...ruffles...

Whilst it isn’t updated that much, I love this site, it mirrors the comments we make when we watch the Hollyoaks omnibus on Sundays. Although at no point does it say “I don’t know why I’m even watching this, I’m going to have a bath”.

If you don’t watch Hollyoaks there’s been a serial killer plot running almost as background noise for months. Will Davies is the investigating police officer who’s infatuated with his partner Drew, although she slept with Ben, Will’s son. Ben continues to have a love hate relationship with Izzy the posh DJ (whose eclectic style veers from acid trance to the Waterboys to drill and bass to SClub 7 (RIP) with every new tune). Izzy’s last boyfriend was Café owner Tony, who she split with after he accidentally asked two people to marry him. Tony recently got involved with sunken-faced laundrette owner and older woman Helen whilst she was married to Mr Cunningham. Helen is rather hotly pursued by younger men and was recently obsessed over by Bombhead who once went on a date with Abbey even though she is now with Lee. Izzy, meanwhile, went out with Dan Hunter, but split because of his self-destructive streak (which turned out to be diabetes), Dan now goes out with Debbie. Izzy is currently on the verge of an affair with Christian. Christian’s past conquests includes Jodie who slept with Gay Nick when he thought he was straight, more recently she had a brief flirtation with Max. Max barren love life didn’t preclude him from snogging his half sister Mandy, who briefly went out with Adam who is confined to a wheelchair after a car crash. Adam, has now embarked on a simpering smiling relationship with Becca, who once slept with Matt when he was on a break from his now fiancé Chloe.

Adam's final year college project is a Big Brother pastiche The Fish Tank, one of whose contestants is the aforementioned Christian who after his appearance is being obsessed over by reformed self-harmer Lisa, this has put undoubted strain on Lisa’s relationship her boyfriend Cameron. Lisa’s self harm was appeased in part though, not totally through poetry and music, her problems were appeased wholly when she became old enough for the producers to let her wear bikini without inviting accusations of paedophilia, then all her problems were conveniently forgotten. Lisa got very close to Norman who had an unnaturally close maternal relationship with Sally who is married to Les. Lisa’s emotional outlet of music and poetry ended up with her shacked up with gothic Christian rock singer and Kilmarnock fan Brian. Who had been going out with Zara. Their relationship was irretrievably damaged when he slept with Steph Dean, who slept with ‘evil’ nightclub owner and former England footballer Scott Anderson. Anderson’s was alleged to have raped Beth Morgan, who embarked on an empathetic relationship with OB whose recently become infatuated by Roxy, yes, Roxy who he met on the Internet. Roxy has recently been murdered by Toby in a psycho sexual attack inflamed by Ellie, his girlfriend who has embarked on many relationships, including aged landlord Jack and Ben who slept with Drew, whose infatuated by police inspector Will Davies.

And that my friends is the worlds first Thirty Six Sided Love Polygon.

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Labels: TV and radio

I feel ashamed by what I’ve done. I don’t even know why I’m putting this in such an open forum. It’s so hard to articulate it face to face to people I know, people who have a certain view of me, well, I’m not the person you think I am.

I’ve had a moment of madness, seduced into something I never wanted to get back into, I’m in a very bad place. Rather than you finding out yourselves, as you inevitably will, I wanted to try and explain myself.

I try to analyse how I got into this situation, maybe I was tired of the same old same old. I needed something new and exciting, something harmless. Perhaps a quick screw so nobody gets hurt.

And it’s so easy to get into, you just pay your money and it’s there, on a plate, anything you want, whether it’s something conventional or something a little out there, rubber, binding, anything. If you want a themed room, they can do that for you, all your fantasies satisfied.

Then you get home and you take stock of what you’ve done, but you try to live with it, and you get in deeper and deeper and you feel so dirty.

And dusty.

That’s right, we’re doing DIY again.

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Labels: General me

We have very needy cats. Peanut is a white cat with her head and tail dipped in ginger. She was the runt of the litter and quite evidently needed to be a bit canny and bold to survive. She is now gregarious and a bit of a bully. She will follow you around and ask to be stroked with a screeching miaow; if we go out into the garden she will push you out the way so she can get out first. She doesn’t know her place.

