Tag: Mansoor Iqbal

  • Shaping up in Hackney: one man’s quest for physical perfection

    Mansoor Iqbal attempts to star jump his way to fitness

    like cigarettes, I like beer, and I like fried chicken. My job is almost entirely sedentary and I have, as you will read later, a ‘weak core’. I’ve never had a problem with any of this, and have always viewed more active pursuits – and those who indulge in them – with a mixture of disdain and trepidation.

    But something has happened to me in the last couple of years. Something perhaps inevitable, given the above: the paunch. Affecting not to care about your figure is one thing when you’re a snake-hipped badass. But when you’re above fighting weight and have recently crossed the threshold of a new decade, suffice to say Something Has to be Done.

    In the interests of science, I decided to humiliate myself in four different ways: going for a run, a session with a personal trainer, yoga and a group boxfit class.

    But before I tell you about each one, a confession. I had a lot of fun doing these things. Yes, I was in a lot of pain, but I might be starting to understand why people like being active – the effect on one’s mood cannot be understated.

    And despite my complete lack of fitness, co-ordination or dignity, I was not once offered anything but warm, friendly, encouragement. So, if you feel at all intimidated by sporty people, you needn’t be.

    Going for a run

    On returning from an eight-day sojourn to the States, I resolve to begin my odyssey with a jog in the park. Three laps around the outside of London Fields, home in time for tea – no problem.

    Well, not until it starts to rain torrentially. Then my iPod decides it doesn’t want to play ball. Starting at Pub on the Park, I’m out of breath by the time I reach Broadway Market, holding a faulty electrical device, thoroughly soaked and well on the way to a case of trench foot.

    But it becomes an oddly liberating experience. The shortness of breath one becomes accustomed to, and eventually just concentrating on rhythmically throwing one leg in front of the other becomes rather satisfying. The sense of achievement on reaching the end, the burst of energy you get as you know you’re approaching it…it’s all rather joyous actually, as running essentially is (do it with your hands in the air if you’re not convinced). The rain? Well, it was refreshing, okay? Just get some shoes without holes.

    Born to jog (in London Fields): Mansoor finds running an ‘oddly liberating experience’

    An assessment with a personal trainer

    Why did I agree to go to an introductory session with a personal trainer the day after my company Christmas party? As I unglue my eyelids, and cough up cigarette butts, I wonder what levels of self-loathing would drive a man to this.

    This was the thing I was dreading most, envisaging a terrifying beef carcass raining blows on me while I wept over the mess I’d made of my life. I was robbed of that narrative arc by a softly-spoken gentleman by the name of Sapan Seghal, founder of London Fields Fitness, who explains his philosophy of making fitness available to everyone (his gym offers low-cost classes too).

    He takes me through the process of personalisation, explaining how much of it is down to nutrition (80 per cent!), before making me reveal my shameful lifestyle and asking me about my goals. I almost feel like I should be reclining in an analyst’s couch, but then comes the assessment.

    Skip, he says; run over there; more skipping; step on and off this bench; crunches; now press ups! Repeat! Bench squats! Nothing in isolation is so bad but combined it is pretty punishing (at one point I wonder if I should tell him how close I am to vomiting). Yep, Sapan, agrees, my core strength is an issue.

    But again, it’s strange: I feel good! I feel like I want to do more of this (not today) and indeed, one of the central principles of the work they do here is giving you ‘homework’. I tell Sapan how good I feel, reflecting, “I must be a masochist.”  “I can tell,” he responds, “from the way you run”.

    London Fields Fitness Studio
    379 Mentmore Terrace, E8 3PH
    londonfieldsfitness.com

    Sunday morning yoga

    I confess, I have always been a sceptic, but when my editor says: “Maybe try something a bit more relaxed, like yoga,” I think why not? On a Sunday morning it’ll make a nice chilled-out start to the official day of rest.

