James Naughtie on the Today programme, entering the Honey vs Marmalade debate:
"This reminds me of the bandleader staying at Claridge's. They brought him a small put of breakfast honey, and he said, 'Ah. I see you keep a bee.'"
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Shameless
Poor Shameless. It must be terrible making a wonderful first series of TV which tells a perfect story with a beginning, a middle, and an end... and then getting commissioned to make more.
The Christmas Special was a marvellous bit of sideways bonkers, but the second series is a strange beast. It's funny, it's daring... but...
It's every so slightly *annoying*. I always hated Frank, and he now hangs around the series like a misty fart, joined in the corner of rooms by some Very Annoying Characters - namely the firestarter with Teret's and his mother.
It's still brilliant, and yet, last night, I found myself drifting out of the room and folding laundry.
Partly, I'm wondering if the second series is suffering from being Really Professionally Plotted. It's got that hum about it of something carefully worked out in meeting rooms. The first series probably was just as mechanical, but disguised it better.
Last night, for instance, I found I wasn't that grabbed by the adopted kid story. Fine - I knew I could nip off to the kitchen, as there'd be a fairly meaty subplot along about every second scene, and a nice little "C" story making an occasional appearance.
Plus, no Sheila. Please let her cameo in Desperate Housewives.
The Christmas Special was a marvellous bit of sideways bonkers, but the second series is a strange beast. It's funny, it's daring... but...
It's every so slightly *annoying*. I always hated Frank, and he now hangs around the series like a misty fart, joined in the corner of rooms by some Very Annoying Characters - namely the firestarter with Teret's and his mother.
It's still brilliant, and yet, last night, I found myself drifting out of the room and folding laundry.
Partly, I'm wondering if the second series is suffering from being Really Professionally Plotted. It's got that hum about it of something carefully worked out in meeting rooms. The first series probably was just as mechanical, but disguised it better.
Last night, for instance, I found I wasn't that grabbed by the adopted kid story. Fine - I knew I could nip off to the kitchen, as there'd be a fairly meaty subplot along about every second scene, and a nice little "C" story making an occasional appearance.
Plus, no Sheila. Please let her cameo in Desperate Housewives.
Monday, January 10, 2005
Why I don't really bother with OutintheUK
I've started getting lots of interest from men who claim to be "a youthful 47".
(yes, their profiles do include pictures of their nice, sensible cars)
(yes, their profiles do include pictures of their nice, sensible cars)
Dating and relativity
I have always been rubbish at second dates with people I like. If it's just shagging, then fine, but I get Seriously Smitten about once a year, and The Annual Smiting is a weird combination of euphoria and despair that is, frankly, irritating.
I like to think I'm fairly intelligent, rational and functional. So it's appalling to discover that, at the age of 30, meeting a nice man reduces me to the mental equivalent of doodling the names of our kids on my Maths folder.
Not happy about a second date with A-Gay Adam. Spent the entire day in gibbering panic. Last time this happened was in Manchester station, waiting for a boy to get off the train, convinced his "sorry, a bit late" text message meant "fuck off, fatty". See? Mad.
My madness wasn't helped by Adam texting to rearrange at the last minute. With a perfectly good excuse... but still. My mood wasn't helped by going round to dinner with friends who nodded and smiled and made a show of pretending to believe Adam's excuse.
Guy took me outside for a forbidden cigarette. "Look, mate. You've got to pretend to be calm. When I was single and dating girls, I'd never let on how I felt. It was a smile, a cheery wink, and every indication that I didn't give a shit. Then I'd go home and cry."
I left, feeling somewhat perkier, and ended up watching Dave Lynn return to the Black Cap (he took the piss out of the appalling Kiss FM DJ blunder by dedicating Bridge Over Troubled Water to "those poor folk in Tsunami").
Idly, I started chatting to the prettiest man there. He was called Tony, he did make up for fashion shoots (would he name names? no), and he had the most amazing arms.
Within ten minutes, he was explaining how he never had one night stands, that he rather liked me, and all about the difference between a special and a unified theory of relativity.
I can't remember many details, as his hand was down my pants, but it was something to do with whether a spot of light is moving away from or towards you when you're travelling at the speed of light. Fascinating stuff, I'd imagine.
I like to think I'm fairly intelligent, rational and functional. So it's appalling to discover that, at the age of 30, meeting a nice man reduces me to the mental equivalent of doodling the names of our kids on my Maths folder.
