Wandering up Wardour Street there is a world of places to munch. But if you are a sucker for Indian, then check out the newly refurbed Imli Street. After many months of planning and six weeks of execution, the upmarket join Tamarind has been reinvented. And boy is it good.

Grab a stool at the window for some curry in a crab, naan in a bucket, battered squid and delicious samosas. All washed down with some wine. You will practically feel like you are in Delhi. Without the Tuc Tucs.

Hanging out in Soho and looking for some underground tipples? Head to Azulito Bar. A kitsch garden party explosion with 80 100% tequilas to choose from.Situated on Wardour Street below Wahaca there is no shortage of good food. Or get straight to the margaritas and grab something at the bar.

Expect to leave with nothing else except a sombrero on.

Man of Steel

Brand reinvention is the latest thing in the movie world and particularly so if your name is Christopher Nolan. Last year was the culmination of his trilogy centered on the antics of The Dark Knight, or The Artist Formerly Known As Batman to you and I. After brushing up the Batman franchise and selling it on at a profit, Nolan has now enlisted 300 director Zach Snyder and moved on to another superhero.

In a way, you can sort of see Nolan as a one-man PR agency specializing in comic book adaptations. Batman was in a terrible mess at the turn of the millennium after some truly woeful outings in the 90’s. Enter Nolan. Rebrand as “The Dark Knight”. Voila! $2.5bn in the Bat-bank and credibility restored.

Now it is the turn of DC Comics’ other big name.

As a product, Superman isn’t quite in the doldrums to the extent of his caped pal. Where Bruce Wayne and his alter ego had become a laughing stock, Superman has simply ceased to be relevant. An endless succession of Christopher Reeve sequels in the 1980’s brought ever diminishing returns and critical acclaim. X-men guru Bryan Singer tried to pump life back into the series with 2006’s Superman Returns. But despite decent reviews, no-one really seemed that interested. Superman had become a dinosaur, a child of the 80’s that not even children of the 80’s cared for any more. It was time to call in the expert.

At this stage it’s probably important to state that Nolan is only the Producer on this movie, but his grubby little fingerprints are all over it. Even the title smacks of him: “Man of Steel” is a clever rebranding, somehow making the whole concept of another Superman film less ludicrous in the first place. The trick worked with Batman, albeit to the extent that Charlie Brooker mockingly suggested that Nolan would probably even refer to Papa Smurf as “The Blue Patriarch”, a view that this film will do little to change.

Anyhow, our film begins on what can only be describes as the total carnage of Krypton, a planet which is collapsing due to a thinly-veiled swipe at our reliance on fossil fuels. The infant hero is fired off to Earth in the nick of time with an incarcerated baddy called General Zod (think a cross between Adolf Hitler and David Brent) swearing to hunt him down.

General Zod – Evidently someone interrupted him during shaving.

There follows an hour or so that is essentially a red and blue clad version of Batman Begins, as young Clark Kent (as his adopted parents obviously call him) comes to terms with his powers under the ludicrously sanctimonious eyes of his father, played by Kevin Costner. Investigative journalist Lois Lane is one of many people saved by Clark at various stages of his life and threatens to blow his cover before he talks her out of it. So far, so nice.

Then, just as the film is beginning to drag, Zod turns up with a few cronies and predictably all hell breaks loose (in New York, obviously). If the first half of the film was aping Nolan’s first Batman outing, then the second half borrows heavily from the likes of Avengers Assemble, Transformers, etc.

There is much to like about this film. It is visually stunning, not least the shots of Superman (although you sense that it’s considered a bit of a faux-pas to refer to him thus) winging around the Serengeti as he discovers the true extent of his powers, while the action scenes are also impressive, indeed what’s not to like about two people punching each other through buildings and lobbing trains around like tennis balls?

Sadly where Man of Steel really lets itself down for me is in its mood. Given the quality and variation of recent superhero films, it’s no doubt a tricky thing to get right, however Snyder and Nolan’s effort falls well short of replicating either the gothic quality of the Batman films, or the tongue-in-cheek humour and charm of Avengers Assemble.

