"The pace of life isn't a drama here," observed my bloke, contentedly, while we slipped effortlessly from lattes to lunch at the Beach House Cafe, eating oily bruschetta and Thai cod cakes whose mint-laden mayonnaise evoked not Asia but Sunday lunch.
Truly beautiful. And the John Masefield quotes top the article off like a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands on a knickerbocker glory. And all for a mere £2,643 for seven nights in July and August. Dorset is truly God's own country.
*******
And a fantastic full page advertisement on the back page of the Guardian Review:-
"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." Dorothy Parker
At Barclays Wealth, we have always recognised that wealth means different things to different people. We can help protect your wealth, grow it, use it and pass it on. And if, like Ms Parker, you are a passionate believer in philanthropic causes, we can even help you give it away.
What wonderful biting wit! Worthy of Mr Wilde or, dare I say it, Ms Parker herself.
If I were John Terry tonight, picking up a copy of the London Lite, I'd be so embarrassed I wouldn't know where to turn.
"He cried all night - Chelsea skipper inconsolable" screams the headline.
I'd be thinking to myself, "Why do I always behave like a spoilt child? Everyone knows a real man cries when he wins, not when he loses."
If I were John Terry today, I'd also be hanging my head in shame. Not for missing a penalty, but for my disgusting unprovoked spit at one of modern football's great players, Carlos Tevez. I'd be worried that Fabio Capello saw my act and won't pick me for England ever again.
The London Lite has got its knickers in a twist about the amount of potential money squandered by Chelsea's inability to win the Champions League.
£5m in prize money £30m in commercial spin-offs and merchandising £20m in media rights and sponsorship £10m in increased tourism for London
Excuse me? Increased tourism for London? Who in their right mind is going to visit London just because one of its football teams won a match? I can see the logic of some idiots visiting London because of the Royal Family's presence (though nowhere near as many idiots as is claimed), but a football team?
The past couple of weeks have thrown up a similar image to this...
...on Radio One's Big Weekend.
And something similar to this...
...on Later With Jools.
Madonna is 49. Nick Cave is 50. They were at the peak of their creativity in the 1980s. Back in those days Madonna would cavort onstage in all kinds of get ups. She was known for her raunchy, high energy act. Nick Cave was known for his wild, junkie preacher show. Seeing him live was a little unnerving, as I imagine seeing Ian Curtis was to those luckier/more hip than myself.
Now they hide behind guitars. Guitars don't look right on them. Madonna was born to cavort, hands-free. Nick Cave was born to preach, hands-free. A guitar isn't performance-viagra to the middle aged pop star. It is a crutch for a failing body. A body broken and old and withered and worn.
Making pop music is for the young. And these young compatriots of Old Nick have made the album of the year so far. Well, according to the bloke in the Guardian Guide they have. And I, trend-following wanker, find it hard to disagree. Ladies and gentlemen, Cut Copy...
Betty says I have a reputation of being a bit of a Little Englander so I should mention what happened in Sainsbury's yesterday.
I was apoplectic with rage.
We were unloading our basket at the checkout, at the end of the conveyor belt. There was one person being served in front of us.
I looked up and from the checkout next to us, came a man and woman. At the front of OUR conveyor belt, they unloaded one basket. They then placed the divider on the belt. They then unloaded ANOTHER basket. And placed another divider on the belt. They didn't look back at us, at me looking daggers, apoplectic with rage. APOPLECTIC WITH RAGE.
The woman had a badge stuck to her jeans. "Open University" it said. What the fuck kind of education is it that promotes pushing in queues?
The choice of dentists in our area is as follows...
1. The dentist I've had since I was a boy. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills and extracts. He's in his 60s now and I've spent the past few years going back to him with one problem after another. A young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. As it's a bit of a journey to get there and I was having more and more time off work, I thought I'd try a nearer, more convenient dentist.
2. A nearer, more convenient dentist. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills. I'm sure he'd extract if the tooth was beyond a reasonably-priced repair. He's in his 70s now and a young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. I went back to him several times in a few months with problem after problem.
3. The second nearest, but most convenient dentist as he's open from 8 a.m. I've now settled with this one. He's young and lightning quick. His check-ups last a couple of minutes. He would fill but I'm not sure if he would extract. He's probably one of the new school who like to save teeth as saving teeth generates more income. At another dentist's, my sister has just paid £400 for a cap. My new dentist doesn't scrape, clean or polish. He has a couple of dental hygienists to do that for him.
I've seen her twice. She doesn't look me in the eye. She reads her notes and puts her mask on. She lowers me down until I am horizontal (which I find uncomfortable because of my digestive problem).
"Any problems? No? Good! Using an electric toothbrush like I told you? Good! That's much better! Flossing?"
"No, but I'm using mouthwash."
"Useless. Mouthwash won't get rid of all this. Look at all this debris between your teeth."
"I once tried flossing but I wasn't very good at it. I can't get to the back teeth."
"It's a knack. Start on the front teeth first. You'll get the hang of it. Like this. Up and down. Up and down. Like you're removing glue."
"Nnng."
"You will get the hang of it. When you pay for your visit you will purchase this special floss you cannot get in supermarkets. You will start with the front teeth. Once you have mastered the front teeth you will move to the side teeth. Up and down, up and down. Once you have mastered the side teeth you will go to the back teeth. Up and down, up and down, you will get rid of the debris. You must get rid of the debris! You must! You must! Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"No, you must raise your left arm like this. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"That is much better. I will see you in three months. No longer than three months. We must eradicate this debris. Goodbye."
"Heil Hitler!"
"No, you must walk like this. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!"
"Keep walking like this until you get the hang of it. Come on, round the room. Step and step and step, come on, lift those feet!"
Let's be having your limericks about the great man in the comments section.
The man who promised to stop the rail workers from striking, who promised to rid the city of knife crime, who promised to reintroduce Routemasters, who promised to reduce your Council tax bill and give you better services, who promised to get more black men teaching black boys, who promised to plant a tree with the money he saved from scrapping the Mayor's Londoner newspaper.
Well, actually he has ditched the Londoner and planted a tree with his own bare hands.
Well, actually he didn't do any digging, just moved a bit of earth from A to B.
Anyway, here's mine...
There once was a toff with blond hair Who had not a singular care Whether young men were stabbed Or their killers were nabbed But he don't sleep at night now he's Mayor
Well what a season that was! Comfortably mid-table right from the word "Go!"
No nail-biting last-week relegation scraps. No heart-stopping promotion play-offs. Just nice relaxing Sundays watching recordings of Sky's excellent Football First highlights. No Match of the Day, with its insufferable smugness and bias towards the teams at the top.
