Pimp my Beard Season 2: Round 2

Brave New World

When, in the winter of 98 (I was on a skiing holiday with a lesbian named Crayons) this editor was quizzed on the subject of transgender beardery, this editor is ashamed to say that he scoffed at the idea. “Show me a woman, or a 60-40 hermaphrodite for that matter, with a fully seeded beard or moustache and I’ll show you a man in a dress.” He said, before it was pointed out that some women do carry an amount of upper lip fluff; “But does it bristle?!” He boomed, scaring a nearby vole into river, “Does it resist a stiff breeze, harbour crumbs and seem to growl at the touch?!” The enquirer had to admit that it did not.

This editor now reproaches himself for such defensiveness. He has now known several women and no longer fears them or any possible attempts to usurp the theatre of beardery from menfolk such as they might make. In short, and by means of an overdue apology, PMB welcomes its first transgender beard, modelled here by Emily, “The truncheon” McNulty. PMB regards this a significant moment in beardery and Emily, not Pankhurst, had this to say, “Finally some recognition you utter shits.” And later this, (gruff voice, perhaps that of a Northumberland butcher) “Dodgems, dodgems! One pound a quarter hour!” The Truncheon's comments elucidate the duplicitous nature of both sexuality and the beard, and by calling into question her sanity, that of personality itself.

Could there be a more fitting epitaph to single sex beardery?

Drawing this historic round of Pimp my Beard to a close, we humbly ask that when beards and breasts hit the front covers of the tawdry fashion and "celeb" magazines, you remember that you saw them here first, as we welcomed you, to a Brave New World.

Pimp My Beard Round Season 2: Round 1

The Able Mason

Having taken a hiatus from PMB to "rethink himself", Browning returns with this uncompromisingly 3 fingered ( middle finger of left hand, v or "peace sign" on right hand) dismissal of narrow beardedness - the struggle against which, the followers of PMB make their daily toil.

 In typical firebrandish tone, Browning told us, "As PMB has grown, its principles of beardery have disseminated futher and wider and while these have been received gladly onto many a face across the continents, they have also come into conflict with some of the more conservative elements in mainstream beardery. We're told, 'You can't work in a paper mill with a beard like this, you can't come into this supermarket with a beard like that.' People need to be able to see the beard, but also to see beyond it. At PMB we've grown up with the philosophy that a beard is both expression and mask and we've had enough of people saying, 'That's a bricklayer's moustache, oh well, you must be a bricklayer.' Maybe this bricklayer's also a dancer, or a javelin expert. We've got to persevere with beards that teach the obstinately narrow bearded, that this can, and often is the case."

 To promote that message, Browning gives us, The Able Mason. Cult goer by night, wolf whistler by day, this is the art of expecting the unexpected; this is the geometry of biggotry. One fears however, that the subtly of this lesson in beardery may be lost on precisely the narrow bearded conservatives that Browning hopes to reach. Nevertheless, PMB and Browning will fight to the end, "People say you can tell a lot about a man by his beard, well I've decided to wear my beard on my sleeve."



Pimp my Beard Season 2 Round 1:

The Commuter

Mirror Mirror on the wall, who's got the dopest moustache of them all? The answer, yet another of the boisterously bearded young men to be found delivering their portfolios to offices of PMB in recent months, Andrew "The Commuter" Bell. Known to many as the Casanova of the Circle and District, Bell takes A to B travel to unprecedentedly dashing new heights. Personally holding the London Underground Zones 1 and 2 record for most head's turned per journey and rumoured to Banksy's muse, Bell poses for us here in the full splendor of his chosen habitat. Behind the camera, I was witness to a scene that tells the story of the power of this facial finess more aptly than I could ever describe. Mere seconds after clicking shoot on my Sony Cybershot DSC HV7X, an Eastern European lady and her tall friend, attracted by the play of the strip lighting as it's rays danced across Bell's silken tache, looked full on into the beam of his gaze and passed out in pure 1950's cinematic theatre. Naturally, Bell was swiftly across the carriage to fan the assortedly sized ladies with his t-shirt that he had removed with a artful whipping motion. The cool and sweet scented air soon revived the ladies who thanked him in graciously stupefied murmurs before losing consciousness once more. This was beardery at its most smoldering - give him an inch and he'll take your grandmother.

