You may have noticed that I've added a last.fm badge to this blog and if you haven't it's the thing on the right-hand side underneath the heading "I'm listening to" that lists which musical tracks I've been listening to lately.
I deliberated over whether to add it or not - do I really want people seeing my eclectic - at times immature, others pensionable - musical tastes? Not sure, but I thought personalising my blog in this way would be a good thing to do - at work we're always trying to think of the next big thing, so I need to make sure I'm at least in step with the kinds of things the kids have been up to for quite some time now.
My annoyance that it's not updating regularly aside, it's another level of self revelation that you can take or leave, but I'm putting it out there in the same spirit that I'm publishing my random thoughts. It might prompt a connection between us, maybe indirectly by encouraging you to sign up to last.fm and find me there, or directly by a laugh or look of disgust (some of my taste really is that bad).
I've been thinking about what a brilliant time to be a teenager this is. In the past, the only way to make a connection with like-minded teens was to wear a badge on your lapel, or scrawl something on your pencil case in the hope that the sixth former in the art room might notice that you had cool taste and you could be worth talking to. He never did.
But now, as your fragile sense of self develops, as your tastes develop, there are thousands of others out there that you can find interested in the same things as you at the click of a badge or a feed or a button. Surely with some careful management this could have a positive effect on teenagers' mental health, letting them know that they're ok even if they feel like they don't fit in with the other kids at school? I shudder to think quite how whey faced I would be if a teenager nowadays, I'd never get away from the screen, but I really think I'd be having a lot of fun.
Even now, with a relatively robust sense of self, I have benefited from a last.fm connection. It turns out one of my "neighbours" is a 21 year old Finnish man who has a similar love of classic soul anthems, slightly obscure rap and indie tunes who has introduced me to some new classics through his well-tagged tracks. In this case, due to the non-intrusive nature of some of last.fm's features, I haven't had to force myself upon this chap like a cyberspace Mrs Robinson, I can just rifle through his recently played tracks and I'm the only one who's any wiser. Which still makes me feel a little grubby, but I'll get over it.
You'll find me by clicking on the list to the right. I'll be the one listening to the Gnarls Barkley and Thom Yorke albums - both excellent. And a couple of tracks by Jedi Mind Tricks, courtesy of the Finn.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
What Would You Rather Do?
I have to change my mobile phone number. This is mildly traumatic. I am getting a phone from my employer which means work calls will be paid for and I can finally check the mobile portal and tv channel that my team has various elements of responsibility for. Apart from the fact that I am still a PAYG CHAV which means that I cannot keep my number this is a very good thing.
Changing number brings to mind those press releases that end up as newspaper headlines at this time of year where our survey says that people would rather have a sex change/walk over hot coals/go nude snow boarding than change their bank account/messenger client/email address/mobile phone number in order to justify the impediments the banks/software companies/telcos put in our way. There are a few games I've played with friends from late teens onwards that I've been reminiscing about when considering what I would rather do than put myself and all my friends and colleagues through the hassle of changing my number.
I'd rather
"I'd rather" was a game from my teenage years where someone would state something gross like eating a whole jar of Marmite that the challengee would have to trump with something equally heinous but somehow more acceptable to them personally - in this case, I might venture licking all the dirt off a potato a suitable replacement. A game for purists.
You have to choose
Student life introduced a game called "You have to choose" where the stoned and/or drunken player would be forced to choose between unattractive elderly celebrities e.g. Bruce Forsythe or Jimmy Tarbuck. One for lazy deviants. (I would plump for a Brucie bonus.)
Shove/Shag/Marry
My last job introduced a similar game called "Shove/Shag/Marry" where you would be given 3 people (friends, relatives, colleagues, celebrities) and be forced - metaphorically - to shove one off a cliff, have sex with another, and marry the other one. The most extreme version of this game tended to happen on business trips, several all-expenses-paid apple martinis in, and would rapidly ascend into incredulous screeches as we chose between our poor colleagues back at base. I always joined in, only once startled when a colleague triumphantly whispered to me "a pig, a dog and a cat!?" Best for hopped-up office workers.
I digress. What would I rather do? In the last year I've nearly moved all my pals to using my gmail address rather than my hotmail address as well as changing work emails and it was easy. On the other hand, the bastard bank has got me with the same account since the days when I would be summoned to the bank manager's office in the Southampton University branch and be warned that my unauthorised borrowing was tantamount to stealing. And bastard Microsoft have still got me hooked on MSN Messenger although I'm proud to state that since just under a year ago I'm a social Messager rather than the compulsive I was for about ten years.
In fact, the only thing coming to mind that I would rather do than change my mobile number is lick the dirt off potatoes, which, to be honest, I've always quite enjoyed. I'll just get on with crafting the email, global text message and ordering the new business cards shall I? Watch your inboxes.
Changing number brings to mind those press releases that end up as newspaper headlines at this time of year where our survey says that people would rather have a sex change/walk over hot coals/go nude snow boarding than change their bank account/messenger client/email address/mobile phone number in order to justify the impediments the banks/software companies/telcos put in our way. There are a few games I've played with friends from late teens onwards that I've been reminiscing about when considering what I would rather do than put myself and all my friends and colleagues through the hassle of changing my number.
I'd rather
"I'd rather" was a game from my teenage years where someone would state something gross like eating a whole jar of Marmite that the challengee would have to trump with something equally heinous but somehow more acceptable to them personally - in this case, I might venture licking all the dirt off a potato a suitable replacement. A game for purists.
You have to choose
Student life introduced a game called "You have to choose" where the stoned and/or drunken player would be forced to choose between unattractive elderly celebrities e.g. Bruce Forsythe or Jimmy Tarbuck. One for lazy deviants. (I would plump for a Brucie bonus.)
Shove/Shag/Marry
My last job introduced a similar game called "Shove/Shag/Marry" where you would be given 3 people (friends, relatives, colleagues, celebrities) and be forced - metaphorically - to shove one off a cliff, have sex with another, and marry the other one. The most extreme version of this game tended to happen on business trips, several all-expenses-paid apple martinis in, and would rapidly ascend into incredulous screeches as we chose between our poor colleagues back at base. I always joined in, only once startled when a colleague triumphantly whispered to me "a pig, a dog and a cat!?" Best for hopped-up office workers.
I digress. What would I rather do? In the last year I've nearly moved all my pals to using my gmail address rather than my hotmail address as well as changing work emails and it was easy. On the other hand, the bastard bank has got me with the same account since the days when I would be summoned to the bank manager's office in the Southampton University branch and be warned that my unauthorised borrowing was tantamount to stealing. And bastard Microsoft have still got me hooked on MSN Messenger although I'm proud to state that since just under a year ago I'm a social Messager rather than the compulsive I was for about ten years.
