Take the bit between your teeth

Er... I've been really busy, and so the slew of entries I've been wanting to write have gone unwritten, or partially written without ever getting properly finished off. This one was supposed to be finished on Monday but wasn't and the point of it is slightly lost now, but never mind.

The idea was that I wasn't going to do anything at the weekend. Nobody was coming to visit, I wasn't going to visit anyone, no boxes needed unpacking, nothing needed particularly urgent cleaning and there was no football to go to unless I fancied an abortive trip to Lincoln. A man needs a lazy weekend once in a while and this was going to be mine.

(Except it wasn't a lazy weekend even before Sunday, because I'm not wired that way: I spent Saturday morning doing various bits of shopping and Saturday afternoon doing some mundane run-of-the-mill cleaning. I don't think it's a low boredom threshold as such, but I'm just not very good at doing nothing.)

And then I remembered that there was a Los Campesinos! in-store at Rough Trade on Sunday, and that all that was required to gain entrance was for me to buy the album at Rough Trade on Sunday. And as I was going to buy the album anyway, and I probably would have bought it at Rough Trade anyway (as I tend to buy things I want *now* there), and as it was much more convenient to go and buy it on Sunday instead of Monday, it seemed rather foolish not to do so. And so on a bright crisp winter's morning, the sort that's delightful enough as it is without the prospect of Los Campesinos! to look forward to, that is what I did.

(Other notable bands I have seen in shops: Rosita in the other Rough Trade shop in Portobello - I'd come straight from work and was wearing shirt and tie, which I kept on despite the heat of the day. The other Rough Trade shop isn't really set up for bands to play in it, and Tiny from Ultrasound couldn't fit in the shop and had to watch from the doorway. Afterwards, I was the only person who didn't get my copy of Live It Down signed, because I felt a bit awkward about it. And I saw The Pipettes at HMV that time. And there was that time I had to leave the same HMV because the terrible honking voice coming from the stage was putting me off my DVD browsing; I'm surprised Amy Winehouse got past the first album, really.)

I felt a bit self-conscious when I got to the shop. Up until that point I hadn't really thought about being a man in his mid-30s going to a record shop on a Sunday morning in order to buy an album to get a wristband to see the band play later on. Perhaps it was because the only other people clutching copies of the album seemed to be teenage girls. Anyway, I somewhat nervously approached the counter, handed over my copy of the CD (I'd pondered buying the vinyl, but then decided that it would be pointlessly extravagant) and wondered if I'd have to ask for a wristband. Happily, the girl behind the counter reached for them straight away, and handed one over with my purchase. "See you later" she beamed at me. Hurrah for excellent customer service. I bounded back into the bustle of Shoreditch on a Sunday market morning and bought some banana cake in Spitalfields without being even slightly annoyed by the slow-moving crowds.

I returned about six hours later, wristband safely secreted in my bag. There was quite a queue outside of the shop, some of whom appeared to be at least as old as me. This was a relief. As the queue began to move I attached my wristband, managing to trap several hairs from my arm in the sticky bit in the process.

Having found a spot near the back, I was rather miffed when a girl who was slightly taller than me pushed in front. This annoyance turned to excitement when Olly, Ellen and Rob took to the stage, and became slight confusion when it became clear that the rest of the band were also in attendance but out of view. By peering between shoulders I could just about spot Gareth, but then the girl in front decided to start taking photos and my view of everything was obscured. This was mildly annoying, particularly when she started leaning back into me and forcing me to shuffle back slightly to avoid an unfortunate frottage incident, but I didn't seem as annoyed as the people behind me, who seemed most put out, almost as if they hadn't considered that their view of an 8-piece band playing on a tiny stage might be in some way compromised.

(I do suspect that one day people who spend gigs taking photos of the band will look at their lovingly assembled collection of pictures, with their tens of Flickr views and acclaim from some of their mates, and think to themselves, "you know, I really wish I'd just watched the band and enjoyed the music at the time instead of taking all of these pictures". Hope so, anyway.)

The band were... interesting. Not even Los Campesinos! can be mid-alteringly amazing in a shop playing a set of songs that you don't really know, but having listened to the album a couple of times in the afternoon there were things that made more sense hearing them live. Do Not Make An Enemy Of Me, with its awesome careering intro in particular. And the start of Who Fell Asleep In sounded thoroughly lovely, even if I remain unsure about where the song goes from there. And there was a pleasing element of rawness that might not be there in a month's time - Plan A sounded like it was going to fall apart at any moment, which rather suited it. (Although having listened to the song quite a lot over the last week, maybe it just sounds like that anyway.)