The end impression is that the whole thing is a bit po-faced. I’m not suggesting that Superman should be zipping off James Bond one-liners as the 14,000^th skyscraper to be destroyed in the film crumbles in the background. However it would probably benefit from just taking itself a touch less seriously.

There goes another bulding…

The acting is for the most part very good (although for some reason I always felt that Michael Shannon’s General Zod looked absurdly and unnecessarily CGI-created, maybe it was just his ridiculous beard) and the fight scenes are ambitious and visually impressive, but perhaps appropriately what the Man of Steel really lacks is a soul. There is literally no light relief and even the romance with Lois Lane seems a bit awkward and out of place.

Given the film concludes on probably the biggest “things falling into place” scene since the end of Skyfall, we can certainly expect sequels. Superman fans will also probably notice that all the construction works are owned by ‘Lexcorp’, so one imagines that we’ll be seeing Mr Luther in the next installment…

All in all, it’s a solid return for Superman, but you hope that the next episode contains less naval-gazing and lightens up a bit. Otherwise this rebranding of the world’s favourite superhero franchise might all be in vain.

By Harry Harland

To set the scene… I had overslept and was running late. If you’ve read this http://trivialpursuits.org/2013/01/30/running-late-bloody-run-then/ you’ll know this never happens to me.

So it was that in dashing across the streets of London, I found myself waiting by a crossroads. And it was there, whilst waiting, that I was inauspiciously approached by a foreign lady. She walked up to me, pointed at my wrist and said something I didn’t hear. I looked at my wrist and saw I was sporting a Tabernacle venue stamp. Surprised she knew what it was, I exclaimed my astonishment.

Turns out she didn’t know what it was. She had actually asked for the time.

It’s been such a long… time… since anyone has asked me this question, no wonder I misheard. If iPads, iPods and smart phones have made anything redundant it’s not the idle house phone like people think, but the humble watch. Anyway, she didn’t have the time and I did, so I gave it to her. As far as I was concerned that was the end of it.

It wasn’t.

No, this lady then tried to… talk to me.

I know. What a weirdo.

She talked to me as we waited at the pedestrian crossing, she talked to me as we crossed the road, she talked to me as we reached the other side. All the way through, I was desperate, desperate to escape. DESPERATE. But when someone’s talking AT you, this is rather difficult. So I did what most British people would do. Nothing.

I just listened; listened as she explained she used to have a watch, but now doesn’t. That she normally charges her phone during the night, but last night she didn’t. That she had been lost two minutes earlier until someone had given her directions. At one point I stepped out into the traffic (I’m British, I’d rather be run over than talk to a stranger) but she kindly pulled me back, scolded my stupidity and continued nattering.

Now I don’t know if anyone else can relate to the quite overwhelming amount of agita I experienced as a result of this episode. Just remembering it makes me feel sick. Talking to people when I am not prepared, to me, is like being squashed into a matchbox with no air hole. Panicked by the ‘liveness’ of it all, I find myself saying things I would never normally say, like ‘cripes’ or ‘right-o’ or ‘gosh!’ Because I’m not really listening, I’m trying to think of a way out. And to disguise this, I become a polite, well-mannered robot – all smiles and cricket-English.

And then it gets worse. So much worse. For when the stranger finally stops talking I feel, awkwardly, that I should then start. And then I don’t stop. And then it’s the stranger trying to shut me up. I prattle on about all manner of things, everything, anything – the weather, public transport, chewing gum on streets. If I get truly desperate I even go so far as to manufacture a cough; a throat-burning croak just to give me something to do to fill in the awkward silences between drawing breaths.

Sound like a nightmare? It is. Did it stop me doing the exact same thing a few days later? Nope!  Shopping happily on my own. Shop assistant appears. This happens:

SA: Do you need any help?
Me: [NO] No, thank you
SA: I see you’ve picked that dress
Me: Yes.
SA: It’s very popular!
Me: Oh
SA: Though we’ve only got the smallest sizes on display here
Me: [Starts to panic]
SA: What size are you?
Me: [Has heart palpitations]
SA: Because you may need the larger size, and if so, I can go round the back to get it.
Me: Look bitch, fuck off, I don’t want your help.