Waddle is a big floppy black and white cat who runs away from everything and morphs and distorts when you stroke her. She has uneven splodges on her face; it makes her look a bit autistic, which seems very appropriate.

Depending on the temperature they will both usually sleep on the bed. The colder it gets the closer they will get to us, Waddle will sometimes sleep between us causing her to take most of the duvet. Emma invites her under the duvet so we can retrieve what is rightfully ours. Waddle then overheats and disappears. It’s better than throwing her against the wall, which is what you want to do at 3am with an icey chill blowing up your pyjama trousers.

I woke this morning at 4.45 with my brain racing about the things I had to do today. Of course when I got in to do the things I wanted to do today my brain started racing about the things I wanted to do at home. Go figure.

Upon waking I turned over to see Emma fast asleep. Then in the half light I could see something else poking out of the duvet. Slowly I focussed. It was Peanut asleep between us, she was totally submerged under the duvet, only her head could be seen, and that was on a pillow.

I woke her up and she looked at me, I looked at her as if to say that she’d pushed it a little too far. She stared momentarily concluded that I had woken her for no reason, and went back to sleep.

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Labels: General me

Yesterday I joined the first wave of bank holiday DIY'ers at B&Q to pick up some Polyfillar and some varnish in an attempt to progress our two year kitchen project.

I say first wave because wave one is buying the goods required to make whatever it is you plan to make, this usually means buying far too much of the wrong stuff (Get four hundred gallons of white emulsion, it might be useful in drilling some holes). The second wave is returning to buy the stuff you forgot or the stuff that will fix your botch.

"I can't get this bloody stuff to work"
"Have you read the instructions"
"I don't need to read the bloody instructions"
"Look, it says here, apply paint with paintbrush, did you get a paintbrush"
"No I bloody didn't, why doesn't it come with a paintbrush’ Where are my keys"

Fixing the bodge means buying something progressively more dangerous than the thing you bought the first time you went in. For example, during the kitchen project we bought a worktop (potential dangers: Could saw finger off when cutting (no) or could drop on both feet when manoeuvring (YES)) We cut it to size only to find that when we put it in it was considerably shorter than we expected (repeat this mantra: ˜None of the walls are straight").

As a result I had to get expanding foam to plug the gaps. This required me to wear gloves when applying. These safety instructions are always overly cautious so I squirted it on, and spread it out with my gloveless fingers. Now, this stuff is what you might describe as a Liquid wall and as such it dries like concrete. It did a fine job of melding my fingers together. I had to sit for three hours with washing up liquid, baby oil, cocoa butter and anything would keep stop my hands turning into trotters. I saved my career as a pianist but managed to smell like a cheap hooker for days.

More recently, when applying gloss paint to the skirting boards I decided we'd get a better job done by stripping the old paint off. Whether you're doing DIY or not paint stripper is worth using just to see it in action. You apply it to the paint and nothing happens, then three seconds later the paint blisters violently and the noxious fumes fill the air. It's the sexiest DIY application on the market.

I used it wearing gloves as directed. Fine except the shards of paint kept dropping onto my bare arms causing my skin to fizzle and burn. Managing to burn enough holes in my arms for people to think that I was half man half Curly Wurly, Emma's dad went out and bought some new wood at a fraction of the cost and replaced the old crap in a matter of minutes.

Given the danger of this particular product I cannot be far from the DIY bodgers dream using an application that requires a facemask and chain mail.

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Labels: General me

My morning routine is a simple and well drilled affair, I wake up, go straight to the shower, come downstairs, iron a shirt whilst the kettle is boiling, drink tea whilst I watch the TV review on GMTV with Kate Garraway (WEY HEY!, a thousand more hits for me) and Richard Arnold, finish my tea, pick up my rucksack and make for the car. Stop the clock, forty minutes.

The eagle eyed amongst you will realise that whilst I have a smartly pressed shirt, I appear go to work naked. Interwoven amongst this routine, is dressing, almost every day.

I hate getting in the shower. It’s the point of no return, a surge of energy, sparked by our badly tuned clock radio, propels me to the bathroom. Once I’m in the shower I’m no longer allowed to be a sleepy lumbering beast, theory says in three minutes I have to be awake, alert and ready.

