Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Tennis
Well, Tim "Droid" Henman's out. Luckily, he was beaten by Mario Ancic, a 6 foot 5 Czechuanian hunk.
Just look at him - he's like a Gerry Anderson porn puppet.
Ancic is currently unseeded. This is unlikely to remain true for long.
Just look at him - he's like a Gerry Anderson porn puppet.
Ancic is currently unseeded. This is unlikely to remain true for long.
Tube strike
The tube strikes are a terrible day to be a cyclist. Everyone's in a bad mood, and shouting at each other, and the roads are full of lapsed drivers who've forgotten what the indicator is for.
The only good thing is that there are suddenly more cyclists, and we develop a group mentality that's nippy and vicious - like commuting pyranhas. A professorial type who tried to shunt his BMW through us onto the Euston Road was suddenly surrounded by a booing, cackling hoard of us. There were snatched moments of camaraderie at traffic lights - either shrugs of shared pity, or the occasional short curse of relief at escaping from some really rather hideous attempt to knit with a bendy bus and a mini.
On the Westway I passed a woman sobbing at the wheel.
The only good thing is that there are suddenly more cyclists, and we develop a group mentality that's nippy and vicious - like commuting pyranhas. A professorial type who tried to shunt his BMW through us onto the Euston Road was suddenly surrounded by a booing, cackling hoard of us. There were snatched moments of camaraderie at traffic lights - either shrugs of shared pity, or the occasional short curse of relief at escaping from some really rather hideous attempt to knit with a bendy bus and a mini.
On the Westway I passed a woman sobbing at the wheel.
That Hideous Strength by CS Lewis
Lee assures me my life is: "You either want to shag it, or read it and brag about it."
Like all devastatingly hurtful things, there is some truth in this. So, I'm now going to brag about That Hideous Strength - a grown-up scifi novel written by that Narnia bloke.
It's weird. You can tell it was written in the days before "sci fi" was established as a genre. There are no busty wenches or big spaceships. It's all magical realism, allegory and Dark Forces.
Bits of it read like Evelyn Waugh writing an episode of Alias set at Oxford. There are rooms full of clubby men drinking porter and plotting the downfall of civilisation. There are ancient mystical codes. There are agents and counter agents. Doomy portents in dreams.
It's about a married couple, Mark and Jane. While Mark is kidnapped by a group of scientists intent on world domination (called NICE), Jane gains psychic powers, and meets a group who are working with people from Venus to thwart NICE.
Mark is seduced by power - this bit of the book is very clever, and riffs off both Orwell with some smug ease.
Jane, however, embarks on a allegorical journey, redolent with Christian mysticism. This is all very well, until we meet a character called Mr Fisher-King.
It soars out of control from here on in - It turns out NICE are trying to dig up Merlin. The villains are a man called Wither - a wonderfully absentminded old dodderer who manages acts of great evil almost by accident. And then there's the female chief of police. A dumpy woman. Dressed in leather. Who smokes cigars. She's surrounded by similarly dressed women policemen. And she is called Fairy Hardcastle.
She's splendid, but appears to have burgled her way into the book through a masturbatory fantasy of Lewis. Gigglesome highlight is when she tortures Jane - it goes something like:
"Hold her down, Daisy!" said the Fairy, bending Jane towards her with an expert flick of the knees. "We've got 10 minutes, my pretty. That should be plenty."
As Jane struggled against the two women holding her down, the Fairy tugged at her dress, exposing an acre of pale shoulder.
With a lipless smile, the Fairy ground down her cigar against the flesh."
Anyway, it all rolls on quite merrily, gradually choking in clotted allegory in a way that wasn't irritating in the Narnia books, but is a touch too ripe here. The last scene features two elephants making love in a celery patch.
Monday, June 28, 2004
A Doctor Who fan writes...
As part of my job, I receive emails from Doctor Who fans. One is concerned that some audio files are, perhaps, at a slightly different volume or something to others. And when I say "concerned", I mean really concerned.
Here's some of an email from him. It's not the first...
"The problem is with the file's audio bandwidth. This is far lower than it should be, at around 10Khz top frequency instead of the 15-16Khz it should be. I've even ripped the file of the site to check that it wasn't my connection at fault. It isn't. If you want I can send you some spectrogram shots which clearly prove that the files for part two are clearly topping out at the 10-11KHz mark."
"which clearly prove"? It's hardly the Zapbruder footage.
Here's some of an email from him. It's not the first...