No I didn’t say that. I’m British. No, I nodded and thanked her. I then told her my size (and by extension, the rest of the shop too) and we had a little laugh when she explained that yes I would need the size-up. I waited, red-faced like a raspberry, whilst she went to go and get it. I then babbled on about the wedding I was choosing the outfit for – as she walked me to the changing room – and asked her where her top was from – to fill in more time whilst she sorted me a free cubicle.

Once safely behind the curtain I had a meltdown. I didn’t even bother trying on the clothes. I just shuffled my feet to make ‘clothes-changing-noises,’ drew back the curtain, said the clothes didn’t fit, apologised, thanked her again, and then legged it.

Was I really sorry? No! Was I actually thankful? No! Then why the hell did I say it? I was furious with myself. I should have just grown a pair and told her to back off.

But then I wouldn’t be… British. And I’m certain I’d be far sorrier about that.

By Beenie Langley

Despite the weather, things push on regardless out here. Our three day forage deep into enemy territory was both fun and enlightening as well as a great opportunity for us to learn a bit more about the, slightly weird, local folk. As one might expect there is evidence of efficiency all around – every single house has hundreds of solar panels, every hillside has countless wind turbines and absolutely everybody seems to love roller blading (a classically energy efficient mode of transport). Everywhere you looked there were people cruising along ‘walking’ their dogs, couples going for a romantic ‘blade’, entire families rolling along in immaculately straight lines in perfect height order and one chap just enjoying some quality alone time with his roller hockey stick, all wallowing in glorious efficiency.

Classic efficiency

They all seemed to love us as well. Probably due to the fact that things have moved on somewhat from the days of arriving, pillaging then burning down their villages before galloping off into the sunset with the Mayors daughter under one arm and some new mess silver under the other. We did discuss ‘going old school’ just to see what all the fuss was about but fortunately, for all parties involved, we decided against it.

I also reckon that the reason they loved us so much is because they had no idea about the trail of destruction we left behind us which comes hand in hand with exceedingly damp weather conditions resulting in numerous lovely green fields being churned up into muddy quagmires. One such field had a particularly bad time of it when one of the vehicles (a Landrover with Army bits-like guns n’ stuff added to it) got very stuck in said field and needed towing out by a far larger vehicle (designed for such a task). It should have been simple enough- the big lorry sits on the near by road and winches the stuck Landrover to safety. Sadly however common sense did not prevail and the far larger, far heavier vehicle drove straight into the middle of the field and parked happily next to the stuck Landrover and before long, oddly enough, was far more stuck than his predecessor. The solution? Get an even bigger vehicle to come and rescue both of them. The farce continues. By this point the rain that had earlier slowed to a downpour was now back in full monsoon-esque flow and both vehicles were in danger of disappearing under German farmland forever. So the new rescue party declined the use of the field as a parking spot and deployed the winch from the safety of the road, using a large Oak tree as an anchor in order to not get pulled in and join the mud bath. A fine plan, and one that looked to be working until a loud creaking sound followed by an almighty crash brought proceedings to yet another halt. As it turns out, large Oak trees with sodden roots cannot withstand the combined pressure of two enormous vehicles playing muddy tug of war and this grand old tree had been ripped from the earth, roots and all, leaving an enormous hole, a massive dying tree and two sinking vehicles as the sorry looking scene of soggy desolation that was by now rivaling the final day of Glastonbury, just with fewer hippies.

Eventually, somehow, the vehicles were recovered, although the same cannot necessarily be said for the field or the Oak tree, or even Anglo-German relations for that matter, which may never recover. Still it’s good to leave your mark on these kinds of expeditions.