Congratulations to Stoke City on their promotion. Stoke are my second team and the team of the mother-in-law I never met but wish I could have. Gordon Banks' fantastic save from Geoff Hurst's penalty in the 1972 League Cup Semi-Final deserved a winner's medal. And they went on to beat Chelsea in the final. Yes, the great Chelsea with all their history and glamour.
Here's looking forward to next season. The Top Four will be broken. The Nouveaux Riches are coming to get you!
We're talking about relationships, wondering what people's home lives are like and saying how we both thought we'd never find someone we could live with - soppy bollocks like that.
"But you can get too comfortable with someone," says Betty.
"How?" I say.
"There was this woman I used to work with. One day she said how comfortable her and her husband were in each other's company. So comfortable that when she took a bath, he often came into the bathroom, sat on the toilet and had a shit."
"Christ, that's disgusting," I say. "Did he purposely wait till she was in the bath?"
"I don't think so. He used to put a towel over his head while he did it. So he could concentrate on what he was doing."
"How could she say that in the office?"
"The strange thing was, the other women in the office didn't bat an eyelid. They were completely indifferent."
"Maybe that's the norm. Maybe we're not as close as we thought."
Tim has kindly set me the task to furnish you with eight facts about the phenomenon that was Madame Blavatsky. Madame Blavatsky was a real person, not to be confused with Madame Bovary who was a fictional character. But even a cursory glance at the Russian Madame's life story throws up inconsistencies and it is difficult to separate fact from fiction.
But here we go. In for a penny, in for a pound. 8 Random Facts about the great woman (at least one of which is possibly a Random Fib)...
1. Helena Blavatsky, in 1888, was the first person to use the phrase “intelligent design” to convey her understanding of evolution. The evolution of the species was guided by an underlying purposeful intelligence in nature. So, Mr Scientist, there is no “chance” about it.
2. Madame Blavatsky was a founder of the Theosphical Society whose chief aim was to “reconcile all religions, sects and nations under a common system of ethics, based on eternal verities.” The creation, therefore, of a groovy Brotherhood of Man.
3. According to Madame Blavatsky herself, she married at 17 to a much older man, stole a horse to escape from her unhappy marriage, and remained a virgin her entire life. As a true practitioner of Theosophy should “live, if the esoteric instructions shall profit him, a life of abstinence in everything, of self-denial and strict morality, doing his duty by all men,” she seems to have done pretty well to control her sexual urges.
4. However, according to other sources, she had several extramarital affairs and even mothered a child. So did she really live a life of abstinence?
5. She claimed to have had childhood visions in the 1830s of a tall Hindu who eventually materialised in Hyde Park and became her guru and advisor. From Hyde Park, she went to Tibet where she was trained by Theosophy masters from 1868 to 1870. She spread the theosophy message around the world till her death in 1891.
6. She was also an Eastern Star Freemason, a member of the largest fraternal organisation in the world that men and women can join. The order is open to people of all monotheistic faiths, so one wonders which god she aligned herself to in order to join up.
7. One of her followers in the 1980s was Roger Taylor of Duran Duran. Roger kept an inspirational photograph (see above) of her taped to his drum kit. Simon Le Bon and John Taylor found this most amusing and wrote a 5 minute jam called Wanking Over Madame B which can be heard on the bootleg album Duran Live In Bogota.
8. In her later years she gained employment as a circus performer and seance assistant. In no way does this discredit the seriousness in which her works are held. In no way at all.
That's it. I'm scrapping the Low GI Diet. I was so bloated this morning I was surprised nobody congratulated me on my pregnancy.
I'm going to try Prebio 7, a mixture of prebiotics and probiotics. The blurb on the packet says "Shhh...! The French Secret". Shhhit! Jolie Merde! I'll have a stomach like Ian Curtis in no time.
I never believed there was such a thing as middle aged spread. Until I went to buy some new work trousers a few weeks ago. It seems my waistline (and the waistband of the old trousers) have stretched by three inches in the past year or so.
"I'm spreading," I thought. "I've got to stop spreading NOW".
So how to cut down without feeling pangs of hunger? Not real hunger, of course. Rich, western world hunger, the feeling you get when you're used to overeating and now you've got to eat healthy portions.
My weakness isn't fat or sugar. I have a low fat, low sugar diet. My weakness is complex carbohydrates.
I can't get enough of bread and cereals.
So I was speaking to my old friend, Antony Worrall Thompson. "Wozza," I said. "How come you look so slim these days?"
Look at Wozza in the bad old days...
And Wozza now...
How did he get from being an overweight, unhappy misanthropist to a slim, happily full-of-energy-people-lover?
Eating slow release foods that keep you feeling fuller for longer. Throw away that Shredded Wheat, Ian Botham! Have a bowl of All Bran. Discard that wholemeal bread, Lucky Jim! Try some soya and linseed bread or a few oatcakes. Eat less, feel more satisfied and full of energy. Pour away that fruit juice! Eat real fruit. You'll be on your way to your five a day and you won't get the slumps!
That's the theory, anyway. I'm into my third day and it could be a load of bollocks but I must admit the beer I had last night gave me a sugar rush like nothing on earth. It was fucking amazing, man.
Remember those early years of Thatcher? When any semblance of socialism in our national government died? So with London today.
Goodbye, Ken. I know you couldn't do much but at least I got to vote for someone I liked and who won for a few years. Now it's back to watching the others get in. Back to cold isolation.
*****
Remember those early years of Thatcher? Remember when we bought those Kid Creole albums to take us away to another place?
I'd heartily recommend Kid Creole: Going Places The August Darnell Years 1976-1983. It's a great compilation from a fantastic period for pop music. It's alright, he doesn't sing on that many of the tracks so if you don't like his voice, get it anyway.
A few Saturdays ago we left the house for the town centre. As we walked up the street a group of eight nice-looking wouldn't hurt a fly young men were walking towards us. They walked up garden paths and gently posted whatever they were carrying through letterboxes. As we walked past one he smiled at us, a lovely, friendly, in love with life smile.
"I bet they're members of the Green Party," I said to Betty.
Later, when we got home, we discovered a leaflet urging us to vote Green.
*******
Today at work we are talking about yesterday's elections.
"Did you vote?" I ask a younger colleague.
"I didn't vote but everybody I've spoken to, literally all my friends, everybody, voted for the Greens. I was speaking to Kerry this morning and she said her and Steve both voted Green too."
