Andrew Beierle

The longer I work as a freelance journalist, the more obscure the publications I discover. I’ve written about all manner of curious things, and have come to realise that the more niche the magazine’s subject, the more successful it’ll be in these cash-strapped times.

With limited spare money to throw at new, exotic possessions, traditional hobbies are hotter than ever, especially when they don’t cost more than the price of, say, a skein of yarn and a mag subscription.

However, I just come across the best yet. My daily Gorkana fix has alerted me to the rambunctious world of Only Doormats (www.onlydoormats.co.uk), which I initially mistook for a witty site about unhappy spouses, but turns out to be “a niche, destination site focusing exclusively on doormats: coir doormats, cast-iron door mats and contemporary, designer doormats…”

Fantastic. And I didn’t even know doormat fancying was a sport.

On the opening night of Barry Lewis’ Monsters exhibition 13 out of 40 pieces sold, which is pretty impressive. Sadly all the ones my hubla fell in love with went within moments, but I managed to get a red dot onto a rather lovely one of a pegasus, very similar to the horse of spoons, but with an elegant pair of fish-knife wings. I can’t wait till the end of Feb when I can take it home.

The exhibition gained loads of media attention, partly, I’d like to think, due to my press releases. I picked up a copy the Evening Post and found that one of the journalists had used paragraphs from my release word for word. Nice to know I’m making life so easy for them, but odd to see my words credited to someone else…

A selection of my words are also currently taking part in an art and poetry exhibition called Exploding Poetry. It’s being held at Bank Street Arts Centre, and is on the topic of women and warfare. I wrote short piece called Not War, Nor Peace, inspired by my time in Israel, and it got accepted! Love it when that happens – it almost makes all the rejections worthwhile.

Sabre tooth tiger by Barry Lewis

Last night’s preview of Barry Lewis’ Monsters exhibition was the most bubbling I’ve been to for a long while. I barely got to say hello to Barry as folks crowded round him, eager to meet the great creator of so many magical beasts. I’d seen countless photos of his work, but never come face to face with the animals until the event, and I was intrigued by how many I fell deeply in love with. No wonder red dots were springing up all over the room.

Sadly, Horse of Spoons, sold early on, as did my hubla’s favourite, Codzilla, a huge glimmering fishhead made of fish knives and other reclaimed materials.

There’s something about the combined elegance and unpretentiousness of the scultures that really appeals to all kinds of people, including those, like my hubla, who occasionally complain about not getting art. There’s a playfulness to the whole collection that’s hugely appealing, as people crowded round, identifying old coffee pots, forks, engine parts and gas canisters. It was like a version of Where’s Wally for grown ups.

The menagerie was populated by enough creatures to put Bristol Zoo to shame, with seagulls hovering overhead, gigantic scorpions, spiders and dragonflies, lobster, crabs and vast coppery fish, an alligator with a body woven from bike tyres, as well as more abstract works such as a heart made from spoons and a satellite dish - ideal for Valentine’s Day.

The one serious undercurrent running throughout is the message of reclaiming, restoring and recycling, the three R’s of our era. In taking other people’s rubbish and transforming it into art, Barry works magic on several levels. The animal-heads mounted on plaques  made from old table tops take this a step further, by poking fun at those who still believe hunting is a good, honourable hobby.

I’d rather have a sabre-tooth tiger made from cutlery on my wall than the head of a dehydrated, stuff dead animal any day, and the hordes of people at the Grant Bradley Gallery yesterday seemed to agree.

Horse of Spoons by Barry Lewis

The latest artist on my radar is Barry Lewis, a Welshman who trained as an engineer, worked as a carpenter, became an ice sculptor and finally put his passion for South Wales’ Rhondda Valley together with an eye for aesthetics to create his own, uniquely eco-friendly kind of art.

The result is an exhibition called Monster, which begins tomorrow at Bristol’s Grant Bradley Gallery. He describes his work as a means of letting “nature get its own back”, and meanders through the countryside, reclaiming parts of the rusting cars and bikes dumped in rivers and on mountainsides and transforming them into wonderfully peculiar beasties.

“Someone might chuck dump a bike on the hillside, then I’ll bring it home to pull apart and turn into a sculpture of some weird animal, making it into art and clearing up the countryside in the process. I use all kinds of things - some of my sculptures might include six types of metal, from a bit of stainless steel cutlery to an old petrol tank from a motorbike. A bit of metal might resemble a nose and the animal grows from there.”

The curious creatures range from immense scorpions to alligators – one of my favourites is a horse made entirely from junk-shop cutlery. There are also dragonflies with tea-strainers for eyes and a dragon made from an old car seat with fence-posts for teeth. The scale of some of them is immense – a true zoo of the bizarre.

Around forty of the recycled beasts are taking residence in the Grant Bradley Gallery for Barry’s Monsters exhibition. I can’t wait to see more of them for myself at the open preview tomorrow, and maybe even take a small one home, though my landlord might protest – there’s a no pets clause in our contract.

