Ashley Hames2013-06-19T19:09:35-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=ashley-hamesCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Ashley HamesGood old fashioned elbow grease.A Sordid, Sleazy Mess... And I Love Ittag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.34155492013-06-18T08:25:27-04:002013-06-18T12:25:50-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
Fast-becoming a talking point on the live circuit, The Fat Whites are booked to play the Old Blue Last in Shoreditch and I've gone along for the ride. The boys - highly commendably - are horribly late, and their manager Carla is growing increasingly stressed.
'I told them to get the f***ing bus,' she tells me. 'But they're on the way here in a taxi: F***ing tarts!'
I'd hazard a guess that Carla will be dealing with far, far worse in time to come, for when the six dishevelled degenerates who make up the band eventually tumble into the venue, it's plain to see they're musicians second, DIY rock n' roll stars first - which, in a world of crushingly polished brand product, is entirely the correct order of affairs.
Eventually, the pulsating rhythm of opening track Auto Neutron kicks in. It has a brooding, drug-addled, psychedelic air of pure menace. Singer, Lias, and guitarist Saul share the vocals.
Saul is reminiscent of a debauched Mick Jones. He has Ian Curtis' eyes. He also has a front tooth missing. It's difficult not to stare. It's like being in the presence of a benign ghost. He looks ill, spaced-out, and other-worldly. I feel like I could gently push my arm into his stomach and it would exit through his back the other side.
Saul may be a hologram but he's also a fantastic guitarist. As well he needs to be, because tonight I suspect his bloodstream would put an elephant to sleep.
By the fourth song, frontman Lias has lost his top, revealing a scrawny heart tattooed on a bony but muscled torso. He is lean and hungry, and looks like he'd be filthy in the sack. 'Cream of the Young' is a blissed-out, darkly neurotic, electro-driven track, ridden with sleaze, and boasting a guitar lick of which Jenna Jameson would be proud. It is one of many sordid stories that make up debut album, 'Champagne Holocaust.'
As the group staggers on, I notice several hot young girls towards the front of the stage and I worry for them. Corruption is imminent.
'Five sweaty fingers with a criminal impatience,' Lias belts out during stand-out track 'Raining in Your Mouth.' On stage, this guy is a star performer. Brimming with manic energy and lustful to engage his audience, he is backed with a voice which somehow combines elements of Shane MacGowan, Johnny Rotten and Mark E. Smith. As the song climaxes, he repeatedly screams 'Who's sipping chicken soup in my chicken coup?'
There's a bit of a Cobain thing going on here too, not just in the rasp of his vocals but for the brilliantly surreal lyrics. They mean nothing and everything.
Also in the mix alongside Lias and Saul, is bassist Joe - who I previously witnessed playing an entire gig collapsed on his back - plus keyboard player, Nathan - who seemed to spend much of the same night gently nodding off, surrounded by spilt beer. A second guitarist, Adam, and drummer, Dan, try their shambolic best to hold things together as the band, at times, go perilously close to full-on carnage.
But the self-destruct button and the chaotic stage-presence is all part of the appeal, for it's in chaos - and at this gig - where you find a magical sense of freedom, of raw punk potential, that is fantastically entertaining. It also gives the Fat Whites a sense of danger that I haven't witnessed since seeing The Happy Mondays in their heyday.
There are shades too of The Brian Jonestown Massacre, a narcotic dash of The Libertines, a smattering of MGMT. It's a deeply, deeply twisted and intoxicating mix.
Tonight, there are many contradictions: The Fat Whites are raggedy yet totally kick-arse, renegade but charming, threatening yet also inclusive. But at heart, there is a real sense of brotherhood and community here, of six lads lashing out together, fighting for The Struggle and inviting you, intimately - through their music - to come on board and be part of The Family.
I'm in.
Quality director, seminal band, what's not to like?
Well, quite a lot as it turns out, for Made of Stone is far less than the sum of its parts.
Describing the documentary as a 'love letter' Meadows has freely admitted that as a devoted fan of the Roses his aim was to celebrate the re-union of the group rather than to dish the dirt. Fair enough, but Meadows's reverence for his musical heroes is a weakness which results in a flawed film that is too little insightful documentary and too much standard concert footage.
The reasons for the initial split are washed over, the motivation for the comeback scarcely touched on. So what if it was for the money - I'm a fan too, I really don't care - but a basic human curiosity impels me to want this question answered or at least addressed by the man charged with filming the comeback. The only probing question - posed at the re-union press conference - comes, pointedly, from a music journalist rather than from the film-maker himself.
The worst example of this whitewash occurs about half-way through the film when a warm-up concert in Europe goes badly wrong with drummer Reni bolting early from the stage and clearing off home in a huff. Ian Brown is left fielding a chorus of boos and tries to appease the crowd by calling his drummer "a c**t".
With the band seemingly on the verge of imploding yet again, we'd expect some follow-up actuality, a word with the singer perhaps, or at least a clear-the-air chat a day or two later with the drummer. But no, there's none of this. Instead the film cuts to Meadows the director - supposedly post-gig - sat on the side of a non-descript hotel bed telling us that the atmosphere in the Roses camp is currently somewhat tense. But surely it's the job of the documentary director to capture that, to film it, to talk to the band about it, rather than resort to telling us about it via a lame video diary update.
It feels like something of a cop-out.
It feels like he's trying to protect them. It also feels like Meadows doesn't want to ask awkward questions and be responsible in any way for potentially jeopardising the band's survival. I can understand this - he's a fan and heck, there's a lot at stake here - but ultimately it means he is not up to the job of directing this film. That doesn't mean I wanted the director to go on a mud-raking mission, it just means I wanted the real story to be told in a truthful way rather than in the tiptoe manner that makes this more of a brand product than a genuinely revealing documentary.
To be so resolutely on-message is understandable for someone so enamoured of the band. And it pains me too to be critical but you can't ignore the fact that Meadows doesn't seem to want anything - least of all his camera - to get in the way of a smooth passage towards the Heaton Park comeback gigs. It's a real shame this, because paradoxically it is Meadows's love for the Roses, his burning desire for things to work out, that actually prevents him from telling a truly interesting, original and engaging story about them.
That said, any Stone Roses fan will still love this film. The gigs are great, full of collective joy, celebration and unity, and of course fantastic songs. And yes, there are moments of brilliance - the opening sequence of Ian Brown walking down a sea of adoring fans is mesmerising and beautifully shot.
