Five Centres

1982: Hard times

2011-06-22T19:19:00.000+01:00

Pure and simply, this song reminds me of going to an outdoor disco in a supermarket car park. It ended while it was still light.

Yes, I danced.

No, I don't want to talk about it.

Step inside, love

2011-05-19T15:03:00.002+01:00

There's a new blog in town.

http://peakeofthepops.blogspot.com/

The Long and Winding Road

2011-05-12T11:53:00.000+01:00

I know I've said this many times before, but I have properly decided to wind this blog down.

It's been five years - count 'em! - and lately I really feel I've run out of steam. It's also quite a thankless task. I know people read it because they tell me so, but with the paucity of comments nowadays I feel like I'm pissing in the wind.

Perhaps Twitter is to blame. My attention span has gone down to 140 characters rather than lengthy waffle and it's far more immediate. The real time thing is far more rewarding.

So that's it from me. I'll not delete the blog as I could be back at some stage (possibly tomorrow, you never know), but if you want me, I'm on Twitter. I'm not all over Twitter, far from it - I do have other things to do after all, but I'm there nonetheless, and under my real name. Time to step out of the shadows at last.

So perhaps it's a case of can't be bothered to write lots of stuff, and I'm sure I still have many stories to tell, but I simply can't be arsed to tell them. Everyone on the right hand side does it so much better than me, but I notice even they've lost the bug over the last year. Perhaps the fad is fianlly over. But it was fun while it lasted, wasn't it? This blog has been a joy and curse, but on the whole I've loved it.

Thanks for all your support, though, and see you in my tweets.

Kajagoogoo were right

2011-05-04T15:53:00.001+01:00

Me and Mrs F-C at the Russian Tea Room: We *heart* NYC

I'm feeling refreshed and different after eight days in New York. I feel like I've been away for months, which was needed, seeing as we stood around a friend's bedside as he died the day before we went. That was a strange, rather grown-up thing to do and I'd rather not have to do it again.

But the next day at the crack of dawn we were New York City bound as planned and decided it was just what we needed.

We love New York. When some friends lived there between 1998 and 2000 we visited three times, we couldn't get enough of it. It's always different visiting somewhere and staying with people who actually live there. They know all the tricks and the groovy places.

It's funny because when i first went there in 1982 it was a very different place. We went en famille and spent the time utterly terrified and spooked at every turn. It was dark and dirty, threatening, swarming with police and really rather down at heel. How's it's all changed. I seem to recall we stayed on 42nd Street, which at the time was frequented by prostitutes and drug addicts. What a place for a family holiday. Now it couldn't be more different. It's clean, safe, packed with hundreds of lovely eateries, bars and hotels and shops. Even Grand Central Station is a must-see. Even 10 plus years ago Soho was just coming up, and the West Village and meatpacking districts were all but deserted. As for Hell's Kitchen, you wouldn't have gone there and The Bowery - fugehdaboutit.

But now you can go everywhere. And we did. We walked miles and miles, from Hell's Kitchen to Gramercy, from Soho (where we we were staying), across all the Greenwich Villages, to Central Park, the very civilised Upper West Side and Columbus Avenue, to Battery Park and Wall Street, Ground Zero, Noho, Dumbo, Nolita, Tribeca - you name it, we went there. We even went to Harlem. But we didn't get off the bus. Well would you? Those projects are not yet quite on the tourist trail. I'm not sure Malcolm X Boulevard is quite ready for them.

So some observations:

New York women
Gosh, what a ghastly bunch. Either self-absorbed twenty-somethings in PR mode, quite prepared to let a door slam in your face but woe betide you should do the same to them, who ignore you and treat you like you're invisible, to frazzled, pre-occupied, wired, reed-thin forty- and fifty-somethings who glower and are as rude as their younger counterparts. Overhead in a boutique as assistants danced attendance on one such demanding martinet: 'I like this necklace but it's too crazy. And my soundman will hate me'. And with coffee permanantly clutched in hand you get the picture. They can't go anywhere without a beverage.

Losing it
The famous Midnight Cowboy scene in which Dustin Hoffman walks out in front of a taxi which screeches to a halt and hoots its horn and he bangs his fist on the bonnet and shouts 'I'm walkin' here!'... well it's just like that. They sound like they do in the films and act like they do in the films. They kick off at the drop of a hat. It's like watching a thousand mini-vignettes a day. Quite a fascinating place for people watching. just watch from a safe distance. NB Taxi rides are utterly white-knuckle.