When I wasn’t watching vehicles destroy fields and international relations my time was generally spent racing along country lanes trying not to lose those who I had been assigned to observe like some sort of military themed whacky races, or converting my hummer into a caravan having discovered that it is wide enough to fit a camp bed in the back, enabling me to not have to sleep outside. Any idiot can get rained on and I had no intention of being one of them. The real highlight of the whole thing however, is the addition of the ‘God Gun’ to my kit. This part of the exercise is effectively a giant game of laser quest as all the guns get fitted with lasers to shoot each other with and all men and vehicles wear receivers to tell you when you have been shot- it’s reasonably realistic and makes things more interesting than just driving around shouting ‘I shot you first!’ ‘No, I shot you first!’ Although I can assure you that that still happens. So, as an observer I get given a ‘God Gun’, which, amongst other things, can kill people off. This is intended for when the kit isn’t working properly or if someone is not playing nice with the other soldiers, but in my opinion you can’t give a ‘God Gun’ to a mere mortal with time on his hands and not expect him to ‘experiment’ with his new powers. As it turns out ghetto style drive-by shootings in a hummer are a highly entertaining way to pass the time and I now understand why they are so popular across parts of America. I also find a simple wave of the divine weapon during an argument with any exercising troops brings a swift and favourable conclusion to proceedings. It’s the most useful thing the Army has given me for a long time and is going to look great tucked into my belt when I get my cowboy hat in Canada.

In the mean time we have settled in to our new camp, which, believe it or not, makes me miss camp Aachen.

Rooms with a view

This time round we have managed to squeeze more of us into a smaller ‘Officers Mess’ that is a brisk 100m walk to the nearest shower block, which given the weather at the moment tends to negate the need to get into a shower once you finally make it. Also, presumably in an attempt to trump camp Aachen this one actually has fences around the accommodation with guard towers-currently unmanned but unless I can find the ‘Sunshine’ button on my ‘God Gun’ soon, things may well change. Not long to push now, Canada is going to be glorious.

By Rich Glover

Slowly however the adverts have become as famous as the thing they’re supposed to be promoting. Non-smokers swooned at the Marlborough man, while you didn’t have to be an aficionado of repulsive powdered mash potato to enjoy the Smash aliens.

Advertisers realized that Joe Public was more discerning than they perceived, and that a softer approach was needed. They weren’t so much manically flogging a product like a Cockney fruit stall owner, they were subtly getting us to see their brand as a whole in a positive light. Nike created fantastical sporting scenarios, Guinness gave us surfing horses, Cadburys a drumming gorilla and Sugar Puffs brought us a crack-addled big furry yellow lunatic with ADHD and the voice of Louis Armstrong… To each their own.

I’m sure that’s not the only thing you’ve used that spoon for. Got your game.

These adverts worked because they were memorable. They didn’t make you impulsively want their product at all costs, but when you saw it in a shop you’d probably think of it favorably in comparison to a competitor.

Anyhow, those were the good ones. But they are diamonds in the rubble, lost in a sea of exasperating crap. Quite a few brands seem intent on making any association with their products a feeling of overriding anger.

When I speak of bad adverts, weirdly the really budget ones aren’t those that come to mind. It’s not the Admirals, the price comparison sites or the ambulance-chasing lawyers of this world that really grate. The trouble arises when an advertising firm places mislaid faith in what they perceive to be a good idea.

I mean look at that endless series of tedious adverts that BT have plagued our screens with. First you had My Family and Love Actually star Kris Marshall involved in possibly the most joyless and dull relationship of all time on our screens.

It must be sad for an actor of Marshall’s ability to be described (as he is on Wikipedia) as “best known for playing Nick Harper in My Family, Adam in BT Group adverts from 2005-2011 and Dave in Citizen Khan.” Having never watched Citizen Khan, I cannot confirm it’s lack of quality, but the fact that it is listed as a lower accolade than his on-off advert relationship with the world’s most boring woman probably speaks volumes.

I simply MUST find out what happens in the next instalment of their lives

BT obviously failed to learn its lesson though, replacing this grindingly mundane storyline with an equally dislikable bunch of students (or at least I think they’re supposed to be students, the girl looks about 30) whose entire lives appear to revolve around their router.

To be honest, given that they are students and the internet appears to be their life, it seems implausible that not one storyline so far has involved the other two catching the weird, socially inept bloke watching YouPorn while surrounded by used tissues. That would be an impressive demonstration of the BT Home Hub’s download speed as well, so maybe that’s the next advert in the series.

