One is the Loneliest Number

Broken hearts and break-ups take the wind from your sails, the serotonin from your brain and the voluminosity from your heart, and on top of all that, they completely muck up your diet. After you've gotten over the obligatory loss of appetite stage your left feeling less than enthused, not only by the thought of food, but by the actual process of acquiring it and cooking it.

Cooking for one is a lonely endeavour. Cooking is the joy of the lovers, partners, couples, also known now as the mortal enemy. Glued to one another, kissing and clasping the stirring spoon together, feeding eachother baby tomatoes and 'accidentally' getting sauce places where they have to lick it off. 

Now you are a heartbroken one, singular. S.I.N.G.L.E, and you've been relegated to the ready-meal for one section, the supermarket equivalent of the self help isle in a library.

Fish pie; 'Ten Ways To Mend Your Broken Heart', Spaghetti Carbonara; 'Coming To Terms With The Fact That You're Going To Die Alone And Get Eaten By Your Cats.'  
You loiter near by, browsing the titles from a distance, then swoop in like an eagle and grab that Cottage Pie; 'How To Survive The Loss Of Love', and get the hell out of there like it never happened. And then to the self service you go, because a machine can't smell your loneliness, a machine won't look at you with pitying eyes, like you're a baby hedgehog, a lonely baby hedgehog. Baby hedgehog eyes are everywhere these days, and you don't need it.

Ready-meal for one and a bottle of wine, bag it, sigh through your nose, eyes down, frump out the automatic doors, passed the meal-for-two section that you used to peruse with your partner. Ahh yes! Back when you were a two, now you are a one and you are living on a diet of fish fingers with whirlpools of ketchup, chicken dippers with whirlpools of ketchup and those damn ready-meals for one often with whirlpools of ketchup. But at least you haven't reached as low as a green pot noodle yet or meat from a tin, that will be the nadir. 

You were so adventurous in a couple, whole new culinary experiences lay out before you, and you forged forward like an intrepid food warrior. You were one of those people who had homemade stock in their freezer and always, always a full fat fridge, packed with healthy nutritious foods, like delicatessen pate, asparagus and fancy smelly cheeses. 

You bought herbs, you actually gathered up a collection of those little bottled herbs, you had so many you had to actually buy a herb rack to put them all in, now they lie dormant, disappointed, un-used. You bought fancy baking trays, expensive pots, coloured spatulas, a slow-cooker, a bread-maker, an egg-poacher and cook books. Piles and piles of big fat cook books; Delia, Jamie, Nigella, Hugh, Nigel, Heston, Ottolenghi, even Gordan Bloody Ramsey, a different meal for every night of the week, made with love. The new shiny things lay strewn around, rendered obsolete by the loss of the love that has vanished. 
That bloody egg-poacher with its 4 half-circular egg holes sits in a crepuscular corner, mocking you, teasing the idea of your lonely egg, "one poached egg for the loser", it whispers. You're done with poached eggs.

All you need now is a microwave, you have become a culinary recluse. Once a lionhearted explorer and experimenter in the kitchen, you are now a professional micro-waver and griller of chicken dippers. You have gone from metaphorically climbing Mount Everest with your cooking, to quite literally walking to Tesco and swooping for meals-for-one like a big lonely eagle.

But as those annoying people say (usually members of happy couples), "time heals all wounds". They are right. Soon your culinary inquisitiveness will start to come back. Your heart will mend. And you'll crack out the slow-cooker and the bread-maker and the egg-poacher, and you'll cook, you'll cook with the ferocity of Marco Pierre White and the gentle passion of Rick Stein. There'll be no more eagle swooping in Tesco. You'll even start using the herbs again, except Fenugreek, that was an impulse buy in the throws of passion one day in Waitrose, back when you were in love. But fear not intrepid food warrior, there will once again come a day when you will buy some redundant herb, besottedly fumbling down some lovestruck isle of an otherwise dreary supermarket. 
Just you wait and see.

The Fish Fight, for Eat Me Magazine

When you get your peachy, permeable heart gets broken people often say the old quip, 'plenty more fish in the sea', which of course brings no solace whatsoever, but it's still a nice thought. However, if things within the fishing industry carry on the way they are this inspirited thought will soon become nothing but a spurious quibble, like, 'it's not you, it's me.' 

The fight for sustainable fishing is one of the most poignant topics in our current society, and one that must be realised and addressed before our vast oceans become barren places. According to the UN, half of the world's fish stocks are fully exploited, and another quarter overfished. There's something fishy going on for sure. 