Richard Hawley's an acquired taste. A taste I try to acquire every so often but just can't quite.
I was listening to the songs on his myspace the other day. Probably the fourth time I've heard them.
"You've got a better voice than him," Betty said to me. "But he's a more passionate singer. You're detached from the songs."
Not that I've got any songs of my own. I sing covers - in the bathroom, the kitchen, the bedroom and the living room. I don't sing in the loft as I'm usually puffing, blowing and swearing when I'm up there.
I once dreamt I went to Richard Hawley's house. It was large and sparsely decorated. Massive rooms contained nothing but Marshall amps. He lived near a railway track and took us for a walk through his orchard to watch the trains go by. All the time we were there he never sang a note. He was overbearingly serious.
How many times does one have to experience an acquired taste to acquire that taste? I'm willing to give Richard Hawley a few more goes. He appears on the new Elbow album so I can't avoid him there. Unless I skip that track which wouldn't be the done thing as albums are meant to be listened to from start to end. The track with Richard Hawley on is my least favourite track on the Elbow album.
Then again, some people might say Elbow were an acquired taste and that Richard Hawley has a wonderful immediacy.
So is this acquired taste business a load of old bollocks? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and everybody has different eyesight which changes over the years. Unless you're the Jean-Michel Jarre fan I used to know, in which case Jarre is God, always will be and nobody else comes close.
And verily did God scoop the mighty Jesus fish from the River Cray, suck out its eyes so it could not see the Devil Livingstone's ungodly work, and parachute it to earth on a fluffy cloud where it did land in the Garden of Weedin' as Betty and Geoff did innocently sleep.
The Jesus fish did transmit pure thoughts to Betty and Geoff's ungodly widescreen tv and behold, a message from God emitted from the mouth of The Chosen One.
O Alan, we are with you, O Champion of London’s most vulnerable – the unborn, the elderly, the refugee.
"This is my least favourite song ever!" I hear from the other office as Smooth plays Don McLean's American Pie.
I agree, it is pretty shit. But it doesn't come close to my least favourite.
I haven't got one, though. I've got so many to choose from.
So I set myself a task. To compile a Nightmare Playlist. Twenty songs (not including novelty records and not having the same artist more than once) I never want to hear again. From the mawkish to the "right on".
So here goes...
1. I Will Always Love You - Whitney Houston
2. There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart) - Eurythmics
3. True - Spandau Ballet
4. My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion
5. Fields of Gold - Sting
6. Easy Lover - Phil Collins & Philip Bailey
7. Rock DJ - Robbie Williams
8. Brown Eyed Girl - Van Morrison
9. Dancing In The Moonlight - Toploader
10. Somewhere Only We Know - Keane
11. Chasing Cars - Snow Patrol
12. Hello - Lionel Ritchie
13. Isn't She Lovely? - Stevie Wonder
14. 500 Miles - The Proclaimers
15. Sexuality - Billy Bragg
16. London Calling - The Clash
17. 1973 - James "The Cuntster" Blunt
18. Lady In Red - Chris De Burgh
19. It Must Be Love - Madness
20. Sex Bomb - Tom Jones
Christ, what a CD that would make. Have I missed any out? Can you think of a worse playlist? Have you got a least favourite song? What's your favourite crisp flavour, etc, etc...?
So we drive 165 miles to visit a 92 year old woman who's lost what little English she had due to two recent strokes.
She can't see us as she's possibly blind in both eyes now, and although we are accompanied by a man who speaks her language, she doesn't acknowledge us. She is not making sense anyway. Her mother and Tito are still alive, if not living together. There is somebody in the home who won't stop singing in Serbo-Croat.
The man who took us to the home is 82. He's pretty sprightly. The only thing he's missing is a sense of direction, understandable when all this used to be fields but isn't any more by any stretch of the imagination. He knocks on three doors for directions as we wonder whether we'll reach the home before we're eligible to be residents there ourselves.
"Don't worry, you'll arrive home before dark," he says later over a calming cup of tea. We don't, thanks to the road-widening on the M1.
Meanwhile at the Masons do my mum's at, things are kicking off. The new generation of hand-shakers are getting pissed as newts, not taking it seriously. If anything they are taking the piss out of Masonry and its customs. Something I regularly do sober.
My widower uncle, a septuagenarian, slowly walks across the expanse of the dance floor to ask a young woman to dance the first dance. He picks her because she is showing a lot of cleavage. Her cups overfloweth. He holds her very close as they smooch. I'm not told what the song is. I'd like to think it's Fat Larry's Zoom. All that's visible of the young floozy is the back of her blonde and red striped straightened hair. The tart, leading him on like that!
And his best friend, who has a history of banter with my mum, decides that tonight is the night to really embarrass her. Instead of giving her a peck on the cheek, he bends her backwards and attempts to snog her. Not once, but twice. The second time he tells her she's got his juices going. They wrestle. She slaps him round the chops.
His wife says he was only getting his own back for previous mickey-taking. But this was going too far. She could have slipped a disc!
Marcel Proust is living in 21st century London. He has a stressful job as a copywriter. In his lunch hour he writes his weblog, Little Frenchman, exploring the themes of time, space and memory. One evening he forgets to turn his computer off. His boss look at the PC's internet site history. The next morning Marcel is sacked for writing on his blog that his boss was "a waste of time and space".
But Marcel has the last laugh. He gets an agent who advises him to turn his blog into a book. He does and it becomes a bestseller. Little Frenchman, the book, is a phenomenon.
Its success makes the news.
"Dooced Proust Rules The Roost!" screams the headline.
Presenters and guests on Sky Sports News are having kittens over parents' and coaches' behaviour at kids' football matches. Parents are being given exclusion zones around the pitches so they don't encroach.
There's nothing worse than a big-mouthed dad. Walk past any kids' match and you'll hear them. The big-mouthed ignorant bullying know-nothing dads who get worked up over a piss poor British-style kick and rush game of so-called football with little skill. It's all about the winning. The fun disappeared decades ago.
"How can we ensure the parents behave?" the experts ask.
Of course the answer is you can't. You've got to keep them away. When I was a kid I would have hated it if my dad had watched me play any of the sports I took part in. Talk about embarrassment! And my dad was a placid, easygoing sort.
These poor kids not only get the embarrassment of failing in front of their parent, they get the added bonus of being embarrassed by the twat's big stupid mouth.
On the local news there's a couple who've had their house on the market for six months without a single viewing. The house is in rich rich rich London. How much and when their first ever mortgage was is not stated. I'd guess their original investment was something in the region of £6,000 and by doing fuck all apart from a bit of selling and buying they now have a house worth probably £800,000. A family home in a nice residential London street.