So, in weedy non-concluding conclusion, going to see bands in shops is a curious experience, but worth it. Especially when it's that band, obviously.

Judi Dench is the one on the right

(I went to see Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll the other day and this is... well, probably not a review as such, but a badly compiled list of what I thought of it. So if you're the Internet's famous Alan Jenson or you're planning to go and see it, there may be spoilers below. In as much commenting on a film about someone who wasn't particularly obscure and has been dead for nearly 10 years can be classed as spoilers.)

Nobody asked me what I was expecting from the film version of Hitch-Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, but if they had I would have suggested that, apart from my reservations about Him from The Office's inability to play any character other than Him From The Office, it should probably be OK because of the source material. I would have been wrong, but despite it being largely crap there was one bit that made me come over slightly unnecessary. As I recall (and I haven't seen the film since my original viewing of it so I may have forgotten the exact details) there's something flying through space - the Vogons? The Heart of Gold? Anyway - which passes an object that reveals itself as the title, which is accompanied by a brief sting of the theme music from the radio and TV series. And because those things are important, seeing them on a big screen with the music blaring through the speakers gave me the curious but pleasing sensation in my back that I get with these things.

I suggested to someone the other day that Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll couldn't be completely terrible because if nothing else the soundtrack would be good, and as it was every time a song started up I had the same involuntary shudder. The bits where the band are on stage work really well; watching them made me think that, awesome though it was to see Ian Dury in his later years and splendid though The Blockheads' shows are now, it would have been astonishing to have seen them at the time when these songs were fresh and new, which I think reflects well on everyone involved. And Serkis puts the songs over really well: at the start of the film it's a bit jarring but once you're into the film it's fine. (Every adulatory review of Andy Serkis is correct; he's properly great.)

And there are plenty of good bits: I liked the bit where he recruits the Blockheads, and the Spasticus bit (any film that credits both Norman Watt-Roy and Kirk Douglas really can't be all bad). In fact, the more I sit and think about it the more I think that actually it was pretty good and I shouldn't try to put people off seeing it.

"But why would you be putting people off seeing it if there are plenty of good bits and the bits with the band are really well done? Also, have a shower you filthy smelly man" you might say. To which I would reply that the heating doesn't kick in for another hour and it's too cold to have one before then, and that it's possibly a little fanboyish of me to complain about the bits of the film that are about his relationships with his son and the rest of his family and his girlfriend but... well, I think the problem is more that those bits are terribly badly done. There's a bit where Naomie Harris - lovely, lovely Naomie Harris, who is lovely - says 'My weakness is that I love him'; this line should only be in dismal ITV dramas, and the fact that it's being said to Chaz Jankel doesn't make it any better.

(Also, and I'm definitely being fanboyishly churlish here, the bits of lyrics dropped into the script made me cringe. Not that all, or indeed any, of these would have been obvious to someone who wasn't familiar with the songs. And I got a bit distracted by the timeframe of events and songs not really matching, but that's a problem with my idiot pedantic head than with the film.)

Oh, and the wrong song comes in over the end credits. But that might be me again. Anyway, Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll is pretty good, and probably worth seeing, but I wouldn't lose too much sleep if you miss it at the cinema and end up picking it up cheap on DVD.

I believe in you, Isaac Newton (or: Post 200 Super Snow Special)

I already miss the snow. Not as much as this chap, maybe, but still quite a bit.

I've lived here for 14 days now. For more than half of that time there's been snow or ice all about the place. Today was the first morning since the snow started that the near vicinity has been more green than white. The place looked better in the snow, somehow: maybe there was an air of unreality about the place when it was blanketed with white dung that the thaw has taken away. Or maybe I was too busy concentrating on not falling over to notice.

The above, I feel the need to point out, is one of only two pictures I took during the cold snap. The other was of the same snowman, but slightly further back for perspective.


I do wonder about people taking lots of pictures of the snow. I went for a walk in the park on Wednesday, on the grounds that it was likely to be my last chance before the thaw set in, and every other person seemed to have a camera to hand. Now, the park was beautiful, proper picture postcard stuff, snow on the branches of trees and leaves of hardy plants, robins perched on branches, ducks waddling across the frozen lake in formation, the whole shebang. And I suppose if you're handier than I am with a camera you could have a decent stab at capturing it, but you'd never quite get the joy of being there.

What's going to be done with all of those pictures? Put on Facebook and Flickr, the first few to be looked at by close chums and then forgotten about, I suppose. Better that than clogging up local news programmes anyway.

