2013-05-25T02:28:08-04:00 Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=jody-thompson Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Jody Thompson Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.3328852 2013-05-24T19:00:00-04:00 2013-05-24T13:17:03-04:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
I'm sat in the vast O2 Arena in London this week watching our three best polo players battle it out in the Gaucho Churchill Cup across a sand-covered pitch with the top trio of Argentine horsemen. It's thrilling, 40mph-fast and brutal - all flashing hooves, flaring nostrils, bulging biceps and barging each other out of the way whilst dodging violently-swinging mallets. Sadly, we fail at the final whistle to be pipped at the post by the cliched foe.

But the brilliant thing is that even for those amongst the thousands of spectators in this enormodome who have never sat on a horse, everyone is cheering on England, as The Fratellis' Chelsea Dagger blasts out after the last goal we score.

Ah well. The majority of the crowd (no polo-playing Prince Harry, sadly) are still fired up by the spectacle as they file out of the steep wedding cake-esque tiers of the O2 to catch the Tube home, or go to the afterparty to mingle with the firm-thighed polo lords and catch the post-gallop turn, Strictly stars Vincent Simone and Flavia Cacace, who are trotting Argentine tangos as a final insult. It's all part of polo's bid to throw off it's 'posh boy' cachet, and tonight is a benchmark. It's fun for all comers.

But whilst most leaving their seats are simply happy after a marvellous night's entertainment and exciting sport, I am left simply staggered at the skill of the polo players. Because just a week ago, I had my first polo lesson - and despite being a lifelong horserider and, according to some, a talented equestrian, I am chuffing rubbish at it.


Me practising my shots before getting in the saddle


I have always been that particular class of financially poor but completely obsessed horserider. My family never had money, so I never owned a horse. But because I was passionate and persistent, eventually aged 12, after five years of lessons, I nagged (pardon the pun) someone in the next Fenland hamlet to look after their horse that they never rode.

However, despite taking part in gymkhanas, horseshows and Pony Club events with wonderful dumpy New Forest pony Zeb (the posh girls *always* looked down on me for not owning my own equine BUT I WON ROSETTES, DAMN YOU), polo was never on the agenda as, well, I didn't have the mount or the dosh.

But courtesy of the Chesterton Humberts MINT Polo in the Park Academy and Cool Hooves Polo, just a few days before my date at the O2, I found myself in the middle of Hurlingham Park near Putney Bridge (surrounded by baffled dog walkers) having my first polo lesson.

For those who don't know, polo - billed the Sport of Kings, probably 'cos only they can traditionally afford it - is of Persian origin and was first played in the 5th Century BC, but England has made the sport its own since then. Along with India. And Argentina. But you might not know it started off as a sport for the poor - basically, it was hockey on dobbin.


Getting in the swing


Together with a bunch of mostly total polo novices, some of whom have never even ridden, the instructors took us through the rules of the game first (basically, hit the ball into the goal, and in the meantime, try and get it off the opposition) and how to hit the ball. Other important rules equate to you're on half a tonne of horse, don't cross someone's path when they have the ball, otherwise the result is burgers. And always keep your wrist straight when you swing the mallet for a shot, otherwise it will start hurting (I didn't, it did).

After a run through of the polo whys and wherefores sat on nothing flightier than a plastic chair, it was time to be assigned our beautiful horses outside, mount up, and get to grips with riding with a massive mallet in one hand, and reins in the other. I felt a bit like John Wayne on the prairie, lassoo in one hand while keeping a potentially angry animal in check with the other, waiting to rope a rogue calf. Only in SW6.

No thanks to a lazy mare called Tallulah who treated cantering with contempt, it was hard to keep up with the action, but despite my mount's mardiness, I got quite a few hits of the ball (Some of them good! But by crikey, I am generally bobbins at hitting in the right direction), had an absolute blast and graduated from class - with a certificate to prove it.


Whacking the ball in the thick of the action


Really, being able to ride is actually not much of an advantage when it comes to polo. You have to forget years of learning as the way you sit on a horse is totally different in polo - the centre of gravity shifts, as you mostly have to lean forward. And forget your subtle dressage skills - these nags just know forward, stop, and are steered by the directions of the reins slapped on their sinuous necks. So complete ingenues have as much chance as weather-beaten old hackers as having a chance of glory in a chukka (the periods of play that a polo match is split up into).