Now they've missed the boat. Maybe they want to retire to the country. But they're just too late. House prices are on the way down. Potential buyers are staying put.
"We do think we've missed the boat. I think if we'd put the house on the market this time last year it would have flown out the door."
OK, it's the second and final part of the blues competition. I woke up this morning and thought it would be an idea to do it today.
So who are these blues guys? I'm afraid there's no prize this time. Eric Clapton, who signed the CDs for the first part, has withdrawn his services as he is wont to do. I remember when he left The Yardbirds. A tragic time.
But as a special treat for you all, here's 29 seconds of that band's Jeff's Blues, lead guitar by Eric's mate, the great Jeff Beck. Just imagine this in a live setting, seguing into a 30 minute jam.
Just a couple of quotes I've picked up from the internet concerning the new Friday evening ITV sitcom, Teenage Kicks.
Phil McIntyre, executive producer, said: "Ade Edmondson is one of the UK's most loved and talented comedians. This is a long overdue return to Young Ones madness. I am delighted to be working with Adrian and ITV on this five-star comedy mayhem."
Adrian* Edmondson, star and co-writer said: “I think it’s misleading to suggest this show is a return to Young Ones madness. This is much more of a family sitcom. It’s aimed at anyone who’s been a parent or a child. Which, of course, is everyone…"
We saw ten minutes of this on Friday as we'd been reliably informed by the free papers that it was diabolically bad.
It was worse than that. It was a kind of My Family for the "punk" generation.
Actually, scrap that. Adrian might take it as a compliment.
Oh, you've got to vote for Boris. He's such an idiot.
No, I'm voting for Ken.
Ken's in it for his mates. Boris is great. He's such an idiot. It'll be good to have an idiot in charge. Better a complete idiot than someone who's in it for his mates.
The inaugrual Geoff & Betty mixtape. We found Mixwit via Boggins whose own mixtape is very enjoyable.
Mixwit is a great idea but doomed to failure as it relies on the mp3s being permanently available on the internet. Of course the buggers are always disappearing so that in time there'll be nothing left on this tape. There will be the sound of silence which is probably how it should be.
p.s. If any of the songs are no longer there, skip till the next one.
I'm feeling a bit sensitive about my belly. It's grown over the last few months and I've received three comments about it recently. The last one was "You've got a real belly now, haven't you Geoff?"
"I've always had a belly."
"Not a noticeable one. It's a real belly now."
My spirits are not helped as I watch the disappearing back of an ex-friend as he runs past me. We used to play tennis together. Now he runs marathons like a fucking gazelle and here I am plodding along with my increasing waistband.
I think it's down to the handful of nuts I have with my breakfast. I'm cutting out the nuts. I'm sure that'll do the trick.
*******
Highlights of the excellent Tony Hancock/Joan Le Mesurier docu drama included the three uses of the "c" word. Especially Tony's drunken "Kent! What am I fucking doing in Kent? Kent! You are a cunt!"
I can relate to that. Kent is one hell of a cunt, as is Ken Stott's and my middle aged spread. But I've got a few years on him and should be able to lose it.
I never got Hancock's humour, but I got his misery. But wasn't the humour in the misery? Yes, but it wasn't funny. You had to be there, I suppose.
*******
The electricity meter reader today had some words of wisdom.
"My kids are very political. I tell them politics doesn't make any difference. It's scientists who make the world we live in. They're the ones who change things."
He'll eventually be out of work due to advancing technology and the widespread use of smart meters.
Today's film review is from Keith Norman, General Secretary of the train drivers' union, ASLEF.
The film looks like a disgusting piece of propaganda dreamt up by the kind of wankers who have a go at train drivers for making them late for work in the morning.
Here's the trailer for the film. Mackenzie Crook's come a long way since The Office, hasn't he?
And any film with Imelda Staunton and Kerry Katona just has to be...
Did you hear about the gig where Charley Pride supported The Fall?
No? Bloody sod you, then.
*******
Whenever I turn the telly on in the evenings nowadays, I always seem to get this image...
...as if it's there in the box, breathing through the air vents, lying in wait for me.
It disturbs me in a way I can't describe. Something to do with mortality and stifling dreams. A complete lack of joy. Such a long, pointless existence which even death cannot relieve. A look in the mirror that says "kill me now and kill me painfully so that at least I can feel something for once in my life."
The Tory leader of our council is going all green. He's pictured in the latest council magazine wearing a green tie. There's another picture of him further into the magazine wearing a suit and open-necked shirt, just like Davey Cameron. But the green tie made the biggest impression on me.
The Tories have kept our increase in Council Tax below the rate of inflation for the second year running. They've been able to do this thanks to the following...
1. They're axing meals on wheels for the 420 people who use the service. Hot meals delivered to those in need are being replaced by a choice of frozen meals (presumably to be stored in those large chest freezers that the poorest and most vulnerable members of our society have in their spacious kitchens or utility rooms). Not only will the recipients have a "bigger menu choice and better value for money", they will have "added freedom when it comes to deciding what time to eat." Those who need help cooking their meals will, of course, be able to read detailed cooking instructions on the packaging. And if they can't open a bag of frozen peas and boil some water to go some way to their five fruit and veg a day, well, isn't that what families and neighbours are for?
2. "Our improved recycling service means that residents in most houses and maisonettes in the Borough will have their recycling collected every week. As there will be less waste (what's left) this will be collected fortnightly." We're being given new bins to store our reduced amount of waste. The trouble is, I don't really understand the logic. Why, because they will be collecting paper and glass and plastic bottles more regularly, should our unrecyclable waste be reduced? Unless we're not currently being good recyclers. But even a cursory glance at other people's bins on collection day will indicate that most of us are already doing what we can. And a collection once every other week of stinking rotting rubbish sticking out of the tops of bins is not going to be doing too much for our environment. It might please the local rats, though.
The UK's greatest film director of recent years is Nick Broomfield.
Nick's been making outstanding documentaries for years. But his last two films have been docu-dramas. And if you've been annoyed in the past by Nick's less than sexy voice or his less than sexy demeanour, please watch Ghosts and The Battle For Haditha because he is not seen or heard in these films.
Nick tells it like it is. There is no poncing about, no actors trying to find their characters by over-the-top acting in a Mike Leigh way. This is real.