The Year of the Shape of the Pear

With the end of the decade now a matter of hours away, and inspired by Sweeping the Nation's excellent end of decade list-thing and Broken TV's splendid on-going countdown and probably some others on pages that don't appear on my top sites screen that I've forgotten about, and being keen to draw a line under what's been a pretty dreadful year, I'd decided that I should come up with some sort of 00s-related list. However, given that my speciality is 'wittering on about myself in a pathetically solipsistic way', the only thing I can usefully prepare is a list of stuff mostly related to me from the last ten years that I thought was quite good. So:

A list of six things from the last ten years most of which are to do with me which are notable enough for me to put them in this list of six things (I couldn't think of ten, which is worrying) in no particular order

1. Losing weight

I probably now weigh less than at any time since I was... oooh, about 14 or so. (Well, give or take the four pounds I seem to have put on over Christmas, although that's not too bad compared to some of my post-hols weigh-ins.) Oh, I'm still on the porky side (the best I could have ever hoped for given my height and build was 'stocky', and I think I'm at least closer to that these days than 'lardbucket') and it doesn't seem to have had much effect on my health or made me any more attractive to women, but it does at least make it easier to buy trousers and that's really all you can ask for in life.

2. The Adventures of Flossie

I'd had websites before and I've had websites since, but looking back over it when I was egomaniacally re-posting most of it I did feel quite pleased with myself in a way that I never did at the time. I used to think in blog entries; anything that happened, however minor, I seemed to be able to write up, whereas these days I tend to stop and think about it for so long that by the time I get a moment to type it up the point seems to have been lost.

(Also, I used to go to bed later then. Man, I used to be so productive between 11 and 12 at night in those days. Earlier nights are clearly the enemy of writing anything interesting at all, if you're me anyway, but not feeling tired in the morning is also very rewarding and so I'm probably going to stick with it.)

3. Falling in love with bands

There were three distinct stages with me and bands. There were the formative years, back when I was six and did my best to wear out my copy of Complete Madness through overplaying. Next, when I was about 20 or so and fell for Bis and Kenickie several years after my chums had been into the Manics (who I always thought were somewhat silly) and Suede (who I thought were plain old no good). Said friends told me that I'd be embarrassed about this in a few years time: I outgrew the friends before I outgrew the bands (and long after they were embarrassed by the Manics and were busy enthusing about intelligent dance music instead). And finally there was the period where I listened to Marine Research and Emergency And I by The Dismemberment Plan too much: I don't think these last two changed my life in quite the way that the others did but they were a constant soundtrack at an important time. There were bands I liked after that, bands I liked a lot, but I'd got to a stage where I didn't think I'd ever get properly exited by a band again in quite the same way.

The exact point when this changed came when I went to see Los Campesinos! at the Scala. I liked Los Campesinos!, otherwise I wouldn't have forsaken a copy evening in the pub to go and see them, but I never expected quite what I got. If I had to pick a moment, it would be at the end of the introduction to You! Me! Dancing!, the eight thumps of the drum to indicate that the song proper is about to start. The first time it made my jaw drop; every other time I've seen them it's nearly made me blub. I don't think I've been quite the same since.

4. Having a proper girlfriend

Ah. Yes. Um.

Thing is, most of the time I regard this as being a bad thing. I don't buy into that 'better to have loved and lost' shit: at least beforehand I didn't know what I might be missing out on. But sometimes, particularly at this time of year, the moments when I'm reminded of my one attempt at having a proper girlfriend bring to mind the good bits rather than the constant angst of wondering whether it might be going wrong, the excruciating, agonising pain of it actually going wrong, the zombie-like trance I wandered around in for some time afterwards, the subsequent occasions where I teetered on the brink of doing something pathetic and regrettable and the one time that I did do something pathetic and regrettable, and the understandable reluctance of anyone to be interested in me in that way since.

Er, yes. But some of it was good. The awkward early stages can actually be tremendous fun rather than, well, awkward, it turns out; you just need to be awkward around the right person. And the bit just before it all starts to go wrong, when things couldn't be going any better, are fairly amazing. If maybe not worth everything that comes after.

5. Dyson Airblades

Finally! Hand drying technology is now as efficient as using a paper towel! Few things delight me these days as much as walking into a public toilet and discovering that they have the Dysons (but not the cheaper imitators, and yes I am looking at you John Lewis) and that no additional drying by the traditional method of wiping my hands on my trousers will be necessary. (See also point 4.)