But I can't help but feel that Made of Stone could've been so much more.
I found myself imploring Meadows to get more involved, to interact, to tell us something about The Stone Roses that we didn't already know. Perhaps there were filming restrictions imposed upon him, but for whatever reason, we never get any real sense from Meadows of who this gang of lads are or where their interests or motivations lie - just that they used to be in a great band and are now getting back together after a very long break.
The only person who ever actually talks to camera - very sparingly- is bassist Mani. There's the occasional larking about backstage and in rehearsal but none of the band ever actually talks to Meadows in any meaningful way.
There's a moment that encapsulates this lack of personal interaction when the camera is focused on the Stone Roses backstage door before the Warrington gig. It opens and Liam Gallagher exits with Ian Brown bidding him goodbye. Brown sees the camera, smiles and closes the door. The camera stays focussed on the spot. An instant later Brown re-opens the door with just his head visible and peers out. He looks to camera, holds the look for a couple of seconds, and then closes the door again. And that's it. That's the sequence. But it reveals a lot: We're very much on the outside here, with not much of a look-in.
While we may not gain exclusive access to the Roses' inner sanctum, the least you'd expect is a word or two from one of the band about their thoughts before they go on stage to perform together in England for the first time in over a decade. But you get nothing. Are they playing any new songs? No idea. We don't hear any.
No questions are asked, and so nothing is answered.
Contrast that with the sequence of the build-up to the same gig where fans of the band queuing up outside for tickets are interviewed, one after another, for a full twenty minutes. While there are a few great moments here, some funny and touching snapshots of Roses followers, this is painfully overlong. Worse, it's footage which serves to highlight further the total lack of any half-decent interaction with the subjects we - and they - had all come to see.
Made of Stone had such great potential but in the end, it's really just a series of set pieces - the comeback gigs - bolted together with archive footage.
In fact, it's within the archive that the nuggets of this film are to be found. There's an interview with John Squire and Ian Brown responding brilliantly to amusingly inane questions from a pop journalist the week before the release of their brilliant Stone Roses album. It is surreal and mesmerising - two soon-to-be icons on the cusp of greatness and who both know it. They look amazing, they sound charming and entertaining; which only makes it even more frustrating that Meadows singularly fails to engage them in the making of this documentary.]]>News Bunny's By-Election Memoriestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.21518892012-11-18T19:00:00-05:002013-01-18T05:12:01-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
Some of you may remember cable TV station, L!ve TV, and the station mascot, News Bunny. For my sins, I was once that rabbit, decked out in a full furry outfit and asked to stand as a candidate in a parliamentary by-election and win some much-needed publicity for the ailing channel.
One slight problem, one of the station bosses explained to me, was that they wanted News Bunny to register his candidacy as 'News Bunny' rather than my real name. Would I be willing to change my name by deed poll? My reaction was to burst out laughing.
Two weeks later, having legally changed my name to News Bunny, the news team and I headed up to Tamworth in Staffordshire for the election. As the leader of The Official Bunny Party, it was my aim to become the first rabbit to make it into parliament. I would be campaigning under a manifesto for reducing carrot mountains and introducing new transport schemes to cut the number of road kills: sensible policies for a rabbit.
Armed with a hastily cobbled together placard proclaiming, 'CARS ARE KILLING US, SAVE THE BUNNY!' I planted myself in the middle of the road and proceeded to stop traffic from passing through town. Cars began piling up and beeping their horns. A crowd of drunken lads spilled out of the nearby pub and began chanting their support. Photos were snapped for the local newspaper, and our camera crew captured the scenes as the police arrived. After ignoring their orders not to continue my protest, I was shoved into the back of a police car and driven down to the local station, still dressed in my furry outfit.
On arrival, I took off my rabbit head to be charged and fill in various forms.
"What's your name, son?"
"News Bunny," I replied.
"Don't take the piss my boy; the joke's over now."
Luckily I was able to show the duty officer my credit card which had now been registered with my new identity. He looked at it, then back to me, and took a deep breath.
"News Bunny it is then. Sign here."
Before long, a buzz was going round the police station with word of News Bunny's arrival. Various coppers started quizzing me on my campaign manifesto and suggested that getting arrested hadn't been such a good idea for a prospective parliamentary candidate.
"Do you have a criminal record?"
"No."
"You will have now, son. Follow me."
In next to no time I was ushered into a holding cell, carrying my furry head but otherwise still dressed up as a rabbit. After a couple of hours spent reading wall graffiti, the door opened and a policeman walked in with a plate of carrot cake. Nice touch. It seemed I could count on the local coppers for their vote, but the only trouble was that the vote count was taking place later that evening. As I munched down my gratefully received nosh I was starting to worry that candidate Bunny would still be behind bars when his moment of election glory arrived. Oops. This was our big moment and I had gone and ruined everything.
Behind the scenes, company lawyers were battling to secure my release while local newspapers prepared their headlines.
Meanwhile, back in the offices at L!VE TV, station boss Kelvin McKenzie had stopped off at the transmission gallery to watch a feed of the footage of my arrest. I was later told that he proclaimed it as, "the best fucking piece of television I've ever seen in my life!"
Ordering all hands on deck to get News Bunny released, Kelvin wanted his pet mascot freed for election night. Sure enough, an hour later the door to my cell opened once more and I was free to depart. I had been charged with obstructing a public highway and released on bail, due to appear at the local magistrate's court in a month's time.
I would worry about that later. For now, I had to make my way to the town hall and take to the stage with the other parliamentary candidates to hear the election results.
Out of 13 candidates, News Bunny finished a very respectable ninth, racking up an impressive 89 votes.
As I congratulated the winning candidate, I could only think of how very different life could have been if I hadn't got arrested. Those wasted five hours spent in a police cell could have been time spent pressing the flesh and getting me the extra 27,000 votes that could have taken News Bunny to victory. It had been a close run thing, but for the time being, this 24-carrot guy would have to return to his usual day job.
Happy days indeed.]]>60 Years of the NMEtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18996052012-09-20T08:34:38-04:002012-11-20T05:12:01-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/ 'As for the 50 words on my favourite magazine...Christ, I've only really ever felt a kinship towards the NME and, back in the old days, The Melody Maker. The reason is simple: I love music and I found the writing there inspiring, annoying, opinionated, but always memorable. It also looked good, had eye-catching covers, and great photography. And the ink from the pages came off on your fingers. It felt real.'