Daniel's Arabian Nights pic

This Saturday I’m heading to the Grant Bradley Gallery in Bristol. There’s an interesting photography event happening there from 10am till 4pm, and while I’m too shy to take part, I’d love to see what unfolds.

The man behind it is Daniel Moncur-Sime, a photographer I’ve been doing a bit of PR work for recently. He has a background in commercial and fashion photography, and is now branching out into art, capturing exuberant explosions of movement and colour with the help of models with backgrounds in ballet.

This Saturday he’s putting out an open call to anyone who fancies a chance to become part of the show – all you need to do is turn up with an imaginative outfit (anything from a clown costume to a fabulous gown to, erm, your PJs) and be prepared to move around for the camera.

I think Daniel’s hoping for some grace and elegance, but he’ll be happy anything with a bit of energy behind it. Juggling, dancing, hop-scotch and Moonwalking will all be welcomed – I have a hula hoop anyone’s welcome to borrow. Just don’t make me take part. As a writer I’m there as a voyeur, not a performer!

So, 2010 has begun and with it the return to reality. I’m already missing the joyful limbo-days of Christmas. As a freelancer, it’s the only time of year when I feel truly in sync with the rest of the world, as regularly 9-5.30s are forgotten and hours are suddenly rudderless and whim-focused.

In fact, it was pure heaven, with daylight hours devoted to long country walks and dusk-onwards to lounging by my parents open fireplace, tap-tapping away at my first event theatre-script. The fact my parents don’t have wifi was an unexpected delight, setting me free to concentrate on fiction writing without the distractions of emails, twitter, facebook and, um, EssentialWriters.com.

Once I returned home, the internet did holler for attention once more, but even then, with most media offices closed until yesterday, there was little to disturb my happy creativity.

I also managed to make three trips to the cinema in little over a week, and saw three excellent, very different, films.

The first was Nowhere Boy, the John Lennon story which could have been about any young lad with dreams of being a rock star. Sam Taylor-Wood’s vision of John was both beautiful and very real, and while she steered clear of too much Beatle-mania, the hints of what was to come gave the story a hint of a rosy ending without the Hollywood sheen that could so easily have tarnished the whole affair.

The second film was Where the Wild Things Are, a raucous reimagining of the children’s book by Maurice Sendak. With Dave Eggers and Spike Jonze taking the few words provided bySendak and transforming it into a full-length screenplay, the evocative pictures I remember from my childhood took on life and emotions.

Max, played by the fabulously named Max Records, is a desperately unhappy child dealing with the break up of his family, who runs away one night and breaks all kinds of health and safety rules by sailing off on a lake that transforms into a sea and washes him up on an unfamiliar shore. There he encounters a tribe of disconsolate monsters who make him their king on the proviso that he makes their sadness go away. It’s deeply moving, and definitely not one for kids.

The third film was James Cameron’s Avatar, which I was unsure about seeing, having heard that the storyline was beyond daft. However, the visual affects, aided by 3D glasses, are incredible, and to be honest I would have been happy to spend three hours simply exploring the planet of Pandora without a single event or story-arc.

The world imagined by James Cameron and created by Weta is beautiful, brutal, and utterly encompassing. Seen through the eyes of marine Jake Sully, it becomes even more astonishing as he knows no more than we do about the creatures and plants that surround him. Yes, there’s a bit of a mushy love-story, some tree-hugging stuff and lots of explosions, but really, for me, the planet itself is the attraction.

But now, sadly, it’s time to get back to reality, take off the 3D glasses and do some work.

I love this time of year. Despite the cold weather that nearly snapped my nose off when I went out earlier, there’s something about all the sparkle and shine, the bright smiles on shoppers faces (note: this was at 10 this morning - they’re probably a bit grumpier now), the decorated trees (ours is a glittery black faker bought in Woolworth’s closing down sale last December), and all those promising presents balanced beneath it.

Frankly, I’ve turned into an over-excited kid, and the soothing carols oozing in off Classic FM are only making me fizz harder.

Christmas bauble © Julian Cenkier

The one thing I usually miss at this time of year as a freelancer is the buzz of a pre-Christmas office. The world of publishing is slightly unusual in that it firmly shuts down from Christmas to New Year, so deadlines are crazy, everyone’s overworked, but no one’s complaining because they know they’re about to wallow in at least nine days off. Tins of fancy chocolate biscuits, mince pies and festive chocs do the rounds, and tinsel creates a cheery fire-hazard around computer monitors.

This year I’ve had the chance to appreciate it in full thanks to a few days subbing at a publishing house in Cheltenham, a mere 40-minute train ride from my house in Bristol. I’ve loved every moment of it, despite having to leave my house when it’s still dark and returning home when it’s dark again.