    Something more relaxed indeed! In fairness, perhaps I didn’t explain to the instructor, the most excellent (and patient) Naomi at Yoga on the Lane that I am a total novice, but it seems I have landed myself in an advanced class.

    And advanced it very much is! It’s a majority female class, and these women are rock solid – the moves they pull off without flinching something to behold. I, by comparison, am trembling and panting for breath, trying to support my body weight on one puny arm.

    I feel a little bit like a nuisance in here, but Naomi takes good care of me, putting me in ‘child pose’ when the going gets tough (I love child pose). It is quite the workout, and I can feel that weak core being put to the test, as well as my sense of balance, and am dripping with sweat by the end.

    At the end, we get to do a little lie down…and it’s amazing! Maybe it’s because I’ve just taken such a beating, but I really do feel at peace, lulled off by the gentle sounds of Sunday morning.

    Yoga on the Lane
    105 Shacklewell Lane, E8 2EB
    yogaonthelane.com

    Poser: Mansoor gets to grips with a yoga mat

    Punching strangers at a boxfit class

    When I find out that boxfit is punching and occasionally ducking out of the way of punching and not just a boxing-themed aerobics class, I get The Fear (the seeds of which were sown by being around people pumping iron – though énergie does pride itself on not being a ‘big scary gym’).

    Boxfit goes like this. We’re put into twos; I get paired with Michelle, a fellow first timer, whose kickboxing warmup is enough for me to realise quite how badly she’d deck me in a real fight (take a friend if punching strangers doesn’t appeal).

    Jonathan, the instructor, demonstrates with one of the more experienced hands an increasingly complex series of moves with which one of you, holding pads, challenges the be-gloved puncher.

    I’m instantly distressed by how much I’m enjoying punching. As the routines get more complex, and you get more accustomed to it, you even start to imagine you’re in an actual bout (a pretty big leap, but a boy can dream).

    Jonathan gives us friendly advice, saying, not in so many words, that if you keep doing that, you’re going to get pulverised. I find myself caring and really wanting to take on the advice.

    This is a covertly intense workout – you don’t really realise while you’re punching/being punched, but you are working almost every part of your body (the next-day aches are in unexpected places).

    I’m actually tempted to particularly recommend this to my non-punchy brothers and sisters – you may well learn something about yourself…

    énergie
    3 Reading Lane, E8 1GQ
    energiefitnessclubs.com/hackney

  • This is East London: short film Jacked has true grit

    Charley Palmer Rothwell and Thomas Turgoose in Jacked
    Charley Palmer Rothwell and Thomas Turgoose in Jacked

    Jacked is a short by Dutch director Rene Pannevis which fits nicely into what one might call the grit-porn pantheon (his oeuvre also contains a film called Junkie XL and a documentary short of DJ Tiesto of all things).

    It follows young car thieves Russell and Waylen, played by Charley Palmer Rothwell (Legend) and Thomas Turgoose (This is England) respectively, who find a stack of tapes made by a dying man addressed to his unborn daughter. Hilarity ensues.

    It’s an interesting, thoughtful piece – if a little contrived – giving one enough to feel something of a stake in the lives of the two young protagonists, whilst capitalising on the brevity of the short form to retain a level of ambiguity. This is creditable considering the artistic treatment of such topics can all too easily err towards the proselytising, critical or, worst of all, glamourising.

    The narrow, winding grey streets (it’s in colour, but barely) form a claustrophobic labyrinth in which our two protagonists work, with a short focus camera serving to isolate them from their background. It’s a well-worn technique, but in a story dealing with isolated yoof, the obvious reference is La Haine.

    On speaking to Rothwell, he confirms Kassovitz’s 1995 work was in their minds whilst filming. He is more uncertain, however, about whether we can fairly call Jacked a film about East London, despite there being several clear signs that this is where the ‘action’ takes place.

    “I think the director wanted to be ambiguous. I’m not too sure that the location needs to be relevant, it could be anywhere and it would still be as gritty,” he explains. It is indeed based, we are told, on the director’s own experiences in the Netherlands.