In fact, the only thing coming to mind that I would rather do than change my mobile number is lick the dirt off potatoes, which, to be honest, I've always quite enjoyed. I'll just get on with crafting the email, global text message and ordering the new business cards shall I? Watch your inboxes.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
A Load of Meatballs and a Cathedral
Albóndigas (meatballs) was one of the first words I learnt in Spanish, forever etched in my memory due to a mix up during Spanish oral with albogodones (cotton wool balls). Since then, every time I find myself in a tapas restaurant whether in the UK or in Spain I insist on ordering the little meat treats with the loud confidence of someone with limited yet precise language skills (as beaten into me by Señora Scott).
Accordingly, our long weekend in Palma involved a hell of a lot of meatballs alongside heaps of pimientos de padrón. We spent most of our time between meals wandering along narrow cobbled streets, our walks punctuated by stop-offs for reviving glasses of Mallorcan rosé and pauses at shop windows to marvel at the whorish shoes that only rich women - and whores I spose - love. We also managed to pass Palma Cathedral at least three times a day but, am sad to say, never made it inside.
Tourists to Mallorca tend to be on a sliding scale from fluent golden yachties to fat pink men in England shirts shouting for LARGE beers. I would put myself and most tourists to Palma slap bang in the middle of the two groups. For example, I enjoyed smoking too many Fortunas, drinking too much booze, playing rummy and reading Jackie Collins' latest (Lovers and Players involves the Russian mafia, one of whom murders someone by suffocating her with a quite unorthodox instrument of death), but then most nights was to be found in dank cellar bars amusing the locals with my linguistic efforts. Grey meatballs with an insipid-looking gravy cooked by one patient abuela (in a tiny bar called Bregor, if you ever go) turned out to be the taste sensation of the trip.
Palma is reminiscent of Lisbon and Barcelona due to the gothic architecture and abundance of bars and restaurants, but with a more laid-back feel; somehow island races like the Mallorcans end up a bit less up themselves (I really tried to find a nicer phrase then, but it's late). And I am assured that the cathedral is well worth visiting - all good reasons for me to return.
For now, back to the reality that is Louise's Kitchen Nightmare - choosing cupboards and tiles and cookers not my idea of fun. On a lighter but nonetheless scary note, I have been much amused by the Blair/Bush exchange - the thing amazing me is that you could actually transport them into any corporation's boardroom and the same blokey wankish chat would fit just as well.
Accordingly, our long weekend in Palma involved a hell of a lot of meatballs alongside heaps of pimientos de padrón. We spent most of our time between meals wandering along narrow cobbled streets, our walks punctuated by stop-offs for reviving glasses of Mallorcan rosé and pauses at shop windows to marvel at the whorish shoes that only rich women - and whores I spose - love. We also managed to pass Palma Cathedral at least three times a day but, am sad to say, never made it inside.
Tourists to Mallorca tend to be on a sliding scale from fluent golden yachties to fat pink men in England shirts shouting for LARGE beers. I would put myself and most tourists to Palma slap bang in the middle of the two groups. For example, I enjoyed smoking too many Fortunas, drinking too much booze, playing rummy and reading Jackie Collins' latest (Lovers and Players involves the Russian mafia, one of whom murders someone by suffocating her with a quite unorthodox instrument of death), but then most nights was to be found in dank cellar bars amusing the locals with my linguistic efforts. Grey meatballs with an insipid-looking gravy cooked by one patient abuela (in a tiny bar called Bregor, if you ever go) turned out to be the taste sensation of the trip.
Palma is reminiscent of Lisbon and Barcelona due to the gothic architecture and abundance of bars and restaurants, but with a more laid-back feel; somehow island races like the Mallorcans end up a bit less up themselves (I really tried to find a nicer phrase then, but it's late). And I am assured that the cathedral is well worth visiting - all good reasons for me to return.
For now, back to the reality that is Louise's Kitchen Nightmare - choosing cupboards and tiles and cookers not my idea of fun. On a lighter but nonetheless scary note, I have been much amused by the Blair/Bush exchange - the thing amazing me is that you could actually transport them into any corporation's boardroom and the same blokey wankish chat would fit just as well.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Off on hols
Off to Palma for four whole days. No time to write much, just to muse on my favourite, John Prescott, taking over whilst Tony's away. Oh yeah, I'm sticking by him through thick and thin.
And I'll be spending my time at the harbour sipping a cool jerez and nibbling on a salted almond, dreaming up the laws that Prezzer would pass if he really did have all the power. See, in an alternative universe - when they didn't cause havoc, destruction and heartache to all they touched - I'm all in favour of compulsory intra-office relations.
¡Hasta luego!
And I'll be spending my time at the harbour sipping a cool jerez and nibbling on a salted almond, dreaming up the laws that Prezzer would pass if he really did have all the power. See, in an alternative universe - when they didn't cause havoc, destruction and heartache to all they touched - I'm all in favour of compulsory intra-office relations.
¡Hasta luego!
Friday, July 07, 2006
Things that Karaoke Has Taught Me
A friend of mine once said "Planning karaoke is like planning sex". At the time she meant it took the joy out of it, the spontaneity, the thrill. But as we get older, planning activities such as these can become an important way of making sure you get an appropriate outlet for the most fundamental of urges.
Last night between six and ten pm, I was to be found in a small, darkened room here singing a variety of show tunes, soul anthems and jaunty sixties tracks to an old, very close friend ("just the two of us"). Yes, I was left with a stinking hangover but a few insights have stayed with me.
Know Your Instrument
If your voice varies in quality, it's best to aim low and pick songs by others with similar issues, e.g. my most successful song last night was "Pull Up to the Bumper" by Grace Jones although admittedly I did accompany myself with some over-ambitious dance moves involving a touch too much "booty" than was appropriate given dimensions of said booty.
Remember to Breathe
Which brings me to attempting any Beyonce numbers... That woman should be applauded for more than her usually admired asset, she clearly has a fine pair of lungs. On attempting to sing her latest hit "Check on It", the lyrics for which translate as "Look at my bottom. Look at my bottom. You know you want to. Go on, look at it, I might let you touch it later. Look at my bottom.", I nearly fainted.