The reality of the war against terrorism is clear in The Battle For Haditha. When your enemy is among the civilian population how do you react when one of your colleagues is blown up? A group of young men, ready and pumped up for revenge in a battle situation, hit out indiscriminately at the locals, killing innocent men, women and children, the only "enemy" they can see. The killing of innocents, of course, makes excellent propaganda for the insurgent recruiters, making sure the war on terror will never go away.
Corporal Ramirez is a young man, fucked up by all the death he's seen. He leads his men into battle. (He leads the mass murder).
The officers are pleased with the Marines' response. They'd acted as a finely honed fighting machine should.
"Royal Marines, outstanding job. Corporal Ramirez, you handled yourself like a true professional out there. I'm gonna promote you to Sergeant and I'm gonna recommend you for the Bronze Star. You kept your head in the Game and you kept your Marines alive."
There was a cover up. The official line was that it was a real battle, that the Marines fought back bravely and took the lives of many insurgents. Until the cover up was exposed and Ramirez and his colleagues were accused of murder.
Yesterday on Smooth Radio they played Love's magnificent Alone Again Or. Sandwiched in between WHAM! and Luther Vandross.
Today they've played Don't Stand So Close To Me, a song based on Sting's experiences as a teacher when he was often the "subject of schoolgirl fantasy."
What the song doesn't say is that the fantasies usually involved the heroic girls ripping the fucker's tongue out so that he couldn't sing.
It's the end of a very long era. Since the 70s, between the two of us we've bought Record Mirror, Melody Maker, Sounds, NME, New Music News, Smash Hits, The Face, Blitz, i-D, Flexipop, ZigZag, MixMag, Muzik(??), Select, Vox, Q, Mojo...
But for the past ten years it's been a strict diet of Uncut.
And recently it's become a chore, one in which, as a lazy person, I've not really participated. While Betty bites the bullet and reads all the chaff about the Rolling Stones, Neil Young and various other rock pensioners, I just skim through the new CD reviews and have a laugh at the letters written by extremely serious middle aged men who think The Hold Steady, for Christ's sake, are the future of music.
The Hold Steady - The Future Of Music
I saw she was struggling with the latest issue this week. Those golf and slippers dullards REM have apparently produced their "most straightforwardly enjoyable album since 1906's New Adventures In Hi-Fi."
"Just think of how much real reading you'll get done without all this shit," I said to her.
And I cancelled our subscription, just like that, two days before the next direct debit was due.
There is the worry that maybe we'll miss the odd gem like the re-issue of the brilliant White Noise album, An Electric Storm. But look, here it is on Uncut's website anyway.
So it's a final goodbye to the printed word. And a big hello to the 21st century.
It's always interesting to have an insight into other people's work lives. A fly on the wall kind of thing. Because none of us can really guess what actually happens.
I work in a large office and me and my boss are the only men in the whole building. The following is highlights of our working day. You only see a glimpse of me at the end.
I go back to work on Monday. I enjoy my time off but I enjoy my work too. I get job satisfaction.
On my last week off we went into London a couple of times. Saw a couple of Oscar-nominated films and bought lots of CDs and books in Fopp.
The initial plan for this week was to go into London a couple of times, too. Go to a couple of galleries, go to see a critically acclaimed German film.
But with so much to catch up on at home, what's the point?
We've seen the pictures before, we've seen critically acclaimed German films before (it'll be on the telly in a couple of years anyway).
So we're catching up on our reading, our blogging and our Sky+ backlog.
The Bloggies and The Observer List of 50 Most Powerful Blogs are just there really, of no relevance. They just confirm the very opposite way I see blogging - as a social meeting place for people with similar interests. Let them get on with their silly awards and rankings. When they've all given up I'll still be around doing it as long as my cyber friends are.
This week's telly viewing has been a mixed bag. BBC2's White documentary on a Bradford Working Men's Club which started out well but without any real historical context of working class culture ended up with a lot of miserable faces moaning about lack of community and feeling like a foreigner in your own country. The Enoch Powell documentary just added to the impression that this country is overpopulated and the ones that need to leave are the ones without white faces. It was all the more depressing because you just know that this is how a hell of a lot of people think.
Mad Men started slowly but picked up quickly as soon as characters from outside the workplace were introduced. Purely workplace-based comedies can work but dramas need outsiders to make more rounded characters.
The 1986 version of Northanger Abbey confirmed my theory that villains in Austen dress to the left. Peter Firth may have ended up the hero (ooh, missus!) but he was a villain all the way through it. Katherine Schlesinger dreamt her way through her part like a doped up Sarah Brightman - a fantastic performance. It was all very 1980s New Romantic with the look of a music video, gothic dream sequences and all.
And so to today. Betty said we've got a busy day. We've got to buy a couple of sandwiches and some bedding plants. And we've got to visit my old mum before falling asleep later this afternoon.
Congratulations are due to tv funnyman David Walliams on the completion of his swim from Bognor Regis (UK) to Bondi Beach (Australia).
The swim, which took 60 weeks non-stop, is the greatest feat of human endurance in history.
Walliams set off from Butlins Holiday Park, Bognor Regis, in January 2007. He was accompanied on his journey by Round-The-World Yachtswoman Dame Ellen MacArthur who sailed alongside the courageous comedian, occasionally throwing bottles of water and healthy freshly caught sild into his path.
Walliams, who has now raised £30 billion for Sport Relief, was in good spirits as he crawled onto Bondi's famous golden sands.
When asked what he missed most during his time in the ocean, he winked and said "a nice cup of tea".
He was immediately mobbed by several be-thonged young ladies.
What a beautiful rendition. And Joss Stone gives it her all. She adds a touch of soul to proceedings. And the way she lightly brushes the fallen chocolate off her heaving cleavage is a joy to behold.
But don't you think one of us guys could become the face and voice of Flake? Munching on a chocolate phallus, after all, should not be the sole preserve of young, breathy women.
I'd like to see either Stuart Staples, lead singer of Tindersticks singing in a field of daisies, or Antony of Antony and the Johnsons on a wobbly water bed.
How can Goldfrapp get five stars when, to quote the reviewer, the lyrics were "only occasionally decipherable". Combining words and music is clearly a problem, in the opera house and musical theatre as well as at pop concerts, but to suggest that a song cycle was as good as it could be when you could hardly hear any of the words seems, well, odd.
We bought the new Goldfrapp album last week and it's the first of theirs that I've really liked (I need to reassess the others). It is excellent and if you want the lyrics, they're printed inside the CD booklet. Personally, I don't want the lyrics. I'm quite happy with the voice and the emotion.