    Why is it that we are so fascinated in an almost voyeuristic way by underclass life in film of late? “Because it’s real,” Rothwell says. “I’d not use the word underclass. Things like this aren’t as uncommon as people think. Very few people could relate to something like Riot Club. If it’s about things that are real, more people will watch. If you go north of London, it is very gritty, people are poor.”

    Certainly, the question of the role and success of cinema (and of the arts in general) in addressing or mirroring an uneven society is an interesting one. It is unfair, perhaps, to narrow our discussion of this short to this question though, as it also touches on loss, friendship and loneliness, and can boast a minor triumph in the natural rapport between its two leads.

    facebook.com/jackedthefilm

  • A fish odyssey across East London

    Fish
    Fishing for complements… Photograph: flickr

    Things that live in the sea are messed up, right? With their backwards breathing, their bottom feeding, or their just being a sentient lump of muscle that lives in a shell. But something doesn’t need to make sense for it to be tasty, and what decent human being doesn’t enjoy seafood? But away from coastal regions it comes at a price. Can you get delicious seafood (and fish) in East London that won’t cost the ocean?

    Vintage Salt

    I started off at Vintage Salt, in the shadow of Liverpool Street, where I was promised a ‘Cornish village look and feel’. For starters were tuna tartare with avocado and pickled cucumber, which hit the right refreshing and textural notes, while my companion for the evening opted for salt and pepper squid with chilli jam, which was pleasingly spicy. Starters often get the benefit of the doubt, but here they were definitely a highlight. My companion was not impressed with the oil seepage into my sea bass a la plancha, and perhaps it was a touch on the overcooked side too. We fared worse with the shrimp burger – it was gristly, tough, heavy and lacking in that oceanic freshness concomitant with shrimp. Afters were a buttery Bakewell tart and a very sweet apple crumble. We drank the Italian house white, which was decent drop. A good thing too, as the cost of this meal (just over £60 before wine and service) was reaching the point at which house wine becomes a necessity rather than an act of parsimony. It’s a decent enough place, though perhaps a little on the more money than sense side. As if to perfectly back this point, its sister restaurant lives in Selfridges.

    Dashwood House
    69 Old Broad St, London EC2M 1NA
    vintagesalt.co.uk

    Seabass a la Plancha at Sea Vintage
    Seabass a la Plancha at Sea Vintage

    Wright Brothers

    When in full weekend pomp I am probably not alone in finding Spitalfields Market something of a horror show. But I need to qualify this, for in Wright Brothers it is home to a gem of a seafood restaurant. We opened with fried oysters with Louis Sauce, which were light and moreish, home smoked mackerel with gentleman’s relish, which deserves musical metaphors I have too much self respect to use, and Galician octopus, chorizo, broad beans and garlic, which seemed rather brash in comparison, but it’s not a dish one orders for delicate perfumes. Salt-baked seabream, carved up at the table, was soft and yielding, and resplendent with umami qualities one doesn’t normally associate with fish. My trusted companion watched me warily as I tried her stone bass with tarragon risotto, which was nothing short of a flavour party. After a fairly standard lemon posset for pudding, the one sad note was the cheese selection (only two – and fairly uninspired at that). Before wine and service one is looking at very close to three figures here and if you want to get involved with the shellfish and oysters…well, let us just say it is a good thing that the food at Wright Brothers is of a standard that you’d be happy to go there for a special occasion.