Singing Loudly is a Great Alternative Therapy
As old school friends singing songs from their youth whilst being regularly attended by barstaff bearing house white tend to, we had some tearful moments. The only remedy for such a moment is to grip the other round the shoulders, plant a big kiss and sing loudly through it. I have also found this technique to work at funerals and weddings.
Percussion Instruments are Harder to Play Than They Look
I never imagined you could ruin a song with some ill-timed flicks of the wrist, but my tambourine technique was truly terrible. Thank god they didn't leave the bongos in our room.
I realise I now have some strange addiction to this form of karaoke; I've already got my next session booked. Partly it's got to be an endorphin rush, but also it's about those moments when your head is down between chorus and third verse and you hold the microphone with circled thumb and forefinger and tap it with your other straightened fingers, and for a few glorious moments are as cool as you always hoped you would be. Then, of course, you open your mouth ...
If you're at all tempted by my glowing report and thinking about going along, I must emphasize that, rather like LSD, it is advisable that your first time is only ever attempted with a very select group of close, trusted friends in order to avoid any adverse psychological reactions such as paranoia, excessive comedown or a permanent loss of grip on reality - remember, you're not really nor ever will be that cool.
Last night between six and ten pm, I was to be found in a small, darkened room here singing a variety of show tunes, soul anthems and jaunty sixties tracks to an old, very close friend ("just the two of us"). Yes, I was left with a stinking hangover but a few insights have stayed with me.
Know Your Instrument
If your voice varies in quality, it's best to aim low and pick songs by others with similar issues, e.g. my most successful song last night was "Pull Up to the Bumper" by Grace Jones although admittedly I did accompany myself with some over-ambitious dance moves involving a touch too much "booty" than was appropriate given dimensions of said booty.
Remember to Breathe
Which brings me to attempting any Beyonce numbers... That woman should be applauded for more than her usually admired asset, she clearly has a fine pair of lungs. On attempting to sing her latest hit "Check on It", the lyrics for which translate as "Look at my bottom. Look at my bottom. You know you want to. Go on, look at it, I might let you touch it later. Look at my bottom.", I nearly fainted.
Singing Loudly is a Great Alternative Therapy
As old school friends singing songs from their youth whilst being regularly attended by barstaff bearing house white tend to, we had some tearful moments. The only remedy for such a moment is to grip the other round the shoulders, plant a big kiss and sing loudly through it. I have also found this technique to work at funerals and weddings.
Percussion Instruments are Harder to Play Than They Look
I never imagined you could ruin a song with some ill-timed flicks of the wrist, but my tambourine technique was truly terrible. Thank god they didn't leave the bongos in our room.
I realise I now have some strange addiction to this form of karaoke; I've already got my next session booked. Partly it's got to be an endorphin rush, but also it's about those moments when your head is down between chorus and third verse and you hold the microphone with circled thumb and forefinger and tap it with your other straightened fingers, and for a few glorious moments are as cool as you always hoped you would be. Then, of course, you open your mouth ...
If you're at all tempted by my glowing report and thinking about going along, I must emphasize that, rather like LSD, it is advisable that your first time is only ever attempted with a very select group of close, trusted friends in order to avoid any adverse psychological reactions such as paranoia, excessive comedown or a permanent loss of grip on reality - remember, you're not really nor ever will be that cool.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Ultimate Tube Survival Guide
With commitment to Zone 3 comes commitment to the tube. A good half hour every day to read a chunk of novel or listen to music (for some reason Philip Roth was followed by a Blackalicious phase) is fabulous for my mental health, but when I have to start fanning myself like a Les-Dawson style geisha and I start getting paranoid about not beads but rivulets of sweat made public I can feel my enthusiasm waning.
I was, however, meditating and bearing it; I can highly recommend an alternate nostril breathing exercise I picked up during a fortnight's flirtation with Buddhism that has proved invaluable when travelling to Morden via Charing Cross. But after Ken Livingstone's death knoll for tube travellers I'm not feeling quite so sanguine.
Whilst the tube must witness illness and old age deaths over a year - you know, your heart attacks, your aged winos, your heroin overdoses - the fact that Ken is saying that we may not be able to fix either the congestion and/or the air conditioning points to either some monumental responsibility shirking or more climate change than I've comprehended.
Before anyone suggests it, please remember I have never learnt to ride a bike, and have tried to learn within the past few years and it ended in a few tears, a few bruises and a lot of humiliation. The only option I can see is to forget family and happiness and go balls out for one of those fat media jobs that comes with a chauffeur-driven limo.
I was, however, meditating and bearing it; I can highly recommend an alternate nostril breathing exercise I picked up during a fortnight's flirtation with Buddhism that has proved invaluable when travelling to Morden via Charing Cross. But after Ken Livingstone's death knoll for tube travellers I'm not feeling quite so sanguine.
Whilst the tube must witness illness and old age deaths over a year - you know, your heart attacks, your aged winos, your heroin overdoses - the fact that Ken is saying that we may not be able to fix either the congestion and/or the air conditioning points to either some monumental responsibility shirking or more climate change than I've comprehended.
Before anyone suggests it, please remember I have never learnt to ride a bike, and have tried to learn within the past few years and it ended in a few tears, a few bruises and a lot of humiliation. The only option I can see is to forget family and happiness and go balls out for one of those fat media jobs that comes with a chauffeur-driven limo.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Suburban Life with a Capital "S"
As you may have picked up, I struggled growing up in Essex surrounded by ordinary boys, shopping precincts and the temptations of Raffles cigarettes and deodorant abuse. Later I struggled in different ways when I lived in Soho - night-time screaming (mostly outside the flat) and the tang of urine in the air (ditto). Through it all one thing I was sure of was that I would never settle for life in the suburbs; no child of mine would be exiled to the limbo of not city, not country, just there.
Plans change and so on Friday we "complete" in Hampstead Garden Suburb. Completion smacks ominously of a final solution when all it actually means, I have to keep telling myself, is that we are finally purchasing a house. A house with a garden, with 3 bedrooms and with downstairs toilet (I would say "loo" if I wanted to impress, but I'm feeling obtuse). But there really is no escaping the fact that we are settling down to life in the burbs.
Don't get me wrong, I love our bijou cottage - I'm just a bit uncomfortable with how the name of the area sounds. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and hated my too-common surname and, after dipping into one of my mother's romantic novels (if you can call Harold Robbins romantic), became inspired to start practising signing my name "Louise Hartington".
I suppose the "Hampstead" part of the name impresses everyone who's not actually from London, so they imagine our neighbours will be Glenda Jackson and Emma Thompson when the reality is actually Charlie the estate agent who sold us the house. And the "Garden Suburb" confuses pretty much everyone who knows me ("will you er ... garden?") bar family who feel vaguely reassured by it.