Even though I was useless, the adrenalin rush (when Tallulah eventually did break into a canter) was incomparable. Seriously, imagine mastering a sport where it's not *just* your skill, but it's coupled with persuading a wayward quadruped into taking part too. And it's REALLY FAST. Magic.

Riding isn't cheap and therefore polo isn't either, but if you fancy a bash at something of an exotic but marvellous sport - and what adrenaline junkie wouldn't? - just have a go. There are quite a few companies, not least Cool Hooves, who ensure whilst you might not be a moneyed sort who's daddy has bought you a pony, you can have a bash for a reasonable price, and who knows? You might be better than Prince Harry.

Even if you don't want to play, go and watch. It's ace, honest. Check out Mint Polo in the Park at the Hurlingham Club, London, as a spectator on 7, 8 and 9 June polointheparklondon.com. I'll see you there, pushing in divots in my stillies.

All images copyright Mint Polo in the Park]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog// 2013-03-18T10:34:20-04:00 2013-03-21T12:28:27-04:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
So after an afternoon spent yomping through trees scaring ponies on a freezing but sunny late February day - and a night eating sensational food in the brilliant Hartnett Holder & Co restaurant (a joint venture between the sublime Angela Hartnett and the hugely-talented Luke Holder) - the following morning, it was time to hit Herb House, the supremely well-appointed and luxurious spa.

I plumped for the two-hour Ayurvedic Forest Escape treatment, as I've always been curious about ayurveda (Sanskrit for 'knowledge of life'), a 4,000 year old Indian wellbeing system. It's a mix of nutrition, herbal remedies, yoga and massage that aims to treat the whole body and spirit and Vishnu knows, both of mine need shedloads of healing.

After slipping on a cosy robe in the gorgeous changing area, my lovely therapist Sophie C took me through to the coolly chic treatment rooms.

We sit down and I fill out a lifestyle questionnaire (ie what skin type I am, how hard I work, personality, etc) as part of my 30-minute consultation to find out which 'dosha' I am ie which body and spirit type, of which there are three - vada, pitta and kapha.

Numbers are crunched and Sophie decides on which of the four 90 minute ayurvedic therapies will work best for me.

While I lie on a heated bed, Sophie uses delicious-smelling oils specially blended with herbs and spices in India for your particular dosha - for me, vata for face, pitta for body - and the most incredible massage I've ever had (the Tri-Dosha Forest Escape Ease apparently) begins.



Using rhythms of three (for each dosha), Sophie firmly works her way around my aching, broken body from literally top to toe, interestingly, including even my chest and abdomen, which is possibly not for those worried about flashing their shirt potatoes - and finishing with a divine head and face massage. She even manages to knead out the knots in my shoulders and neck, asking me if I get regular headaches, which I do, and correctly predicting they always occur behind my right eye. This girl is AMAZING.

Afterwards, I float off to the relaxation area for my herbal tea and a cute little bowl of fresh pineapple and mango chunks feeling so blissed out, I'd have agreed to take a complete stranger's speeding points. The zen-like effect lasts for days too. It really is that good.

I am also given a print out of my fully personalised Ayurvedic mind and body plan explaining what doshas I am (Vata/Pitta split), what it all means, what kind of exercise I should be doing (pilates, which I do anyway and would love to do more than once a week but haven't the time), that I should meditate (fat chance) and do daily mental exercises to balance my "quick-witted but fiery nature" (!), what scents work for me (cedarwood - tick) and more. It's much pretty spot on.

I can't emphasis enough, this is worth every penny and more - and you could spend the whole day in the spa, with it's outdoor steaming hot pool overlooking the forest, incredibly effective hydrotherapy jet pool, huge indoor swimming pool, sauna, steam room, mud house, fully-equipped, state-of-the art gym and fabulous Raw and Cured cafe (featuring meats and fish smoked on site at Lime Wood) etc. That's £170 totally well-spent.

Never mind saving up to have this as a once-yearly treat, I NEED to win the lottery so I can come here and have this treatment every week. I'd be able to park my helicopter on the hotel helipad too. After all, it said on my Ayurvedic plan that I should "have a regular massage, at least once a month" - and who am I to argue with 4,000 years' worth of wisdom?

Two-hour Ayurveda Forest Escape £170. Lime Wood Hotel's Herb House Spa, Lyndhurst, The New Forest, Hampshire http://www.limewoodhotel.co.uk/pamper/]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/thenewswire//2.2637434 2013-02-07T06:09:55-05:00 2013-04-09T05:12:01-04:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/


What is the future of technology-obsessed man? In broad brushstrokes, that's the big question the latest site-specific production from art and theatre company Dreamthinkspeak is asking.