To lubricate my passage (WEY! HEY! two thousand more hits) is shower gel. It’s like the big lever Han Solo pulls on the Millennium Falcon to make the jump to light speed. It’s supposed to take you through the barrier into the world of the awake. Much like the Falcon’s flux capacita, every time I use it, it fails to live up to expectations.

It’s always called something like Sunshine Sunburst or is the fragrance of a far off paradise like Aloe Aldershot. I expect my skin to crackle and sparkle into life when the gloop touches it. I expect it to invigorate my mind, open it up to embrace the challenges ahead (challenges like, how to write 500 words about shower gel, for example). I want it to feel like I’m having colonic irrigation using Sherbert Abdabs and Semtex.

It never does of course, it makes no difference to my morning, it goes from orange goo to orange goo with a couple of bubbles to orange goo with a couple of bubbles making haste towards the plughole. I’m so disappointed.

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Labels: General me

Emma, like all teachers, lives on a different time convention to most people. She will say things like, “Shall we go to Brighton on the last weekend of the spring half term” as though anyone knows when that is.

It’s day one of the Easter holidays and like the big meany I am, I have made it quite clear that if Emma is to start redecorating the hall (her planned Easter project) we have to have finished the 2 year old kitchen project first. This has spurred her on to great things, today she was out of bed before lunch time.

I got a phone call at one o’clock.

“The painting looks crap, the dentist can’t see me for three months, I phoned the council (about something complicated) and they said it’s not their fault, I phoned the cinema and their systems are down and you’ve had an email giving you information about penis extensions, I assume you didn't have anything to do with that?”

I laughed hysterically and a little too loud and denied it all, afterall, what do I know about cinema computer systems?

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Labels: General me

For me, the last three weeks have been dominated by exhibitions, putting stands up, taking them down, standing staring blankly trying not to look bored. Being an exhibitor is a rotten job because you spend three days trying to convince yourself that this is all worthwhile, when all your doing is exposing yourself to the maddest people on earth.

First up are the people wearing slightly obscured badges, all you can read is that they’re job title says “…ing Di…” and you hope beyond hope that this means they are Managing Director. Eventually they reveal themselves to be a “Catering Dining Room Assistant”. They turn up on the first day and are queuing outside before the doors are open. Their boss has sent them to the exhibition because it’s a day out and cheaper than training and a pay rise. Yet despite this rare freedom, they fear they will be found out if they saunter in at lunchtime having spent the morning on Oxford Street. They look around listen intently at the to what your telling them, give positive comments like “That would be good in our company” then when you ask if they want to set up a meeting they cackle wildly, turn red and say “Ooh my boss wouldn’t like that” and shuffle off. But not before they take one of each piece of promotional literature you have. They wear beige anoraks and are laden down with promotional plastic bags. You later see them having a coffee and a flapjack fretting they won’t be allowed to claim it on expenses.

If you let your guard down you’ll find yourself turning and walking into a man invading your personal space by standing two inches from you. He will have a jet-black perm with silver grey sideburns. He is a magician/hypnotherapist/dolphin trainer who specialises in motivational and/or quit smoking techniques. He is about to sell to you. On your space, which you have spent in excess of £7000 to construct he spends twenty minutes convincing you he will help you give up smoking in seven days. Tell him you don’t smoke and he will insist he can help you start smoking in seven days, “or your money back”. He will always have a business card that says Flat 9a, Edgeware Road, which it will be above Carphonewarehouse.

Occasionally somebody apparently credible will come and talk to you. Sometimes they will reach into their pocket and before you know it you have a business card imbedded in your forehead. “Send me something to that” they say before disappearing off to maim someone else. Either that, or they will stop and ask what your business is about. “Well…” you say before they interject and spend an hour telling you that they’re doing something very ordinary “I’m recently redundant, er, an independent consultant who is specialising in helping people eat carrots” you nod “But I’m doing it a bit differently to most people” at this point your inner ear caves in and you can’t hear anything apart from “Revolutionary technique from America” and “Using computer simulations online”. All the while over his shoulder you can see the Bill Gates perusing your literature saying to his handmaiden “If I can talk to this guy I’m going to buy this for every single one of my employees and all my wives.”

At the end of long and busy show your mind turns to going home, and hey presto! the mad people turn up. Mostly they collect leaflets that they will sleep in. Others will draw you into a conversation, which is apparently making sense, until you realise they have teeth made of pegs, eyes that are different colours and ears growing upside down. Then the show closes and you cut them off mid sentence and turn and rip your stand down in a frenzy.