To say understanding lyrics is all important is to declare war on pop music. This sentiment comes from the intellect which is an unwelcome intruder in the world of pop. It is not cool or clever. It is showing yourself up as a reactionary philistine.
I've had a bit of a result. My radio-listening work colleague has discovered Smooth Radio. Shit name, but the music's a damn sight better than Heart. A reasonable variety of pop from the past 50 years. Quite a bit of rubbish, agreed, but quite a bit that's good too. You just watch Heart's ratings plummet! The day it's buried I'll tramp the dirt down.
The problem is, Smooth's FM version gives a shit reception in our office. So I had a brainwave.
I've brought in my redundant digital radio for general office use. As long as they keep it locked to Smooth! And I can borrow the old office Radio/CD player to play my classical CDs in my lunch hour, thereby avoiding annoying Betty.
I am currently listening to Bach, calm in the knowledge I won't hear Take That 40 times today.
But Bach doesn't half go on, doesn't he? In fact I'm a bit fucking sick of him.
I've been listening to a couple of John Cale albums from the early 70s, the pop masterpiece Paris 1919 and the "I was classically trained, you know" The Academy in Peril. The latter has performed a miracle on me. It has got me into classical music.
But where do I start?
How I could have done with middle class parents, a mother who read Shakespeare and a father who listened to Bach, instead of being saddled with a mum who listened to Jimmy Young and a dad who read Wilbur Smith. I wish I'd had expensive private lessons to learn the cello instead of learning basic strumming guitar chords from my dad's long-haired factory worker friend.
My humble background is a cross to bear, but I don't let it get me down.
On Saturday I got a few classical CDs out of the library and I kind of like them. But I'm a newbie to all this and I don't know which are the cool composers, the majestic musicians or the commanding conductors. It's all a mystery to me.
Is Brahms the U2 of classical music? Is Bartok the James Blunt? Who do I adore and who do I avoid?
How on earth do I acquire taste with no guidelines, no classical "blood", no classical "ear"?
I'd be grateful for your suggestions, my learned friends.
In the days of the miners' strike, one day stood out. It was the day that Gary Yates went down in legend.
Gary was a big, confident lad and thought he could do everything himself. He had a loud mouth and boasted to his mates that he could see off a coach of scabs by himself.
So his mates let him have a go.
The night before his shift, Gary couldn't get to sleep. He was worried he would let his comrades down. By the time he got to his solo shift he was exhausted. He sat propped against the picket fence, couldn't keep his eyes open for a minute, said "oh, fuck it" and fell into a deep sleep. The scabs had a peaceful journey to work.
The incident is known in folklore as Gary "Fuck It" And The Union Nap.
******
In the days of the miners' strike, one day stood out. It was the day that Gary Bates went down in legend.
The lads were huddled around the brazier, taking the piss out of each other when Big Dave piped up that he was feeling hungry.
Gary Bates owed Big Dave a favour. Big Dave had stepped in to stop Gary from getting a beating a few nights previously.
"I'll get you something," said Gary to Big Dave.
So Gary went off to the bakers with instructions to get Dave "a nice cheese and tomato toastie."
Half an hour later, Gary handed Dave his food. Dave opened the wrapper.
"What the fuck's this?" he said.
The incident is known in folklore as Gary "Fuckwit" And The Union Bap.
We are watching BBC4's Saturday Classics season, catching up on all the stuff we missed first time round.
Last night we finished watching the production of Pride and Prejudice which got a lot of dotty women hot under the brassiere when it was first shown in the 90s. In it, Mr Darcy is truly one dark, brooding cunt.
And there was something we noticed that even the most avid Austen fan might have missed. It seems that in Austen adaptations, the heroes dress to the right whilst the villains dress to the left.
Did Jane stipulate in her will such fine details for any future theatrical productions of her work?
The short documentary on Edwyn Collins' rehabilitation from his stroke was extremely moving. It's sister programme about the Scottish music scene from the late seventies was a load of shit.
I was ready to learn about Postcard Records and Scotland's indie heritage. What we got instead was an early dismissal of indie labels by Claire Grogan and a dispiriting trawl through 80s bollocks such as Hue & Cry, Deacon Blue, The Proclaimers, Wet Wet Wet et al. They even tacked on fucking Scottish political independence and the SNP and the bloke out of Runrig, none of which has anything to do with the music scene but more to do with washed up minor pop artists trying to keep their names in the media as some sort of spokespeople for a generation of people with crap music taste.
There was no mention of The Skids, the early good Simple Minds and absolutely no mention of Jesus & Mary Chain or even Primal Scream.
How can Edith Bowman live with herself for reading the script that made Scottish music sound about as vibrant as Ireland's?
As part of my job I am responsible for making sure the switchboard is always staffed. Due to staff reductions recently I have had to call upon temps, something I hadn’t done for ten years or so. How times have changed!
In the 90s, a temporary telephonist was more often than not an Australian on a year’s stay in London. Now it seems she is more likely to be British. Not just British, but a well-spoken between-jobs British actress.
Three times in the past few weeks I’ve been telling various actresses about the play wot I wrote and I’m getting tired of it. It was, after all, 16 years ago now and it’s a bit pathetic to keep harking on about something that got one derogatory review in the Ham & High.
I think I get on well with actors though I’d like to know what they’re thinking about me. In my experience they’re always really friendly, but you never know what kind of egomaniac is lurking beneath the mask.
I’ve decided I won’t mention my silly little play to the next one I meet. I’ll just talk about them, what kind of theatre they prefer, whether they’ve been on the telly, whether they write as well as act...
We are enjoying the third episode of the BBC2 repeat of BBC3's excellent comedy, Pulling. I laugh out loud when Karl accidently gives himself a Hitler moustache. I laugh again as he is run over, lifts his arm for help and gets a smack in the mouth for being a nazi. And I laugh when he realises he has landed in dog shit, this time with recognition.
"We've seen this bit before," I say to Betty.
"This was the programme that Ian Penman recommended on his blog. He said that some BBC3 comedies aren't given the accolades they deserve because of the critics' snobbishness towards the channel. We tried to watch this episode at the time. You said it was shit, ha ha ha."
"Oh yes," I say, "I remember."
"There's a bit later where they play The Smiths when he's feeling suicidal. You thought it was too obvious."
"Oh yes," I say. "And here I am enjoying it."
"Ha ha ha."
"I did the same with the Sopranos, didn't I? I said the first episode was too slow until you started watching it. Now I think it's the best thing ever."
"And The Wire," says Betty.
"Did I?"
"You were going to give that up after 20 minutes."
"Was I?"