It’s this search for familiarity that seems to be so uninspiring though, advertising firms aren’t so much flogging a dead horse as they bring out their billionth fucking Meerkat advert as soundly whipping the cobbles through a mush of pulped horsemeat. You know, the sort that you find between layers of lasagna at Findus. The public seem to like what they find familiar, and for those reasons the word “simples” has burrowed its way into the dictionary, while a fictional ‘autobiography’ of the meerkat in the advert depressingly topped the bestsellers charts at Christmas. This is why soaps are so popular, Mr Average yearns for more of the same, no matter whether or not he actually liked it in the first place.

Oh, NOW I get it! It’s a play on words. How ingenius…

Away from the silver screen though, and the baffling array of bad adverts still pollute our lives through their presence on Billboards.

I don’t know who is in charge of marketing for trendy French clothing brand “The Kooples”, but frankly (to quote a better man than I) they should be taken out and shot in front of their families. It took me over a year to work out that The Kooples was in fact a shop rather than the worst television show ever made. Look at the advert below and tell me that your reaction isn’t “Looks shit, think I’ll watch something else instead.”

Who gives a fuck?

Then there’s the insufferably frightful Match.com adverts that you see on the tube, in which seasoned daters offer insipid bits of advice on how to succeed on a date. Ranging from “I didn’t know what sort of shoe to wear for a country pub date” to “I asked my flatmate which shirt I should wear, she said NOT THE PINK ONE!!!” LOL ROFL.

The trouble with this sort of ‘experienced’ advice is that it leaves me with just one question: OK Mr “I always shave two days before a date to give me the perfect amount of stubble”, if the advice that you’re giving is so utterly flawless then how come you appear to still be single and dating?

Finally, there comes the simply disingenuous. Processed dough-clad faeces outlet Subway, who I suppose are stretching the truth in describing their produce as ‘sandwiches’ in the first place, ran a post-Olympics campaign in which gymnast Louis Smith and boxer Anthony Ogogo invited you to come and eat “where winners eat”.

So, presumably he’s not allowed in then?

Given that both Louis and Anthony were part of Team GB’s great efforts that summer, I can see the commercial benefit of getting them involved. But what’s so baffling about this campaign is that Louis and Anthony managed just two individual bronzes between them. This begs the question that, if these two eat at Subway, where do the actual winners eat? It’s not like there weren’t around 50 alternative GB athletes who actually DID win their events that summer.

Perhaps this is part of a sadder indictment of British culture, the celebration of the mediocre, but that is for another day. For now I shall continue to walk my path through a world of advertising mediocrity and shake my head in bafflement. I may be no Don Draper myself, but it appears that very few industry insiders are either.

by Harry Harland

The Boundary Rooftop has opened for the summer. Yes. Despite the weather confusion, it is actually summer. But have no fear, there is a burning fire and blankets to make you think it’s summer.

I found this place on google and it was perfect. The service was incredible. They kept moving the heaters closer to us when we looked cold. And we celebrated my friends birthday with nuts, snacks and bubbly. With blankets over our laps. And a view of London, we felt like two little grannies allowed out for the day. It was perfect.

It has been one of those things I’ve been embarrassed to admit when asked, but a bit like watching Schindler’s List, reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and going to Liverpool, another thing I really should have done by now, especially after having studied Art History, is go to the Louvre.

I can’t really think of an excuse for any of the above: I haven’t watched Schindler’s List because despite its place on the top shelves of video rental stores, its German subject matter, and reports of a shower scene, for some reason, I just haven’t seen it.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide – again, I can’t think of an excuse – God knows I’ve read some shite over the years, The Hunger Games being my most recent example. So book one was decent, but books two and three… if Katniss and Peta had swallowed the poisonous berries at the end of book one we’d all have been put out of the misery that followed. But, the Hitchhiker’s Guide, I just haven’t read.

And Liverpool, well, I could probably get over the way the Scousers pronounce phrases like ‘car key’, ‘melted cheese’ and ‘Martin Skrtel’, pluck up some courage and go to the dubiously titled Culture Capital of Europe 2008, but I’ve digressed enough already.