"The problem is with the file's audio bandwidth. This is far lower than it should be, at around 10Khz top frequency instead of the 15-16Khz it should be. I've even ripped the file of the site to check that it wasn't my connection at fault. It isn't. If you want I can send you some spectrogram shots which clearly prove that the files for part two are clearly topping out at the 10-11KHz mark."
"which clearly prove"? It's hardly the Zapbruder footage.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Lie back and think of England.
Shamefully, last night I had unsafe sex. For the first time ever.
"Oh go on, do it!" said Stuart, "Now we're out of the football, I just don't care."
"Oh go on, do it!" said Stuart, "Now we're out of the football, I just don't care."
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Good advice in any situation
My personal trainer on press-ups:
"If you get tired out, just drop down and finish them off on your knees."
"If you get tired out, just drop down and finish them off on your knees."
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Good night out
The definition of a good night out is staggering around SoHo at 2am, seventy quid poorer and with a grin on your face.
I met an old friend from school who I have to be careful about drinking too much near. The first time I met up with him since school, we ended up Doing Bad Boy Things in an alley. The police turned up. My old school pal looked up and said "It's all right officer, I'm straight." The police went away.
The second time I met up with him, he brought a bottle of absinthe to my housewarming party, and ended up giving us a display of intimate wrestling in the kitchen.
Anyway, this time it was all right - there were a lot of nice, normal people there. And some Really Irritating Models.
I have nothing against female models. So long as they're a long way away. At close quarters, however, the poisonous radiation of fizzling disdain is quite irritating. Men were holding it in, and normal women were tugging down crop tops and demonstrating the Good Posture.
However, as well as the models, there were lovely people there - a man called Mike who watches Babestation, a lass called Verity, who's on air kissing terms with the important bouncers of SoHo, a man called Digby - who is not in advertising - and, joy of joys, a great guy called Matt who, it turns out, has grown up to look like H from Steps (only not annoying), is a record producer, and is going out with the gorgeous singer in his band.
It's lovely when life turns out perfect. It was a good evening - beyond a visit to the Mezzo Bar. The models insisted we go there. It was poisonous. It had all the angst of Luton airport, but with none of the charm.
I met an old friend from school who I have to be careful about drinking too much near. The first time I met up with him since school, we ended up Doing Bad Boy Things in an alley. The police turned up. My old school pal looked up and said "It's all right officer, I'm straight." The police went away.
The second time I met up with him, he brought a bottle of absinthe to my housewarming party, and ended up giving us a display of intimate wrestling in the kitchen.
Anyway, this time it was all right - there were a lot of nice, normal people there. And some Really Irritating Models.
I have nothing against female models. So long as they're a long way away. At close quarters, however, the poisonous radiation of fizzling disdain is quite irritating. Men were holding it in, and normal women were tugging down crop tops and demonstrating the Good Posture.
However, as well as the models, there were lovely people there - a man called Mike who watches Babestation, a lass called Verity, who's on air kissing terms with the important bouncers of SoHo, a man called Digby - who is not in advertising - and, joy of joys, a great guy called Matt who, it turns out, has grown up to look like H from Steps (only not annoying), is a record producer, and is going out with the gorgeous singer in his band.
It's lovely when life turns out perfect. It was a good evening - beyond a visit to the Mezzo Bar. The models insisted we go there. It was poisonous. It had all the angst of Luton airport, but with none of the charm.
Victorian Big Brother
Day 23 in the Big Brother House, and Big Brother has reduced the number of maidservants to 43. In the Smoking Room, Victor and Jasper are having a heated row:
VICTOR: Why sir, fie on that!
JASPER: It's clear you are little more than a charlatan. Should I meet you in my club, I would be duty bound to cut you.
VICTOR: Tish.
Meanwhile, in the Music Room, Miss Jade is entertaining the other occupants to a delightful Mozart medley on the piano forte:
JADE: Oh, fiddlesticks! Some of the fingering is dashed complex. I believe BB has mistuned this piano deliberately!
TIFFANY: Do my ankles look big in this?
Over in the Drawing Room, the remaining men, Harold and Reginald, are facing up to this week's task...
HAROLD: D--- it, Reg! How can BB expect us to translate Horace without at least sight of a crib?
REGINALD: I'm gay, you know.
VICTOR: Why sir, fie on that!
JASPER: It's clear you are little more than a charlatan. Should I meet you in my club, I would be duty bound to cut you.
VICTOR: Tish.