Taking over little-seen spaces, abandoned rooms and bowels of that most handsome of London's Thameside buildings, Somerset House, it would be worth the price of admission alone just to wander free poking your nose into every fascinating dusty nook and cranny. But then the show starts and boy, it's breathtaking.

Billed as inspired by Leonardo da Vinci's obsession with mechanical invention and the ramifications for humanity, as well as the Book of Revelations and John the Baptist, it uses live performance, video, models and installations on a sprawling scale that requires little more from the observer than leaving your inhibitions at the door and turning your curiosity and sense of wonder up to 11.




I can't and won't give too much away, as it would ruin it. Yes, it's a kind of sci-fi dystopian vision, but it's far more charming, funny and moving than that sounds. Da Vinci meets Baudrillard meets Will Lunn meets Asimov. With nudity. And robots.

It's also more immersive than interactive theatre - don't panic if you're someone, like me, who is allergic to audience participation and enforced fun. You can take part if you wish, and you do get up close and personal with the action and excellent actors, but you're so absorbed that it doesn't seem the least bit strained. It's all so believable, like a vivid dream that you really don't want to wake up from.

You're told the experience will last roughly 90 minutes, but really, you can take as long as you need and I emerged blinking into the bitter cold after around two hours. And I wished I'd stayed longer, as now I am desperately anxious that I might have missed something - so I guess I'll just have to go again.

There are rooms filled with oscillators and old machinery smelling of circuit boards, creepy corridors, a Big Brother style figure, narrative threads that converge and diverge, doors that lead to some of the most wonderful things you will ever see in your life, cul-de-sacs that lead nowhere and locked doors.

There are white-coated scientists scrawling never-ending formulae and equations while animated explaining them to you in a foreign tongue you can't quite place - little of any of the dialogue is in English, but you pick up some French here, Spanish there and German over there from the myriad performers. There are surreal films, bizarre mise en scène and heartbreaking (as well as heart-stopping) moments, but with humour throughout. You find yourself poring over abandoned files, fiddling with dials and fulminating over a lemon, all looking for clues. Often, you're quite literally left wondering what does it all mean?

Overall, 'In the Beginning Was the End' is brave, bittersweet, bonkers and beautiful. Buy your ticket now.

Tickets (via National Theatre): 020 7452 3000. On from now until 30 March somersethouse.org.uk]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog// 2013-01-28T09:17:17-05:00 2013-02-19T10:40:41-05:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/ Dryathlon - giving up alcohol for an entire 31 days of winter woefulness in aid of Cancer Research.

Hence I find myself pushing at the door of a branch of the chi chi The Chelsea Day Spa and begging for non-sozzled salvation in the form of the Detox Diva package, described as a two-hour 'lymphatic drainage' massage and facial treatment that helps get rid of your body's toxins to kickstart a New Year new you.

I was soon face down on a ridiculously comfy heated bed, with my therapist Shugar asking if I have any areas of the body that need particular attention.


The Detox Diva is priced at £150 for two hours

After hearing my tales of physical and mental rubbishness, she decides on a combination of divine-smelling eucalyptus, ginger and ylang ylang to begin the back, shoulder and neck 'lymphatic drainage detox massage' to supposedly cleanse the body from over-indulgence and hangovers.

This is not the kind of deep tissue massage I am used to and prefer, but then, if you were going to unblock my lymph glands, you'd probably need Dynorod - even after a month without Chablis.

Shugar's technique is more about rhythmic strokes around where my lymph glands supposedly are -- although as I thought they were just in your neck, armpits, abdomen and groin, this part had me slightly confused. Particularly when she swept her hands down my spine to 'to get the detoxins out (sic)'.

Still, it is a hugely relaxing experience to the extent that, as all cliched massage reviewers relay, reader, I almost nodded off.

After half an hour of hands-on love (or after an hour if you're getting the whole Detox Diva proper), it is time to tackle the face.

Shugar explains she's using a skincare brand called Hydro Peptide, which has myriad 'wow' reviews in the beauty press and is apparently collagen-boosting, skin thirst-quenching, sloughs away dead skin and buffs to reveal your healthy, natural glow.

Added to that is a 'lymphatic drainage facial' to refine pores and leave the complexion refreshed, clean, clear and bright.