    8a Lamb Street, E1 6EA
    wrightbrothers.co.uk

    Wright Brothers. Photograph: Paul Winch-Furness

    The Richmond

    Of all the places earmarked to visit for this parvum opus, the Richmond was perhaps the one to which I was looking forward the most; a raw food bar complete with enthusiastic reviews from the ladies and gentlemen of the press – all very promising. The much-hyped raw dishes came first, with the standout a wonderfully delicate scallop carpaccio, while the sea bass tartare divided opinion. I thought it was subtle and suggestive, my ever-hard-to-please companion found it bland. On the tuna tartare with aubergine and harissa, we were more in concord. It felt like too much, flavours falling over each other, with none of them quite winning. We were actually rather in the market for crab muffins, but they had run out (it was 9.30pm on Monday evening), so instead we opted for cooked scallops, which resisted and surrendered in the right proportions. Our cooked mains, I’m sad to say, did not treat us so well. Both the hake and mackerel we ordered had been overcooked into dry submission, though some saag-like spinach on the side treated us better (it would come back to haunt us during our gambrinous post-prandial debrief, however). For dessert, lovage cake was an interesting sweet-herby conclusion to the meal and the banana tart was perfectly serviceable and sugary. But at just above the £100 mark (pre-wine and service), I’d have hoped for better,
    Monday night or not.

    316 Queensbridge Rd, London E8 3NH
    therichmondhackney.com

    A ‘Sunday Roast’ at Mussel Men

    Mussel Men

    I would like to think the team behind Mussel Men came up with the name first and followed it up with the concept. As the puntastic moniker suggests, they take a much less po-faced approach to seafood here. One senses, however, that they do take the business of seafood more seriously. The potted crayfish were delicately fragrant and fresh, though perhaps the butter layer felt a little bit like the contents of 1970s Elvis’ arteries. I had a generous bowl of mussels mariniere next, which were refreshingly not drowning in sauce, allowing the mussels to do the talking. “We’ve been nicely done to a meaty but yielding texture, and we taste a bit like we remember what it was like to live in salt water,” I think they were saying. The fries tasted a little fast foody … in a good way, and as an ardent advocate of the potato, I had a lot of time for the velveteen mash on the side. If you happen to be in the area and get the urge for seafood in genuinely unpretentious surroundings (one feels they are making a point of it), pop your head in.

    584 Kingsland Road, E8 4AH
    musselmen.com

  • Absent – stage review: ‘a series of questions never made explicit, let alone answered’

    Absent by dreamthinkspeak. Photograph: Jim Stephenson
    Evocative corridors… Absent at Shoreditch Town Hall. Photograph: Jim Stephenson

    To call dreamthinkspeak’s Absent ‘theatre’ may be something of a misnomer. Sure, there are actors – namely, the well-drilled hotel staff who greet you at the entrance and guide you to the performance space, somewhat sinisterly controlling its edges with their ever-present surveillance. We also have the cadaverous and fleeting presence of our ‘protagonist’ (based, we are told, on the fascinating Margaret Campbell, the Duchess of Argyll), of whom one catches a surreptitious glimpse through a ‘mirror’ in the first room one comes to.

    But beyond that, it perhaps would be more fitting to label it an installation (the vaguest of generic categorisations feels fitting), comprising of film, models, sound and space. In essence it might rather be best described, at the risk of sounding pompous, as a series of questions which themselves are never made explicit, let alone answered.

    One is left to wander the wonderfully evocative corridors of Shoreditch Town Hall, which play the part of the hotel – arguably the lead – currently in the midst of redevelopment by a sinister conglomerate, which we discover through scraps of newspaper left here and there. But is the transition from an age of glamour, albeit an extremely privileged one, to an age of faceless and tawdry profit mongering, a commentary on the Shoreditch just outside the hotel walls? And what are we to make of the juxtaposition of a Manet and pots of Dulux in a utility room?

    The real life Duchess of Argyll was a socialite whose private life caused a sensation of Profumo-like proportions, when in 1963 photographs emerged of her naked, save a string of pearls, fellating a ‘headless’ man (rumoured to be Winston Churchill’s son-in-law). In 1978, the then debt-riddled Duchess moved into the Grosvenor House hotel, where she resided for more than ten years. But in the world of the play, this hotel is where she resides now and is even to reside in the future.