Star spots
We went to teh cinema on the swanky Upper West Side, just around the corner from the Dakota Building where John Lennon was shot, and home to the likes of Lauren Bacall and others of her ilk. We went to see a documentary. How much did we feel we were in a Woody Allen film? Anyhoo, two rows in front was Alan Alda. Then it really felt like a Wood Allen film.
We also saw Whoopi Goldberg and Michael Cera, who were judging the Tribeca Film Festival from our hotel, and star spot of all star spots, the President. The security was unbelievable. if William and Kate got married over there they would barely have seen the light of day, let alone parade the streets in an open-top surrey. Which brings me to...

The Royal Wedding
The first thing we were asked was why we were over there when surely we wanted to be over here for the wedding? They were just mad about it. All their top news bods like creaky old Barbara Walters and Diane Sawyer were doing everything from London. Never mind tornadoes wiping out most of Alabama, what was Kate's dress going to be like. That opportunist pub landlord was never off the telly, and Ben Fogle and a cavalcade of very British types spouted forth in a way only Americans could love. Times Square was given over more or less entirely to a viewing platform and big screen so they could all get up at 4am to watch it.
And we now know more about the British Royal Family - and especially the Middletons - than we could ever have learnt over here watching wall to wall Daybreak and being forcefed Majesty magazine.
Saw a bit of it, and I have to say it all looked rather lovely and made me proud to be British. Yes, that's right.

Food
Huge.

Broadway
To our surprise, we went to a Broadway show. The Book Of Mormon at the Eugene O'Neil Theatre. I was expecting a vast cavernous venue but it was like a village hall. Still, very comfy and good last minute seats for a great, highly irreverant show about Mormons, some of whom were sitting behind us and growled all the way through it. I'm amazed the theatre's not been firebombed. A great experience.

Getting around is so easy, there's so much to do, it's so civilised and so safe, I could easily live there, if I was living in the same building as Jerry Seinfeld on Central Park West.

So anyway, back to the real world. Buying a mop in Morrisons this lunchtime bought it all crashing back down to earth. Until my next holiday, whenever that may be.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

2011-04-11T09:37:00.002+01:00

That's it.

Inside they're laughing...

2011-03-29T10:06:00.000+01:00

Would you be upset if you overheard someone describing you as 'silly'? I think I might. Thankfully I know that I'm not.

So what does it mean to say someone is a silly man or woman. Let's have a think. A silly woman might be one of those middle aged women who's still a bit girlish and excitable. For example, a friend's mum came to our house and when told something of note she jumped up and down on the spot with - presumably - excitement. I remember thinking what a very silly woman she was.

Another might be a person who's unaware that they are too right on for their own good. Or a family that cycles together and only goes camping, or a woman with big, unruly hair who thinks it's fun to hide your shoe in the fridge and who comes bopping into her secret lesbian lover's workplace like it was the most natural thing in the world and more of a common room than an office.

All these I have known.

But what of the celebrity silly? How about Dillie 'Silly' Keane, from that bastion of silliness Fascinating Aida. Not funny, just That's Life standard silly. All Esther's Nancys were silly for a living, but I didn't mind so much. It's the unaware silly that rankles. Like Nicky Campbell, releasing a swing album in all seriousness, totally unaware that no one wants to buy a swing album by Nicky Campbell and former Holby City dumbell Mark Moraghan.

Chris Evans is king of the sillies, what with his always coming late to party with anything. Once he says Come Dine With Me is the best thing ever, you know it's over. He's an over-excitable manchild who tries to laugh at himself but can't. He's indulgent and showy and wears wacky clothes - the trademark of the silly - in order to be noticed. Sillies love to be the centre of attention though they'd deny it until the end of days. If only they knew no one's laughing with them, only at them. They're clearly dying inside.

There are hundreds more of course - Mike Read, Katie Price, Sisquo from So You Think You Can Dance, anyone who dyes their beard (Silly Connolly), anyone in a large hat (male), anyone who makes a splash at the races, and Jonathan Ross, who along with his wife are the first couple of sillydom.

If you know what I mean then, I'd like your nominations please.