Rob has made it clear he will be telling everyone we live in Golders Green - which is where we've lived for most of our adult lives, is literally around the corner and where I now sit in our flat we purchased over eight years ago. "The Suburb" or "HGS" is just around the corner, a matter of feet - but this feels different, Golders Green is, for me, transitory and therefore reassuring.
So in two days' time I am making not only a massive commitment to my relationship, to a garden, and life with two khazis to clean, but most scary of all, a commitment to suburban life. Blimey. Next thing you know I'll have learnt how to drive and so will be committed to society to a horrifyingly functional extent.
Wish us luck.
Plans change and so on Friday we "complete" in Hampstead Garden Suburb. Completion smacks ominously of a final solution when all it actually means, I have to keep telling myself, is that we are finally purchasing a house. A house with a garden, with 3 bedrooms and with downstairs toilet (I would say "loo" if I wanted to impress, but I'm feeling obtuse). But there really is no escaping the fact that we are settling down to life in the burbs.
Don't get me wrong, I love our bijou cottage - I'm just a bit uncomfortable with how the name of the area sounds. It reminds me of when I was a teenager and hated my too-common surname and, after dipping into one of my mother's romantic novels (if you can call Harold Robbins romantic), became inspired to start practising signing my name "Louise Hartington".
I suppose the "Hampstead" part of the name impresses everyone who's not actually from London, so they imagine our neighbours will be Glenda Jackson and Emma Thompson when the reality is actually Charlie the estate agent who sold us the house. And the "Garden Suburb" confuses pretty much everyone who knows me ("will you er ... garden?") bar family who feel vaguely reassured by it.
Rob has made it clear he will be telling everyone we live in Golders Green - which is where we've lived for most of our adult lives, is literally around the corner and where I now sit in our flat we purchased over eight years ago. "The Suburb" or "HGS" is just around the corner, a matter of feet - but this feels different, Golders Green is, for me, transitory and therefore reassuring.
So in two days' time I am making not only a massive commitment to my relationship, to a garden, and life with two khazis to clean, but most scary of all, a commitment to suburban life. Blimey. Next thing you know I'll have learnt how to drive and so will be committed to society to a horrifyingly functional extent.
Wish us luck.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Essex: The Case for the Defence
As we drove into my mum's village last Sunday, Rob turned to me and commented "Christ, it's like Northern Ireland" referring to the high number of flags adorning every house, car, bike and child. I felt shocked and depressed at the sense of menace I felt on seeing all these flags (St George, in this case) but what else did I expect? Welcome to World Cup Essex.
Tuesday was the night of the England Sweden match. I braced myself on the journey home, imagining as I stepped off the train drunken seven year olds hurling abuse at me, pausing only to sing songs about RAF bombers or swig on an alcopop.
What I actually saw on my walk from the train station were two things that made me smile. The first was a man with a flag of St George painted on his face and one of those furry top hats and an England shirt. He was concentrating on driving his very bashed up Vauxhall Marina out of the village, I imagine to join some friends to watch the match. We exchanged a glance - he grinned and I laughed out loud. He was aware he looked an utter arse - that was the point, and I imagine he couldn't wait to see his mates in the pub roaring with laughter when they saw him. The kind of man my mum would call with affection a "silly old fool".
The second sight to raise a smile was two little Sweden flags perched in some cheery hanging baskets a few doors down from my mum's house. I have never met a Swedish person in the village, so can only presume that someone either has ancestry, visitors or was just being plain silly as well.
See that's the thing that very few people get about Essex, a lot of the show and baubles and gaudiness is about pantomime. The man in the car knew he looked utterly ridiculous and so would his friends. The villagers of West Horndon similarly know that their houses look stupid, but they're doing it to share and even heighten their excitement.
Despite my smart comment about Neighbourhood Watch stickers at the end of my last post, I've decided it's high time I was called to account for prejudice against Essex. I'm a bit like one of those latent homosexuals who violently decry any whiff of poofery. I need to get over the fact that these are my people, this is my county and that it's really not that bad.
Tuesday was the night of the England Sweden match. I braced myself on the journey home, imagining as I stepped off the train drunken seven year olds hurling abuse at me, pausing only to sing songs about RAF bombers or swig on an alcopop.
What I actually saw on my walk from the train station were two things that made me smile. The first was a man with a flag of St George painted on his face and one of those furry top hats and an England shirt. He was concentrating on driving his very bashed up Vauxhall Marina out of the village, I imagine to join some friends to watch the match. We exchanged a glance - he grinned and I laughed out loud. He was aware he looked an utter arse - that was the point, and I imagine he couldn't wait to see his mates in the pub roaring with laughter when they saw him. The kind of man my mum would call with affection a "silly old fool".
The second sight to raise a smile was two little Sweden flags perched in some cheery hanging baskets a few doors down from my mum's house. I have never met a Swedish person in the village, so can only presume that someone either has ancestry, visitors or was just being plain silly as well.
See that's the thing that very few people get about Essex, a lot of the show and baubles and gaudiness is about pantomime. The man in the car knew he looked utterly ridiculous and so would his friends. The villagers of West Horndon similarly know that their houses look stupid, but they're doing it to share and even heighten their excitement.
Despite my smart comment about Neighbourhood Watch stickers at the end of my last post, I've decided it's high time I was called to account for prejudice against Essex. I'm a bit like one of those latent homosexuals who violently decry any whiff of poofery. I need to get over the fact that these are my people, this is my county and that it's really not that bad.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Everyman - Philip Roth
I’m way beyond being able to review any Philip Roth books objectively. There are those that I love and those that I want to devour again and again and will never be able to get enough of.
His latest book, Everyman, is a dead man’s reflection on his life, how it was for him to be alive - making mistakes, being in pain, taking pleasure, leaving desirous and intentional imprints as well as their direct opposites, and is less than two hundred pages. And falls into the latter camp of my Roth book types.
With his usual evocative language and descriptions, the reality of the life he retells and its resonance with me - young white English woman vs old Jewish American man - could be seen to prove his title’s goal is achieved (if it could be considered as such).
There are echoes of characters I have loved in books before – the tall, athletic successful Jewish businessman of American Pastoral makes another appearance as Howard, the brother, the lusty Polish Catholic late-in-life lover from Sabbath's Theater appears here, only this time she is an Irish nurse. But coming to them again does not tarnish the depiction for me, working with uniquely illustrated archetypes is well suited to a book seeking universal truth through an individual’s life pickings.