When you’ve finished and everything is packed up, you realise they are still standing there waiting for you to finish. Either that or you accidentally pack them up and find them back at the office running your IT system.

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Labels: Work

Having been super busy recently, I haven’t posted much up on the site. In a panic to appease my growing fan base (I’ve decided now to refer to all readers as ‘fans’) I posted an all too hasty note about the boat race. Rubbish wasn’t it?

So to alleviate my fans, here are some snippets of conversations held throughout that day: -

Conversation number 1: - Russ and Sam are going to Canada on holiday

Simon “So you’re going Whale spotting?”
Russ (nodding in acknowledgement) “Visiting relatives…that’s not to say we’re related to Whales”
Sam “Although in a sense I am, because I’m half Welsh… and half Canadian”
Scott “Exotic”
Russ “Yes, but we don’t have water spurting out the top of our heads”

Conversation number 2: - Simon looks for his college colours

Simon “I haven’t seen anyone in my college colours (Churchill)”
Scott “Why do Churchill have pink and brown college colours”
Simon “Apparently it’s the first principal of the college, it was his wife’s favourite colours”
Scott “Oh right, like the colour of her dogs or something… er… one being a chocolate Labrador, and one having fallen in a vat of Immac”

Conversation number 3: - Tips for business luncheons

Mike “I’m having lunch with my new employers tomorrow, any tips?”

Responses included: - 

• Order just after everyone else does, or just before
• Don’t have noodles, sucking them up and having them slap your forehead on the way in doesn’t leave a good impression
• Don’t drink anything, although as they’re paying, you should drink as much as you can, it will relax you and loosen you up
• Wear clowns boots and a twirly wirly bow tie
• Would you like us to come and sit at the next table reading newspapers with eyeholes to give you tips and see how you’re getting on

Mike visibly shrivelled muttering something about being “nervous beforehand and terrified now.”

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Labels: Friends

At the age of 13 I turned up to a maths exam without a calculator – the effect was catastrophic – my mark was lower than expected, meaning I dropped down a group for maths, meaning my GCSE grades weren’t what they could have been, meaning my A Levels suffered, meaning I didn’t get into either Oxford or Cambridge University and in a moment of teenage forgetfulness, my hopes of a rowing blue were scuppered forever.

To the people who know me, I hope your snorting your coffee out of your noses at the phrase “My GCSE grades weren’t what they could have been”.

Russ invited us to his club, I didn’t really like Russ until I found out he had a West London club, now I’ve found him to be one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. When he asked us to join him to watch the boat race, we were all over it faster than you can say “I’m 19, at Trinity College, I feel the need to wear a blazer, fedora and slacks.”

Although we watched just 12 seconds of live rowing as first the reserve crews, and then the proper race sped by our balcony vantage point, it was a fantastic day with friends, drinking (too much for a school night) and having a right laugh.

Whilst I could, and maybe will, elucidate further than this, I won’t because to say it was just great fun says it all really.

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Labels: Friends

Rents in Marylebone are oppressive as it is, but in terms of rents paid per utilised square metre, the Linhope Corner has to be the most expensive real estate in the northern hemisphere.

Whilst the whole of Linhope is a chaotic nod to modern day consumerism, it is just one small corner of the living room that appears to be utilised with any great vigour. Usually my visits are brief, often starting at 3am after a night out, we will get in, Simon will survey the detritus of Linhope Corner and analyse who is currently in the house, and what has been going on there.

“Hmm, cigar, copy of FHM, TV control, half bottle of whiskey, Baz clearly went out on the spaz*, didn’t enjoy it too much, came home, watched TV fell asleep and is currently upstairs in bed, hmm the FHM is puzzling me… I concur that he’s alone.”

If I stay at Linhope, The Corner is where I sleep, it’s where the sofa bed is, and the widescreen TV which only plays Soccer AM and The Simpsons (oh, and Seinfeld now), and the copies of The Sun and FHM, and piles of change (ask Simon to do his ‘Barry’s Pocket’s Routine’), and the games consoles, and the blurry pictures and tokens of ventures past, and many other media related short term consumables.