And now for something completely stupid

2011-03-28T13:59:00.001+01:00

Nice to be back on this blog. The other one takes ages to load and it really hard to manage. So here we are again. Sorry if it means you have to change your settings again, but please do.

So on Saturday we went into the West End to see the play Warhorse with my mother-in-law. Have you been? I was dreading it, being as keen on theatre-going as I am on dog shit, but to my surprise it was a sensation. There wasn't a dry eye in the house and I don't cry at anything. I was welling up from the start. It's about horses and war, so you can guess how heart-wrenching it was. I was drained.

And there we were in the middle of Covent Garden, browsing shops, having drinks in bars, completely unaware of the UK Uncut trustafarians having a sit-in in Fortnum & Mason and the equally posh Black Bloc (you know there'll be loads of Nicks and Tobys sticking it to the man, but hiding behind a balaclava. Well done) smashing up the HSBC on Cambridge Circus. We could see it unfolding on Sky News but it may as well have been in Mumbai.

Our evening in a peaceful French restaurant in Monmouth Street was similarly undisturbed. Only on the way home did our taxi sweep by the fires of Trafalgar Square, though it all looked rather peaceful at the time. Poor London, bloodied and bruised, burnt and scorched and defaced. Can't they pick on another city and let us all get on with out lives. Legitimate protesters I applaud, splinter groups of bored students have a fun day out chucking crash barriers at Santander I do not. They're ruining it for everyone. Don't say I told you so when marches are banned from Central London.

Anyhoo, my real point is that while having a few moments to kill we went into Forbidden Planet. I've never set foot in this geek paradise before. Of course it's wall-to-wall superhero and sci-fi figurines at varying prices, as well as a whole wall of behind glass sculptures of minor characters from Star Wars or Watchmen with price tags into three figures. I mean, who buys these gewgaws?

Everything is now has a range of merchandise attached of course, and it's no surprise to see everything from Lost to Superman in there, but I baulked when I came across the Monty Python range. Yes, that's right, the Monty Python range.

It included a fluffy dead parrot for you to amuse your friends with, a disembodied foot on a keychain and Life Of Brian action figures. I didn't realise such stuff existed. Nothing is sacred. I couldn't go any further, I was too bemused. Anything even vaguely cultish now gets this treatment.

What next? A range of Howards' Way items. A miniature seaworthy Barracuda? A Ken Masters action figure with various medallions or a build your own Polly and Gerald mansion?

Actually, there's a thought...

Dimming Of The Day

2011-01-10T14:25:00.000Z

http://fivecentres.wordpress.com/

Yes, couldn't make the template change and it's all a bit limiting. So follow the link.See you at the new place.

Last one there's a lemon!

Now Matter How I Try?

2011-01-10T10:44:00.000Z

No matter what I do I cannot change the design of this blog. Blogger won't allow it. Any suggestions?

I Just Wanna Be Your Everything

2011-01-07T10:09:00.000Z

The older I get, the quieter I like my life to be. I'm talking musically.

So when I find the ipod alighting upon something noisesome and startling like Dead Cities by the Exploited or anything by Motorhead, I tend to skip along until it comes to something a little more gentle.

Maybe it's the time of year (or maybe it's the time of man*), but I'm simply not in the mood for a cacophony. My current faves are Mike Oldfield (Hergest Ridge couldn't be more relaxing), Traffic (as ever - all 11 minutes of Low Spark Of High-Heeled Boys sends me into a coma, but in a nice way), the Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band, with their blend of light comedy and nostalgic novelty tunes and - and this comes as a surprise to even me - Andy Gibb.

I've only recently starting appreciating the Bee Gees for what they are: brilliant songwriters for themselves and others, with a canon of hits that anyone would be more than proud of. I drive by their old house in Brook Street, W1, most days and it doesn't seem like the kind of place to make beautiful music, but perhaps things were different then.

Of course the disco era doesn't really do it for me, so we'll move on, but i do like Barry Gibb's Guilty with Barbra Streisand, and they're responsible for songs we all know and love like Islands In The Stream, Grease, Emotions, If I Can't Have You and Chain Reaction.