    Time is one of the many of ambiguities in Absent – ambiguities which point to a tension between how essential yet unreliable the memory can be, and the ephemerality of life in which one can never quite grasp the substance. The effect, complemented wonderfully by the soundscapes (by Lapalux) is consistently discomfiting, but at the same time affecting. The final two rooms (one progresses in a linear way through the rooms of the production) are incredibly moving, and give a real aptness to the production’s title.

    On that note, however, if forced to level a criticism, one might argue there is too much space, or rather too much absence. How much of Absent’s value be ascribed to the actual production itself, rather than the audience member’s own imagination? But, then, maybe that’s the point.

    Absent is at Shoreditch Town Hall, 380 Old Street, EC1V 9LT until 25 October.

    shoreditchtownhall.com

  • Great Ex-pectations at Oslo

    The Ex: performing at Oslo on 19 August
    The Ex: performing at Oslo on 19 August

    There aren’t too many acts out there that can say they brought punk to Ethiopia. That is, however, one of the more colourful entries in Dutch group The Ex’s pretty darn colourful CV.

    But just because you bring it, doesn’t mean anyone actually wants it. “No one had ever heard of punk; they’d heard of hip hop and jazz, but none of them knew our type of music,” recalls guitarist Andy Moor, originally of these shores. “They found it quite amusing – there was a lot of laughing.”

    In the interests of balance, it is worth pointing out that punk is something of a misnomer. Sure, The Ex started out in 1979 (of course), fitting in nicely with the likes of Gang of Four, The Slits and Birthday Party.

    But when Moor joined in early 1990s, bringing with him a love of African and Eastern European music, the band were set on a more experimental course. Moor identifies meeting and collaborating with American cellist Tom Cora as a real turning point, and soon The Ex found themselves invited to play at jazz festivals.

    “The Ex grew out of the punk scene, but mutated into its own thing. It’s hard to define, but we don’t have to!” (Attempts by others range from anarcho-punk to ethno-punk to jazz punk.)

    Many collaborations have followed, some with popular acts – the likes of Sonic Youth and Tortoise – others with less well-known jazz artists (depending on who you ask) such as Han Bennink or current collaborator, saxophonist Ken Vandermark.

    It is these collaborations, Moor explains, in combination with the band’s own (untrained) spontaneity that drives their musical direction. “We don’t want to have a jam with every musician in the world; we’ll just hear a sound that appeals to us. They don’t even have to be great players.”

    His favourite joint project is the work the band did with legendary Ethiopian saxophonist Getatchew Mekurya. “It was his idea – he saw us playing after we’d invited him to Amsterdam to play with the Instant Composers’ Pool (ICP). He came to us after, and said, ‘I want The Ex to be my band.’ We started rehearsing with him – none of us could speak Amharic, he couldn’t speak English, so we just communicated with hand signals, music, smiling, laughing. Somehow it worked – we were playing his pieces, songs he’s been playing for 40 years. That was my favourite maybe because it was so unlikely.”

    One of the reasons The Ex can enjoy such musical freedom is their refusal to get involved with the trappings of the music industry – they have never had anything to do with a label or any type of management (now that’s pretty punk).

    “I think the music industry has nothing to do with music. There’s great music that comes out of it, but the shit you have to deal with … we decided we’ll do it ourselves.”

    It’s a fairly gruelling approach, Moor admits, which means they have to tour to live, and one which also means, he admits, they aren’t as well known as they might be (except, apparently, in France).

    This might be read also as a political gesture as well as an artistic one – and indeed, the guitarist happily admits The Ex are a political band: “You sing about love, you sing about football, or you sing about your beliefs – we get frustrated, we see lot of shit happening around us – we manage to release a lot of that anger, but there’s also positive energy too. Ultimately, it’s a celebration of music – we want to make music we’ve never heard before, and music that we love. It’s simple.”

    The Ex perform at Oslo, Hackney Central on 19 August 2015