Try moving everything you own into three-square metres of your house, that’s what it’s like. It’s so densely packed with stuff you can’t help thinking that perhaps it’s an art installation and that the actual living takes place elsewhere. On Saturday I went over to find, for the first time, all three of the residents sitting in Linhope Corner enjoying a lazy Saturday morning. Barry lounged across the sofa, Davis was slouched star shaped on one chair and Simon was geeking on his laptop in the other. Soccer AM was musing in the corner. Through some miracle of mathematics and particle physics they all actually fitted in.

*Linhopian slang

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Labels: Friends

Whilst I can't think of any link between the two, wouldn't it be great if there was a song with the lyric "Geography is just like pornography."

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Labels: General me

Recent phrases upon which this site have been found include “my sister has very big boobs”, “Vicki little biggest boobs” (twice), “Michael Jackson with boobs” and just to prove they aren’t all about boobs, “New builds in Rickmansworth”.

However, in recent weeks I have enjoyed somewhat of a spike in my stats. I now attract about 50 visitors a day; this is not just down to my biting yet hilariously comical views on life and its absurdities. This is down to Kate Garraway.

Kate, GMTV’s second string Couch Cookie, Settee Siren, Chaise Longe Chanteuse, is the reason for no less than 30% of my search engine referrals. She attracts more than the next twenty-two most popular subjects put together – including her arch nemesis Fiona Philips, Blazin’ Squad, Amanda Holden, Michael Jackson (with or without boobs), and SAS Are You Tough Enough?

So why is this GMTV Sofa Sexpot playing second fiddle on Britain’s favourite morning TV programme? Clearly her popularity is not being exploited to it’s fullest. I decided that these stats needed a wider airing so I’ve written to her agent Jayne Roseman.

Dear Jayne
In the course of writing an online log for my web site I have come across some very interesting information, which you may find useful in developing the career of your client Kate Garraway.

To provide you with some background, I recently critiqued a web site that referred to Kate and her GMTV colleague Fiona Phillips rather ungraciously, as “Big Titted”. My view being that this was a sad reflection of the FHM/Loaded world we live in, one which defines the complexities of personality in terms of physical attributes and sex.

The mere mention of Kate’s name on the site caused in a leap in the number of people visiting. 30% of referrals from sites like Google come through people searching her name. Fiona Phillips, by comparison, has attracted just two visitors in the same period of time.

It strikes me that when negotiating for a client you are probably often required to call upon subjective notions of popularity and ability in trying to secure a deal. However, saying it and proving it after very different things. The statistics surrounding Kate appear to be a very useful objective measure of her popularity and may prove to be useful in providing leverage in any future negotiations you may hold on her behalf.

I personally find Kate to be a pleasant, bright and able presenter, comfortably able to deal with the complex demands of a magazine show like GMTV. As such she is surely well positioned to occupy, what might be described as the Yummy Mumsy niche previously occupied by Judy Finnigan, Fern Britton (another of your clients I notice) and perhaps most recently by Carol Smilie. Clearly these people have developed lucrative and successful careers on the back of a wholesome image and a certain degree of sassyness. I think that Kate is in good stead to step into their shoes, or at least into a role with more prominence at GMTV.

Whilst my site is hardly a barometer for the nations affections, the popularity of Kate is so overwhelming, I thought it was worth letting you know to arm you with additional objective material in future contract negotiations. I hope this helps.

Kind regards

Justin

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Labels: TV and radio

My dad said the sheer size of the British economy truly struck home when he saw an articulated truck full of Halls Mentholyptus. Imagine the number of packets that truck contained, consider how many people are required to eat those packets, and yet consider still the absolute inconsequence of cough sweets. Vast numbers consuming inconsequential produce = UK Plc.

You get similar awe (but, alas, no shock) hanging around the Olympia Exhibition Centre for a week.

My week has been spent at Olympia exhibiting at a rather dull show, it wasn’t an IT show, as the tarty yet strangely attractive girl in the tight top, short skirt and long boots claimed as she handed out leaflets to anyone who would stop and stare, but it wasn’t far off. As an aside, yes, the trick of using dolly birds to sell products still works an absolute charm. My exhibition contained people in suits, or if they were really modern, in polo shirts and slacks.