So when I heard that the NME was hosting a show to celebrate 60 years of existence, I'm there. Behind NME Lines - 60 Years of Iconic NME Covers is currently being held at the NEO Bankside, just next to Tate Modern.
For anyone who ever fell in love with a band, just go.
Now I was going to write this, looking back with nostalgia to the covers that changed my life, those that introduced me to The Stone Roses, Pulp and Suede, remembering the day I bought the Kurt Cobain tribute issue and having a bit of a cry. But I'd rather look forward.
I'm also moved to do so because to celebrate the launch night of the show, next month's cover stars - Palma Violets - played a gig that evening in the Turbine Hall of the Tate. Being slightly out of the loop I'd never heard of these lads before but went along, and was subsequently blown away; absolutely brilliant. I think I'm a pretty hard customer, but what a cracking band. I'm in.
See what you think, here's a snippet of footage I took on the night. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a438U9egmFk
It's strange - I wrote a blog a few weeks back saying how Edinburgh band The 10:04's had deeply affected me and made me feel young again. And now - to paraphrase Al Pacino in The Godfather - once again, just as I keep thinking my time as a music-besotted indie kid is over, the NME, it pulls me back in.
Loving it though; thanks NME.
I never heard back from that job application by the way, so if you're looking...]]>Bored of Vaginastag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18612092012-09-07T19:00:00-04:002012-11-07T05:12:01-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/Vagina: A New Biography has been getting its fair share of column inches.
Calling it Vagina is obviously designed for maximum shock value. Cunt would have been far more effective, but that's America for you. Still some distance to go.
I have to ask though, am I the only one that's bored rigid by feminists banging on about their vaginas?
I think via Germaine Greer and The Vagina Monologues we've surely got the message by now - It's in between your legs and there's a really sensitive bit of it that we, as men, ought to concentrate on to give you max pleasure. And we should be nice and kind and respectful to it at all times.
Most of us do our best.
But this constant reinforcement of The Vagina smacks of insecurity. Why the obsession Naomi? This isn't a symptom of some underlying issue with body image, is it? I hope not. Of course, aesthetically speaking, vaginas aren't exactly Constables. Neither in my opinion are male genitalia. But that's cool. Or is that not cool?
Whatever, by battering me senseless with how wonderful it is, and reinforcing IT with almost other-worldly powers, I'm starting to fear the bloody thing.
Geez, there'll be someone coming along next telling us their bits are so extraordinary they can
double up as a cheese grater.
Seriously though, there's something oddly childish about this buttressing of the vagina. It's mine! It's all mine. And I love it. Yes, yes, I really do. Love, love, LOVE IT! It's a very special thing. Really! Honestly, I do. It makes me feel good and you CAN'T take it away from me.'
Alright, calm down. I heard you. About 20 years ago.
I know that historically things have been tough for the female sex. I'm sure there are areas that we can all work on but I think we should count our blessings. These days you can be the darling of the Western World in a band called 'Pussy Riot.' Would an all-male band called 'Penis Frenzy' have garnered the same support? Doubt it.
A woman is free to divulge the intimate details of her vagina and is hailed as a radical, her book a breakthrough in feminist literature. If a man did the equivalent with a book called 'Cock,' he'd probably be dismissed as an ego-centric sex--obsessed weirdo. Possibly with good reason. A penis is just a penis. A vagina is just a vagina. Why embellish them with all these complications?
I am aware, by the way, that Vagina isn't just about the actual biological zone, but if you're going to call it that, then I'm assuming that's where you want me to focus. Really though, you should have called it, I Have Nothing Much To Say But I Thought I'd Say It Anyway then we could all get on with having orgasms or not.
On which point, does this obsessive concentration on the female orgasm really help matters? I think it just ups the pressure - both on men and women. Sure, some women have problems, some don't. Some men have issues, and some don't. Some people can run really quickly and others can't. Help is out there.
Most notably, Wolf does come up in the book with the supposedly 'new' revelation that the
vagina is connected to the brain.
Fuck me; 'A' for effort right there.]]>Damn, I Love Musictag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.18376552012-08-28T19:44:12-04:002012-10-28T05:12:04-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
You may be a music lover but you rarely buy any records. You know who your favourite bands are and now, nothing you hear ever really makes you feel like you did when you were younger. You and I, we're out of time.
I felt exactly like that until a couple of days ago, for that's when I heard the new single, Lights Out, from The 10:04's, a four-piece band from Edinburgh.
The song, Lights Out, resurrected in me that priceless feeling of teenage abandon that I thought I had left far behind me in a trail of lost loves and the forgotten litter of time.
Let me tell you: It is so great, so brilliant to be surprised, to feel music help shed the hardened exterior of a skin that I thought had seen it all before. Because here, with Lights Out, The 10:04's have taken me once more to places I had forgotten existed. Goodbye cynicism, welcome back wonder.
For me, only music, very special music, can really do that.
I have written only one fan letter before in my life - to the songwriter Mikey Georgeson, who now plays as Mr Solo (Mikey Georgeson and the Civilised Scene).
Many years back, I was moved to do so because, at a concert he gave - showcasing entirely new songs - I felt like somehow, somewhere deep and primal within me, I knew those songs already. Those amazing songs were already part of me, and Mikey had brought them to life. I was so grateful. The words of the album from where they came - Shiney On The Inside - are now tattooed on my arm forever.
So yesterday, I guess, was my second ever fan letter, written to Danny Scrimshaw, guitarist in The 10:04's. Now I don't like to write about music in technical terms so I thought instead I'd re-produce part of that letter for you here. I'm sure Danny won't mind. "Danny, I am not kidding, when I listened toLights Outfor the first time (and still), I was like, 'Oh my God, they've cracked it! They've fucking gone and done it!'
I listened to it kind of predicting what I was hoping was coming next and each time...it delivered every hope. I just think it's an incredible, beautiful, amazing song. The guitar at the end just completely broke me to the point of total joy."
What I didn't tell him - because for a 41-year-old man to admit this to a young indie-punk kid from Scotland is, quite frankly, embarrassing - was that I had played the song for over three hours on constant repeat, on headphones, at full-blast, while lying in my bed where, for the first time in years, I actually cried tears of happiness.
The 10:04's have made me feel young again.
Shame on me, I'd forgotten music could do that.