What struck me most was that if all drama is about a situation where protagonists are trapped, never before for me has a book expressed so elegantly that life is always a drama within which we are trapped, repeating patterns that could be interpreted as themes, echoing past lives and promising future change, through which others may make sense of their lives or may simply leave them untouched, doomed to deepen the coastal shelf. And it explains, ultimately, how each life is really just a moment, an inexpert performance – more am dram than RSC.
If you are so inclined, read it and tell me what you think. I am planning to read again – in my pleasure and greed I inhaled it a bit too quickly and have been left giddy so apologies if this doesn’t give you enough to be getting on with – Guardian and Independent reviews no doubt more enlightening.
Lastly, am in Essex this week without broadband so updates are sporadic but will be coming - more on a later date about St George flags and villages where the only black face is on the peeling Neighbourhood Watch stickers.
His latest book, Everyman, is a dead man’s reflection on his life, how it was for him to be alive - making mistakes, being in pain, taking pleasure, leaving desirous and intentional imprints as well as their direct opposites, and is less than two hundred pages. And falls into the latter camp of my Roth book types.
With his usual evocative language and descriptions, the reality of the life he retells and its resonance with me - young white English woman vs old Jewish American man - could be seen to prove his title’s goal is achieved (if it could be considered as such).
There are echoes of characters I have loved in books before – the tall, athletic successful Jewish businessman of American Pastoral makes another appearance as Howard, the brother, the lusty Polish Catholic late-in-life lover from Sabbath's Theater appears here, only this time she is an Irish nurse. But coming to them again does not tarnish the depiction for me, working with uniquely illustrated archetypes is well suited to a book seeking universal truth through an individual’s life pickings.
What struck me most was that if all drama is about a situation where protagonists are trapped, never before for me has a book expressed so elegantly that life is always a drama within which we are trapped, repeating patterns that could be interpreted as themes, echoing past lives and promising future change, through which others may make sense of their lives or may simply leave them untouched, doomed to deepen the coastal shelf. And it explains, ultimately, how each life is really just a moment, an inexpert performance – more am dram than RSC.
If you are so inclined, read it and tell me what you think. I am planning to read again – in my pleasure and greed I inhaled it a bit too quickly and have been left giddy so apologies if this doesn’t give you enough to be getting on with – Guardian and Independent reviews no doubt more enlightening.
Lastly, am in Essex this week without broadband so updates are sporadic but will be coming - more on a later date about St George flags and villages where the only black face is on the peeling Neighbourhood Watch stickers.
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Things Best Left Unsaid
I embarrassed myself the other day in front of a respected fellow knowledge worker by mispronouncing the word "renege". To make matters worse, my co-worker's method of notification was simply to use the word in conversation later in a different context, but this time with the correct pronunciation quite deliberately spoken.
It's not a unique occurrence; throughout my life I've mispronounced words. At times it may have been because of my estuary twang, at other times simply because I'd never heard the word spoken before - a symptom of reading more than you speak, or certainly reading in literary languages that don't constitute everyday conversation.
But why get renege wrong? I've been kicking myself and trawling my memory as to when exactly it started. Did I ever know how to pronounce the damn word?
I've traced it back to an adaptation of the British tendency to ridicule words with a hint of foreign (mostly French) roots. Examples from my own comedy repertoire that require incorrect stress and/or a dramatic flourish include Chesham Bois [pron. Cheshum Bwuh - as if the commuter suits are pretending they are still en Provence] and ménage à trois [requires an extra long second vowel sound and a fixed gaze from beneath slightly hooded eyes].
But what frightened me most about "renege" was that I had ceased to remember that I was mispronouncing it. Over years of use I had lost the dramatic pause on the second vowel sound, the roll of the eyes, the well timed curl of the mouth, that all let the listener know that I knew I was mispronouncing it.
And the shocker is that due to my core silliness and insecurity (which I'd previously considered part of my charm) alongside a failing memory, I have realised there are untold language landmines out there ready to destroy any vestiges of a reputation I have for possessing even an ounce of intelligence.
So in conclusion, this is a personal plea, that if you ever hear me mispronouncing a word or phrase and are in any doubt as to whether I know I am doing so, please quietly and firmly let me know as soon as possible before I make a tit of myself again.
Just give me a week or so before you give me the lowdown on my spelling, grammar and general vocabulary, a girl can only take so much humiliation in one week.
It's not a unique occurrence; throughout my life I've mispronounced words. At times it may have been because of my estuary twang, at other times simply because I'd never heard the word spoken before - a symptom of reading more than you speak, or certainly reading in literary languages that don't constitute everyday conversation.
But why get renege wrong? I've been kicking myself and trawling my memory as to when exactly it started. Did I ever know how to pronounce the damn word?
I've traced it back to an adaptation of the British tendency to ridicule words with a hint of foreign (mostly French) roots. Examples from my own comedy repertoire that require incorrect stress and/or a dramatic flourish include Chesham Bois [pron. Cheshum Bwuh - as if the commuter suits are pretending they are still en Provence] and ménage à trois [requires an extra long second vowel sound and a fixed gaze from beneath slightly hooded eyes].
But what frightened me most about "renege" was that I had ceased to remember that I was mispronouncing it. Over years of use I had lost the dramatic pause on the second vowel sound, the roll of the eyes, the well timed curl of the mouth, that all let the listener know that I knew I was mispronouncing it.
And the shocker is that due to my core silliness and insecurity (which I'd previously considered part of my charm) alongside a failing memory, I have realised there are untold language landmines out there ready to destroy any vestiges of a reputation I have for possessing even an ounce of intelligence.
So in conclusion, this is a personal plea, that if you ever hear me mispronouncing a word or phrase and are in any doubt as to whether I know I am doing so, please quietly and firmly let me know as soon as possible before I make a tit of myself again.
Just give me a week or so before you give me the lowdown on my spelling, grammar and general vocabulary, a girl can only take so much humiliation in one week.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
5 Things I hate about the World Cup
1. Having to explain to blokes that you're just not that into it.
This year more than any other, men around me are somehow expecting me to be interested and enthusiastic about the World Cup and have looked actively disappointed when I say I can take it or leave it.
2. When I do try to make an effort, not knowing when to make the right noises
Invariably I suck my teeth in when it's patently clear to all around that the person attempting to shoot would never have scored a goal. It's really embarassing when you're the only person in a pub going "ooooooh". Which is related to ...