The main villain encumbering sustainable fishing is the European Commission and their crazy Common Fishery Policy laws. Within these laws lies the quota system, which is intended to protect fish stocks by setting limits on how many fish of a certain species can be caught. Once a quota is reached, fishermen are no longer allowed to land any of the over-quota fish, so if they catch them, which their fishing methods make it impossible not to, they have no choice but to throw them overboard, usually already dead. This is known as discard. In the world of sustainable fishing, 'discard' is a dirty, dirty word. (Like clotted cream at a Weight Watchers meeting). The EU estimates that in the North Sea, discards are between 40% and 60% of the total catch, which is quite a harrowing statistic and a wicked waste of nutritious food. 

It's a case of what you don't see, doesn't hurt you. Imagine seeing a big pile of dead baby lambs at the side of road, you'd be devastated, you'd cry your eyes out. But that would only ever happen in the dark recesses of some maniacs imagination. Discard is a reality. It is happening right now. All those little fishies floating gently through the blue water, down, down, down into the darkness, hundreds of them, thousands of them. It needs to stop. NOW.

As Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, sustainable fishing warrior, pioneer of the Hugh's Fish Fight, says, "It's not just bad, it's mad." Hugh has come caterwauling in with his floppy hair blowing in the wind, zealous in his mission to promulgate the horrors of over fishing and discarding. And he's done a bloody good job too. Thanks to the Fish Fight and the propensity of our online age to ignite democratic revolutions, Hugh and 700,000+ of us have forced the European Commission to propose a ban on discarding. However there is another 18months to go before the new Common Fisheries Policy becomes law, so there is still work to be done to ensure the success of the ban and the future of long term sustainable fishing. 

So what can we do? Well, we are not blameless, in fact we are the opposite of blameless, basically we are largely 'to blame'. Our unadventurous fish eating habits have caused the over fishing of certain species. Here in the UK cod, salmon and tuna account for 50% of our fish consumption. We need to give these species a break, expand our fish-eating minds and start dancing to a different tuna, if you'll pardon the pun. 

Nobody likes change, we are pertinacious old fools, set in our ways, the thought of having chips with any fish other than cod is unthinkable to us. We turn our noses up at lesser-known fish species, but there are far sexier fish out there. We need to be adventurous, discover the mysteries of mackerel, the curiosities of coley, the wonders of whiting, the delectability of dab and the voluptuousness of flounder. If we are more diverse with which fish we stick our forks into, then the other vulnerable species will get a chance to recover and replenish, and our oceans will be happily bulging with fish once again. Another thing we can do is get our local chippies involved in the 'Mackerel Mission', get them serving up Hugh's mackerel bap, and get the ball rolling on changing the nations fish eating habits. Mackerel is tasty, cheap and has great health benefits (rich in Omega 3's), it's quite the catch really.

So go on, don't be a cod-forsaken idiot all your life, broaden your fishy horizons. Sign the Fish Fight petition today and download the Fish Fight app for lots of recipe ideas using lesser-known fish, like porgy. What a cool name.

Long live Mr.Cod, Mrs.Salmon and Uncle Tuna.

http://www.fishfight.net
http://www.fish2fork.com
http://thejore.com/#1073227/we-love-fish

http://www.eatmemagazine.com/sustainable-fishing/

...on the 18th of June while i was eating a milky way

Heartbreak is a pain universally acknowledged. When going through heartbreak, this fact brings no solace whatsoever. In that moment when your permeable peachy heart gets squashed like a kiwi, a pain tiptoes over your body like dew tickles over a leaf. All the world seems to stop and sit still on its spin and the colour drains from everything, like sand from an egg-timer. Egg-timers, like most things, are now of course superfluous because time itself is meaningless. Without love time is only sad memories of morning moments in bed and kisses. All time from this moment forward, will be nothing but counted seconds and minutes and hours and days and weeks and months, from this moment, when the world sat still on its spin.

And then the tears, fat, hot, salty tears, hundreds of them, thousands of them, big salty puddles of oceanic tears for hours and hours and days and days. You can't move. Breathing makes you cry.

You don't want to go outside, because couples are everywhere out there, swanning around rubbing their love in your face. You want to run them all over with a sit on lawnmower. 

When you eventually manage to scrape yourself from your tear-filled mattress and attempt life, you see their name in the letters of all other words, on the tube, on the bus, even in the bath where there are no words, you see their name. And everything reminds you of them, brushing your teeth; they used to brush their teeth, walking; they used to walk, breathing; they used to breathe. And you hate them, god how you hate them, you find yourself writing "DIE" on everything and wishing that they would go bald.