But it's the pre- and post-Night Fever stuff. But let's concentrate on the Sixties to mid-Seventies stuff like the amazing I Started A Joke, How Can You Mend A Broken Heart, I've Gotta Get A Message To You, Massachusettes, Don't Forget To Remember, Melody Fair, the Odessa Album, First Of May, Cucumber Castle, etc. Look, says Simon Cowell, you don't need me to tell you how good they are.

So if they're okay, thought I, then I must be underrating their solo sibling Andy. And I was right. I'm sure the other brothers wrote and produced, but Andy's voice is just unique. Poor, tragic Andy - who died at just 30 in 1988 - never really caught on over here, but Stateside and in Europe he was huge, so his string of number ones and Top 10 hits needed my further investigation.

Of course, it's as MOR and easy as you like, but you know me by now - I do like. So let my current favourites (Our Love) Don't Throw It All Away, An Everlasting Love (nice intro) and (Love Is) Thicker Than Water (I'm very much enjoying the use of brackets in these song titles) wash over you and ease you into the weekend. And here's something from the Bonzos too.

Mr Big

2011-01-06T10:03:00.000Z

I'm still reeling that GQ has named Romeo Beckham as a style icon, despite being just eight years old.

If I'm honest I've never given him a second look. He's just one of the Beckham sprogs that are wheeled out at every event when they turn up en famille. I've always viewed them as mere fashion accessories, as is the trend these days.

But on closer inspection this boy is like a junior Niles Crane, all neat hair, stripey ties and stiff suits. According to his mother he's not interested in going to the beach with the other boys, he likes to accompany her to the offices of her fashion line and discuss fabrics, etc. I think it's safe to say where this one's going.

Fair enough, everyone's different, but seriously what eight-year-old takes such an interest in fashion? When I was eight I didn't have much choice in what I wore. Not that I cared. It was royal blue hand-knitted chunky surgical collar-style polo-neck jumpers from Auntie Maggie, who had nothing much better to do following the hip replacement she had after falling off a bus in 1971. Otherwise it was normal blue jeans, lots of brown flares and plimsoles. More often than not it was shorts too, and I have seen pictures of flowery shirts with matching ties, but none of this was my idea.

I didn't sit poring over Look-In wanting to copycat David Cassidy's wardrobe. Mum did once buy me some purple trousers and a T-Rex T-shirt (not to be tucked in but I couldn't resist - I was something of a formal child, and even wore a tie to the beach, so the story goes), but I didn't take to it.

As I got to be a teenager fashion became important. But I do wonder how many eight-year-olds, even today, give a fig about looking up-to-date. When you see kids who are dressed head to toe in something their parents would happily wear, it's not the kids who are making the decisions. I have a friend with as son who's a mini-me of him, and you can see he's dressing him in the sort of clothes he'd like to have worn as child, rather than the clothes his parents chose for him.

I'm convinced that back in the Seventies there wasn't really fashion for kids, certainly not in the first half of the decade anyway, and definitely not in the Sixties. A boy in our class (aged 10, 1975) had wedge shoes, which I considered unbelievably racy, and of course we all wore flares, but that was kind of it. Unless, I'm wrong here, fashion was for adults.

So they're starting young these days. And an eight-year-old has become a style icon. It's absurd. No child should be so obsessed with such things. The parents encourage it of course, and of course children must express themselves, but it's an odd one. Then again, who takes any notice of GQ, the world's most ridiculous magazine?

New Year, New You

2011-01-05T10:03:00.000Z

Hello. We're Santander.

Probably the most annoying line ever spoken in an advert, but new year, new me so we'll let it pass. Happy 2011 everyone.

I know it seems like yonks ago now, but did you enjoy your Christmas? This year was spent with my side of the family for a change, the first time my brother and I have had Christmas day together in eight years and the first I'd ever spent with his children ever. Luckily we weren't all cramped into his well-appointed yet not quite big enough London flatlet, but in the middle of nowhere at a country hotel near Bath (yes, that's it in the picture).

It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Or Rosamund Pilcher.

Full of county types, gentleman farmers, old farts and Ann Widdecombe-ish old trouts, it was nonetheless the most Christmassy Christmas ever, with snow blanketing the entire area as far as the eye could see, wood-panelled libraries in which to take tea and play boardgames, roaring log fires to drink rich red wine in front of, treasure hunts, high teas, stockings bulging with gifts left on your bed, midday sherry receptions, black tie dinners, a visit from Santa in a horse-drawn carriage - it's everything Christmas should be. And the service was wonderful.