The Youtube video of the song is here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_KyQ1BlR0iw
You can buy Lights Out on i-tunes here: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/lights-out-single/id551910320
The 10:04's are on Facebook here: http://www.facebook.com/the1004s
And you can follow them on Twitter here: http://www.twitter.com/the1004s]]>Taking Drugs Is Not a Diseasetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.15554122012-05-30T19:00:00-04:002012-07-30T05:12:13-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
No-one I have known in my immediate family has, to the best of my knowledge, suffered from any serious addiction. These, however, are the boxes I can tick: alcohol, drugs, sex, gambling.
As far as drugs are concerned, cocaine and sleeping pills were my drugs of choice. And yes, it was a choice. I chose them. They did not choose me. It wasn't like I woke up one day and discovered I had this terrible 'disease' which wasn't my fault and for which I should receive your sympathy and compassion.
I agree that drug addiction should be dealt with by doctors and not by policemen. But we shouldn't make the mistake of labelling that addiction as a disease. Addiction is an illness caused by taking too many drugs for too long, the physical reaction to excessive use. I don't mean to be unsympathetic - I feel desperately sorry for the many vulnerable people who made the leap into drugs and slipped too far. All I'm saying here is that to call drug abuse a 'disease' is wrong.
This is more than just semantics. By labelling drug abusers as 'diseased,' we negate them from any real sense of responsibility for their individual actions. I'm all for a bit of love and compassion, but let's get real here and call things by their proper names. Taking drugs is avoidable, Parkinson's is not.
I can't stress this enough, but when you initially take drugs you are essentially making a life gamble: Can I handle this or not? If you can't, then you'll lose the bet and become an addict.
You may lose everything, including your life. If you're lucky - and many of us are - you won't. But the decision to take drugs is not ingrained in your DNA, it's not a genetic fault-line, it's just... a gamble. By calling it a 'disease' we're implying that in a drug-free parallel universe you'd still fall 'ill,' succumb to your 'disease' and start seeking out substances that you didn't even know existed.
Taking drugs is a decision, not a disease.
People use narcotics usually for one of two things - for the pursuit of pleasure, or to escape painful memories. And drugs can, initially, be great fun, and they can also be a vacuous obliteration. And then addiction can take over, at which point, sure, a medical condition results. But it's a choice first, and a condition later; let's not label the telephone call to your dealer a symptom of some greater 'disease.'
To think of my drug-taking activities as a medical condition is a complete cop-out. Did this disease make me roll up that ten pound note, stick it up my nose and snort a line of cocaine? Hardly. It was impulsive behaviour and impulsive behaviour is exactly that - behaviour.
In life, we define ourselves by what we do, and if we choose drugs, the choice is ours, not some indefinable, ethereal illness. There's no disease controlling me if I decide to chop out a line. For me, it was usually just a temporary error of judgement and an appetite for self-destruction. For others it may be something different, but whatever it is, it's got nothing to do with disease.
Someone like Russell Brand - curiously invited to speak to the Home Affairs Select Committee on Drugs - has received the best therapy money can buy, treatment which has succeeded, I believe, only in brainwashing him into thinking he's devoid of all responsibility for his actions. For someone so self-indulgent, that's the best medical diagnosis he could possibly have heard. No wonder he's embraced it so warmly.
When he appeared in parliament, Brand said that "the illegality makes no difference, the consequences in the country of origin makes no difference."
With the comforting blanket of having been told he has an illness, people like Russell can sleep soundly at night, for in his diseased heart he knows it was never his fault that blood was spilled in the poppy fields of Afghanistan to feed his former addiction. Perhaps a poverty-stricken drug mule died from ingesting a stash of the brown stuff destined for his front door. Well, don't look at Russell, it was beyond his control. Another contract killing in the slums of Rio? Nothing to do with Russell; please don't disturb him, he's dozing.
As long as the use of drugs is considered a disease then we are all blameless, we can all carry on obeying the higher calling of our 'illness' and stick another needle in our arm and to hell with the consequences. Leave us alone, we're stricken.
I'm not saying you should or shouldn't take drugs, but if we do then we should face the consequences of that drug use, deal with the guilt and shame, accept responsibility and know that you, that I, and that thousands of others have caused misery, both on our own doorstep and many miles away, to countless faceless, impoverished individuals.
During his appearance, Brand said "I think that there's a degree of cowardice and wilful ignorance around this condition..."
I couldn't agree more.]]>Book Rapetag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13903872012-03-30T19:00:00-04:002012-05-30T05:12:01-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
I'm happy about that. In fact, I think my frustrated ambitions in TV-land have been the making of me, for as I have turned to writing I'm now doing something that feels totally and utterly right. TV was always great fun, but writing feels more natural. It feels special. It makes me feel truly alive.
I write in quite a bizarre way - back when I had my first book in mind I would write maybe 10,000 words in a weekend and then spend weeks unable to add a single word. The creative gaps were tormenting but always, just when I would start to lose faith that I would ever near completion, the flow would return and I would blast out another 40,000 words in a matter of days. Repeat.
Then, as every author knows, come the painful months of further writing and re-writing, honing and polishing, adding in and taking away. You're trying to find balance, pace, variety. You write and re-write some more, you cut and paste, shift and organise. And then you add a chapter. And then delete it because it doesn't feel right. Another month lost.
Make no mistake: writing, while brilliantly fulfilling, can also be a hell of a grind. Writing, like life itself, is beautiful agony.
From my finished text of 130,000 finely tuned words I then cut out 55,000. Yep, 55,000 lovingly written words ditched; in the bin...hundreds of hours of hard graft gone forever. God, that hurt; but I knew my book would be better for it.
Just as I was adding a few more finishing touches, I got some publishing interest (thank you Stu Wheatman and Tonto Books) and managed to secure a somewhat less than lucrative deal for this, my first book. My advance was a magnificent £500 all in - working out at around a quid a day for the time it took me to complete the manuscript.
J.K Rowling it was not.
On the scale of things, if J.K Rowling is a whale, I was mere plankton. Just as in the music industry, in publishing the gap between the haves and the haves not is enormous.
It's not crumbs most of us are picking up from under the table, it's atoms. Well, traces of atoms.
Still, no worries; I was now a published author, something I'd never thought I would be able to call myself and something that I remain, to this day, genuinely proud of.
From then on, I was hooked - I had caught the writing bug. I adored the process of writing; I loved doing the rounds at bookstores; I thrilled at rescuing my book from the oblivion of some remote corner of Borders Books and popping it in the number one slot of the Bestsellers section. That felt so good - I felt like my own one-man indie band, socking it to the Big Boys. But that's all I was ever going to be - an obscure little indie band, playing to a dedicated few. Still, that was fine by me. As long as I was having fun and doing what I loved, then I was happy.
