Brother of the Bride: The conclusion.

The bond between two sisters is becoming a bit of a greeting cards cliche. There's never been that sort of card for the close bond that you and I share. So I'm writing you this letter instead. Since you've become a counsellor you've talked a lot about endings. How people struggle when one chapter closes. Of course, you were referring to death but, as I always do, I brought it back to me. Your inevitable departure is something that's filled me with dread. As you move on to married life, I won't have you there to talk about my daily gripes.

Your success is something I boast about because you seldom do. A BSc, an MSc and a PhD are phenomenal achievements and a wonderful tribute to Dad, who never had an education himself.

A lot of symbolism surrounds Pakistani weddings. And I must admit I'm dreading the Rukhsati as you bid farewell to us and embark on your new life. I promise to do you proud and not shed a tear.

I might shed a tear.

The night before we lost Grandad, I remember saying (the way people often do, when a wedding looms) "Crikey, only a week left."

The next day we woke to the news that Grandad had died and we sort of lost our way as our parents made plans to fly to Pakistan for the funeral. There was a wedding to postpone and, as always, with a heart of gold but with nerves of steel you took charge and postponed your happy day until it felt right.

That day is now close again and as you embark on the next chapter of your life, I wish you a lifetime of happiness. It's nothing more than you deserve.

Perhaps I should leave it there but instead I'm going to adapt something George Clooney said in Up in the Air: "Every family has the one person who keeps the genealogy in check. That's my sister Naila – the glue."

Lots of love, your brother. 

a beginner's guide to a tv festival

I’ve not blogged in a while. I always say this. Perhaps influenced by Simon Amstell lamenting the fact that people give material away for free on twitter has stuck in my head? No, there’s no perhaps about it. I am THAT easily influenced. Taking my Sundays to write “proper stuff” instead I’ve neglected you in your tens worried that I would fall into a Sorkin-esque cycle of self plagiarism. Which really only begs one question: Who the hell do I think I am?

I digress.

The path that led me to The Edinburgh TV festival or to be more precise the Media Guardian Edinburgh International Television Festival was an odd one.  I got in an email to my work email telling me that a colleague had recommended me as a “One to watch”. Delighted, I dismissed it to the spam folder alongside emails for weight loss.

A few weeks later I got another email urging me again to apply for the scheme. At a loss and looking for a way out of clearing out the garage, I professed the importance of the application so that no one bothered me whilst I watched Veep. A quick google search later and I realised that this email wasn’t spam though but instead a very good opportunity.

An email popped into my account telling me I had been shortlisted. “Great!” I thought, “I’ve not updated my LinkedIn account for ages”. But this email was overshadowed by who recommended me for the scheme in the first place. It had become soap’s biggest off screen whodunit ever.

I think.

The build up was exciting. I didn’t know who else was taking part and managed to convince myself that five days in Edinburgh alongside the “rising stars of TV” would send me into reality TV type tail spin.

“I’m going to ring you in tears” I told my friend Selina. “OMG yes!” She cried. “It’ll be just like ANTM, and I’ll tell you to stay strong.”

I pretended not to know what she was talking about and nodded sagely. Deep in thought.

I arrived in Edinburgh (via Carlisle although the train had the overcrowding of Delhi Rail) and met a host of genuinely nice people. Haunted by the opening nights of 13 seasons of Big Brother I thought “This isn’t going to last”.

But it did. Perhaps because we only had to stay with each other for 5 days. Who knows?

I enjoyed my time in Edinburgh more each day. The sessions hosted by the scheme were brilliant and when the real TV festival kicked in it all felt very…TV.

There were talks.  Brilliant ones about Modern Family and Sherlock. Talks about upcoming shows in which I spotted an old work colleague dancing in a dating show. There was Grace Dent chatting Charlie Brooker as if they were at a dinner party and you were that really annoying mute. It was BRILLIANT.

And then there were parties.

Parties in museums hosted by Channel 4. Free bar. Parties hosted by Dave. Free bar. And parties hosted by YouTube in the poshest house I have ever been in. Free bar.

Although I’m now sick of Elderflower flavoured water. Vom.

There was a cellist and mirrors. A lady telling me she loved Corrie but it had gone “off the boil” and she’d tell me why later. And other posh stuff. And then I spotted my friend Gareth across the room. (Not a schemey but a proper grown up journalist and everything). He’s spent the day introducing me to people in the most flattering way and said he felt like my mum. More like an older brother.

So the evening was no exception. Tapping a tall gent on the shoulder he introduced me to Mark Gatiss and then Stephen Moffat.