And you'll be drinking a lot, you'll basically be two glasses away from actually turning into a bottle of Merlot. Merlot helps. Merlot is your friend. Merlot is your new girlfriend. Merlot would NEVER hurt you like she did.

Most things in life at this time are treacherous, but none more so than your ipod, it is a treacherous war zone. You never realised before but every song ever written is about love, and you HATE love, love is the enemy. Shuffling is like russian roulette, Sinead O' Connor's 'Nothing Compares To You' will come up, as will Celine Dion's 'All By Myself' and then to top it all off, 'your song' will almost definitely come up, the first note of which entering your ear will send you into an uncontrollable outburst of those hot, salty, tears. So you'll make a playlist which will almost definitely include Kelis's 'Caught Out There' and The J.Geils Band's 'Love Stinks' and you'll listen to a hell of a lot of Cher.

You'll swear that you'll never fall in love again, and you'll silently resign yourself to the fact that you're going to die alone and get eaten by your cats. Joni Mitchell said that all romantics meet the same fate one day, cynical and drunk and boring someone in some dark cafe. She's right. You are now a romantic atheist.

You'll wish for a wooden heart like a carousel horse, in fact you'll wish you were a carousel horse, or any inanimate object unable to feel any emotion. You'll wish you were a shoe. A shoe could never feel pain like you're feeling right now.

You'll want to call them, you probably will when you're drunk, you'll delete their number to be safe, but you know it off by heart, and it's just as hard to erase from your memory as they are. You have gone insane.

Facebook is another treacherous war zone and should be avoided at all costs for at least two weeks, because they are ALL over Facebook getting on with their life, they are all over your wall and your inbox and your pictures and you can't 'de-friend' them because you'll look immature. But you'd love nothing more than to 'de-friend' them, 'de-friending' them isn't a patch on what you'd actually like to do to them. You hope they get alopecia.

You'll find yourself drunk and crying at bus stops bending the ear off a stranger, telling them how you give her everything and she crushed you like a mouse. You'll find yourself crying a lot, in fact you'll find yourself crying everywhere, even in Tesco, because when you're heartbroken, choices are hard, you'll cry because you can't decide whether to buy a banana or an apple, neither of which you want, because you don't have any appetite, she took that along with everything else. But, hey, at least your ass is getting smaller, (every cloud). 

And then, a month will have passed, (you will of course know the exact second that a month passes) and things are feeling less painful. You no longer have to make yourself breathe in and out. The sky is a little bluer, the world is a little less drab. Thoughts of her are fewer and less destroying. 

You have now entered 'the worst is over' stage. You will never again feel the pain that you have felt in the last month. Some days you even smile. When you think of them you don't want to a) die b) cry c) punch their face. You're not angry, you're not sad, you're not really anything anymore. You also have your iPod back, and you can shuffle like it's 1999, you can even handle Sinead O' Connor.

Soon you will meet as other people do, you'll work no magic for her, nor her for you. And you will be free. You will have made it through one of the most painful of all pains known to humanity, and you'll be stronger, wiser and thinner.

Until then, remember; if you're going through hell, keep going.

The Little Independent Bookshop

There are few truly magical things in life; Jolen mustache dye for women, a full fat moon, clotted cream, 'My Baby All Gone', Gandalf, and perhaps the most magical of all, the little independent bookshop.

Sleeping between chain after chain of mundane shops, sparkling in secret, enchanting those who pass through its doors. Higgledy-piggledy, cosy and warm; its books sit proud on their shelves, feeling special; knowing they are loved by their owner, who sits happily behind the till sipping a cup of tea and nibbling a jammy dodger.

And indeed, love the books the owner must, for it is the only reason anyone in their right mind would ever want to enter into the book industry. As Jamie Raab, VP/Publisher of Warner Books says, 'It's a pretty lousy business model.'

As magical as the beloved bookshop is, the past decade has been a dark one, their resplendence tarnished by digital book sales and monster tyrannosaurus rex bookstores, with their shiny 2for1 deals, dodgy carpets and Duffy lamenting in the background while you browse and sip your frappa-mappa-mocha-chino.

It all began some 20 years ago with the creation of the bargain book and the bargain bookstores in which they lived. Publishing companies, getting a whiff of the possibility for unrivalled profit, sold their souls to the super bookstores, resulting in changes that would cripple the independent book selling industry for years to come.