Shugar sets to work with two sets of cleanser before two sets of exfoliator, which might be a tad too harsh for sensitive skins, followed by a toner and plumper. Reassuringly, Shugar explains all the time what she is using and what she's going to do. Nothing is left to chance it seems and it all smells delightful, like planting your face in a fruit salad.

After the treatment, your skin feels so good, and whole body relaxed as a drugged kitten, you might do as I did, and go home without putting any make-up back on.

At £150 for two hours, it's not cheap, but certainly the facial side works brilliantly, and lasts for days. This is definitely a once-a-year treat, although whether the whole fandango works as an actual detox, who knows...

Detox Diva at the The Chelsea Day Spa - £150 ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2339857 2012-12-23T19:00:00-05:00 2013-02-22T05:12:01-05:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
I have very good reasons however for permanently craving the hands-ons magic that the best therapist can muster - I am not some cupcake-chomping, facial-fixated, pamper-junkie.

I have had major back problems for a decade. If you want to play trashed-body Top Trumps, I have severe arthritis in my lower spine, two prolapsed discs, piriformis syndrome, sciatica, with nerve damage in my left leg as a result of my wayward vertebrae into the bargain. Then factor in being the kind of journalist who struggles to log off from their laptop and you have typing 24/7 into the bargain - I've had two serious bouts of debilitating RSI and really don't want it again.

I have had various amounts of physio over the years which have generally helped, though you only get a max of around 10 sessions at any one time either privately or on the NHS, acupuncture (useless), osteopathy (okay as they eventually guessed after six years that I might have prolapsed discs and suggested I got an MRI), chiropractic (okay) and various airy-fairy nonsenses that just cost me loads of money and left me frustrated with no relief from the pain.

Pilates and regular gym sessions keep everything functioning and a daily Tramadol helps too. But what I need to feel like a normal person is regular massage, which sadly isn't available for the likes of me on the NHS - even though anecdotal evidence says it's increasingly being used in hospitals and hospices to help patients cope with illness because a lot of the benefits are now being scientifically recognised.

Believe me, it helps. The kind of massages I am talking about though are not the frivolous strokey-feely sort with whale noises as a soundtrack, they can actually hurt. They need to. The therapist needs to unkink and realign muscle fibres that have been inadvertently trained through injury/bad posture/overwork/strain into spasming in a certain fashion - which can throw your body totally out of kilter. Firm, expert pressure can bring even the most tired and aching physique back to life.

When my problems were finally diagnosed, a doctor found I'd lost two inches of muscle in my left leg because of the way I'd been walking in a subconscious attempt to cope with the constant agony. Along with specific physio exercises, proper therapeutic massage really helped me get back to relative normality and maintenance sessions are invaluable to my wellbeing.

Sometimes I want a more basic muscle-smashing approach, sometimes a proper physio massage, sometimes I indulge myself with a five-star spa experience and sometimes I'm happy with a quick 20 minute rubdown sat in a chair.

Whichever I choose I always feel so much better afterwards, even if it was uncomfortable during the treatment (the stretching, bending and being physically walked on during a Thai massage is not for the faint-hearted) but I would give anything to be able to afford an hour-long massage every single week.

Even if you don't have rock-hard shoulders, a bunched-up back, frozen-ass arms and a body that needs ironing, anyone can truly benefit from massage. As I hobble off into 2013, I can't stress enough if you really want someone you love to have a happy Christmas, or a brilliant New Year, treat them to a proper session. Not only will they love you for it, they will feel utterly brilliant after.

MY TOP PLACES FOR MASSAGE IN LONDON

Wokingham Complementary Therapies - www.complementary-therapies.biz

The wonderful Karen and Sue visit the offices of The Huffington Post UK to give us vital in-chair massages once a fortnight to fight the after-effects of laptop abuse. They're lifesavers.

London Thai Therapy, Marylebone - www.thailondontherapy.co.uk

The lovely Yanapat has truly magic hands and I can't recommend her Thai massage enough - though any permutation she prescribes (sport, hot stone, etc or a personally-tailored mix) will sort you right out. My new favourite regular haunt.

Thai Square Spa, Covent Garden - http://www.thaisquarespa.com/

The best spa massage I have had in sometime in stunningly beautiful surroundings. Book here and you get some delicious tea and a heavenly footbath ceremony as part of the session. Plus they have some amazingly cheap deals for Christmas and the New Year despite its five-star services - this gorgeous place provides massage luxury.