So writing made me happy and so it was to writing that I turned for comfort and solace some months after the death of my father in 2007. My way of dealing with such a monumentally life-changing event was to express my feelings on paper.
This is the story of the last week in my father's life: He died suddenly from liver cancer after a week-long struggle.
Like any author, I want my books to be read - if only by a few - and with no publishing deal on the horizon I decided to go it alone and make use of the Amazon facility for self-publishing on Kindle.
There on Kindle, we - the unsigned - can put our art into the ether. Financially it's a non-starter, but I'm not exactly in this for the money. Like anyone else though, I like to be rewarded for my work, and God knows I've put some work into this. But I don't think I'll be buying that Ferrari anytime soon, at least not with the proceeds of this particular book.
To give you an idea of numbers, my first royalty cheque from Amazon, after nearly four months of being self-published was for £112.86. That may not seem too horrific (especially not to fellow writers) but in terms of actually making a living wage, it's utterly laughable. You could earn that kind of money in less than a week at MacDonald's. Think of the time I've sacrificed for that pittance - before I've even uploaded my manuscript we're talking months and months of writing and editing.
And that's just the creative process - that's the best bit. Afterwards comes the really maddening bit, the bit you hadn't really signed up for as a writer - getting your work noticed. It's virtually impossible, but you still try. There's always a chance, there's always hope. And so you spend infuriating weeks trawling through online book review sites pleading for a write-up, endless solitary hours spent pushing the book on each and every social media...Before you know it you've ended up as your very own PR machine doing a job you hate.
What a massive, gargantuan ball-ache.
Add to that the stress of having no idea where you're next pay cheque is coming from, and for me the aggravation that because I'm a vaguely recognisable face, everyone assumes I'm minted when, in fact, I've been unemployed for years and am completely, nose-against-the-wall-skint.
Meanwhile, everyone else with 'proper jobs' thinks I'm just lounging around being 'arty.' I wish.
Writing can be a crushing slog, a seemingly never-ending battle which can sometimes leave you feeling desperate, frustrated and wanting to pack it all in, wishing you'd left your ambitions to die, bitten the bullet and studied accountancy.
It's not like I have an alternative though - I need to write, I have to write. It's not a question of choice: I have to express myself, and I do that through writing. It's just the way things are; it's in my bones.
I can't not write.
Today, because needs must - I spent that £112 a while back now - I find myself in Naples in Southern Italy, teaching English as a foreign language - something I must do to earn a living. And much as I do enjoy teaching, it's really just a job to pay the bills and keep my head above water while I conjure up my next book.
So here I am in Naples and my Italian flatmate, having seen me one evening with my head buried in my Kindle, beckons me over to his computer.
"Ashley, you like books? I have Kindle too. I can show you how to get all books for free."
I am already weeping inside.
He clicks on the book of a random author.
"You see this book? It's easy, look."
He's now on a website where you can download thousands of books at the touch of a button. No payment necessary... no royalty payment, no commercial reward for an author who, like me, has spent years of painstaking labour in the agonising birth of a book, from blank screen to finished manuscript.
All those rejection letters, all those computer crashes and lost pages, all the tortuous self-doubt, all the endless re-writes, all the care to create a suitable cover... everything. None of this is considered by the internet thief in his quest for a quick freebie.
I think my eyes have visibly darkened at this point, but I feign interest. One double-click and less than 30 seconds later and my flatmate has a new book, retail price £7.99, installed on his Kindle for free.
Not wanting to wake the neighbours with a primal scream of despair, I excuse myself and go to my room. Breathe in, breathe out. I power up my computer and load up the internet. I think you know what I'm about to do...
Seven Days to Say I Love You.
I type those words and press return.
Don't fucking do this to me. PLEASE don't do this to me.
And there it is: Seven Days to Say I love You, by Ashley Hames.
My book; my book, which I wrote about my father; my book, which I typed through tears of grief as I relived the last moments of his life, is being pillaged on the internet. My book, which became an all-consuming passion, which was the focus of my energy and creativity for more than three years, is now a PDF document to illegally download. My book, into which I poured my heart and soul, which I wrote with purity and innocence, and which I hoped would help others suffering from loss and bereavement, is just one more product to exploit.
My book; my book about my lovely dad; my sweet little book, the book which I nurtured and caressed, the book which I feel I was put on this earth to write, the book which will stay with me forever, is just another rape victim.
I think I need to find a new place to live.
If you want to buy Ashley's book, it is available on amazon.co.uk for just 77 pence.]]>Let's Talk About Sex: Pegging tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.13023842012-02-28T19:00:00-05:002012-04-29T05:12:01-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/WARNING: This blog contains adult content and graphic images.
Have you ever heard of pegging?
Well, as we approach International Women's Day, I think it's high time we all found out exactly what it is.
Pegging is when a woman wears a strap-on dildo and performs anal sex on a man. And if you're disgusted by that, then please read on: this one's for you.
2012 - according to famed women's sex shop, Sh! - is all set to be the year that pegging will go mainstream in bedrooms up and down the country. Where sex toys are concerned, Sh! has been right at the forefront of an explosion in sex accessories. In 1993, Sh! founder, Kathryn Hoyle, discovered the "Jessica Rabbit Vibrator" and made it one of the most famous toys in the world.
But it's the rise in the number of women buying strap-ons, rather than vibrators, which points to the new upward trend in pegging.
If you like being pegged, then I'm right behind you. Not literally - I'm not that way inclined... the thought of it makes me feel a bit iffy. I don't mind that area being, like, touched a bit... but infiltrated? ...By something bigger than a finger? Yikes.
Besides, the thought that this is how I'll be kitted out in 2013 scares me slightly...
But whatever my personal tastes, I still love the idea of a sexual act that challenges boundaries and promotes female (and male) sexual liberation.
For too long us Brits have sneered at things - especially when it comes to sex - that are perceived as 'different' or 'weird.' But sexual play like pegging, however wild it may appear to the less open-minded, is an undeniable part of modern sex life, a legitimate fantasy for both men and women. So let's not ignore it. Let's talk about it. Other people are.
It's a rule of history that the vast majority of alternative sexual behaviours - like pegging - were initially frowned upon. Masturbation for instance, although nowadays considered 'natural', was once, in certain cultures, completely taboo. Being openly homosexual used to be a scandal - today, amongst the enlightened, no-one cares.