"Ha ha ha. And you laughed out loud at the Hitler moustache last time too. Did you forget that?"
"Ha ha ha."
N.B. The ha ha ha's in this post signify actual laughter, not cruel mockery.
"The raffle causes more problems than anything. The trouble is, as soon as one year's trip is over, Alf is on the phone asking how many people for next year's. It's what he lives for now.
You've got to feel sorry for him. He must have had a stroke - he talks out of the side of his mouth and dribbles everywhere. His jacket and shirt are covered in saliva. You don't want to brush up against him, although he does have a tendency to get a little close for comfort when coming round with the raffle tickets.
This year we had a little altercation. We missed out on the raffle tickets; we weren't in the bar, we were in the lounge. Alf's 80 year old pitbull assistant started hassling and we gave him some good tempered banter in reply. The pitbull took offence. He didn't like being spoken to like that.
We were eventually worn down and bought some tickets. We won the £6 prize but Len, the organiser of the trips, has funny turns and he tore up our winning ticket.
But good-hearted Len told Alf what he'd done. Alf came to our table and took six pound coins from his pocket and put them beside my drink. The coins were stuck together, covered in an unknown bodily fluid.
I went to the Ladies and washed the coins and my hands with soap and water. I dried them under the warm air hand dryer."
You can stick your Jon Savage up your arse. The only true account of punk is here, those times as seen by a true newpaperman, author, raconteur and Betty's favourite columnist, Bob Ogley. Bob not only lived through punk, he lived through the War, dodging doodlebugs, and through the Great Storm of 1987, dodging Sevenoaks's seven falling oaks. Here are some gems from the article...
" I imagine many people younger than me will disagree with my assessment of this noisy, heroin-addicted, sickeningly obnoxious band but I understand their desire to find an alternative sound to the poor music offered in the mid-1970s. I certainly accept their place in history as the group which launched this unforgettable new cult."
Dead right, Bob. What did we have in the mid-70s? Prog, Bob! All those dinosaurs in their mansions with their banks of keyboards. Long-haired layabouts. You couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl until you'd pinched its arse.
"A bit of a rebel himself, McLaren made them work in his shop selling such items as T-shirts and dodgy bondage wear."
McLaren's bondage wear was always dodgy. The zips were always breaking. And many a time was the blood completely cut off from a young man's pride and joy. Older, more experienced members of our society knew where to get more reliable bondage wear. And that certainly wasn't the King's Road.
"The Pistols rapidly picked up a following of arty weirdos and disenchanted speed freaks and achieved instant fame following a TV interview in December 1976 when several times they used a four-letter word - the first people ever to say f... on telly. Instantly, they were a household name."
For "arty weirdos" read "art-school students", weirdos every one, many of whom went on to form their own so-called "punk" bands. The speed freaks had been around for years and were just glad to have some fast paced music to accompany their drug taking. The instant fame of the Pistols was gained at the expense of the career of a good, honest journalist and tv presenter. What they did to poor Bill Grundy was unforgiveable.
Yes, I'm not above telling crap jokes during the most moving piece of film on television this week. I didn't shed a tear along with Bobby Charlton but I did with David Attenborough. The Panamanian golden frog is no longer in the wild. Once upon a time you had to watch your step unless you splattered one. Now, thanks to a bastard fungus the only golden frogs left in Panama are in captivity.
Awww. Look at his little hand waving.
Goodbye-ee, Goodbye-ee, Wipe the tear, baby dear, from your eye-ee Tho' it's hard to part, I know, I'll be tickled to death to go, Don't cry-ee, don't sigh-ee, There's a silver lining in the sky-ee! Bon Soir, old thing! Cheerio! Chin-Chin, Nah-Poo, Toodle-oo, Goodbye-ee
Today we went to the cinema for the first time in two years, encouraged by all those good reviews for the Coen Brothers' latest, No Country For Old Men.
We go to see Coen Brothers films at the cinema. They're always worth seeing once, if no more. We haven't got any DVDs of their films and we won't be getting this one.
Don't get me wrong, it's well worth seeing. It looks good, it's got lots of tension, plenty of humour, some great performances and...
Well, that's about it really. We've seen it, it's filed to memory, somewhere.
Probably worth an Oscar or two but that's not saying a great deal in an age of shite English language films. (The previews of the forthcoming attractions at the cinema confirmed my prejudices).
We're going again in a few days to see the latest film featuring Daniel Day Lewis, There Will Be Blood. We always see films with Daniel in as he's a modern day acting giant.
Let's hope the film does him at least a modicum of justice.
The most embarrassing thing to come out of West Ham's Pardew era was not losing to a Neil Shipperley (for Christ's sake) goal in the play-off final. It was those fucking t-shirts.
I loved Bobby Moore. But those fucking t-shirts, "Moore Than Just A Football Club". What a half-arsed wanky piece of disrespectful advertising. Pardew looked a prick in his and so did anyone else who bought one.
So to tomorrow. We've had all week to remember the Busby Babes. We had our minute's silence before the England game. But tomorrow's the Manchester derby. Manchester united in remembrance. Will the City fans cry? Did the Everton fans cry when Liverpool remembered Hillsborough? Did Bradford Park Avenue fans cry on the anniversary of City's fire? Remember that horrific day?
In the week that the cunts in charge of our national game get erect penises over fucking even more with its history, we've all got to tune into Sky tomorrow, God's day of rest, to cry over something that happened before a lot of us were born. And the players are wearing a special 1950s kit with, get this, no advertising! What a mark of respect! Long, baggy shorts, v-necked shirts, big, clunky boots smeared with dubbin, a ball as hard as a coconut, half-time cigarettes and cups of tea in a steaming dressing room.
It's the no advertising on the shirts that really brings a tear to my eye, though. I hope they'll be on sale afterwards. I want to look like Gary Neville.
I meet my cousin on the train. We bump into each other about once every six months. We talk a bit about old times.
When we were young we used to go tenpin bowling together. Neither of us goes now. But he tells me the bowling game on the Wii console is pretty much as good as the real thing. You can even make your ball curl by using the right wrist action!
He does have a hobby nowadays, though. He goes clay pigeon shooting. It's great. You can spend a whole day doing it or even just a couple of hours. It's a sport of great skill and it's very social. He's tried shooting real birds but it's not as satisfying as shooting the clay sort.
Yes, I say, there must be more luck involved in shooting birds. It all depends on their flight path.
I am right. He takes my interest as enthusiasm for trying his pastime.
"Do you fancy it, Geoff?"
I can't think of anyone less suited to holding a gun and conversing with a bunch of gun toting guys than me. Except perhaps Prince Edward.