Pimp My Beard is Back! Season 2 Round 1

Judgement Day

Do I smell barbeque? Newcomer to PMB, Jonathan "The Juggernaut" Cartwright, swings into town  exhibiting some decidedly post apocalyptic panache. Disarmingly honest, Cartwright tells us, 'It was an accident! I once saw a young shepherd hand refused a cider at Chesire Inn. The prodigious rascal reappeared some minutes later with a highly relaxed caterpillar slung from his top lip designed, no doubt, to give himself the impression of being an older, more beardly endowed chap. He was immediately spotted for an imposter and duly sent packing. To this day, I have been struck by both his impish initiative and by how on earth he contrived to balance the creature, danglingly lazily from his lip, whilst matter of factly inquiring about the cellar temperature of the cider.  This was precisely the moustachioed impudence I hoped to recreate when given my bow on PMB. Imagine my disbelief when my quivering travel mirror revealed that I had unwittingly inscribed armageddon around my mouth and chin!'
   Indeed, anyone familiar with the work of Liv Tyler will no doubt understand the duel horrors of having their feuding father and finacee in space, battling against an asteroid on a collision course with earth, soon to herald the end of days. Portraying this on screen was a remarkable achievement. But reproducing such biblical foreboding's on one's face, albeit coincidentally, takes balls. Juggernaut, we, the humble folk of PMB, salute you.

The Time We Met 

Coming from where we came,

We’d seen a thing or two,

Could give a thing its name.

We’d grown in field and town,

Semi-detached from the playgrounds

Through which our playdough personalities

Had so far been squeezed.

We had survived the barbs of adolescence,

Would tease out the thorns.

We were exuberant.

With spliffs and student bank accounts to burn,

We set out, twenty strong,

Rambled down florescent streets,

Reorganising traffic cones and road signs.

We marveled at sound reflected on a domed pub ceiling;

Catching snippets of other people’s conversations,

We drank to our omnipotence,

And deftly ignored our ignorance.

We’d learnt new words and wanted to use them,

Like teleological, spectrographic, djuvet and blup.

We dragged ourselves, bleary eyed to seminar and lecture,

We quoted, extrapolated, deduced and conversed,

We spoke with authority on subjects diverse,

Over “ities” and “isms” we’d argue and curse,

Hated to back down and exchanged harsh words,

That were soon forgotten

Amid the hangovers we’d nurse.

We gleefully jumped into one another’s skins,

And bounded to music recently made our own.

We watched new favourite films,

Scoured art for significance,

Ate and learnt how to cook -

Cue Andy, he wrote us the book.

We swapped clothes and opinions,

And borrowing authors,

We frantically tattooed ourselves, with each other’s passions.

We binged on naivety,

Said things that might now make us cringe,

But we were open,

And listened to life stories with earnest ears.

Identifying and truth defying,

We stacked experiences with our own,

Played Jenga in the kitchen sink,

And laughed with delight,

To toss a coin into an unguarded drink.

We were maturing fast;

Half obeyed cleaning rotas,

And realised all the lies they told us at school.

We dropped childish prejudice;

Talked to strangers, read newspapers, accepted vegetables,

And felt pretty grown up about it.

We paid bills and insulted landlords,

Destroyed the house, but cleaned up afterwards.

We heard the thundering hooves of deadlines,

And ate biscuits -

Got jobs to pay for taste the difference.

We approached problems with reason and clarity:

How to hide a stain, get an extension?

How to film the girls and their girls only party?

Awoke from a long night,

To find we’d borrowed a board room door.

Scratched our heads, fashioned a table

And played ping pong forevermore.

In quiet moments, we looked back to where we started.

Had charged blindly down roads now clearly marked,

To arrive here. With coins tossed and decisions near,

We thought of our futures and flipped between ideas.

Paths branching out to potential failure,

If we walked up one could we walk up another?

The old adage guided those who knew it -

You can do most anything, if you put your mind to it.

Only first you had to work out what to do,

Who to be and how to go about your business.

From one another we got different views,

Got courage, love, trust and forgiveness.

Got calm words when we couldn’t think straight,

Leant on each other and saw the marks we make.

Felt hands on shoulders,

Over which we watched as we painted each other’s portraits.

Watched them grow and shimmer,

As we proudly hung them by our mirrors.