If you really think about it, whether your sexual kink is deviant or even illegal depends entirely on your cultural and historical context - in 21st century Britain you can have gay sex with a man of 18 and enter into a civil partnership. But imagine doing that a century ago. In Iran.
As I see it, yesterday's 'perversion' is today's 'alternative lifestyle.' It may even turn out to be tomorrow's accepted standard of behaviour. A simple change in the law to the age of consent, for example, means that overnight you can go from being guilty of a sex crime to practising an accepted form of love-making.
In terms of what's deemed acceptable or not, things are changing faster than ever before, but as long as your kink is consensual and doesn't harm anyone else, then where's the problem?
We should always think twice before mocking someone else's fetish and condemn it as 'wrong' or 'flawed'. It's not: it's just part of who they are.
The more 'vanilla' - or traditionally 'straight' people - tend to fall into the trap of thinking that their lack of self-knowledge - their ignorance - means they have no kinky side - they almost certainly do, they just haven't discovered it yet. Have they ever encountered forniphilia in their lives? I doubt it. I have. It looks something like this:
As a seasoned sexual adventurer, I struggle to think what 'normal' really is. It's such a dated concept. Is a sexual obsession with rubber balloons normal? What about sensory deprivation? Foot fetish? Or genital trampling? How about muscle worship? Are these things normal?
How many people need to be into pony-play or mummification or gang bangs or indeed, pegging, in order to have them classed as 'normal'? When we say 'normal', do we just mean 'popular'? Or when we say 'normal', perhaps we mean 'acceptable.'
I'm convinced that these so-called perversions - like pegging - are in fact, not just the niche pursuit of a select few. We think they are, only because they remain hidden as bedroom secrets.
Thousands of us are keeping our true fantasies quiet for fear of being ridiculed or rejected as freaks or perverts. That's why a dominatrix will always find customers - because so many men are afraid of telling their partners about darker urges which might get them thrown out on the street. A dominatrix provides them with a non-judgemental outlet for their fantasies.
Shame and humiliation are part and parcel of being 'different' ...of being adventurous. That's the real shame.
Internet porn and a more liberal media have made us increasingly aware of those people with extraordinary sexual kinks or fetishes, but these people have always been among us. However much we may wish to dismiss them as weirdoes - and their subversive tendencies as aberrations - their tastes and desires are as much a valid form of sexual expression as yours or mine.
I believe that companies like Sh! - among others - have helped people who may have more embarrassing sexual fetishes to feel less isolated. And that's a good thing.
So if you're a fan of pegging, well, sure, it may make you an outsider, but you're not a freak: you're just you. And who knows? Before the year is out, you may well become the norm.
Some of this text has been adapted from my book, Sin Cities: Adventures of a Sex Reporter. ]]>Sod the Brits, Here's the Best New Band in Britaintag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12874962012-02-19T10:47:38-05:002012-04-20T05:12:01-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
The song was The Drowners and the band was called Suede.
I rushed up from my bed and pressed record.
The connection was instant.
Those first musical notes had just opened up a little portal in my brain, a sparkly new pleasure zone which I had never thought existed. And when Brett Anderson sang and part-moaned his way through lyrics that crackled with urban sexuality, I was hooked.
This is what it's like when you fall in love with a band for the first time.
And whatever you might think of Suede doesn't matter - for you it might have been Oasis, Arctic Monkeys, The Strokes - whoever - if you've experienced it, then you'll know just how great a feeling it is to be there at the start of something special.
With Suede and I, it was love at first listen and to be there slap bang in the lead up to the release of that first fantastic single was to know that I was now on a journey that would be the most exciting time of my life.
Back in my bedroom, as soon as The Drowners - as yet unreleased - had finished, I wrote the word Suede on the back of my hand because I knew - right there and then - that they would be MY band.
That sense of ownership is important to all penniless students who, back then, owned nothing but tatty clothes, a Walkman and a lighter.
I wanted them for myself; I was in their gang... they were mine.
We all want to belong, and here, in Suede, I'd found my oasis. Let everyone else take their seats in the stadiums, as an indie kid I was happy on the fringe, far more excited with the prospect of the toilet tour to enjoy my special secret with a select group of friends.
Within days, I was in the eye of my own private, stormy little love affair, following Suede around London and the provinces, playing to crowds of less than 200. It was brilliant, dirty, decadent fun. I'd found myself in the middle of something incredible. I was happier than I'd ever been. It was so unique, so spectacularly intimate and personal. We, the fans, were the fifth member of that band.
We belonged.
Everyone at those gigs felt like a part of history, a history that was about to explode.
At the time, I was totally mesmerised by Brett Anderson. I found him intoxicating, and slightly sexier than the girl I was seeing at the time. My obsession left me dreaming of Brett and I would frequently wake up in the middle of the night wondering if I was actually still heterosexual. I was - there's no getting away from it, I simply love tits.
But whatever, they were just dreams; and besides, I digress.
The point I want to get to is the day of 25 April 1992 when it was with mixed feelings that I bought a copy of the music weekly Melody Maker, with Suede - MY Suede! - emblazoned on the cover with the headline "The Best New Band in Britain."
I felt like I'd just walked in on someone shagging my girlfriend.
Fuck. I knew from that moment on that Suede would become public property, which of course, they duly did. Part of me was happy for them, delighted that something so violently beautiful could so sluttishly cross over into the mainstream. At the very least, it gave all the outsiders, myself included, a brief tingle of hope that we could make something of our lives.
But a far bigger part of me was desperately disappointed and frustrated: the days of being able to reach out from the midst of a tiny crowd to rip Brett's skimpy top from his glistening torso were officially and abruptly over.
So you can understand my reticence when - on the day The Brits serves up its usual yawnfest - I take it on myself to announce that there truly is a best new band in Britain.
And here they are.
They are called The 10:04's.
They are a four piece guitar band from Edinburgh.
They play music that you can feel in your bones.
I'd love to keep it quiet, but a sense of journalistic duty compels me to spill the beans, for this is a band that has enough talent to fill a black hole and explode it into stars. With a tour on the way, the 10:04's are all set to have the A&R men swooning. Record labels with be splaying themselves prostrate before them and begging for a signature. And sue me if I'm wrong: It's that much of a no-brainer.
Honestly, I thought that when, like me, you hit the age of 40, those days of falling head over heels with a band were over. But The 10:04's have just thrown the most inspiring and spectacular grenade on that theory. Lads, thank you so much.