Meanwhile, in the Music Room, Miss Jade is entertaining the other occupants to a delightful Mozart medley on the piano forte:
JADE: Oh, fiddlesticks! Some of the fingering is dashed complex. I believe BB has mistuned this piano deliberately!
TIFFANY: Do my ankles look big in this?
Over in the Drawing Room, the remaining men, Harold and Reginald, are facing up to this week's task...
HAROLD: D--- it, Reg! How can BB expect us to translate Horace without at least sight of a crib?
REGINALD: I'm gay, you know.
Friday, June 18, 2004
Big Brother is watching his back
So, last night, after supper, Kate sat us down to make us watch Big Brother. We were all most excited. I'd been sent the exciting, unedited footage of the Big Fight covered in last night's show, and it looked all quite alarming.
I haven't watched Big Brother properly since series two - in the good old days, when the contestants had conversations. This was quite a different show.
We spent the first quarter of an hour with poor Kate and Gemma explaining Everything to me. Forgive me, both of you, for every time I've got cross when you've asked girly "why's he doing that?" questions while watching TV. Last night I couldn't work out who was who, what they wanted, and what they were saying. And this was before the fight started.
Having worked with Endemol on Fame Academy, I know how clever and manipulative they are. But I wasn't prepared for this year's Big Brother.
The set up had echoes of Sartre, Pinter and Beckett, only written by Joe Orton's talentless boyfriend. Two contestants had been locked in a bedsit for a week, watching everyone else slag them off (let's call them Slapper and Slappy). Suddenly, Big Brother announced that there would be a fancy dress party in the main house, complete with a buffet - with big silver platters.
The big reveal was that *gasp* Slapper and Slappy were hidden under the silver platters. Wow. Even Beckett didn't come up with two squealing heads surrounded by vol au vents.
The squealing heads then got drunk and caused trouble. At some point they'd had a careful plan of revenge. I believe it went:
SLAPPER: When I get back in there...
SLAPPY: Yeah,
SLAPPER: I'm gonna...
SLAPPY: Yeah,
SLAPPER: You know...
SLAPPY: Yeah!
Anyway, as soon as they got drunk, the careful plan suddenly became running up and down, yelling, throwing food, and telling people "We've heard what's been going on. But don't tell anyone."
The first person they revealed this top secret to was the gayest man in the world (specially bred from a pile of old chicken bones and some mince). His instant reaction was to skip and scream like Road Runner being butt fucked by an air-raid siren.
Meanwhile, there were two blonde women. They were thin and sensitive, and quite above all the screaming. They proved this by sitting on a bed, sniffing into handkerchieves. Their conversation appeared to be along the lines of:
BLONDE 1: I'm really sensitive.
BLONDE 2: (Sniffs agreement)
BLONDE 1: I don't know how much I can take.
BLONDE 2: (Sniffs agreement)
BLONDE 1: The others really drag this place down.
BLONDE 2: (Sniffs agreement)
BLONDE 1: D'ya think Jason fancies me?
BLONDE 2: (Sniffs agreement)
Jason and Victor appeared to be the token Straight Men. There's another. He's called Stuart. He's very pretty... for a broom in a bandanna. He's pretty much out of the equation, as, within moments of Slappy's release, the two of them were Deeply In Love:
SLAPPY: D'yer love me?
STUART: Mmmm.
SLAPPY: Did yer miss me?
STUART: Mmmm.
SLAPPY: Have I put on weight?
What with all the fighting, the plotting, and the flying food, Jason and Victor were having a bad evening. This wasn't helped by their being Really Nasty People. One of them even had the unfortunate habit of speaking only in the imperative tense, so beloved of Wife Beaters.
Then the fight started. It was pretty horrid. Well, it was if you saw the uncut footage. Channel Four showed a plate being dropped and some mild badinage. In real life, however there was louder screaming, and wailing, the smashing of things, and Victor roaring "Do you fucking know what I am?" over and over again. For three minutes and 24 seconds. You can say it rather a lot in that time. And he did.
Slapper (er, Emma, apparently) replied by squealing "I will fucking kill you!" a lot.
One of the sensitive blondes went to the bathroom, where she sniffed. Sensitively.
And the other housemates joined in the screaming, merging into a constant wail, like a funeral ululation.
And, in that final cacophany, the divergent desires of Twentieth Century Drama were achieved - to express character without words, and words without character.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
Boy touching we can vaguely remember
One of the delights of the summer evenings is finding a nice, quiet tree and seducing a boy under it.
The rule of the week, however, is be careful which tree you pick. Even the shadiest of corners may not be shady enough.