Martin Skrtel’s first appearance on Trivial Pursuits

The Louvre fits the same explanation as all the above; I possibly have even less of an excuse, but the outcome is the same – I don’t know why I haven’t been to the Louvre. So, as you may have surmised from the title of this blog, guess where I found myself last weekend…

So, how was it?

Well, of course it was good; an Art Historian’s wet dream, in fact. But, rather than dwell on the 35,000 works it houses, I want to discuss just one – and that’s our Lisa from Florence. And not even about her, what do you think Wikipedia’s for? No, I want to discuss the experience of going to see her.

With eight million visitors per year, the Louvre is the most visited museum in the world. In footballing terms, FC Barcelona’s stadium and accompanying museum, achieve under half this annually. And if you go to the Louvre for the first time, there’s probably one thing on your hit list and it was certainly on mine.

And so, unsurprisingly, the path to see Leonardo’s Mona Lisa is long; a pilgrimage through Italian history as you contend for space with the other visitors bent on the same mission. Works by nomi familiari (ahem): Cimabue, Botticelli, Lippi, Veronese, Raphael, and the rest, feature along the way, but at the end of every room, is a little sign with one of the most reproduced images in history and an arrow to remind you where you’re heading.

Then, up on the second floor, you take a right turn off the main corridor and this is what greets you:

Jesus Christ… well, nearly

And, it’s not as if you haven’t been prepared for this. People describe it as one of the great cultural anti-climaxes (there ought to be a list of them really).

But all the while I waited for my turn to see Leonardo’s most famous work, as arms slapped their way across my face, thrusting their camera-phones towards her; as repugnant American accents filled the air; as people shoved me towards the barriers with less decorum than fans at a rock concert; as her smile smirked back at all of us; I didn’t care that I couldn’t get close enough to see his revolutionary sfumato technique. I didn’t care that ten yards and bullet-proof glass was as intimate as I could get with her.

No. I thought very simply: she’s over 500 years-old and she commands an annual audience greater than Lionel Messi. Smirk on that.

Not this time, Lionel

By Edward Lines

Why jewellery?

Scale and symbolism. Jewellery as an artform operates on the smallest of scales and yet the personal and emotional attachment we have with it is like no other object – the modern day talisman you could say. We wear it to identify ourselves, we pass it down to future generations, and without it many of us feel naked. I find our evolving relationship with jewellery intriguing.

How would you describe your label in three words?

Classic with ego.

How did you come up with the logo and branding?

I knew the ‘look’ I wanted, but it was really my wonderful friend Macki who I must credit with the logo and website. She totally understood my brief and I couldn’t have put it all together without her.

Do you have a favourite range?

Not a favourite per say, but I do love the challenges the diffusion range brings, that being to create affordable pieces using precious metals and semi-precious stones without compromising on design.

Favourite item in your ranges?

In the mainline, I love the Serpent Knuckle Ring – it’s edgy but still looks super sophisticated when paired with a sharp cocktail dress. In the diffusion range, it has to be the Sun Cuff Earrings – the perfect day to night bit of sparkle.

Are you a ring, necklace, bracelet or earring chick? Or all of the above?

Definitely an earrings and ring girl. Unsurprisingly I also find them the easiest to design.

Which celebrity would you like to see in your gear?

Tilda Swinton, Cara Delevingne and Tavi Gevinson

Which Londoner sums up your jewellery range?

Kate Moss – she can do sophistication and rock glamour simultaneously.

Who are the most inspiring people in fashion. Dead or alive?

Coco Channel for her tailoring, Alexander McQueen for his otherworldliness couture and Grace Coddington for her creative genius.

Where do you buy jewellery from in London?

Dover Street Market is amazing, as is the Shop at Bluebird.

Favourite area in London for jewellery shopping?

Impossible to answer!

Your own jewellery rules?

Never compromise on design and concept. Diamonds don’t belong in every collection.

Best jewellery advice you were ever given?

Manufacture in the UK.

What can we expect from you this year?

A second collection: think opium dens, high end courtesans, oppulence and a touch of the East, as well a few pop up trunk shows perfectly in time for Christmas!

Check out her website here and have a gander at her thoughts on Pinterest. Oh and get saving. You are going to want to buy everything.