"I don't really have the time," I say.
"What do you do with your spare time then? Everybody's got something."
Sunday was the day for the annual church service to celebrate the life of Grimaldi, one of the greatest clowns of all time, if not the greatest.
Separately, clowns and church services give me the willies. Together, they'd be overwhelmingly creepy.
Seeing pictures of the service makes me wonder which songs would be suitable for funerals attended by clowns.
Maybe the following...
Tears of a Clown by Smokey Robinson for a service attended by a clown who is burying a dear one.
Cathy's Clown by the Everley Brothers for the service of a clown whose next of kin is named Cathy.
You won't find another fool like me by The New Seekers for the service of a clown who thought he was the best thing since sliced bread (or since Grimaldi). "I wanna tell ya, You won't find another clown like me babe, No you won't."
Clowntime is Over by Elvis Costello for the service of several clown colleagues who died in a tragic circus van pile up on the M1.
The vicar would wear a flower which would spurt water into the faces of the mourners as they shook hands to thank him for the service.
Talking with an actress yesterday, as you do, I discovered the identity of the actor who's going to play Rhett Butler in Trevor Nunn's forthcoming stage musical production of Gone With The Wind.
It is none other than Pop Idol failure, Darius Danesh.
Real actors, actors who have trod the boards and put the hours of pain in, are really pissed off with this. And so they should be. Apparently Hugh Jackman, a genuinely talented hard-working musical actor, was originally up for the part but something happened and Darius snuck in there.
There is a crisis in musical theatre. Do we, as a nation, allow these reality show johnny-come-latelys into an artform we've held dear for generations? Trevor Nunn is pissing on the legacy of Michael Crawford.
And I, for one, am not going to stand for it.
I refuse to buy any more tickets for musicals until this abomination is stopped dead in its tracks.
As you do, we were discussing last night the possibility of forming a kind of skiffle band using medical add-ons to a failing body as musical instruments.
So a percussionist could be playing the false teeth.
A piper could be playing the colostomy bagpipes.
Hearing aids could be used as amplifiers.
A tracheostomy tube could be used as a kind of vocoder.
An amplified (via hearing aid) pacemaker would provide the backing rhythm.
I'm bored. 2008 was going to be the year I read and wrote poetry. I'm bored with poetry, with writing it and reading it. To be honest with myself, I'm not very good at either.
2008 was going to be a fiction-free year. I'm bored with reading fiction, can't take it seriously. But what's left?
I went to the bookshop. What about an autobiography?
I bought a bestseller, Bill Bryson's childhood memoirs, The Life and Times of the Thunderbolt Kid.
What a boring book! What a smug bastard! And the advertising inside for his other books! I've never seen the like!
There are thirteen pages of arse-licking reviews. And the inside back cover has pictures of all his other books just in case you hadn't been brainwashed already.
I've got three more books lined up. Simon Napier-Bell's Black Vinyl White Powder. A Drink with Shane MacGowan. And Owning Up: The Trilogy by George Melly, as recommended by Arabella.
Can anybody recommend any other entertaining non-fiction/autobiographies? You'll be performing a public service.
Taking the gauntlet from the missus (see her links for more entertaining lists), the following is my list of Ten Songs That No Grown Man Should Own. As meme's go, this is one that all bloggers should have a go at. You think you're too cool, eh?
1. Follow You, Follow Me - Genesis I could never understand the appeal of Gabriel-era Genesis. Far too clever for me. This, in 1978, was the first time they'd floated my boat. I saw them live a year or two later. They were shit.
2. Hotel California - The Eagles The Eagles' Greatest Hits 1971-1975 is the world's third best selling album after Thriller and Back In Black. Our school had one AC-DC fan. Nobody liked Jacko or The Eagles. With Hotel California, The Eagles were past their best and in their pomp. Joe Walsh was a new Eagle. I loved Joe Walsh. This single is beyond the pale. but I don't care.
3. Welcome Home - Peters & Lee My mum loved this song. I seem to remember her developing a fancy for Lennie Peters. This, and I Just Called To Say I Love You are the only two singles by blind performers she has admitted to liking over the years. I always thought Peters and Lee were an item but they were married to different people. The clue's in the name, dummy.
4. Big Seven - Judge Dread Judge Dread was a big favourite of our Ronnie Corbett-lite friend of the family. We'd sit in his living room on a Sunday afternoon, two young families, and he'd play this sexist filth. Big Seven was a more complete record than Big Six. It is more lyrically rounded and he keeps the Jamaican accent all the way through, not wandering off to South America.
5. Macarena - Los Del Rio Two creepy, pervy middle aged taxi drivers trying to get off with beautiful young women. Thinking they're in with a chance! No, Grandad. Keep your eyes on the road!
6. Private Investigations (12 inch) - Dire Straits A vinyl film noir. From the album Love Over Gold about which Wikipedia says "Due to its lengthy atmospheric instrumentals it has been cited as the band's only album that resembles progressive rock, although not quite achieving it." There's something magnificent about not quite achieving progressive rock. A beautiful failure.
7. Call On Me - Eric Prydz Pervy video with hot babes, ahem, "towelling" themselves down. Played to absolute fucking death on MTV Dance a couple of years ago. Based on Steve Winwood's Valerie, it shouldn't work but it does. Oh yes it so does!
8. Aqua Marina (Stingray Theme) - Gary Miller
Miller provided the singing voice for Troy Tempest. You really couldn't tell, Troy was that good. I was in love with the idea of Marina, a mermaid who would hold my hand and take me through the most unimaginably beautiful coral. She would hold my breath for me in a kiss.
9. The Last Waltz - Englebert Humperdinck I love the idea of "two lonely people together". I look at all the lonely people. Where do they all come from?
10. Chant No. 1 (12 inch) - Spandau Ballet Who can forget Robert Elms' poetic introduction to the Ballet's live Scala show? I hear True every day at work. It is my least favourite song of all time, that joke just isn't funny any more. But this slice of white funk still gets me up on the dancefloor.
I love films. Not "film", films. I've loved films since I was in my late teens.
"A bit late to be getting into films," you may say.
But the films I like are for adults. I couldn't sit down with a child and watch a film. One of us would get very bored very quickly.
Heath Ledger is dead, the victim, it seems, of the pressure he was under playing the Joker in the new Batman film. Yes, Batman. A 28 year old man couldn't handle the psychological consequences of portraying a character in a kids' film.
I had a Batman outfit when I was three. I would run through Bournemouth town centre, pretending I was Batman.