The other events going on were more interesting. Professional Beauty 2003 featured a host of satellite exhibitions including The Vitality Show, and my personal favourite, the Professional Spa Exhibition. Replacing that was the opening day of Stitch 2003, the national sewing show, and, incidentally the flagship event of National Stitching Week.

To appreciate the impact of these shows in terms of economic worth, you have to appreciate the role of the exhibition. Exhibitors buy stands for as much as £400 a square metre. This must be paid for through sales they wouldn’t have otherwise got, to a value over the cost of the stand. Put it this way, you don’t get much change from £5,000 for an exhibition stand. You have to sell an awful lot of string and needles to justify that.

The anthropological slant on exhibitions is also worth noting. The shows are honey pots around which cluster like-minded individuals. As I travelled in to set up my stand on Monday, the train was full of glamorous women. I would call them beautiful, but they were only beautiful in a caricatured way. The application of copious amounts of make-up was impressive, but the resulting look was, well, a bit plastic. My nostrils singed with the stench of perfume, and that peculiar smell of what I’ve always assumed, without foundation, to be foundation. If you were to score them for their looks against the classic beauty traits, they’d do well – red lips, glowing skin, long eyelashes. To look at them less objectively, you’d realise there were quite a lot of pigs amongst them.

More interesting still was the clientele of Stitch 2003. They were either over weight, or worryingly emaciated. Either way they all looked troubled and worn down by life. Perhaps entering Stitch 2003 relieved them from their troubles. Indeed looking over the shoulder of the doorman as I walked towards Kensington High Street for a sandwich, the hall was full to the rafters. It was like witnessing the movements of an Orc mine, only with ambient lighting and shopping trolleys.

At the end of each day these people spill back onto the streets and gradually dissipate throughout the city, and eventually the country. So rarely are they quorate, you hardly notice their contribution to the world that turns.

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Labels: General me

Emma’s assistant at school is a master at turning molehills into mountains; the simple task of organising children to get ready for PE becomes the equivalent of organising the Million Man March and The Poll Tax Riot in the Sahara, and then coinciding that with the first Saharan Winter Olympic Games. She has been charged with putting together the school summer concert. According to Emma…

“She’s making a right song and dance about it”

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Labels: General me

That’s my second favourite Rubbish Lyric With A Sensible Sentiment (RLWASS). My favourite RLWASS is on People are People by Depeche Mode; “People are people so why should it be, you and I should get along so awfully”.

Nobby has made an interesting comment on his web site that him and the wife (Vicki) are ‘pro war’. Because he’s chosen not to elaborate, is a startling and jarring statement. I know he likes military history, but this is taking it rather too far.

I’m sure it’s not as simple as that, and that the Dobscrubs are not essentially ‘Pro War’, unlike Colonel Bob on GMTV yesterday who described the arrowhead positioning of British tanks, a classic attack formation, as giving him a “Soldierly excitement”. He also described the death of eight service men in a helicopter crash as “Lousy”. Colonel Bob could provide good value during this war.

It made me think about my stance, and that being anti-war/pro-war is really not enough to define how I feel. I’m not a cabbage munching pinko commie, I actually believe there is such a thing as a ‘just war’. I believe the first Gulf conflict was a “just war”, because a. the invasion of Kuwait, and b. Oil. The protection of oil is a valid reason for going to war. Conflicts only ever arise over two things, ideology, and resources. For some reason, according to anti-war protestors the protection of resources is no longer a valid reason for going to war. Which bucks the whole of human history.

With the exception of Colonel Bob and his soldierly excitement, I don’t think that many people are “pro-war”; few are excited by the prospect of wading in with tanks and planes bombing the hell out of Baghdad. I know I’m not, but the warmongering stick is convenient for anti-war protestors looking to simplify the argument to suit their ideal.

In isolation, I believe the current conflict is a just war. It is widely accepted that Saddam Hussain and the higher echelons of the Iraqi regime are a brutal lot and that rest of Iraq is probably politically moderate, preferring to get on with their lives. Unfortunately these people probably can’t because they live under Saddam’s hammer. I also believe that it’s not all about oil. If it was, we’d be invading Venezuela, who’s oil supplies are probably bigger than Saudi Arabia and therefore have a huge impact on the US economy.

