I want to talk about. Because no matter how many times it happens, few thing compare to the awful of looking in a changing room mirror and thinking: well, shit.
The solution, bizarrely, was borne of a classic bacchantism – and one of my favourite house rules:
“Bacchantism: It is acceptable to walk around in ones underwear, but only if that underwear is matching.”
Cue my hunting through my underwear drawer, finally tossing out the remains of that M&S days of the week pack I got neigh on five years ago, and finally concluding that I need new knickers. No problem, in theory. I’ve got some cash in the bank for a change, and the lingerie departments of Canterbury beckon. There’s just one little problem.
Make that two.
You can call it gamine, or 1920s chic, or sigh and tell me I can wear everything but if you got anything at all from the paragraph above you’ll have realise that yes, I’m the girl who not only has, but comfortably fits the underwear she had back in year eight. I’m flat as the proverbial ironing board, and when I try on that gorgeous little Genevieve bustier – the smallest size I can find – in Ann Summers, I look like a nymphet playing bloody dress up. Changing room woe sweeps over me, and I hand it back with a vague excuse about it being to big.
That’s when things get interesting.
Ann Summers is a pretty intimidating shop. I’ve lost track of the number of times a guy friend has chivvied me inside, desperate for a look at the world of women, only to freeze in horror presence of so much oestrogen. If it weren’t for the fact the shop has nearly the same effect on me, it would be a veritable bacchant paradise. After today’s visit, I’d say it is.
“Too big around the top?” the sales girls inquires as I gaze mournfully at the schoolgirl dress up costumes, wondering if that’s more my style. “What’s your size?”
I mutter something about 32A. As if her knowing nod has some kind of magical power, the salesgirl is suddenly holding out four or five different bustiers for me to try. Some of the smalls are smaller than others, she tells me happily, snatching another as we walk over to the changing rooms. The shop girls know these things, apparently.
It’s something of a revelation, despite its simplicity, and it saves a lot of grief in the changing room. When I try on the first of the pile, a Hollywood cami with suspender straps, I can’t believe I haven’t bothered to simply go up to the girls in La Senza and ask them straight out what size they’ve disguised the 32As as. The cami’s a perfect fit. Shame that is only has a string to match.
“Bacchantism: It is acceptable to walk around in ones underwear, but only if that underwear is matching.
Subbacchantism: Unless that matching underwear is a thong. Really, girls.”
Still, I’m armed with new knowledge. In Topshop, I sidle up to the assistant instead of riffling through the sizes. Turns out, unsurprisingly, 32A isn’t a 32A. The assistant reveals they’re hanging incognito as 32B, and instead of being subjected to the awful sight of a too small bra in the changing rooms, I come out of the shop with some wicked new stuff:
Which brings us nicely to the closing bacchantism:
“Bacchantism #2: True love is lace, ribbon, and a vintage twist.”
We’re really not as poncy as that sounds, we swear. So hello and welcome to The Bacchant Guide to Etiquette. There are a lot of etiquette blogs out there we know. This isn’t one of them.
“Bacchant-ism #1: Always have a bottle of gin in the house.“