I was happily immersed in my latest conquest (let's call him "um, Neil", cos that's how I vaguely remember him). He worked at Christian Dior. He looked fantastic topless. And, anyway, all of a sudden, this old man wanders up from nowhere. And pauses.
Neil and I pause. We don't move. At this moment, dear reader, it is almost impossible for the two of us to move. It's like boy Jenga.
The old man pauses. And surveys us coolly.
"If you want," he says, "I can play that trombone for you."
We blink.
He laughs heartily.
Clearly, he's either being mad, filthy, or generous with his musical ability.
The rule of the week, however, is be careful which tree you pick. Even the shadiest of corners may not be shady enough.
I was happily immersed in my latest conquest (let's call him "um, Neil", cos that's how I vaguely remember him). He worked at Christian Dior. He looked fantastic topless. And, anyway, all of a sudden, this old man wanders up from nowhere. And pauses.
Neil and I pause. We don't move. At this moment, dear reader, it is almost impossible for the two of us to move. It's like boy Jenga.
The old man pauses. And surveys us coolly.
"If you want," he says, "I can play that trombone for you."
We blink.
He laughs heartily.
Clearly, he's either being mad, filthy, or generous with his musical ability.
Thin
Thank you Doctor Atkins. After but a week on your marvellous diet, I've lost two kilograms. And can fit back into a whole range of trousers, leaving behind those pesky "emergency jeans".
The Atkins diet is a wonderful thing. In moderation. I first went on it years ago, before it was really a fashionable thing. In those days it was just an idea of Paul, my bloody fascist of a personal trainer. Of course, his version turns out to be far more sensible than Dr A's - Paul leaves in the coffee, the vegetables, and, most importantly, custard.
This time around, I went even more relaxed. I left in the booze. You see, vodka has no carbs, according to a Reknowned Dieting Authorities (Two secretarial types with pink shoes on the tube). So the last fortnight has been a haze of bacon and booze. It's been bliss. Also, hence the lack of updates. Who cares when there's fun to be had with meat?
The problem with the Atkins diet is the sheer quantity of Very Boring Urban Myths it has around it:
1) "You go mad."
2) "You start to smell of broccoli." (Yeah, but, um, does broccoli even have a smell?)
3) "I know someone who ate a vegetable on the Atkins diet and exploded."
4) "I know someone who wore pale blue trousers on the Atkins diet and she shat herself in front of Maggie Smith."
I haven't made up Urban Myth Number 4. People are scary. And Maggie Smith is scarier.
The Atkins diet is a wonderful thing. In moderation. I first went on it years ago, before it was really a fashionable thing. In those days it was just an idea of Paul, my bloody fascist of a personal trainer. Of course, his version turns out to be far more sensible than Dr A's - Paul leaves in the coffee, the vegetables, and, most importantly, custard.
This time around, I went even more relaxed. I left in the booze. You see, vodka has no carbs, according to a Reknowned Dieting Authorities (Two secretarial types with pink shoes on the tube). So the last fortnight has been a haze of bacon and booze. It's been bliss. Also, hence the lack of updates. Who cares when there's fun to be had with meat?
The problem with the Atkins diet is the sheer quantity of Very Boring Urban Myths it has around it:
1) "You go mad."
2) "You start to smell of broccoli." (Yeah, but, um, does broccoli even have a smell?)
3) "I know someone who ate a vegetable on the Atkins diet and exploded."
4) "I know someone who wore pale blue trousers on the Atkins diet and she shat herself in front of Maggie Smith."
I haven't made up Urban Myth Number 4. People are scary. And Maggie Smith is scarier.
Monday, June 14, 2004
Heavy Metal Satan Love Song
AltaVista music search is a wonderful thing. While looking for mad remixes of The Prisoner theme, I instead found this: Belle, by the band SIBERIAN xXx-TREME.
They're a Russian heavy metal combo, who croak their lyrics like Edith Piaf possessed, accompanied by a backing track of roaring motorcycles and a bontempi organ. Bliss.
They're a Russian heavy metal combo, who croak their lyrics like Edith Piaf possessed, accompanied by a backing track of roaring motorcycles and a bontempi organ. Bliss.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Made for two
Normally when you meet a beautiful man, it doesn't end up with the two of you wobbling and whooping, trying to share a pedal bike hurtling the wrong way down Victoria Road at one in the morning.
It all started with him asking me: "So, have you ever saddlebacked?"
It ended up like some scene from a waspish French movie.
Martin's extreme self-confidence bordered on madness, but so pretty it didn't matter.