Not happy about a second date with A-Gay Adam. Spent the entire day in gibbering panic. Last time this happened was in Manchester station, waiting for a boy to get off the train, convinced his "sorry, a bit late" text message meant "fuck off, fatty". See? Mad.
My madness wasn't helped by Adam texting to rearrange at the last minute. With a perfectly good excuse... but still. My mood wasn't helped by going round to dinner with friends who nodded and smiled and made a show of pretending to believe Adam's excuse.
Guy took me outside for a forbidden cigarette. "Look, mate. You've got to pretend to be calm. When I was single and dating girls, I'd never let on how I felt. It was a smile, a cheery wink, and every indication that I didn't give a shit. Then I'd go home and cry."
I left, feeling somewhat perkier, and ended up watching Dave Lynn return to the Black Cap (he took the piss out of the appalling Kiss FM DJ blunder by dedicating Bridge Over Troubled Water to "those poor folk in Tsunami").
Idly, I started chatting to the prettiest man there. He was called Tony, he did make up for fashion shoots (would he name names? no), and he had the most amazing arms.
Within ten minutes, he was explaining how he never had one night stands, that he rather liked me, and all about the difference between a special and a unified theory of relativity.
I can't remember many details, as his hand was down my pants, but it was something to do with whether a spot of light is moving away from or towards you when you're travelling at the speed of light. Fascinating stuff, I'd imagine.
Friday, January 07, 2005
Under Seige
Standing outside our office is a crowd of fifty evangelists. They've been protesting about the BBC's plans to show Jerry Springer: The Opera. They're the second batch - the first batch were quieter and had nicer banners. But they went off for lunch, and the afternoon shift have arrived.
We don't like them. They're singing hymns. Not good old rousing ones, but modern huggy hymns. The kind you need a guitar for.
I've been suffering uncomfortable evangelist flashbacks all day.
We don't like them. They're singing hymns. Not good old rousing ones, but modern huggy hymns. The kind you need a guitar for.
I've been suffering uncomfortable evangelist flashbacks all day.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
A-Gay Adam
So, I met Sam for a drink. It was supposed to be supper, but his heavily pregnant wife had just called. In tears. From hospital. Her blood pressure was going through the roof, and the baby could be coming early.
"Victoria said I wasn't on any account to ruin my evening by rushing round to her lonely hospital bed. So, I reckon I've got half an hour before she's sending her brother after me with a hammer."
We had a quick drink in a quiet gay bar in Notting Hill. Unusually, there was also a table of Bright Young A-Gay Things, and the Mature Gentlemen Who Adore Them.
When Sam bolted off ("oh god! pelvic floor..."), I sauntered over and asked the prettiest one if I could join them.
They were lovely, friendly, and I soon forgot that I hadn't done my hair. Adam, the prettiest one, asked me what I did. When I told him I worked for the BBC website, he gasped, "Do you know the WhoSpy?"
Wonderfully, she works for me. And Adam, it turns out, was not only a complete tousle-haired scene queen of the first water, but also a gibbering Doctor Who fanboy.
At the back of my head, a small, nasty voice was saying "Offer to show him what the console room looks like if he sleeps with you." But, strangely, I resisted.
After all, Adam was quite, quite interesting. He'd just been fired from Gaydar (yes, apparently people work for it, rather than on it), and was wondering about heading back to Toronto, or going over on a friendly millionaire's private jet to follow the New York scene.
It all sounded bizarre - a whirlwind of VIP rooms, teenage groupies and free champagne. He'd been a marketing manager, DJ, and drugs dealer, and was now moving into Circuit Party promotion and Club night organising.
All of which sounds terribly exciting - but not really part of my life. I *like* going clubbing - in the same way as I like visiting thrilling Paris, but couldn't live there.
What I most admired about him (apart from his confidence) was his mastery of the instant bitchy comeback. He'd taken part in an early heat of GAY's Porn Idol, bullied into it by then boss, clubland's very own Jeremy "K-Fried Chicken" Joseph. And there he was, standing there, naked on stage when JJ walks up and says "Pity your cock's small, isn't it love?"
Quick as a flash, Adam turns round. "It's gonna seem small when you're standing next to the biggest dick in London."
PS: Off to try and find my bike. I left it in a pub. In the cellar where they deal drugs.
"Victoria said I wasn't on any account to ruin my evening by rushing round to her lonely hospital bed. So, I reckon I've got half an hour before she's sending her brother after me with a hammer."