I met them by chance in a pub one night when I was playing the Fringe Festival. A band, together as mates - not gigging - just out having fun and getting pissed together.
I bet Coldplay don't do that.
Utterly refreshingly in these One Directional days of cynical, manufactured pop, it was easy to see from the off that The 10:04's were an old school gang in every sense, and one with real presence and effortless cool.
If only I'd been a guitarist, I would've offered my services on the spot.
That night they gave me a CD of one of their songs - Smoke and Mirrors - and I listened to it when I got back to my room. Christ, I played that amazing song about 14 times, back-to-back. It was the best song I'd heard since... since you know when.
The 10:04's are tight, sexy, and achingly talented. With great hair. They even have names like rock stars - Danny Scrimshaw, Johnny Tracey, Steve Bolton, Paul Haddow - names you will doubtless soon be familiar with. But much more than that, they have a rasping energy, razor-sharp melodies, and a bruised beauty about them that'll have the music press in passionate raptures before you can say Pete Doherty.
I know that writing this is a double-edged sword, but truly, I'm telling you this in the spirit of innocence so you can get in there now, before it's too late, and experience the pure bliss I felt all those years ago.
Fill your boots, you won't regret it - I truly believe The 10:04's may just give you the soundtrack to the best days of your life.
So yes, the best new band in Britain - the 10:04's - are on the cusp. Working with producer Tony Doogan (Super Furry Animals, Belle & Sebastian, Dirty Pretty Things) they have just delivered a self-released debut single which is out on the 9 March. It's called SOS.
It's a shot of absolute pop genius. Lasting just two minutes. OMG, two minutes!
Please, it's just too perfect.
It will move you. It's inspirational, essential and addictive. Those vital 120 seconds will make you want to live and taste life at its most raw and visceral. You'll find yourself celebrating but you won't quite know why. But it doesn't matter, because nothing matters when you've just fallen in love.
If you've got a broken heart and a beat up bank balance, this is a band that will give you hope. And I'll be right there with you pal, right at the front of the queue.
Because this band is amazing.
Oh boy, I've just listened to SOS again for about the tenth time in an hour. It's bloody brilliant.
To finish off, I'll let you into a another secret: The 10:04's will be playing a Friday night gig on the 2 March at the Wheelbarrow in Camden, London, where, if you want to let go and live a little, they'll blow you away, pull you into their gang and thrust you into a world of strangely erotic dreams at night.
Just don't tell your girlfriend that last bit.
The 10:04's on iTunes: http://itunes.apple.com/gb/album/sos/id494778500?i=494778507
The 10:04's website: http://www.facebook.com/the1004s
Photos of The 10:04's courtesy of Julia Nicolle: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jules2view]]>Noel Gallagher: God-Like Genius?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.12246632012-01-24T06:42:49-05:002012-03-25T05:12:01-04:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
Alex wiped himself down, took yet another sip of tea and replied, "He's written some cracking tunes....but genius? He ain't there yet!"
And you know what? I'm thinking Alex could be right. If I was to judge Noel solely on his music then I would put him well above most of the competition - there are very few performers who can claim to have provided the soundtrack for a generation, and Noel Gallagher is one of the few. Wonderwall, Live Forever, Supersonic... they're undeniable classics, lasting anthems - as Alex says: "cracking tunes."
But like Alex, I'm not sure if I can bestow 'genius' status upon him.
If Noel's own musical altar is Lennon/McCartney then his own canon of work is somewhere in row three or four of the front pews. No small achievement, but genius? That's debatable.
Anyone that had a controlling hand in producing Definitely Maybe and (What's The story) Morning Glory? must be saluted, if not loved. For me though, barring the undiluted excellence of those first two albums, Noel has had serious quality control issues.
In the last decade, his records have resembled a stilton cheese - they are shot through with veins of greatness, shadows of promise and musical blasts of beauty - but there's way too much stodge.
At their peak in the 90s, Oasis were a sublimely exciting and inspirational guitar band - they were lean, hungry and passionate. They sold dreams and we bought them in our millions. But there's no denying the goose got fat and they later risked ploughing the formulaic depths of bog-standard plod rock which, frustratingly, would still - but all too rarely - break out into such brilliance that you found yourself choking on your pint and reminding yourself of past glories.
The turning point - everyone knows - was the cocaine-fuelled Be Here Now - where in one fell swoop you can move from the insomnia-inducing pedestrian dross of Magic Pie into the sublime drama of Don't Go Away.
Shucks; just when I thought I was out, he pulls me back in.
Overall, you can't help but feel that these were opportunities lost. Get rid of the filler, condense the last five or six half-decent albums into two belters, and he could've been a real contender.
So yes, Noel reaches for the heavens, and sometimes he gets there. But his ladder skywards is always rickety at best.
But with rock 'n' roll, as with all art, music is only part of the story, and with Noel in particular it's impossible to separate the artist from the art, the musician from the music, the person from the product.
And that's where Noel Gallagher comes into his own.
Undeniably, there's something about Noel that sets him apart. That intangible star quality, shared by his brother, gives his work a weight that will always be denied his more vacuous counterparts. That ability to inspire - not just through melody but through sheer force of personality - lends his work far more clout than might otherwise have been the case. Sure, some of the music is lacking; yes, his latter albums are a bit hit and miss, but when he's not singing or playing guitar, Noel can be just as, if not more, captivating.
Noel is both simple and complex. He's a leader who followed the Beatles. He's a fighter with something beautifully innocent about him. He has a warrior-like work ethic coupled with a reckless abandon. He has the wit and timing of a top drawer comedian along with the charm and warmth of everyone's favourite uncle. Impossibly, he has maintained the common touch despite his multi-millionaire status.
Somehow, you believe that had he never breached the Top 40, Noel would always have been a star. In obscurity he would still have been leading the pack, laying down the law, ruling the roost. Noel was born a rock star; and luckily for him, he had the talent to back it up and translate his unlimited self-belief into mainstream success.
Noel, on balance, has earned enough of a reservoir of good will for me to turn a blind eye to the more dubious of his musical achievements and suggest that this time - just - my mate Alex has got it wrong, Noel does shine through and the NME has got it right. ]]>The Stone Roses - Resurrectedtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.10180272011-10-18T19:00:00-04:002011-12-18T05:12:01-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
It's a tricky one this because I loved this band with a vengeance and I have mixed feelings about it.