“Don’t say something stupid. Don’t say something stupid. Don’t say something stupid.” I thought.

And I don’t think I did. Hopefully.

It was a rare moment when you meet people who you think are genuinely brilliant.

I was kind of in awe. I’d not been that excited since I met Bill Roache. I wanted to tell Stephen Moffat I loved the episode of Doctor Who entitled “Blink”. But wisely Gareth told me to maybe hold off on that for a bit.

There were after parties and networking and people whispering loudly about controllers they wanted to meet. Taxi Drivers telling me that the BBC Fringe event was not free it was paid for by them. It was like Braveheart in a cab.

Just so TV. But utterly brilliant.

theguyinthebowtie

ramadan

Every year as difficult as the fasts are, the questions are worse. So before I go on let me just stop here and say "No, not even water".

There's a week left until Ramadan begins. The prayer timetable arrived the other day and it was only today that I glanced at it. There are five prayers a day. but I'll be honest the two that I am interested in signal the 

closing and breaking of the fast and seeing as I'm being  brutally honest my heart sank a little when I saw that the first fast racks up at a whopping 19 hours. Killer.

But still we persevere. Right?

Every year the prayer timetable becomes even more commercial as local businesses pay top dollar for a prime bit of ad space. Without fail the local halal chippy succeeds every year and how a chippy gains the status of halal is still beyond me.

Digressing.

Ramadan is a month of sacrifice.

July is the month that the final film in Christopher Nolan's brilliant Batman trilogy is released.

Hmm.

Working out times for the IMAX showings are proving to be tricky and as a friend pointed out generally frowned upon by my religion.

BUT I REALLY WANNA SEE IT.

I threw my toys out the pram. 

Metaphorically, mind.

"It's costing us the summers of our youth!" I cried in dramatic fashion. As if Batman and Revolution still wouldn't be there in 30 days time. My cousin (who shall remain nameless) was dealing with a lot less of the internal conflict. Or as I like to call it Muslim guilt. See Drumsticks or any gelatine based sweet for more info.

"Don't worry you about me" he said "I'll be fine"

So I was cast adrift by my own family. I'm being dramatic again.  

I suppose as I've got older and have more responsibilities (and the fasts have come longer- see above - 19 hours) my approach to Ramadan has altered  but at its heart it's the month where your life should be put in perspective as you realise how blessed you are. And a after a month of doing it you do feel different.

So I'll persevere Batman or no Batman.

Sleep or no sleep.

And most importantly food or no food.

theguyinthebowtie

brother of the bride part 3: a beginner's guide

The wedding is merely weeks away and the pressure is mounting. It's akin to that scene out of "Father of the Bride" where that fake French dude suggests swans for the front garden. Fortunately there aren't any live animals. And unfortunately Steve Martin isn't narrating.

There are however hundreds of guests. The cards are still being written which is nerve wracking in itself and there's an atmosphere descended as people now bandy about the word "shaadi house" which essentially means wedding house in Urdu. I think there's a reason why that expression doesn't exist in English because just means people rock up at all hours.

I've not been tasked with many chores for the wedding apart from helping with the wedding cake. Google has provided many insights into the world of the incredibly lucrative Asian market and it's fair to say that the cake we've chosen is wearing a marzipan sari.

"The fruitcake part has rum flavouring"

"Can we have it without?"

"But it's just flavouring"

"No rum flavouring please. We're Islamic"

...is an actual conversation I had to have.

Alongside that I've had several conversations regarding the length of the wedding to clear up any confusion. Here's a beginner's guide

mehndi.

The Mehndi celebrations take place a couple of days before the wedding. They usually involve the bride or groom (separately) on a stage. Still can't get used to that. A stage.

Then hundreds of family members proceed to blob some henna on your hand and oil in your hair, if you the significance of this. Please get in touch. You then get a photo like this:

Yep that's what I looked like in 2008. But no matter what year it is you can bet your bottom rupee you'll hear this song at a Mehndi:

Classic. "Ja jeela apni zindagi Simran"

shaadi.

After the Mehndi comes the day of the shaadi. It's hosted by the bride's family and usually takes place in the day time. This is when shit gets real. You wake up at very early time. Possibly on the floor because you've given up your bedroom for your Uncle Afzal.  You then have to fight for the bathroom and everyone wants to know if you've got a pair of scissors. Why's it always scissors?