6. Generally feeling a bit more confident about myself and that

Which is good. I used to claim that I wasn't really fully formed until I was about 23 or so, but now I come to think of it I spent most of my time at 23 moping about a girl and listening to Marine Research (not that listening to Marine Research isn't a perfectly valid way to spend your time, but moping about a girl isn't: not when you're 23, anyway). Whereas now, I dunno, I just feel much happier about myself. I put it down to the early stages of hair loss; once you realise that that bloke in the bus' CCTV camera who looks like he's come dressed as a monk from is actually you there's not really any point in being precious about anything any more.

And that's that, really, apart from when I read this back later and add bits and change bits and such, which is a really bad habit and if anyone follows this through an RSS feed I'm really sorry about it, but then who reads everything that turns up in their RSS feeds?, not me, and as I'm getting older I think it's entirely reasonable that what I do is the same as what everyone does in the same way that my dad does. I shall be spending New Years Eve, never my favourite night of the year (except for that one year when... oh, see point 4), clearing the bottles from my fridge and watching Father Ted, which seems as good a way to end the year as any.

It looks quite boaty

My parents don't have the internet. Which is fine - they have no use for it, and it's not as if I'd have spent much time on it while I was staying with them for Christmas: too much risk of being asked awkward questions. I was planning to take advantage of this to spend any free time I might have had typing up some of the various entries I have notes for scribbled down in notepads, only I never quite got around to it. I did write most of this though.

I try not to think as myself as unfortunate, that the world has somehow treated me unfairly while other people live high on the hog despite doing nothing useful or valuable or worthwhile with their lives. But, very occasionally, I wonder. On Christmas Eve I found myself wondering, because I watched The Impressions Show with John Culshaw and That Woman One while we waited for my sister's kids to go to sleep so that we could get on with the important business of setting out gifts for the morning.

Now, I'm aware of Culshaw's astonishing prowess when it comes to impersonation. I watched a bit of an episode of Dead Ringers once and spotted fairly quickly that every skit began with John Culshaw saying "Hello, I'm Michael Burke" or whoever he was supposed to be. ("But Michael Burke says that at the start of the news!" a slack-brained, easily-impressed moron on an internet forum might have said to me about six years ago. "No he doesn't" I reply: "the continuity announcer might say it but Michael Burke wouldn't. Moreover, he doesn't have to say it because we know he's Michael Burke. Whereas when we see John Culshaw doing an impersonation of Michael Burke he has to say 'I'm Michael Burke' otherwise we'd squint at him saying 'Huw Edwards? Peter Sissons? Sandy Gall? I'm confused', thus missing the comedy, although that would be just as well".)

But The Impressions Show with John Culshaw and That Woman One is properly astonishing. We'll pass briefly over the script, as it doesn't really matter what they're saying, but even in the hands of gifted impressionists it would as amusing as a seasonal dose of shingles. We'll even pass over the fact that the wardrobe department know the jig's up by the way The Woman One looks exactly the same whether she's supposed to be Kylie Minogue, Amanda Holden or that one who's married to Vernon Kaye. Because the thing about The Impressions Show is that calling it The Impressions Show puts a great deal of importance on the impressions, and the impressions are absolutely appalling.

John Culshaw's Bruce Forsyth sounds less like Bruce Forsyth than Andrew Collings' Bruce Forsyth. He doesn't even sound like someone doing an impression of someone doing an impression of Bruce Forsyth, and I reckon even I could have a stab at that. He sounds like... well, I don't know who he sounds like; whoever it is, it isn't Bruce Forsyth. His Michael McIntyre sounds South African. His Ross Kemp sounds like someone with a bit of a sore throat. (I've no idea how long the Ross Kemp sketch lasted, but Nigel Blackwell saying "those tough-looking characters over there are The Mendips" took a few seconds and was much funnier.) I think the joke with his David Cameron is that he keeps saying "I'm David Cameron", but it's hard to tell if it's just Culshaw reminding himself (or the writers goading him) and the editor didn't notice. His Gordon Brown doesn't sound Scottish. How difficult is that? His Gene Hunt is almost passable. That's as kind as I can be. The Woman One sounds the same whichever voice she's supposed to be doing. This comes as a blessed relief.

And the thing is, when I see The Impressions Show and I consider that John Culshaw has probably made a comfortable living from his rotten impressions, and that people got paid for writing this, I suddenly think that actually the world is terribly unfair and that I've somehow been hard done by. And all this at Christmas time too.

On the plus side, after this whatever rubbish I happened to end up watching - even the Catherine Tate Saying Fuck In An Exaggerated Manner Christmas Special - seemed almost amusing by comparison.

What is that juice?