Added to this, is something that stuck in my mind on September 11th; academics and middle east experts claiming that they had warned the US and UK of the Al Queda threat and that there had been no reaction. Anti war protestors indulge in hindsight management all the time, i.e. ‘you should have done this, you shouldn’t have done that’ but if you’re making the decisions without that benefit, then sometimes, the decisions will carry a significant risk. Bush was damned when he did, and damned when he didn’t.

So I’m pro-war. Or am I? The flipside is the way it’s been done. The bulldozing of the UN Security Council sets a precedent. Firstly it takes the power out of the hands of “the world”, secondly, it will inevitably force many nations to line up behind the US on issues they may not agree with but feel they have to support for fear of reprisals (economic reprisals principally). Perhaps this is why Tone has lead the UK to align with the US. He has flaunted public opinion (both popular opinion, and the government elected to represent public opinion) and continued to back aggression. Maybe he knows something we don’t; maybe he doesn’t need covert US sanctions effecting what is already a shaky economy and has decided this is the way to avoid them.

By flaunting the proper procedures to gain support from the UN, the US becomes a unilateral aggressor. Taking me back to my point of we play by the rules most of the time, but we’re all in a position to decide the rules aren’t worth playing by. The US did just this, they decided the UN, and the principles upon which it is founded, no longer suited their needs. If I walked into a supermarket and walked out with a basket of food because I decided that the universal principle of allowing people access to food based only on their ability to pay was unjust, would I be able to get away with it? Of course not.

Now we’re actually underway, I hope they achieve all their objectives quickly, protecting oil reserves, and ousting Saddam. But if, once this is over, we find that all the things Bush and Blair have been saying proven to be wrong (weapons of mass destruction, huge human rights violations etc) then they must surely be accountable for their actions. If they are right, then they should be applauded for their conviction and decisive action. After all is that not the result of taking great risks?

Is there any chance of a mass demonstration for people who see both sides of the argument?

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Labels: News

My How To DJ Properly book talks about how to listen to records. Anyone who has been into a record shop recently will be familiar with the scenario of the spotty teenager armed with 150 records, all of which he listens to, all of which he buys, just to have an armful of banging tunes. In truth 99% of those records are likely to be awful.

The book suggests when you listen to a record you should imagine the people playing the music, listening to each instrument. This actually works, the music becomes more defined and layered and you get a much better sense of what works and has lasting appeal.

Obviously you sometimes just want to let it wash over you, but recently I’ve been driving quite a lot and trying to work out why certain records work and some don’t (resulting from the fact, I realise I don’t really like The Clash very much).

This has evolved into a game I’ve devised called ‘Be the drummer’. To play, you have to imagine the album you are listening to is being recorded in the studio. You are the drummer and having laid down your patterns you are sitting nonchalantly at the mixing desk as the lead vocals are being recorded. Listen to the vocals and imagine the lead singer in his booth getting down and doing his thing. Remember, you’re the drummer listening to his singing, you simply have to react to as you see fit.

Try it, especially with Hatful of Hollow by the Smiths. Morrissey’s bizarre falsettos, slurs and lah lah lah’s, make you just jump around doing double takes, raising your eyebrows and screaming “WHAT THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT FOR?”

It changes the whole listening experience, and is great in rush hour traffic.

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Labels: General me

Last week I had to go to a black tie do at the Savoy Hotel. This sounds rather grand, and I suppose it was, but I’d have much preferred to watch Liverpool versus Celtic on the telly. It was work related, so I was working, I drank 1 glass of water, 1 glass of lemonade, and watched my P’s and Q’s all night. It was unpleasantly boy-ish with plenty of toilet humour and talk of “totty”. Dull.

The highlight was the food; Tuna steak, Beef thingamabob, and vanilla whatjumacallit. I’m no culinary expert, but I know what I like. I am lucky enough to be surrounded by good cooks. Emma’s cakes and desserts are fairly awesome, the Dobscrubs never fail to rustle up a fine meal, Penny’s Thai Curry on Saturday was delicious as was the Smarties Ice Cream straight from the bucket.

There’s very little food I don’t like. I love a quintessentially English curry, and am quite a Dhansak connoisseur (well defined fruity taste, lentils should add texture, the chillies should be a noticeable background noise on the pallet). I would never turn down a Chinese takeaway.