Guests descend on the house until the Baraaat arrives. The baraat is the groom's family who arrive in a procession. They come to get the bride. Now tradition dictates that you shouldn't let her go too easily. So you make them pay for their entry. No kidding. The bride's female cousins have cornered that racket. There's also a tradition when you steal the groom's shoes. This resulted in an incredibly popular Bollywood song where Madhuri Dixit managed do just that with the help of a little white dog. Go on press play you know you want to.

Then about 600 people eat. More seekh kebabs please. It's all about the starters

The day ends with the rukhsathi. An emotional part where the bride's family bids farewell to their daughter and sister. It's "totes emosh". I could probably put another Bollywood song here:

I won't though. Let's press on.

walima

The third and final day is the Walima. The groom's family now throw a part in a bid to celebrate the arrival of the bride into their family. It's meant to be joyous but to be honest I'm comparing that day's seekh kebabs to the kebabs of the shaadi the day before. And so is everyone else.

All said and done you're now knackered and so am I and it not even kicked off yet. I'll fill you in after the event happens. Wish me luck.

theguyinthebowtie

'do

So little over a week ago I attended my first ever Television awards. I know exciting right?

It was The British Soap Awards 2012.

I instantly mass messaged my friends like an over excited school boy. Leading one of my mates to opine that the dress code is either "T*ts or Topman".

I opted for the latter.

The week dragged and the sessions of GTL in an attempt to look FTD increased.

And then Saturday finally arrived.

 I'd packed considerably lightly not out of necessity but instead to defy my colleagues' expectations that I'd roll up with several cases. It was tough work.

I'd narrowed it down to three. Yes, three bow ties.

The journey down was full rain and bizarrely paparazzi. Getting papped if you're not famous is the most cringe worthy thing ever. Like ever. You can almost see the paparazzo's disapproval as he realises that his shot is worth shit with you in the frame.

And with blinding lights I was convinced my second appearance on the Mail Online (The back off my head had already appeared once. What? It counts.) Would be one of a picture akin to Rocky getting punched by Apollo Creed.

We finally reached the hotel and there were rumours of Bieber and Matt Le Blanc residing there. We were on the lookout. No such luck but I did see Mark Wright.

After a mad dash to Oxford Circus, time was ticking and I returned to the hotel only to find that none of my plug sockets were working. I lied to the reception desk that it was imperative I charge my phone prior to the event whilst water dripped from my hair and I stood with my mute hair dryer in hand. Utterly convinced I was about to attend the awards looking like the sixth Jackson brother.

But thank the Metrosexual Gods we were on track with time to spare. And in case you were wondering I opted for a vintage velvet maroon bow tie. I mean it is after all called theguyinthebowtie.

En route ITV studios London and I'm pretty sure we've hijacked the car that belonged to some of the Hollyoaks cast. Who am I kidding, we definitely did, and the man's sat nav thing said so.

The car pulled into the studios and before us Dr Khan of EastEnders fame emerged. He got booed. I didn't know it was him and a ripple of fear spread through our car that we were about to get booed due to our lack of fame. Luckily that didn't happen. I did however get a whoop. I imagine this was because someone mistook me for Tamwar from Enders.

Oh yes. Tamwar. A running joke amongst my friends that we share the same penchant for glasses, awkwardness and bow ties. And what's that? Yep that's right we are both of South Asian descent.

The awards progressed in a surreal blur. Ringmaster Schofield presided over events. And thing I took away from it all was just how posh Pat Butcher is in real life.

That accent cray.

Awards over. We are now in a Wonka themed after party.  There were trees dripping with fake sweets and Joe Swash was there.

I found myself suddenly confronted by the fact that Tamwar Masood and I were in the same room. Anecdotally this is ok. But what if I got a picture with him? Genius right? It'd be totes hilair.

I somehow transformed into Borat. Following Pamela Anderson around. Instead I was following around a soap actor who was meant to be my doppelganger but in reality looked nothing like me.

So at the Candy Floss station, I tapped him on the shoulder giddy from the fumes of whipped sugar and said.

"Hello sorry to do this to you. But people we say look alike and I was wondering if it would be funny if we could take a picture together?"

It was as if I expected him to say 

"Yes that would be hilarious! Email me the picture and add me on Facey B".

He didn't but he was a really nice and polite guy. And as a result my anecdote went from saying I saw him to well, this blog.

The whole weekend was a blur and I often felt like Kevin McAlister in Home Alone 2 in a posh Hotel with money to burn. So at 11am I ordered the world smallest £7.50 cheesecake. It was ai'te.

Homeward bound and we're all somewhat dazed by a long day and when the show airs I proceed to freeze-frame a little brown bespectacled blur to show my family. I'm pretty sure it's me. It could of course be Tamwar Masood...