The release of their celebrated first album coincided with my first year at university back in 1990. It sound-tracked some amazing times - on a spiritual level it marked a time of total freedom and independence, of being reckless and utterly carefree. On a more practical level it was the background music for getting laid, taking drugs and embarking on debauched, late-night adventures.
Above and beyond my love for the songs, this album was a bit like a tattoo - it became a permanent marker that later on in life would always remind me of those times. It was brilliant, fresh, and exciting, and so were those wild days of youthful hedonism.
Perhaps I listen to music the wrong way and this is what prevents me from fully embracing the revival of a past love affair with a band like The Stone Roses. When music conjures up memories, I feel nostalgic to the point of nausea. I feel sad for lost time, lost friends, lost lovers, and wasted opportunities; I feel gutted for a youth that has disappeared. Music does that to me.
And I want to look forwards, not backwards.
But saying that, to see them all again, 20 years later was awkward but also quite lovely. On a human level, I'm glad they've patched up their differences. It seemed like a genuine reunion, not just a money-grabbing exercise. Ian Brown and John Squire sat side-by-side, and in the flesh it was obvious that they have a deep connection. It really does seem that this is not a business partnership but a musical adventure.
This was not a forced reconciliation but something that had flowered from the four band members meeting up at the funeral of Mani's mother last year. Ian Brown mentioned that "something beautiful had come from a dark moment" and somehow it didn't feel cheesy but heartfelt.
It also helped that the four of them still look like a rock band and are still blessed with decent heads of hair. In rock'n'roll, that's important.
In She Bangs The Drums Ian Brown sings one of my favourite lyrics of all time: "The past was yours but the future's mine, you're all out of time."
These were the words that set the band apart as unique and special, as wildly ambitious and blessed with loved-up positivity. Their dreams came true.
Twenty years on, I wonder if Ian Brown can still sing them with real conviction and authenticity. I think he probably can.
As for whether I can listen to these words with renewed optimism rather than with wistfulness, that's a different matter entirely. Thinking about it, maybe a tab of ecstasy might help. ]]>God I Miss my Dogtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9594902011-09-13T19:00:00-04:002011-11-13T05:12:02-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
E bought me Teddy over a year ago now. A handsome little mix of Chihuahua and Daschund, Teddy was so damn cute as a puppy that every day I took him out I literally had groups of girls stopping me in the street to ask after him. Yeah, note to self, right there...
Over the past year Teddy and I had become best buddies. We were unstoppable. We made a good team. I really loved him.
That made leaving E even harder than normal. I was going to be in no position to be able to look after him. Teddy and I were going to be over too.
That day, after the final argument, I packed my bags to leave and wondered about the best way to leave him. I opted not to say goodbye, not to hug him one last time. It would be too difficult.
So I'd just grabbed my stuff, turned my back and left without a word. Then, of course, I realised I'd left my goddam phone in the house so I'd had to go back. Teddy, as per usual, had greeted my return with complete joyful abandon even though I'd been gone for less than two minutes.
That was difficult.
A week later and I'd received a text from E telling me that she loved me, saying she missed me. Then she added that Teddy too had not been the same since I'd left. I had texted back, asking her not to mention Teddy again because I found it too upsetting to think about him. This was the first time I'd felt myself start to cry since we'd split.
Don't get me wrong, I don't think this means I loved the dog more than her, but it's probably true that somehow I was always more emotionally open when it came to the dog rather than the girlfriend. Weird, I know.
And today, after talking last night to The Ex, I'm going back to hers to pick up a spare set of keys so I can start taking Teddy out for walks again. I don't know whether this means that me and E will get back to talking again or maybe even working things out, but to be honest I'm not thinking too much about that right now, I'm just thinking about HIM.
I'm not kidding, I've been so excited at the prospect of seeing him again that I had major trouble sleeping last night.
'He's going to go mental when he sees you,' said E.
She's right, he probably will.
I have visions in my head of me walking through the front door again and seeing him go ballistic, jumping up, licking, barking....scenes of chaotic joy. That's how it all maps out in my head anyway and that's exactly how I want it to be.
Mind you, thinking about it, he only has a very small brain; he'd better bloody remember me.
]]>Getting Away From Sextag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9534742011-09-08T19:00:00-04:002011-11-08T05:12:02-05:00Ashley Hameshttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/ashley-hames/
I'm Ashley Hames and some of you may know me as the guy who presented the Sin Cities shows on Bravo. Sin Cities was a raunchy, gonzo-style documentary series about sex and pornography where I would travel around the world interviewing porn stars and investigating (and sometimes taking part in) odd sexual fetishes.
In fact, I'd say that Sin Cities is pretty much the ONLY thing I'm known for, even though I last recorded a show more than five years ago!
I'm not sure whether this is a good or a bad thing - it seems no matter what I do in my working life I will always be remembered simply as the bloke who had his scrotum nailed to a plank of wood.
Which is fair enough really, it was a very special moment. My Mum was especially proud.
But seriously, I'd thought it was a finished chapter, and that with Bravo TV no longer broadcasting I would now be able to re-define myself perhaps as a writer, maybe as a late night radio host.
But then, just as I felt I was on the verge of putting my somewhat sleazy past behind me, I get the news that another broadcaster on Sky has bought the series and is now re-running it every single weekend.
Pfff.
I'm not ashamed of hosting a filth-laden sex show like Sin Cities - far from it. But Christ, part of me feels like bloody Al Pacino in The Godfather: 'Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!'
I might sound like I'm just mucking about here, but having felt like I had 'done' sex, I had recently moved on to complete a non-fiction book about the recent death of my father, Seven Days to Say I Love You.
As the title might suggest, this is a really sad, poignant story, told from the heart.
It's about terminal illness and pent-up emotions.
It deals with grief and complicated family relationships.
It's dignified.
It has great significance to me.
But how can I possibly hope to be taken seriously when any potential publisher could turn on their TV and see me trussed up in a gynaecological chair having candle wax dripped onto my nipples by a rubber-clad transsexual dominatrix?
That's not what Booker Prize-winning authors do. Well it might be, but it's not usually televised.
It's bizarre: I feel like I'm becoming one of the characters I used to interview - an outsider, someone on the margins, misunderstood, a freak. I really don't mind that - I'm hip with being considered a weirdo, but what I don't like is to be boxed up and defined as a single entity.
It's nothing new to say that human beings are complicated and multi-faceted; that's what makes us special. I may now consider myself something of a writer but I'm the first to admit that at the end of the day, I also love a good wank. Now, there's nothing wrong with that is there?
]]>
]]>
