Oh right, well HELLO!
This is new, isn’t it? I’ve been toying with the idea of sending out a regular newsletter for a while now, and WHAT BETTER TIME to give it a go than during a global pandemic!?
My thinking is that people could do with a little treat in their inboxes that has absolutely nothing to do with Covid-19, Boris Johnson’s hair and doesn’t use the words ‘unprecedented’ every 5 secs.
Also I’ve been umming and ahhing about what to do with my blog, BloodyHellBrennan for ages. I don’t want to get rid because there’s bare on there that I’m proud of but since becoming a teacher of small children it feels a bit wrong to be posting about booze and boobs and all the rest of it on the reg. So, I imagine this newsletter to be a bit of chat about whatever takes my fancy and a chance for me to share some COOL STUFF that I see round the web. That’s the idea anyway, we’ll see how it goes. I do hope you’ll stick around with me for the ride. Strap in, it’s gonna get wild.
Best links this week
Digital Care Packages- This resource from Dropbox has 20 folders of fun curated by artists, designers, stylists, writers and musicians. Some of it is a bit wanky, but there’s some good shit in there too. I particularly enjoyed Roxanne Gay’s essays and Bobby’s Bingo from Bobby Berk of Queer Eye fame.
Jacqueline Wilson - Dunno about you but I’m finding it really tricky to concentrate at the mo. I was starting and abandoning books all over the shop and in the end I decided the heart wants what it wants, and my heart wanted Tracy Beaker. I’ve been languishing in the comfort of Jacqueline Wilson’s back catalogue and I have laughed and wept actual tears too. They are like a big warm hug. And then I went and played on the website, which was literally really fun. And yes, I turn 33 next week.
I enjoyed this from Penguin books - 12 Novels that Lockdown Would Have Absolutely Ruined
Every John Peel Session collated into one place. You’re welcome music nerds.
This is lovely - an interactive, nature themed guided meditation from the New York Times. Ideal if you can’t go outside much at the moment or you’re a long way from pastoral bliss in the urban jungle. (Also Spotify are now making Daily Wellness playlists- a mix of music and meditation if that’s your thing!)
Ever wondered what the Muses from Hercules would be like if they were played by five fabulous gay black men?
Shit that I love this week
Dungarees. I don’t care that they are not the most flattering on bigger bodies bc my husband says my bum looks like a bag of oranges and hoists me up by them at the back and it makes me feel good.
This instagram filter:
Ghost. Available on Netflix now. Top film but mainly for this moment.
Afterlife on Netflix. I’m not the hugest Ricky Gervais fan but this is just BEAUTIFUL. In case you’re even later to the party than I am, it’s about a man piecing his life back together after the death of his wife. I swear it is a masterclass in writing and performance. I howled with laughter throughout and cried for approx 30 mins after S1E5. Your soul will thank you for it.
The pure joy of the gang back together. AL + SOFIE FOREVA <3
Small biz shoutout of the week
This weeks small biz shoutout goes to my pal Emma of Emma Inks. She makes a whole host of gothic and tattoo inspired cards that are perfect for your favourite spooky bitch chum. She has super cool hair, a total IDGAF style and is a total badass queen. Go buy her cards.
Black Skull w. double party hat card - £3
Musing of the week
God I miss the pub. Is there anything else in the world like a British pub? I love most pubs to be honest. (But let me be clear. NOT BARS. Bars and pubs are very different things. If a pub is like a cuddly mum in a woolly cardi, bars are like a braying bankerwanker in a cheap Burton suit.)
Today I’d like to tell you about some of the best pubs I’ve ever been to.
I’m in Chichester with my parents and my friend Mat. We’re there to see 'Sweeny Todd’ at the theatre. We tumble out of the foyer after the show, all agog with Sondeim inspired joy. We are so elated by the thrill of the theatre we decide to find a pub for a debrief and a couple of last pints.
We find a little pub, tucked around the corner of the main high street. It is unassuming, yet seems to hum like a little bright beehive. We step inside, and it’s warm and my Dad’s glasses fog up. The pub is split into little sections with the circular bar in the middle, with Union jack flags up- but not in a Nigel Farage kind of way. There’s a healthy supply of ruddy faced chaps propped up, sharing good-natured banter with the couple running the bar. We find a little nook and we order pints of Fullers beer. We try some of the homemade pork scratchings. They are decadent and filthy all at once, something that the Greek Gods would have munched on in a secret corner of Mount Olympus.
We snuggle into a little nook at the front and are cooing and pointing at the photographs and ‘stuff’ on the wall, when an ancient British Bulldog grumbles round the corner of the bar, waddling like a beer keg on legs. I am immediately smitten. He snuffles slowly around the room, then, decides the best place for a snooze is right in the middle of the thoroughfare. He splays himself out, four legs pointing out like a fat little star. The locals know him well and there’s a few nods and calls of ‘Hello George’. Of course he is called George. Ten minutes later and he’s up and gruffling round again. He comes over to check out us, the newbies. Within two seconds, he is on his back, legs akimbo and I am rubbing his belly and cackling with joy.