Did I ever tell you about the time I met him?...

theguyinthebowtie

great expectations

South Asian families are often brought up of a diet rice or chapattis (and other worldy foods, I'm not being stereotypical. just bear with.) We're also served up daily if not hourly with doses of the merits of hard work. Ever since I was young my parents would bleat on about how my brother's favourite song growing up was "Papa Kehte hain" this roughly translates to "What my Dad says".

Predating the wonderful "Shit my dad says" twitter feed, this Bollywood teen song was not about rebellion. Oh no. this was about one son's desire to make his father's dreams come true.

 Practically brainwashed. So with it came the hours of homework, reading and writing, and in my case lamenting that I wasn't very good at sports. But unfortunately my parents were left surprised that after all their focus on academics that not a single one of us became a doctor. And thank Allah they were placated later when my sister got her PhD. But with their ambition came a shred of hypocrisy. After travelling across the world and setting up home away from their family and friends we've often been guilt tripped to stay local otherwise we might end up like the kids out of Baghban. (A Bollywood film in which the kids fail to look after their parents in the autumn of their life. there's even a sad song in a phone box)

 

This didn't deter me though. Good on those kids I thought. I'm no Gordon Gekko but ambition is a good thing. And before I knew it I was shipped off to London in a horse and cart with promises of a great education and ticket to mix with the upper echelons of society. No...Wait that is the plot to Great Expectations.

It's been three years since I've graduated and moved back home. The status quo can often remain the same for months than in a flash everything changes and you can find yourself looking at your parents a little bit in awe. Not just for an amazing knack for money management (which I'm still waiting to inherit) but for their way they did set up life a world away from everything they knew. Of course they'll probably ruin the moment when they tell you to wear socks with your loafers because it's cold out. These days we've forged our own path and even though I joke about it I can't help but feel that we've taken that work ethic we were brought up on with us and hopefully apply it to becoming a reality TV brand.

I'm kidding.

 theguyinthebowtie.

brother of the bride part two

So yesterday was a big day for us here at the Akhtar Khan compound. I mean household.

My sister got married. Well officially. It was a true amalgamation of both our British-ness and Asian-ness.

The morning kicked off with the usual commotion that ensues when our family has anything to sort out. It was going to be a mad dash to the Register Office.
But as we all ran around in a scene not too dissimilar to the opening scenes of Home Alone. (1 & 2 - I've not seen 3).

The ladies of the house were at the beauticians preparing for the day ahead as time ticked along I got a crash course in dressing a toddler in a party dress. FYI you should not be able to see her vest underneath the dress.

I did not know this.

We made it to the Register office in time waiting for the Groom and his family to arrive.

The service went smoothly apart from when my niece dropped my phone during the all important "Does anyone have any objection bit"?

A soap staple.

This was followed by an inordinate amount of pictures outside the register office and town hall with our very own photographer to boot.



I've never felt so Asian.

After the ceremony there were several hours between the registration and the Islamic ceremony. Otherwise known as the nikah.

"A formal, binding contract is considered integral to a religiously valid Islamic marriage, and outlines the rights and responsibilities of the groom and bride. The marriage must be declared publicly. Divorce is permitted."

Thanks Wikipedia.

so as the evening arrived the same amount nerves began to pile up but rather than just the few guests that came to the ceremony in the morning, many more people were about to descend onto our house.

The groom's side. The bride's side. And the Imams.

So when the guys with the beards arrived we knew it was show time. Especially because my nephew was serenading them with JLS' "Do you feel what I feel?" upon their arrival.



The ceremony varies from the British one. Aside from the fact that everyone is called Mohammed yet the Imam still asked us how to spell it. (Between me and you I think he's in the wrong job.) There's also a greater family involvement and the whole thing was a lot more emotional. And dare I piss off the Daily Mail but more symbolic.
There's an eerie silence as the groom declares his loyalty to the woman he is about to marry all the while the bride is in another room. I think it's that silence that leads you to ponder the gravity of it all.

Or in my case whether it's acceptable to live tweet during a nikah.

I've never felt so British.

FYI it isn't acceptable.

So it wasn't just my 5 year old nephew who got the giggles.

My sister's part was more emotionally charged. An Asian daughter's journey into marriage is incredibly symbolic. So there were a few tears shed.



A Bollywood staple.

#Mashallah the ceremony went well. And after the groom's side depleted and my extended family outstayed their welcome, we reflected on the day in good spirits. Now we have the reception or actual shaadi to look forward to in June.

The learning curve continues. I'll keep you posted.

theguyinthebowtie