Mac's, Maida Vale (with another branch in Primrose Hill) - http://www.macs-salon.co.uk/

Another regular place for me, their holistic aromatherapy or La Stone deep tissue massage is brilliant - and you get a glass of fizz after to properly relax. Really wonderful.

APPI, Kilburn (with branches in Hampstead and Wimbledon) - http://www.ausphysio.com/

The best sports and physio massage in town (company co-founder Glenn Withers sorted out some of Team GB at the Olympics) but it WILL hurt! Ask for Tegan too if you can - she's incredible.

Relax, Brewer Street, Soho (another branch in Covent Garden) - http://www.relax.org.uk/

Great place to just pop in for even just 10 minutes (or up to 45 mins) if you need to unwind in a hurry with an acupressure chair massage. Full body massages and a range of treatments (Swedish, La Stone for an hour or more are also topnotch but need booking in advance.) I've been going for years and I love it.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2325040 2012-12-19T19:00:00-05:00 2013-02-18T05:12:01-05:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
As we're about to celebrate Christmas, it seems that olfactory pleasures are more important right now than at any time of year too, and it's been something I've been thinking about a lot of late. Just how much do we take our sense of smell for granted? We often pose ourselves Doomsday scenarios of which sense we'd rather lose if we had to - sight or hearing - but few of us ever wonder what not being able to smell would be like.

This month, I cannot begin to imagine how awful that would be. This time of year, I buy scented candles to burn in my living room which are rich with cinnamon and spiced apple. It's divine, and lighting one can literally can lift my spirits like nothing else - by taking me back to a warm, happy childhood redolent with all those smells.

Walking down Kilburn High Road near my flat the other day, I cheekily grasped a handful of needles from a cut Christmas tree being sold on the street, and couldn't stop rubbing them together to release the pine resin while sniffing like some mad glue addict all the way up the street to catch my train. I might as well have hugged myself as it evoked such wonderful memories of crisp winter walks in the countryside in the more innocent days before I became a Londonite.

Having a mulled wine with a friend in the local last week, and the hit of cloves went to my head more than the red stuff and I was transported back to a memory of my dad in the Eighties, hovering over a vat of ruby liquid in our old house while grinning like some mad scientist as he added more spices while it bubbled.

Breaking into the skin of a tangerine and blinking as the citrus oil accidentally hit my eye, and I was immediately thinking of my mum juggling them for my long-departed old dog in the Nineties - if she dropped one and he caught it, he loved to eat it, though she had to peel it for him first. (Kim was a golden retriever - they're all crackers, frankly).

A whiff of mysterious Arabian agarwood in a coffee shop, and I'm back visiting my late dad in Abu Dhabi and we're laughing as he introduces us to the old souk for the first time while haggling for gold as a Christmas present for mum.

Other times of year, I can smell freshly-laid asphalt and be taken back to heady hot summers of my youth and days spent at the local lido in Lincolnshire and how exciting and exotic it seemed to be with everyone cavorting in their swimsuits in the sun.

Even a vague hint of ammonia in some desperate pub toilet, and I can go back decades in a second to my back-breaking times in the stables, mucking out, but happy as I got to ride the horses later as a reward.

Maybe it's on my mind right now as Christmas is such a desperately nostalgic time of year - at least it is for me, because I miss departed loved ones so, so much and relish the memories. But I'm sure I'm not alone.

I might be a sentimental old fool, but for Christmas, please, if I get just one gift, leave me with all my senses, especially my sense of smell. Oh and if I get another one? My favourite perfume - the old fashioned-classic, Chanel No. 5.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1822288 2012-08-23T19:35:13-04:00 2012-10-23T05:12:11-04:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
And even though I'm not being made to do a swandive into a giant trifle from the top of Nelson's Column, I couldn't agree more. But the one thing that has made me just as proud to be British and love this year and country just as much as the Olympics is not necessarily on the UK's widescreen red-white-'n'-blue radar.

It's a little festival called Secret Garden Party. It was the 10th anniversary this year, it happened at the end of July, took place in gorgeous chocolate-box countryside around a picturesque lake near Huntingdon and my face still hurts from smiling. Plus, I'm still picking bits of glitter out of my personal effects to this day. And that's why I have to rave about it now, as in hindsight, it's in danger of not being included in the great tableau of what was the Best of British this year.