The jumbo bookstore models resulted in the mass over-production of books, to ensure their miles and miles of book shelves were constantly filled. This lead to copious amounts of extra books and unsold returns which consequently lowered the inherent value of printed books.

All resulting in the birth of the bargain book; 2 for 1 deals, lower prices, discounts on out of print remainders as well as deals on originals and new books.

All the while the little book shop was still charging the cover price, and rapidly losing all its charm.

Once treasured, now no longer needed by the publishers and deemed old-fashioned and over-priced by the public. Independent bookshops were in trouble.

Between 1993 and 2003, the number of independent book retailers decreased by more than half.

All the while the digital revolution was gathering speed and online book sales began to rocket. With the likes of Amazon slowly hammering in the last nails on the little bookshops coffin, as people were captivated by the convenience and speed of the online purchase. Jo Adams, who owns the independent Stoke Newington Bookshop in north London said “It is very hard to compete with the likes of Amazon. We can't sell books at the prices they do - if we did we would go bankrupt."

So it has been an on going struggle and a rather gloomy time for independent bookshops, to say the least. But now it seems the winds are changing. Once deemed the enemy; the digital revolution has given birth to an unlikely saviour; the ebook. Seen by many as the end of the world, the devil, the epitome of evil, when it comes to books. However it has turned the tables on the superstore and closures are now imminent at the hands of their once upon a time ally. Unable to compete with ebook sales and the rapid rise and popularity of new ebook reading technologies and devices, bargain bookstores are closing all over. Barnes and Noble, America's biggest selling bookstore chain, has closed down its four-story shop on 66th Street and Broadway in Manhattan and put itself up for sale. Just one of its 700+ stores across America's 50 states, but is it an ominous sign of things to come? Here in the UK, Borders has met the same fate, closing the doors on all 45 of its stores across the country, unable to adjust itself to grow with the online book selling revolution.

It is estimated that one in five books is now sold online. In July 2010, Amazon reported sales of ebooks for its e-reader, Kindle outnumbered sales of hardbacks for the first time ever in 2010, saying it sold 140 e-books for every 100 hardcover books. So how has the Independent bookshop come back to life in this most formidable of book climates. Well for one, with the dwindling of the big bookstores, the little bookshops have got their sparkle back, there importance and notoriety have been restored. They are once again needed, cherished and enjoyed. But just like the big bookshops, they cannot compete with the ebook. And so its back to that old saying; 'if you can't beat them, join them'. Independent book shops are planning to team up with Google Editions, Googles new ebook selling campaign. Google are on the verge of completing a deal with the American Booksellers Association (ABA) which will make Google the primary source of e-books on the Web sites of hundreds of independent booksellers, according to representatives of Google and the association. This will connect them inextricably to the ebook market, giving them a life line to stay alive. So hopefully the bookshop will live on forever, in this era defined by fast technology and online everything, bookshops stand for something slower, and in a lot of ways, richer.

LONG LIVE THE INDEPENDENT BOOKSHOP. 

THE FACE Club Review

'The only thing worse than being talked about, is not being talked about' adorns the wall of The Green Carnation, serving as the mantra for a new generation of glamorous eccentrics enveloped in lavish beauty and hedonism. THE FACE, the product of a collaboration by Rosemary Turner and her son Callum, Steve Strange (lead singer of 80's band Visage) and party extraordinaire Alejandro Gocast is a cross-generational night for the unconventional, the unorthodox and the bizarre, where the club kids of the future can mix with the club kids of the past.

Acting as a safe harbour for the the like minded, creating a platform for absolute freedom of expression, THE FACE becomes an evening of artistic extravaganza where fashion and art meet and merge with an eclectic array of music. With sets from legendary Dj Princess Julia, Jamie Lovatt, (R O M A N C E front man), Callum Turner and Steve Strange himself, playing everything from 80's era synth pop to 90's dance classics and beyond.

The great thing about THE FACE is its spontaneity and the aura of excitement it excretes into the London club scene, you never know who's going to show up or whats going to happen from one week to the next. Mr.Pustra; 'Vaudevilles darkest muse' and Adam Ant have taken to the stage on previous occasions and there are plans to make the night a weekly occurrence with more live acts, including Roman Kemp's band (son of Spandau Ballet bassist Martin kemp), and many more.

THE FACE is not a place for the shy or the conformist, but a place to see and be seen. A place to be opulent, ornate and elegant and a chance to be part of something that may define a decade, like the generations before and the generations to come. 