3. Not being bothered to remember the rules of football
What a corner is and why they are awarded (?) has now been explained to me at the very least every two years for the past fifteen years and I still can't retain the knowledge which makes me a loser. And I know it's much simpler to grasp than rugby or cricket (which, to be fair, I also can't follow) .
4. Not having found a player to be attracted to yet
I had my own special reasons to be sad why Eric Cantona never got to represent his country in a World Cup (ooh ah Cantona etc.). Peter Crouch just isn't doing it for me despite the robotics.
5. My inevitable and hypocritical "getting into it" in about two weeks' time
Last year on Guy Fawkes' night we went to Alexandra Palace to watch the fireworks. From there you can see hundreds of other firework parties across the whole of London and I was moved to tears at the thought of all these people having fun across London on the same night - families and friends together united by something so simple. What chance do I stand during an event like the World Cup? I've already cried twice and I'm still at the unengaged stage.
This year more than any other, men around me are somehow expecting me to be interested and enthusiastic about the World Cup and have looked actively disappointed when I say I can take it or leave it.
2. When I do try to make an effort, not knowing when to make the right noises
Invariably I suck my teeth in when it's patently clear to all around that the person attempting to shoot would never have scored a goal. It's really embarassing when you're the only person in a pub going "ooooooh". Which is related to ...
3. Not being bothered to remember the rules of football
What a corner is and why they are awarded (?) has now been explained to me at the very least every two years for the past fifteen years and I still can't retain the knowledge which makes me a loser. And I know it's much simpler to grasp than rugby or cricket (which, to be fair, I also can't follow) .
4. Not having found a player to be attracted to yet
I had my own special reasons to be sad why Eric Cantona never got to represent his country in a World Cup (ooh ah Cantona etc.). Peter Crouch just isn't doing it for me despite the robotics.
5. My inevitable and hypocritical "getting into it" in about two weeks' time
Last year on Guy Fawkes' night we went to Alexandra Palace to watch the fireworks. From there you can see hundreds of other firework parties across the whole of London and I was moved to tears at the thought of all these people having fun across London on the same night - families and friends together united by something so simple. What chance do I stand during an event like the World Cup? I've already cried twice and I'm still at the unengaged stage.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Argentinian Brute Force
Blimey, posting that last rant felt a bit like the time I demanded my hard-hitting article "Rape is not a Dirty Word" went on page 3 of an essentially light-hearted student listings rag.
So on a lighter note, Fuerzabruta was thrilling, astonishing and sexy; it's a Latin athletic dance event including feats such as sprinting in thin air and swimming on ceilings. I veered between feeling like an open-mouthed child and a participant in some sort of erotic underground movement (and don't muddle the two). As long as you don't mind getting wet, lots of strobe lighting, and occasionally being jostled a bit as you move around the set to get a better view, this is an hour in the newly re-opened Roundhouse well worth spending.
Take a look at the videos on the site to get a taste of what you're in for, it was really inspiring and a little bit scary - as all good experiences should be.
So on a lighter note, Fuerzabruta was thrilling, astonishing and sexy; it's a Latin athletic dance event including feats such as sprinting in thin air and swimming on ceilings. I veered between feeling like an open-mouthed child and a participant in some sort of erotic underground movement (and don't muddle the two). As long as you don't mind getting wet, lots of strobe lighting, and occasionally being jostled a bit as you move around the set to get a better view, this is an hour in the newly re-opened Roundhouse well worth spending.
Take a look at the videos on the site to get a taste of what you're in for, it was really inspiring and a little bit scary - as all good experiences should be.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Working Class Made Bad
As soon as I hear about a working class person ridiculed in a way that could be construed as snobbery, I have to leap to their defence and shout loudly until the noise of their braying accusers is drowned out. So here I go.
That John Prescott had an affair was not unusual for a man of his age nor position. No government secrets were betrayed and he appeared to perform his day job just as well as he had before and after their liaisons. All they did was perform some sex acts at possibly inappropriate times and definitely in some inappropriate places.
He hasn't done very much more than Bill Clinton - who managed to retain his job and somehow, through pinkish lies, build a reputation for having a world-leading libido as well as a intriguingly featured manhood. Turns out Prescott on the other hand, who came clean pretty much straight away, is a sweaty groper thrusting his pathetic little cocktail sausage against nice ladies at all sorts of splendid parties.
But that it was a game of croquet that has really made him wobble is the most galling. I truly doubt if George Osborne had been similary snapped "at mallet", or if Prescott had been with his staff kicking a ball into a net, the press would have gone to town. As Deputy leader, why shouldn't he spend some time with his team and have some fun in the house he receives free of charge?
Unfortunately, it was Prescott's press-nominated role as "President of the Working Classes" that led to this frenzied assault. There he was, our man responsible for keeping it real, keeping the posh boys and puritans in check, getting above himself and having not just interesting sex but also, god forbid, indulging in a lawn sport designed for the idle (but charming) rich.
What John Prescott is for is a question that is rightfully posed more now that he has been stripped of his department, but frankly in this government I think we need a realist, someone who understands what the trade union movement is, who really understands being on your feet all day on a low salary, who is unafraid of throwing a punch however horrified the spin doctors might be, and who wasn't designed and shaped since a priviledged education to say the right words, at the right time, in the right accent (or number of syllables).
It seems obvious to me that Prescott works hard, surely everyone can see that's why you end up having affairs with secretaries and not ooh, say magazine publishers?
This is not to deny that some of the allegations of sexual harassment laid at Prescott's feet disturb and worry me (as those about Clinton did) - but if they are true, can we tackle him for those, rather than for nearly messing up his marriage and pottering about with his team on a lawn? As far as I am aware, however, they haven't been substantiated, although this hasn't stopped some female Labour MPs jumping in and using ridiculous phrases like "the worst sort of abuse of power" with regard to his affair when he is clearly one of the least deserving of all cabinet members of such an overblown phrase.
People like John Prescott, whether you agree with his views or not, give people hope that you can get there without the student union votes behind you or the backing of mummy and daddy through the campaigning years.
I may start an unfashionable campaign for some working class solidarity. Has anyone got Billy Bragg's number?
That John Prescott had an affair was not unusual for a man of his age nor position. No government secrets were betrayed and he appeared to perform his day job just as well as he had before and after their liaisons. All they did was perform some sex acts at possibly inappropriate times and definitely in some inappropriate places.