It really is the most entertaining, astonishing, surreal, thought-provoking, thrilling, heart-warming and magical event that happens every year on these mad little lumps of sea-washed rock. But the 2012 version was even more special.

Okay, you have your T in the Parks, V Festivals, Reading and Leeds and a host of other band-meets-field scenarios over the year, even Glasto when it happens. But nothing can top SGP. It's the zeitgeistiest pinnacle of British culture like no other - arty on a grand scale, eccentric, breathtaking, doesn't take itself seriously, sees everyone taking part, happy and involved, with great music as the cherry on top. A bit like the 2012 Opening Ceremony. But over four days.

I have to declare an interest right now though, as I have been involved pretty much since its inception - DJing (unpaid - you just want to be part of it) twice up a tree surrounded by dozens of glitterballs, three times on a stage floating in a lake, once on a golden tank, once on the main stage and this year, on the staggeringly-beautiful Where The Wild Things Are stage, hewn from hundreds of twisting branches. I may have forgotten a year or two. It's that kind of event.



But regardless of that, I am not being biased when I say this year was more brilliant than ever before, from science talks to guerilla happenings, myriad art installations of pure beauty or provoking proper belly laughs, to the sheer volume of festival-goers partaking in the theme of 'Standing on Ceremony' in whichever way they saw fit. Everywhere you looked, there were inventive, beautiful and often plain bonkers fancy dress takes on the idea, from Mexican Day of the Dead dolls, geisha girls, Iron Man made out of an ironing board, devils and brides. And Pacman followed by three ghosts.

There were also the bells and whistles created by the SGP team to celebrate their decade that left the jaw locked in awe.

There were camel rides, whirling giant wooden big wheels with skeletons as passengers, a man dressed as spaceman having his own private disco, random baptisms of glitter, a powder paint fight involving hundreds of people, fire parades, mud wrestling in the haybale constructed Colo-Silly-Um, frugging to dubstep-spliced 1930s swing in the Oddball Dancehall and guerilla gigs from Victorian vagabonds in the Badger Woods.



And where else would have skydivers dropping into the lake for fun or skywriting planes drawing a loveheart in the sky above the site in to commemorate the tens of thousands beaming unwashed beneath, just for fun? And that's before you consider a fireworks display on the Saturday night that almost knocked the Jubilee sparks into a cocked hat. There was a spooky arc of laser dots in the sky that rivalled the Wembley arch, the burning of the huge sculptural floating dancefloor in the middle of the lake, hundreds of neon balloons set free into a balmy summer night, all timed to perfection to a soundtrack of the best of British music from Queen to Orbital as pyrotechnics blasted into the sky.

Oh yeah, there was a bit of mud, but what could be MORE BRITISH? It was soupy on Friday, sticky on Saturday and gone by Sunday. That was it.



And that's before you get to the bands. Jake Bugg at the Crossroads stage was a 19-year-old dirty rock'n'roll revelation from Nottingham who gave short shrift to the idea that the only young talent in the UK comes from X Factor. Alabama Shakes shook down the masses with their masterful soulful bluesrock. Barons of Tang cranked things up into the early hours with their vintage rockabilly gypsy punk rave. Little Roy's reggae versions of Nirvana classics was perfect for a sunny afternoon. Homegrown headliners Orbital were astonishing in the ambition of their live show, from lights to incendiary electro tracks and then there was the infectious gypsy-tinged pop swing of Caravan Palace that closed the party with beats irresistible even to legs that had already danced non-stop for at least three days. And there was so, so much more I don't have room to talk about (and some sets I could tell you about but, um, I'm a bit hazy), dotted around on myriad stages and unadvertised happenings.

Basically, it's like Burning Man meets Little Britain.

That last image which I'm sharing with you below is branded on my brain as one of my favourite images of Britain this 2012 - it's right up there with the Olympic rings being forged in the opening ceremony at the London 2012 Olympic Games. Team GB was one thing, but a team that celebrates the best of British year after year is just as worthy of celebration. Team SGP - gold medals all round!

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1735087 2012-08-02T19:00:00-04:00 2012-10-02T05:12:06-04:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
Being a lifelong horserider (don't worry, I wasn't rich enough to have my own horse and looked after a dumpy New Forest pony who belonged to someone else), the bulk of my mythical money had been spent on equestrian events (three day eventing, show jumping and dressage), with a few cheeky invisible quid on another love, tennis. However, after Locog's computer said "no", I resigned my sulky self to sneaked glimpses of my favourite events on telly - but totally wrote off my chances of watching any dressage even on the box, being as it is, one of the most niche sports at this year's capital-based sport fest and not favoured by the likes of the BBC.