Post War Years, White Lies Review

The four-piece from Leamington Spa have been wowing audiences all over Europe since the release of their debut album, The Greats And The Happenings, last summer.  They are now back in the UK with their new single, White Lies. A patchwork of jaunty voice sequencing, plucky guitar chords and 

quirky drum beats, that lie on top of one another in delightful discombobulation. The song jitters along energetically with a catchy hook and strong vocals all dissipating at the end to a dreamy whirlpool of hypnotising synths. The bands complex rhythms, angular melodies and discordant chords muster together to produce their mesmerizing math rock. Watch out for their new album, set to be released in January of next year.  

Robyn At Rough Trade East Review

Everybody knows that our current economic climate is one of melancholy, maudlin, doom and gloom.  I'm no banker but I see an ominous 'ribbit' meandering from the froggy mouth of my 17p Freddo.  They say the best things in life are free; love, rainbows, sunsets, all those whimsical sorts of things that curly mustache men write poems about.  But you can't pay the bills with sparkly things or kisses.  No, perhaps the best things in life are really, really cheap instead.  Like my ticket to see Robyn at Rough Trade East that cost me just £9.99, the price of her new album Body Talk Pt.1 (or 58 Freddo's). 

Rough trade are well known for their in-store gigs, many famous artists have played on the little stage at the back of the shop. (Before they got too big to grace it).  So I was surprised to see Robyn's name pop up in the in-store gig list as she has been in the music business since she was 15 (now 31) and has had a number one hit single and numerous album releases to date.

The crowd was smaller than I expected, only half the fill of the shop.  My view was as usual encumbered by a six-foot man, so I wriggled around a bit and eventually landed myself a cosy spot with a near perfect view, just as Robyn crept shyly onto the stage.  She was dressed in a tight red dress, pocketed black leather waistcoat and gold thigh high tights that twinkled every so often in the disco lights. 

With a swoosh of her lily white hair she whispered, 'thank-you for coming' then the synths and solid drum beat of Dancing on my own kicked in.

Her voice was delicate but powerful as she sang her new single, a song of heartache on the dance floor, the natural progression perhaps from With Every Heartbeat, her pop-disco track laced with anguish.  The audience was shy at first, but as the opening track slowed down then escalated to its climax with a rising drum beat and electronic percussion, the crowd awakened with claps and 'whooooooos' and a ripple of motion meandered from left to right and front to back.  Leaving time for only a quick applause between tracks, Dancehall Queen was next, with Robyn's vocals taking on a reggae tone as she bobbed up and down, the crowd mirroring her movements.  

She hardly spoke during the gig, when she did her voice was gentle and soft, almost baby-like.  She introduced her two bandmates; Paul, a skinny brown haired fellow on drums and backing vocals and Marcus, the synth singer man with ginger floppy hair and a big mustache. The two boys sat behind Robyn on either side, enthusiastic and energetic in their movements.

It was mesmerising to watch the intricacies of Robyn's songs being sewn together on stage like a patchwork, particularly in the song, Fembot, a shimmering display of impressive synths and vocal distortion behind Robyn's infectious and playful robotic lyrics.  It was met with the loudest applause yet to which she replied, 'thank-you, thanks for coming out'.

The show which up until then had been a fireworks display of complex rhythms, big beats and sophisticated electro-pop, slowed down with the penultimate track, Hang With Me, which showcased the strength of Robyn's voice, only a piano accompanying her with a gentle melody. The gig then reached its finale as Marcus grabbed an acoustic guitar from under his keyboard and began to strum the cords of hit single, With Every Heartbeat, the crowd recognising the song, cheered excitedly.  It was the perfect ending to a flawless performance, the song gently building with the repetition of the hook and a crescendo of drum beats, synthesisers and piano keys, culminating in an explosive ending and rapturous applause from the crowd. Robyn took a bow and said 'thank-you, thank-you so much' and crept off the stage, just as she had crept on some 30 minutes earlier.  Everybody continued to cheer in the hope of an encore, but as the lights came back on, a collective 'oow' floated up from the crowd and they began to disperse.  I listened in on a few conversations, all of which sang praise, there was a lot of 'she was amazing' and even an 'i well fancy her now'.  The general consensus seemed to be a positive one.  And rightly so.  Robyn was modest, almost adorable, seemingly unaware of her talent and put on a magical show of what seems to be her best work yet; more melodic, rhythmic and intricate than her previous music. 

Definitely 100% more enjoyable than 58 Freddo's.