He hasn't done very much more than Bill Clinton - who managed to retain his job and somehow, through pinkish lies, build a reputation for having a world-leading libido as well as a intriguingly featured manhood. Turns out Prescott on the other hand, who came clean pretty much straight away, is a sweaty groper thrusting his pathetic little cocktail sausage against nice ladies at all sorts of splendid parties.
But that it was a game of croquet that has really made him wobble is the most galling. I truly doubt if George Osborne had been similary snapped "at mallet", or if Prescott had been with his staff kicking a ball into a net, the press would have gone to town. As Deputy leader, why shouldn't he spend some time with his team and have some fun in the house he receives free of charge?
Unfortunately, it was Prescott's press-nominated role as "President of the Working Classes" that led to this frenzied assault. There he was, our man responsible for keeping it real, keeping the posh boys and puritans in check, getting above himself and having not just interesting sex but also, god forbid, indulging in a lawn sport designed for the idle (but charming) rich.
What John Prescott is for is a question that is rightfully posed more now that he has been stripped of his department, but frankly in this government I think we need a realist, someone who understands what the trade union movement is, who really understands being on your feet all day on a low salary, who is unafraid of throwing a punch however horrified the spin doctors might be, and who wasn't designed and shaped since a priviledged education to say the right words, at the right time, in the right accent (or number of syllables).
It seems obvious to me that Prescott works hard, surely everyone can see that's why you end up having affairs with secretaries and not ooh, say magazine publishers?
This is not to deny that some of the allegations of sexual harassment laid at Prescott's feet disturb and worry me (as those about Clinton did) - but if they are true, can we tackle him for those, rather than for nearly messing up his marriage and pottering about with his team on a lawn? As far as I am aware, however, they haven't been substantiated, although this hasn't stopped some female Labour MPs jumping in and using ridiculous phrases like "the worst sort of abuse of power" with regard to his affair when he is clearly one of the least deserving of all cabinet members of such an overblown phrase.
People like John Prescott, whether you agree with his views or not, give people hope that you can get there without the student union votes behind you or the backing of mummy and daddy through the campaigning years.
I may start an unfashionable campaign for some working class solidarity. Has anyone got Billy Bragg's number?
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Talk to the Slide Cos the Board Aint Listenin
The title has absolutely nothing to do with anything, I just irritated myself this afternoon by saying in a meeting "James, can you talk to this slide?" when referring to a printed out page of a powerpoint presentation. On the tube home this evening I was trying to think of the best way to ridicule this horrible turn of phrase adopted from US corporate culture (apologies to those of you who still might not understand what it means and to those of you who have posted on the same subject), and the title sounded marginally funnier than "I talk to the slides, but they don't listen to me". I also reflected on the fact, if fifteen years ago I'd asked someone to talk to a slide, I would have been in a park and psychotropic medication would have been involved.
I suppose it's tenuously related to a growing self awareness - it's a journey I've been on for a while now. Shit, reading that sentence back, I really am full of this much crap and actually, in these past few years of personal discovery, one of the most important lessons I learnt was via the Greek medium (yes I did - in Athens) who told me, "In your working life you are a Thatcher, in your personal life a wanker" (translated directly from the Greek). Which proved both revealing and responsible for a certain warmth towards the Iron Lady; that and the senile fragility (hers) as well as the belief that my life has similarly picked up a little since my voice lowered and I've managed to survive on less than six hours' sleep a night. It's only a matter of time before I go for the upswept power bouffant.
Continuing on an 80s tip, as well as my Thatcherish tendencies and decadent champagne quaffing at the weekend, I also went to see Morrissey and The Crucible at the Gielgud (latter has a personal connection with the 80s - it's the last time I saw it). Both were incredible, highly recommended - I madly applauded Miller's masterpiece (everything about this RSC production excellent) and wished I had the balls to stand up and shout "bravo" - book now to avoid disappointment.
Sunday was the last night of Morrissey's tour which we managed to wangle tickets for at the last minute. He opened with Panic and finished with Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before, and this time I found myself far less inhibited - I squawked when he came on, swooned when he looked up at me (and the other fans) teetering in the gods of the Palladium, and when he claimed that "You have Killed Me" I actually found myself screeching "WE LOVE YOU" (that's the royal we). And as for when he removed his shirt, rubbed it over his sweaty torso and threw it into the crowd...
This weekend is far more contemporary, off to see Fuerzabruta at the newly reopened Roundhouse. Will supply a sentence review.
I suppose it's tenuously related to a growing self awareness - it's a journey I've been on for a while now. Shit, reading that sentence back, I really am full of this much crap and actually, in these past few years of personal discovery, one of the most important lessons I learnt was via the Greek medium (yes I did - in Athens) who told me, "In your working life you are a Thatcher, in your personal life a wanker" (translated directly from the Greek). Which proved both revealing and responsible for a certain warmth towards the Iron Lady; that and the senile fragility (hers) as well as the belief that my life has similarly picked up a little since my voice lowered and I've managed to survive on less than six hours' sleep a night. It's only a matter of time before I go for the upswept power bouffant.
Continuing on an 80s tip, as well as my Thatcherish tendencies and decadent champagne quaffing at the weekend, I also went to see Morrissey and The Crucible at the Gielgud (latter has a personal connection with the 80s - it's the last time I saw it). Both were incredible, highly recommended - I madly applauded Miller's masterpiece (everything about this RSC production excellent) and wished I had the balls to stand up and shout "bravo" - book now to avoid disappointment.
Sunday was the last night of Morrissey's tour which we managed to wangle tickets for at the last minute. He opened with Panic and finished with Stop me if you think that you've heard this one before, and this time I found myself far less inhibited - I squawked when he came on, swooned when he looked up at me (and the other fans) teetering in the gods of the Palladium, and when he claimed that "You have Killed Me" I actually found myself screeching "WE LOVE YOU" (that's the royal we). And as for when he removed his shirt, rubbed it over his sweaty torso and threw it into the crowd...
This weekend is far more contemporary, off to see Fuerzabruta at the newly reopened Roundhouse. Will supply a sentence review.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Reappraising Teen Beliefs: Fame & Nuclear Power
As I luxuriated in the bath of my penthouse suite this morning, singing along to the bathroom's plasma screen tv showing VH1's top 100 love songs, it occurred to me that some of my teenage dreams had come true. I had managed to find myself with a partner who would whisk me off to a fancy hotel for the weekend "and hang the expense". Ok, so we got a free upgrade to the suite, but you gotta be in it to win it, right? This was more than an amuse bouche of the life that Jackie Collins had promised my sweaty teen self.