But the angels/universe/unicorns were looking down on me, and just two days ago due to unforeseen circumstances, a friend said she had a spare ticket for the mane, sorry, main event - DRESSAGE! - and would I like to trot along with her to the grand prix in Greenwich Park on Thursday morning?

To say I was chuffing thrilled to bits and champing at the bit is an understatement. Okay, I appreciate few people have a Danny La Rue about what dressage actually is (and I'm no expert), but I was a bit baffled when most couldn't understand my excitement. A colleague mused, head cocked in a confused manner: "Erm, it's pony ballet, isn't it?" or as another friend grumped: "It's just horses trotting sideways."

Well, yes, there are elements of hoof, sorry, truth in both. But if you are looking for one of the purest, poetic and most beautiful of sports in the Olympic canon at this year's London 2012, then this is it - if you give it some attention. Ultimately, it's the thousands of years-old struggle of human trying to bring 1500lbs of potentially wild horse to heel. Horses are big, powerful and can potentially kill you - but dressage riders make them dance gracefully and make it look effortless. All while wearing top hats.

And even more brilliantly, Britain are some of the best dressage riders in the world, and a hot tip to bring home yet more gold for Team GB - after yesterday, Carl Hester and Laura Bechtolsheimer are in first and second place. Their teammate Charlotte Dujardin is still to ride today, and equally fancied to bring home a medal.

And that is no mean feat. With the flick of a fetlock (ankle to us humans), medals are won or lost. With horse and rider both immaculately turned out (silk titfers, an approximation of white tie and supremely kinky black leather boots on the men/women riders, while plaited manes, tails and oiled hooves for the horses are de rigeur), they perform a ridiculously hard and precise set test in the sawdust arena before FIVE sets of judges, all nitpicking about the perfection of a walk or a circle performed by horse and rider.

And it's never that simple either. With intricate messages sent to the horse with the twitch of a rein, nudge of a heel, shift of weight in the saddle or position of a leg, the riders coax their magnificent steeds to perform increasingly difficult tasks of utmost precision in a smooth and seamless manner, to make it look like horses would do this every day themselves while mooching around the paddock. But let me tell you, without the rider, they wouldn't. These are no one-trick ponies, ahem. This is the ultimate in equine training, where horse listens to rider - because it loves and trusts them and wants to - in a split second.

In fact, anyone that feels that the horses only do the tests by rote like canine agility dogs for the odd Bonio should have seen Canadian rider David Marcus, who had to retire after his horse Capital went batshit mental and started bucking and rearing for no good reason in the arena. And the relatively tiny human rider really couldn't do anything about massive hunk of nag having a paddy. See?

And as much as dressage is the ultimate test of athleticism for horse and rider, the 71-year-old Japanese rider Hiroshi Hoketsu can still take part because of the added subtlety and cerebral nature of the discipline and get an impressive score on his beautiful chestnut horse Whisper. Seriously, how cool is that?

Thing is, dressage is a supreme communication between person and animal and the nuances in a pumped-up, muscle-bound, human-centric London 2012 are just gorgeous.

And that's before I start gushing about how beautiful the setting of the temporary arena in Greenwich Park is, how amazing the 2012 volunteers are, how incredible the flag-waving, all-nations atmosphere was, how the sun came out (bar the soaking I got on the way back to the DLR) and how I totally and utterly finally fell under the spell of London 2012.

But the best bit? Our reigning dressage king Carl Hester steering his stunningly sleek black steed Uthopia faultlessly around the arena to a soundtrack blasting out on the PA of discofied, easy-listening versions of Queen's greatest hits.

It's a kind of magic? Oh yes.

Some key dressage movements:

Half pass - horse trotting sideways

Piaffe - appearing to trot on the spot in an imperious manner - horse looks like a wondrous mechanical toy

Pirouette - horse canters round in a circle whilst its hindlegs stay roughly in the same spot - bit of a disco move

Extended trot - at it's best, the horse looks like it's floating on air as it strides down the edge of the arena

Rein back - horse walking backwards as if there are some oats behind it

Flying change - horse changes which leg it leads on while cantering, to make it appear as if it's skipping. SERIOUSLY, HOW COOL IS THAT?