I don’t often feel the thrill of utter, sheer bliss but that night was one such occasion. There, in that pub, with my family, having just seen a cracking bit of theatre, cold pint in hand, the taste of so-bad-its-good scratching in my mouth, tickling the tummy of George the Bulldog. That was a moment worth being alive for.A pint always feels better when it’s ‘cheeky’. To truly be an authentic ‘cheeky pint’ means that it must absolutely spontaneous, and it should occur when one should usually be doing something else more responsible. This is the story of the ultimate cheeky pint.
It’s 2006. The start of Summer. I’m in Stratford Upon Avon, a student on Year Out Drama. I’m in the thick of rehearsals for an upcoming performance. The rehearsal room is hot, the black rubber floor making our feet funky. We are a bit tired, a bit hayfevery, a bit sweaty. The director then tells us that he’s changing the schedule for the afternoon. My ears prick up and I find that I am not needed for the scenes being rehearsed that afternoon. The desire to be outside runs through my body like a shot of apple sourz. A friend of mine, Harriet is also surplus to requirement that afternoon. The director tells us to use the time wisely, so we decide to go and sit by the river and learn our lines, like the diligent, dedicated students we are.
We get outside and start meandering through the twee Stratford streets, down to the riverside. It’s WARM. Our sandals flap on the hot pavement and the last of the blossom drifts down onto the kerb as tourists snap and click their Canons around Shakespeare’s old haunts. We walk past a pub that has seats and umbrellas set up outside. One of the tables is empty. We both clock it. We look shiftily at one another out of the corner of our eyes. An almost imperceptible nod of the head and a cock of the hand, that gesture that regardless of where you are means simply, ‘Pint?’
Before we know it, we’re arses down on the slightly splintery wooden seats, a pint of cold lager in front of each of us. We know we should be in rehearsal really. We know we should be using this rare pocket of free time to work on the play, memorise lines and develop our characters. We know that the rest of the cast are still there inside the dark rehearsal room. And that’s what makes this pint taste better than any pint I’ve had before or since. The condensation runs lazily down the glass and we grin naughtily at each other and clink as we secretly hug ourselves, reveling in our mischief. I can’t remember anything else about the pub. The bliss of this moment was just that, the ultimate cheeky pint.Our local is a proper local. It doesn’t have funky vintage stuff splattered over the walls. It doesn’t have squashy, velvet armchairs. It doesn’t have a menu of overpriced Small Plates and Sharing Boards. It doesn’t do cocktails, unless you count a gin and tonic, served in a slightly warm glass fresh out the dishwasher. It is one of the best pubs in the world.
No matter what time of the day, the bar is littered with a scattering of old Irish men, drinking pints of Guinness and shouting loudly at each other in thick brogues. They make a huge fuss of me whenever I come in, telling my husband how lucky he is, that I’ve got Irish eyes and cheering for me to win at pool. It’s like having a row of sweary grandads waiting for me whenever I go in. The only cider they have on tap is Strongbow, so I have a pint of that, Ryan has a pint of Guinness and we rack up the balls on the pool table. Above us, there is a TV that is usually blasting out the racing or the Gaelic Football. If there’s no sport on, the speakers crank out Irish folk songs and 80s dance bangers. It’s a pretty eclectic mix. Occasionally, one of the Grandads will shuffle up to the pool table and put a pound on, and say, “Winner stays on.” We have had some of the funniest evenings in there playing impromptu pool tournaments with Paddy, Tommy(their actual names).
There’s a chap who we call ‘The Pirate’ because he talks with a loud rasping voice that sounds like it has swallowed lungfuls of salty sea air. He has tattoos everywhere and always gives me a huge hug. While we play pool, he talks loudly to the Grandads, telling them what a lovely couple we are, how it’s so lovely that we play pool together. There’s Mick, who is very skinny with big eyes and always smiling. I worry that he does’t eat much or have someone to look after him. He laughs a lot, and sometimes it’s difficult to understand what he’s saying. Once, I offered to buy him a pint of fosters, and his smile faded as he looked up at me and said, “Oh…but…I can’t buy you one back.” My heart broke a bit and I shushed him and bought him one for now and one behind the bar for later. “On me!” I said. “Because your smile always makes me happy!” I hope Mick is okay.
The landlady, Mary, is tall and curly haired with eyes that see everything. She fills up polystyrene bowls with crisps and nuts and cubes of strong cheddar cheese and pops them on the bar. Sometimes she comes round with bowls of piping hot roast potatoes, fresh from the oven for people to snack on. They are the best roast potatoes I have ever had- her secret is garlic pepper. Trust me.
On a Friday night, the meat man comes. He has messy grey hair and thick glasses and comes into the pub shouting, ‘Meat Man!’. Mary gets some sausages, some others ask for steaks and he dives outside, into the back of his van and comes back with the goods. We once asked for bacon. We got twenty thick cut smoked rashers for a mere fiver.
The tables are slightly sticky. The carpet is worn away in places. The place is always too hot. It is old, and shabby and full of social misfits and I adore it. I can’t wait for a sticky pint of Strongbow and a cuddle from the Pirate as soon as possible.
Laurel of the Week
AH JUST WAN TO HELP WIV JIGSAW MOOMY WHO IZ UR FAVE BEATL MINE IS PAW-L LOLOLOLOL
Thanks so much for joining for the first bloodyhellbrennan newsletter. If you enjoyed it, please share with your pals and encourage them to subscribe! Until next time loversssss!