I was going to see Where The Wild Things Are this evening (any thoughts as to whether it's worth going to see and running the possible gauntlet of concerned parents looking at me askance appreciated; I've already missed Up and Fantastic Mr Fox, although that was down to laziness as much as anything), but I was inadvertently reminded of where I was three years ago tonight and it put me off in a way that the prospect of freezing cold waits for buses and sliding around on the frozen pavement couldn't hope to. I went to the cinema three years ago tonight as well. Casino Royale. I'm not big on Bond films but rather enjoyed it, possibly because it was quite un-Bondish. If I'd stayed in three years ago today I might have felt more inclined to go to the cinema tonight.

Odd how a long-buried memory can utterly slay you. I'm going to have to do something excellent tomorrow morning otherwise it's going to be awful. Or I'll have forgotten and got on with my life, one of those anyway. Hopefully the latter, as my first two thoughts as to places to go are closed tomorrow. (Which slightly surprises me; plenty of people still working tomorrow, even if I'm not and wouldn't have been even if I hadn't had holiday to take.)

As such, it's time for a quick round of...

Festive Mobile Phone Photography Corner



My mum asked me to buy her a light fitting for Christmas. I was given instructions as to what one they wanted, but there were three or four fairly similar ones so I took a picture to send to her to ask whether this was the one she wanted. However, the picture then refused to send, for reasons I've never got to the bottom of. Obviously I can't reveal whether this is the one I eventually bought for them but... well, actually I can, because they have no internet access and probably wouldn't find this page anyway. I did buy this one. This is my parents' taste in interior furnishings. Hopefully. Make of it what you will.


A couple of weeks ago I was somewhat bemused to find this on the doormat. Occasionally post gets misdirected, that's fair enough, these things happen. But you would have thought that somewhere between the Plymouth (I'm guessing from the postmark) postbox in which this was posted and the Ilford letterbox it was eventually put through, you would have thought someone might have noticed that it wasn't quite on its way to Torquay. I wouldn't mind but aside from the word 'Avenue' the addresses are utterly different. The postcode bears no resemblance whatsoever, not even if you squint. If we were playing some sort of postcode-based version of Mastermind then there would be one right number in the right place and five empty spaces, and the sinister beardy man would be stroking his chin in triumph.

Eventually I popped it back in the post box and it hasn't returned since, so hopefully it's gone back west. I slightly regret not popping it in an envelope and a card of my own, wishing the Relphs a splendid of Christmases and telling them what had happened, perhaps enigmatically leaving my name off or inventing an unlikely alias. You always think of the best ideas too late.


The other morning I was distracted on my way out of the building by a fox prowling around in the field over the back. I watched it for a bit, then decided to take a picture. And, um, this is the result. I think it's in the centre of the picture hiding behind some twiggy branches, but I may be wrong.

The rain is rapping against my window in a way that suggests that not leaving the house was probably a good move. I'm going to find a blanket to hide under for the rest of evening. Happy Christmas, all of you. And that.

Eating it would make Jesus cry

Friday. Snow day. I'm on the tube, feeling slightly disappointed that I'd made it to the station without any particular difficulties and only had to wait a minute for a train. I'd been promised TRAVEL CHAOS, and I rather like the battle against TRAVEL CHAOS and the feeling of smug satisfaction when I get to work despite it.

I don't usually sit down on tube trains in the morning - the twin perils of not spotting someone who might need the seat more than I do and the prospect of some bloke sitting next to me with legs splayed - but I was going a few stops further than usual and... man, this stuff really isn't interesting, is it? Anyway, this left me unsure of where to look when a reasonably attractive woman sat down opposite me and started applying make up, a process I've always found unduly intriguing. My gaze drifted above her to an advert, except it wasn't an advert but part of an Art on the Underground project. This was something apparently taken from a book of quotations given to Picadilly Line staff to use in announcements, and featured a quite from Engels. This quote, in fact:

"An ounce of action is worth a ton of theory."

This bemuses me in two respects:

1. I'm not sure sure how this particular quote relates to life on the Picadilly Line. If you're, say, announcing that the train will now terminate at Arnos Grove or asking them to stand clear of the doors, I'm not quite sure how the action/theory thing quite comes in to play. Unless it's a deliberate attempt to confuse people and then move off while they're obfuscated.

2. Did they run this past the Mayor? Because something tells me that promoting the wisdom of one of the founders of Communism doesn't really tally with current Mayoral thinking.

I considered taking a picture, but as mentioned the woman sat below the quote was quite attractive and I'd have worried that she thought I was taking a picture of her. Also, I might have tried to take a picture of her on the sly, because I am rubbish.

Eventually I had to leave the train one stop early, as someone had been taken ill on a train at Finchley Road. This sort of thing is absolutely typical of this country and wouldn't have happened anywhere else in the world.