Me and Wenlock, kitted out in dressage garb, at Greenwich Park at the London 2012 dressage Grand Prix]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1165703 2011-12-23T19:00:00-05:00 2012-02-22T05:12:01-05:00

Jody Thompson http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jody-thompson/
Yes, I am one of those unfortunate few along with the likes of Sir Isaac Newton, Annie Lennox and Quentin Crisp who were born on Christmas Day - at 10am, to be precise. And I possibly haven't stopped moaning about it since.

For while one's parents will never forget the date because your emergence probably ruined their Christmas dinner, the date is totally overshadowed by the celebrations for that Little Baby Cheeses dude's birthday. And what's worse, scientists reckon he wasn't even born then anyway - the latest theories see him being sprung from his virgin mother's womb on 17 April 7 BC.

Still, at least I escaped being named Holly, Carol or Noelle, as my well-meaning granny seriously suggested...

Nevertheless, the first reaction on telling anyone your birthday is on Christmas Day is akin to revealing that you've got terminal cancer - cue Princess Diana-style sad eyes and outpourings of "oh, it must be SO awful for you."

Well actually, as I always reply, I'm not really sure as I don't know any different. What I do get fed up with is that with everyone's energies consumed by the ferociously busy run-up to the festive season, even when friends or family DO remember it's your 'special' time of the year, they don't even have time to buy you a separate card, let alone a present.

For me, the festive, glitter-strewn cards that come with a 'oh yeah, and happy birthday too' scrawled across the bottom are a Hallmark-sanctioned slap in the chops.

"But don't you get two lots of presents?" is usually the second thing that people say.

Well, yes, when I was younger - and I actually had more living relatives than I can count on one hand - it was a bonanza of birthdayness, with pillowcases and stockings stuffed full with a dizzying array of both Christmas and anniversary-related offerings.

The downside of this however, was getting all your gifts for the whole year in one fell swoop.

There was one Birthmas in the Eighties were I got THREE clocks. One was a baseball alarm clock that you threw at the wall to turn it off, one a garish confection of primary colours a la Habitat and one a dreadful airbrushed picture of my adored Marilyn Monroe with the two clockhands sticking out of her face.

There is not a teen in the world who would be thrilled at receiving three clocks. But then again, in hindsight, it was perhaps better than getting just the one generic Birthmas present, wrapped in tinsel, which is my lot these days.

Oh, I know it's not about receiving and should be all about giving and it's not just about me and I should get some chuffing perspective and whatnot and truly, going back to my childhood home and spoiling my mum on Christmas Day is one of my favourite things to do and one of my totally cherished times of the year. I'm not being a complete Grinch, because I do absolutely love Christmas. This year, I even put up fairylights in my flat - stick THAT up your homemade table decorations, Kirstie Allsopp. Since my dad died on 27 December 10 years ago (he and mum had been married for almost 40 years when he passed away), it's a poignant time of year for me and mum and I go all out to make Yuletide special for her.

But I'd just rather not have been born on 25 December. And don't even get me started on trying to get friends together to celebrate my going through another 'Week-to-View' diary. I always try and organise a party for the week before and give more than a few weeks' notice, but I might as well be herding cats due to the plethora of office parties and other festive fandangos (and that's before you factor in the snowmageddons of the past two years.)

Note to self too: Don't bother sending Facebook invites anymore either, as they now appear to be universally drowned in a tsunami of bobbins event invites from the likes of cocking ukulele carol karaoke or Seasonal Secret Sodding Cinema from people you've never even shared a chatroom with.

"Why don't you have two birthdays then, and have an official one in the summer, like the Queen?" is the third thing people usually come out with.

Well, I'm not the Queen, I wasn't born in the summer, and I am allergic to forced jollity. Which thinking about it, is probably an upside to the whole thing, being allowed to sweep the passing of years under the carpet and concentrate on pulling crackers instead.

And there are other upsides to having a Christmas birthday too. Only we can sing along to the song below - on our own, natch, after our folks have fallen asleep after a surfeit of stuffing during dinner and we're bored of watching Noel's Christmas Presents on our tod yet-a-bleedin'-gain because none of our friends can come round as they're all with their own family or in-laws else risk a seasonal disowning.

But think of me and my kind on Christmas Day as you tuck into your pudding - after all, it's the only kind of birthday cake we ever get.


Saint Etienne featuring Tim Burgess I Was Born On Christmas Day

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