Tonight I am going out for dinner with work people to celebrate the impending retirement of one of the ladies here. Breaking with the traditional sandwiches and wine farewell on a Friday afternoon, she was asked where she wanted to go out to dinner. Would it be Chinese (or er, Cantonese), Malayan, or Thai fusion? The choice was hers.

“I want to go somewhere with plain food” she said.

Yum.

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Labels: Work

I'm feeling rather good at the moment, the sun is shining, George Bush is president of the USA, the Wonder Stuff and the Inspiral Carpets are on tour and we're at war with Iraq There was an American General on telly gee'ing up his troops by claiming the order to go was ¡°Hammer Time. Good lord, even Sonia's back on our screens ARRRGH!. Exactly like the year I did my A Levels.

I'm not feeling good because of the war; I have resigned myself to a fuck 'em mentality relieving some of the pressure of my recent Big Thoughts. Let them do what the hell they like, and let us enjoy the sun whilst it's out. I have been liberated from the social and cultural responsibility which goes hand in hand with being white and from the west, oh, and being British, oh and being middle class, oh and being someone who voted in the wide-eyed warring maniac.

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Labels: News

There has been a running joke and a little concern that Sophie (my niece, star of my first ever post and as old, to the day, as this web site) cries every time she sees me. She is a naturally inquisitive and knows no fear, which means she busies herself until she is tired, then continues to busy herself until she’s overtired and cries in frustration. I rarely see her when there are less than 10 people in the house so there’s usually far too much for her to be inquisitive about, which means she gets even more tired than usual, and cries more than usual. It just so happens she usually cries when she’s sitting on my lap.

It is for this reason, and the simple reason that we don’t do it enough, yesterday Kirsty, Dudley and Sophie came over for a relaxing un-pressured Sunday away from the crowds of family and friends which overload Sophie’s brain.

And what a great day it was. The house was basked in sunshine all day and as long as you turned Sophie upside-down every couple of minutes she was happy to play, she smiled and laughed and shouted all day, crying only when she when she crawled into the door. She hasn’t yet learnt to look up whilst she’s going to wherever it is she’s going.

She crawled, played with things that rattled, read her book “That’s Not My Lion”, smashed the living daylights out of her toy telephone, and beached herself on a toy which made loads of different noises. Every time she kicked and struggled to free herself she set off another noise, PARP, WHISTLE, MIAOW, BRRRRING, WOOF she sounded like an eight month old Three Stooges fan. She fell asleep on the settee, flat on her back, star shaped, woke up shouted a bit, stuck her tongue out, ate yoghurt and sucked on a banana. Then she pooed her nappy, got changed, did it again, got changed again, put her coat on got into her chair and went home.

She’s welcome anytime.

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Labels: General me

George Michael recently gave his superstar backing to the stop the war campaign with a spectacularly ostentatious and tuneless performance on Top of the Pops of Don Mclean’s ‘The Grave’. Before he was finished I was forcing my way into Aylesbury Territorial Army base trying to hotwire a tank to drive to Iraq myself.

This morning, Mick Hucknall was on GMTV giving a pro-war stance (and talking about his brand new album “Dull Soul”). At which point I drove up to Strike Command on the edge of Wycombe and tied myself to the nose of a F16 Fighter plane chanting ‘Don’t attack, don’t attack Iraq”.

Why do celebrities do this? What added credibility for either argument really comes from celebrity endorsement? Perhaps if the UN Security Council’s impasse continues they’ll use album sales as a count back mechanism.

Germany: No
UK: Yes
USA: Yes
France: No
George Michael’s record sales: 25 million
Mick Hucknall’s record sales: 18 million

Pack your bags fellas there ain’t going to be no war on this watch.

Is the celebrity of these people strong enough to sway national opinion either way? Their musical influence is virtually nil nowadays, where does their political credibility come from?

Mick: “Well, when I was snorting cocaine off the breasts of Alicia Duvall whilst on tour in Australia, and I was looking at her naked on the bed and thought, man, it would be a tragedy if Saddam Hussain had Alicia in his bed, that cat’s gotta be stopped. Then we shagged all night.”

George: “I’ve seen the effect of authoritarian aggression, that policeman who caught me with my willy out was really really mean. Tee hee wasn’t I naughty, did I mention I’m gay, and I mean really really gay.”

This issue is complicated enough without these two dirtying both sides arguments.

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Labels: News