It also occurred to me that as I believed that Simon Cowell was in the hotel (one of the other Celebrity X-factor judges had already been spotted and the name "Cowell" was before mine on the honesty bar list [large g&t]) I actually wondered, admittedly for only a split second, whether he might hear me singing Jennifer Rush's The Power of Love and be impressed with my talent, maybe enough to wonder what I looked like, maybe even find out who I was.
Amused and ashamed, I confessed this to Rob. At 33 does it still count as "immature" or even "stunted" to hold out hope of being discovered as a pop sensation especially when combined with a genuine lack of singing ability? The whole scenario could be a multiple choice question for borderline personality disorder: "Do you, or have you ever, thought that you will be discovered by talent scouts after the age of 21?"
I'm trying to rationalize it as part of a streak of idealism that with the help of my teenage diaries I can track back. Whilst for the most part they detail my pining for and stalking of famous homosexuals and floppy-haired (relatively) posh boys, occasionally the fierceness of ambition, both for myself and society, is quite touching. I really did think we could bring about the end of racism and homophobia with the right t-shirt and a Billy Bragg song, and that it might be me announcing it on the front cover of The Face.
Which brings me onto Nuclear Power. As a paid-up member of Youth CND (the leaflets look just the same) I was taught anything with the word "nuclear" in it was wrong and my instinct, based largely on those rusting badge slogans, is that it is not a good thing. This was the science that brought us Chernobyl (BBC video report here) and the three-eyed fish, Blinky, in The Simpsons, and isn't there some sort of connection with the nuclear weapons industry which was itself inherently evil and an integral part of the Cold War of which I did not approve (and neither did Frankie Goes to Hollywood)?
But then along comes Blair and a number of other governments such as Australia, saying that invigorating our nuclear power supplies will allow us less reliance on carbon-based energy sources. Green is the new red, the colour that is inherently "right" (on?) - and is it more green to be a supporter of nuclear power? I want my teenage self to come and tell me what to think! Snake-eyed Cameron and his pouting public schoolboys have got me in even more of a tizzy, questioning these claims (Zac is opposed, sigh) but not coming up with a position. I realise now I just replaced Jesus and JP II with Ben Elton and Trotsky but at times like these I regret that the sustaining power of blind faith deserted me the day I left full-time education.
So as of the next few weeks I am going to force myself to have a view, read the articles, watch all the programmes I can - any suggestions gratefully received.
But whilst I might not really believe now that I'll be famous and maybe I will end up agreeing that nuclear power is the best of a bad lot in the short term, I will return to my original point to leave me with some vestige of pride in my historical and current self despite my slightly distasteful materialist focus.
After all, I did end up with a (relatively) posh boy who bought me champagne (and a Cornish pasty) in a fabulous hotel and have numerous gay friends who at the very least deserve to be famous. And I'll never, ever vote Conservative (however floppy their hair).
It also occurred to me that as I believed that Simon Cowell was in the hotel (one of the other Celebrity X-factor judges had already been spotted and the name "Cowell" was before mine on the honesty bar list [large g&t]) I actually wondered, admittedly for only a split second, whether he might hear me singing Jennifer Rush's The Power of Love and be impressed with my talent, maybe enough to wonder what I looked like, maybe even find out who I was.
Amused and ashamed, I confessed this to Rob. At 33 does it still count as "immature" or even "stunted" to hold out hope of being discovered as a pop sensation especially when combined with a genuine lack of singing ability? The whole scenario could be a multiple choice question for borderline personality disorder: "Do you, or have you ever, thought that you will be discovered by talent scouts after the age of 21?"
I'm trying to rationalize it as part of a streak of idealism that with the help of my teenage diaries I can track back. Whilst for the most part they detail my pining for and stalking of famous homosexuals and floppy-haired (relatively) posh boys, occasionally the fierceness of ambition, both for myself and society, is quite touching. I really did think we could bring about the end of racism and homophobia with the right t-shirt and a Billy Bragg song, and that it might be me announcing it on the front cover of The Face.
Which brings me onto Nuclear Power. As a paid-up member of Youth CND (the leaflets look just the same) I was taught anything with the word "nuclear" in it was wrong and my instinct, based largely on those rusting badge slogans, is that it is not a good thing. This was the science that brought us Chernobyl (BBC video report here) and the three-eyed fish, Blinky, in The Simpsons, and isn't there some sort of connection with the nuclear weapons industry which was itself inherently evil and an integral part of the Cold War of which I did not approve (and neither did Frankie Goes to Hollywood)?
But then along comes Blair and a number of other governments such as Australia, saying that invigorating our nuclear power supplies will allow us less reliance on carbon-based energy sources. Green is the new red, the colour that is inherently "right" (on?) - and is it more green to be a supporter of nuclear power? I want my teenage self to come and tell me what to think! Snake-eyed Cameron and his pouting public schoolboys have got me in even more of a tizzy, questioning these claims (Zac is opposed, sigh) but not coming up with a position. I realise now I just replaced Jesus and JP II with Ben Elton and Trotsky but at times like these I regret that the sustaining power of blind faith deserted me the day I left full-time education.
So as of the next few weeks I am going to force myself to have a view, read the articles, watch all the programmes I can - any suggestions gratefully received.
But whilst I might not really believe now that I'll be famous and maybe I will end up agreeing that nuclear power is the best of a bad lot in the short term, I will return to my original point to leave me with some vestige of pride in my historical and current self despite my slightly distasteful materialist focus.
After all, I did end up with a (relatively) posh boy who bought me champagne (and a Cornish pasty) in a fabulous hotel and have numerous gay friends who at the very least deserve to be famous. And I'll never, ever vote Conservative (however floppy their hair).
Sunday, May 21, 2006
I'm back
I was inspired to start communicating again this weekend by a conversation at the Bafta Television Craft awards about owl pellets (amongst other things). Consider these posts my pellets; excreta I am compelled to leave behind with no intrinsic value but that may reveal traces of something interesting if dissected correctly.My other obsession du weekend is Big Brother. Yes, a little because my team built the site and the changes to its design and inclusion of free video have me fraught with concern, but really because I have no idea if any of these people will crawl into my subconscious as they have in most previous years (that's the contestants, not my team). I will be forced to see them daily for the next 3 months, I need them to find a way in. The true heroes of the piece are yet to emerge and I nervously await my genuine engagement.
For the record, I didn't want Finland to win the Eurovision song contest. Turkey did it for me, I'm a traditionalist, although she sounds a bit like Victoria Wood on second listen. Oh, and I had nothing to do with the work that was nominated for the Bafta, but that wasn't why we didn't win.
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