We had a quick drink in a quiet gay bar in Notting Hill. Unusually, there was also a table of Bright Young A-Gay Things, and the Mature Gentlemen Who Adore Them.
When Sam bolted off ("oh god! pelvic floor..."), I sauntered over and asked the prettiest one if I could join them.
They were lovely, friendly, and I soon forgot that I hadn't done my hair. Adam, the prettiest one, asked me what I did. When I told him I worked for the BBC website, he gasped, "Do you know the WhoSpy?"
Wonderfully, she works for me. And Adam, it turns out, was not only a complete tousle-haired scene queen of the first water, but also a gibbering Doctor Who fanboy.
At the back of my head, a small, nasty voice was saying "Offer to show him what the console room looks like if he sleeps with you." But, strangely, I resisted.
After all, Adam was quite, quite interesting. He'd just been fired from Gaydar (yes, apparently people work for it, rather than on it), and was wondering about heading back to Toronto, or going over on a friendly millionaire's private jet to follow the New York scene.
It all sounded bizarre - a whirlwind of VIP rooms, teenage groupies and free champagne. He'd been a marketing manager, DJ, and drugs dealer, and was now moving into Circuit Party promotion and Club night organising.
All of which sounds terribly exciting - but not really part of my life. I *like* going clubbing - in the same way as I like visiting thrilling Paris, but couldn't live there.
What I most admired about him (apart from his confidence) was his mastery of the instant bitchy comeback. He'd taken part in an early heat of GAY's Porn Idol, bullied into it by then boss, clubland's very own Jeremy "K-Fried Chicken" Joseph. And there he was, standing there, naked on stage when JJ walks up and says "Pity your cock's small, isn't it love?"
Quick as a flash, Adam turns round. "It's gonna seem small when you're standing next to the biggest dick in London."
PS: Off to try and find my bike. I left it in a pub. In the cellar where they deal drugs.
Tuesday, January 04, 2005
Arsenic and Old Ladies
Charming evening spent in a house on Regent's Park with two lovely octogenarians and cats. Nikki is my parents' paragliding, pilates-teaching neighbour, and Virginia is an artist who keeps cats and an extensive wine cellar.
Nice to enjoy an evening of sedate decorum for a change. Especially with people determined to get you pissed, and with them offering sage advice.
In a drunken moment I told them about a friend whose girlfriend we all loathe. "She ignores us, barely speaks a word of English, refuses to let him spend time with us, and won't let him do any of the things he used to like doing. Why are they still together?"
Virginia leant forward and patted my knee. "The sex, my dear. It's obviously fantastic."
Nice to enjoy an evening of sedate decorum for a change. Especially with people determined to get you pissed, and with them offering sage advice.
In a drunken moment I told them about a friend whose girlfriend we all loathe. "She ignores us, barely speaks a word of English, refuses to let him spend time with us, and won't let him do any of the things he used to like doing. Why are they still together?"
Virginia leant forward and patted my knee. "The sex, my dear. It's obviously fantastic."
Sunday, January 02, 2005
Alcazar Update
It's been too long since an update from the Acazarworld website ("enter the castle of disco"). But hurrah! News. In English. Almost.
Recent updates include:
It rains gold over Alcazar!!
A hysteric year has almost come to an end. But... It has finally paid off! Several records has now moved up to gold status in Sweden
Xmas message from Alcazar!
Today we have recieved a message from Alcazar that they wanted us to pass on to you guys out there - and here it comes!
We hope you have a wonderful evening with your families and/or friends among you!
Tess is on her Paradise island Gotland with her son and boyfriend. Annika is with her family and her husband in Sweden and in Denmark. Magnus is at his parents place with his dogs. Andreas is the only one staying in the Stockholm parts of Sweden to be close to his relatives and brother.
We have had a really wonderful year... So therefore we have decided to take some time off... Well, not much though, but still some time to "land" on our feet again, to spend some time with family, boyfriends, dogs, children aso aso. We won´t be "at work" for almost the whole January.
But a month goes by quickly! Soon it is February!!!
Love with all our hearts,
Sure sign of an impending Beige Night of the Soul
Last night a shag started licking my boots.
Oh, for goodness' sake.
Oh, for goodness' sake.
ChavPod
Bless you SuperDrug for the 25 quid MP3 player. I noticed that KwikSave were doing a iPod lookylikey for young council mums - but that was 99 quid for 2 gig, and well, do you really need 2,000 copies of "Dry Your Eyes, Mate"?