The evening ended with him muttering. "Give me your number, why not? So many people do."
It all started with him asking me: "So, have you ever saddlebacked?"
It ended up like some scene from a waspish French movie.
Martin's extreme self-confidence bordered on madness, but so pretty it didn't matter.
The evening ended with him muttering. "Give me your number, why not? So many people do."
Friday, June 04, 2004
The horned beast
So, my date is going very well with Marco.
He's handsome, Italian, cultured, sensitive, muscled, and has a warm laugh. He knows about food, he knows about wine, he knows about fun.
He can talk about the world of insurance without it seeming too dull, and used to work for the Italian Government policing arms exports - so I now know quite a bit about sandwich armour.
It is, in many ways, a good date. And then we get onto the subject of books. I chatter away about The Mitford Girls, and how PJ O'Rourke has turned travel writing on its head with Holidays in Hell.
He nods, and smiles and says, "Ha ha, yes, because the last book I bought was a rare one. The Necronomicon."
"Oh - is that the book by Roberston Davies about the-"
"No - it is very hard to find. Obscure. Secret book. In Linear A."
"You can read Linear A? I'm impressed."
"No, it is parallel text. You must be careful with it. Dangerous. You see, it is a book of dark knowledge and black magics."
"Oh. Interesting."
He went on to explain about how every person who's tried to publish the book has suffered disaster, and that it was only safe to read the book if you'd been inducted into it by special spells. Luckily he had. Which was nice.
He explained that some readers over the centuries had grown full of themselves, and abused the protection spell, casting the spells rather than simply read them. As a result, they had all died. Alastier Crowley died a terrible death of cursed cancer, HP Lovecraft committed suicide. Both a matter of minutes, hours, months or years after casting a spell from the book.
Grinning, I rushed off to the loo, and texted all my friends. I haven't had such a disastrous date since the Belgian car salesman last year who was so boring I spent it yawning and eyeing up someone else entirely while he yammered on about manufacturing trends in four door Walloon saloons.
I know Lee accuses me of getting rid of men because of a tiny little flaw... But it's quite something to be sat opposite someone and not feel ashamed to tell them you like Dr Who.
He's handsome, Italian, cultured, sensitive, muscled, and has a warm laugh. He knows about food, he knows about wine, he knows about fun.
He can talk about the world of insurance without it seeming too dull, and used to work for the Italian Government policing arms exports - so I now know quite a bit about sandwich armour.
It is, in many ways, a good date. And then we get onto the subject of books. I chatter away about The Mitford Girls, and how PJ O'Rourke has turned travel writing on its head with Holidays in Hell.
He nods, and smiles and says, "Ha ha, yes, because the last book I bought was a rare one. The Necronomicon."
"Oh - is that the book by Roberston Davies about the-"
"No - it is very hard to find. Obscure. Secret book. In Linear A."
"You can read Linear A? I'm impressed."
"No, it is parallel text. You must be careful with it. Dangerous. You see, it is a book of dark knowledge and black magics."
"Oh. Interesting."
He went on to explain about how every person who's tried to publish the book has suffered disaster, and that it was only safe to read the book if you'd been inducted into it by special spells. Luckily he had. Which was nice.
He explained that some readers over the centuries had grown full of themselves, and abused the protection spell, casting the spells rather than simply read them. As a result, they had all died. Alastier Crowley died a terrible death of cursed cancer, HP Lovecraft committed suicide. Both a matter of minutes, hours, months or years after casting a spell from the book.
Grinning, I rushed off to the loo, and texted all my friends. I haven't had such a disastrous date since the Belgian car salesman last year who was so boring I spent it yawning and eyeing up someone else entirely while he yammered on about manufacturing trends in four door Walloon saloons.
I know Lee accuses me of getting rid of men because of a tiny little flaw... But it's quite something to be sat opposite someone and not feel ashamed to tell them you like Dr Who.
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Stereotyping
Wandering through town the other night. Saw a Japanese businessman throwing up on the pavement... being videod by his giggling friends.
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Every letter of the alphabet
Finally had sex with someone whose name began with Z.
Can I have my mug now?
Can I have my mug now?
English Summertime
I actually have sunburn. I'm really proud of this. All from a couple of hours sunbathing on the grass.
What I'm rather more worried about is the alarming number of lacerations and welts criss-crossing my back. It looks like I forgot the safe word in a sex club.
What I'm rather more worried about is the alarming number of lacerations and welts criss-crossing my back. It looks like I forgot the safe word in a sex club.
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