Cheltenham is a very pretty town that comes into its own at Christmas time. As www.britainexpress.com succinctly puts it: “The town is resplendent in Regency terraces of cream-white houses and wrought-iron railings.”

With lofty Christmas trees and tasteful fairy lights twinkling in each window, the town is even more elegant and enticing, with bright baubles and Advent candles adding to the glow.

Previously I’ve only ever been to Cheltenham when the literature festival is on, but now I think I’ll go there more often, and if the opportunity comes up to work there again, I won’t hesitate to say yes.

© Marcel Iordan

It’s been a weekend of wind, rain and art. As the gales whipped the deluge into stinging, lashing whips, the artists in my neighbourhood opened their houses up to the public.

Outside each home a pile of sodden brollies lay heaped like broken flowers; an abstract sculpture, while we trod patterns of water into carpets and across bare floorboards.

From the walls hung colourfully painted canvas blocks, or shelves of lovingly stitched and knitted skulls, paper beetles, necklaces strung with buttons, and, in one extraordinary living room, large statues made from carefully selected rocks, pinned together to exude movement in the guise of people dancing, horse-riding, balancing on a single stone hand.

Art trails are among the best treasure hunts of our age, taking us into private homes to catch glimpses of private lives. The artists who sell well are the savvy ones, the friendly ones, who understand the value of a few smaller, cheaper wares and a warm smile. When I find I like the artist as an individual, I find myself yearning to buy their most glorious works, regardless of price.

But the ones who imprinted themselves on my mind are those who embodied their art in some way. I’ll never forget the kitchen and living room transformed into an exuberant 1950’s teashop, selling extravagantly decorated cupcakes and oodles of atmosphere sold by ladies in vintage print dresses and wigs crammed with pink curlers. We bought jam from them and birthday cards, and paused to eat cake in a noisy, cosy corner.

Likewise, I’ll remember the photographer who had managed to capture an underground car park in such a way that each shot transformed it into a scene of serenity, light and beauty.

People who view the world differently should be celebrated, and if they can share that view of the world, so much the better.

So, the most legendary blogger since blogging began has been unmasked, and it turns out she epitomises brains as well as beauty.

We knew she had to be smart. Nobody could write a blog so intriguing it would be transformed into three lucrative book deals, then a television drama (with Billie Piper playing the lead role and shown in 25 countries) and not have an impressive mind. But a scientist?

It isn’t unusual to find doctors and scientists supporting themselves through the long years of study with some rather dubious activities, but I don’t think any others did it with the finesse of Belle du Jour.

Bristol-based research scientist Brooke Magnanti has confessed all to The Sunday Times (note: not one of the tabloids, not even the Sun, but one of the major broadsheets!)

The steamy encounters that turned into some of the most compelling viewing of the past few years began as a means to make money while she wrote her PhD.

To cope with the stress of being a high-class call-girl, in 2003 Brooke began writing the blog that led to the 2005 publication of best-selling book The Intimate Adventures of a London call Girl.

Now the debates over her true identity and over whether her memoirs were genuine or not, have been answered by the 34 research scientist who works in developmental neurotoxicology and cancer epidemiology at St Michael’s Hospital in Bristol.

On Sunday she wrote in her blog how happy she was to be out in the open and stated how important the anonymity of the blog was to begin with, allowing her the freedom to be utterly honest about everything other than her name.

I think coming forward was a brave and rather wonderful thing - now we know who she is, people might realise that the women they see on the street and in strip clubs are more than meat on a platter - they could be on the way to discovering the cure for cancer.

Last Saturday, October 31st, I meandered into town, minding my own business, and got caught up in a cloud of zombies. What’s the collective term for zombies? A herd, a flock, a gaggle, a stagger? Yes, a stagger seems right.

Their bodies disjointed, hung from some unseen string that harpooned a shoulder, a hip, for the ultimate lopsided gait, blood-stained flesh tinged an unseemly green, mouths agape uttering haunting moans, they made their way from the town centre to the shopping district, lunging at passerbys and thrilling and chilling in turn.

Doctor zombies carried dripping limbs and saws, chef zombies wielded menacing whisks, bride zombies in shredded gowns dragged more blood in their trains while the most fearful zombies of all, toddler zombies, had the staggering down pat.

Normally rational people flinched away from their reaching, wavering hands, staring with amazement and alarm, then one voice rang out. “Get a job!”

Interesting thought. Can someone who isn’t actually living make a living? Does a cemetery counts as a home address? And what kind of job would they be best suited to? Working in a creche might be a no-no, as might the city farm (too many succulent piglets to suck on). Their taste in clothing is distinctly of the soiled and stained rags variety, while the blood on their hands would ruin the wares of any fashionable boutique. No, I’ve got it, they could work in MacDonalds. The only thing is, you might end up with a few unspecified bits of meat in your burger, and don’t expect service with a smile.