I'm adoring my SuperDrug ChavPod. I'd never really seen the point of iPods before (beyond that Dr Who fan urge to File Everything In Order), but I think I'm getting the message now. My ChavPod is about the size of a big keyring and contains 70 tracks and an FM radio.
It's perfect for jogging. I could even go and buy on for Classical, and one for Jazz. I doubt I'd need a separate one for my beloved Philip Glass operas - just one track on repeat.
Just going through my music collection to find the 70 things I've really loved jogging to has been a revelation. If I was transferring to an iPod I doubt I'd discriminate - whole albums would go over. But here, instead, is the sobering realisation that I didn't buy that Steps/Ricky Martin/Kylie album for the ballads, that I'm not interested in Chumbawumba's social commentary, that I own the Hamster Dance (as blessed by St John Peel), and that, after all these years, I'm still deeply in loved with Daphne and Celeste.
Surprisingly, this has set me thinking. If you can get already an MP3 player that will store 6 albums for less than the cost of six albums... how long will it be before player and packaging merge, and we'll be able to buy albums that play themselves?
Or will it be the quality of the data itself that becomes all important - will people carry on buying CDs and DVDs because the quality is somehow better than MPEG?
Or, will the packaging of legit albums and DVDs just become more and more excessive and lavish? My friends Gemma and Serge have thrown away all boxes and cases, reducing their extensive DVD and CD library to four plastic wallets sharing a tiny bit of shelf with the dope and catfood. Proof that you don't *need* the lovely packaging. On the other hand, Serge is refusing to get rid of all of his vinyl LPs, even though they take the wall of a room, and about a fraction of his iPod. So, perhaps the way forward for DVD is to become even more ludicrously lavish in packaging, with origmai, plasticised gatefolds which play a tune when you open them, and a built in, personalised, anatomically correct holographic Colin Farrell?
Anyway, the pure pop overload of compiling the ChavPod had an unfortunate side-effect. I went into HMV and blew 40 quid on classical music that I didn't need. Well, apart from the Jacqueline Du Pre Elgar Cello Concerto. That'd go on my classical ChavPod. But not her ballads. Or her duet with the Cheeky Girls.
I'm adoring my SuperDrug ChavPod. I'd never really seen the point of iPods before (beyond that Dr Who fan urge to File Everything In Order), but I think I'm getting the message now. My ChavPod is about the size of a big keyring and contains 70 tracks and an FM radio.
It's perfect for jogging. I could even go and buy on for Classical, and one for Jazz. I doubt I'd need a separate one for my beloved Philip Glass operas - just one track on repeat.
Just going through my music collection to find the 70 things I've really loved jogging to has been a revelation. If I was transferring to an iPod I doubt I'd discriminate - whole albums would go over. But here, instead, is the sobering realisation that I didn't buy that Steps/Ricky Martin/Kylie album for the ballads, that I'm not interested in Chumbawumba's social commentary, that I own the Hamster Dance (as blessed by St John Peel), and that, after all these years, I'm still deeply in loved with Daphne and Celeste.
Surprisingly, this has set me thinking. If you can get already an MP3 player that will store 6 albums for less than the cost of six albums... how long will it be before player and packaging merge, and we'll be able to buy albums that play themselves?
Or will it be the quality of the data itself that becomes all important - will people carry on buying CDs and DVDs because the quality is somehow better than MPEG?
Or, will the packaging of legit albums and DVDs just become more and more excessive and lavish? My friends Gemma and Serge have thrown away all boxes and cases, reducing their extensive DVD and CD library to four plastic wallets sharing a tiny bit of shelf with the dope and catfood. Proof that you don't *need* the lovely packaging. On the other hand, Serge is refusing to get rid of all of his vinyl LPs, even though they take the wall of a room, and about a fraction of his iPod. So, perhaps the way forward for DVD is to become even more ludicrously lavish in packaging, with origmai, plasticised gatefolds which play a tune when you open them, and a built in, personalised, anatomically correct holographic Colin Farrell?
Anyway, the pure pop overload of compiling the ChavPod had an unfortunate side-effect. I went into HMV and blew 40 quid on classical music that I didn't need. Well, apart from the Jacqueline Du Pre Elgar Cello Concerto. That'd go on my classical ChavPod. But not her ballads. Or her duet with the Cheeky Girls.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)