I won't lie though; I was dreading it. As much as I love my family I've not spent more than a night with them in about 20 years and we can all get on each other's wick at the drop of a hat. But because you could please yourself (there was a great spa and swimming was compulsory at least twice a day) we weren't on top of each other. The kids are young enough to have loved it and get really excited about Christmas which really made it something to remember. I'd do it again.

So what a good end to a quite horrible year. Of course come New Year's Eve were were spark out on the sofa before midnight. But hey, I'm tired. Hope your year pans out as you would wish.

Tomorrow: Romeo Beckham, style icon

Nobody's Diary

2010-12-16T12:05:00.000Z

It's been weeks since my last blog. I've been so busy. So today, by way of a catch up, we are going day by day over the past few dayss to see what I've been up to, should you care.

December 9: The company Christmas do. For some, the highlight of the year, a day when they can really go do town and let their hair down. For others, a living hell that involves fancy dress. This year's theme: circus. Guess which camp I was in.

December 10: A day off that involved a longer lie-in than I've had in years and copious amounts of Christmas shopping. In the evening, to a swanky Kensington eaterie with my brother and wife for a slap up birthday lunch.

December 11: If my grandmother were alive today, she'd be 102. Anyhoo, more Christmas shopping and collapsing in front of the X Factor. Put up Christmas tree to soundtrack of Christmas greats, like Perry Como's Christmas Dream, Stop The Cavalry and of course In Dulce Jubilo, which is just ideal for throwing garlands at your tree to.

December 12: A lesbian's birthday, which took up the whole day and was held in a private club with lots of miniscule rooms which rather broke up the party. And because I'd put my back out pulling my boots on, I was not in the mood.

December 13: Another day off. More Christmas shopping fighting crowds of Italians and old dowagers in Fortnum & Mason just to get my hands on their English creams. I like a fondant.

December 14: Rode a dapple mare. Not really. Work, then a very Christmassy double bill of Home Alone/Home Alone 2 (at home, but not alone).

December 15: To the rather bleak funeral of an elderly journalist at a crematorium opposite St George's Hospital in atrocious weather. My feet were like ice. Shared a taxi to the wake with Gary Webster and Ingrid Tarrant. Bleak, right? And the death was a suicide, which made it all doubly awful. Then, thankfully, to the ITV Christmas do which was just the ticket. Bit hungover today.

And here we are, looking forward to tonight's next round of drinks, and so it goes on. Not too exhuasted yet. And you?

So this is probably it from me until the New Year. A very happy festive season to you and thanks for keeping the faith. I love you all.

It's clean, it's fresh at Sergisave!

2010-12-08T10:29:00.000Z

For some reason I can't change the design of this blog. That particular element seems to have disappeared, so here we are, forever dandelion clock.

So have you been watching the highly entertaining, at times quite moving, but always fascinating Turn Back Time: The High Street?

Last night was the 1970s, so there was lots of footage of old supermarkets - Fine Fare! Tesco Home & Wear! - and it harked back to a time when they were popping up everywhere. I remember when Safeway opened in our town. It was a huge draw. It sold stuff that you could only get in America, and I used to go with an American neighbour and marvel at the stuff on the shelves. It was a treat. I loved food shopping then as i love it now.

Before that, we had a tiny one called Keymarket at the precint. It was gloomy and cheap and dark, so when light, bright, exciting Safeway opened, it was goodbye Keymarkets forever. In the competing mall was a small branch of International, which possibly became Gateway. We had a neighbour who was the manager. One day his wife knocked on our door to tell us he'd committed suicide by gassing himself in the garage. He'd been having an affair with a checkout girl and she got pregnant. He was a professional with a wife and two children. It was 1969. What are you gonna do?

There was great excitement in July 1974 when a hypermarket opened on the edge of town. A Carrefour, exotically French and unheard of, opened to great fanfare. There was a two-day jamboree, with balloons, gifts, entertainment. I'm sure it was opened by someone famous, but I can't remember who. But it was a huge deal. We used to go every Friday. It had everything under one roof. I was banned in 1982 after being falsely accused of shoplifting - actually throwing mushrooms at a friend, so hardly the crime of the century - but I went back a week later an no one was any the wiser. It's an Asda now.

My granny used to go to Fine Fare, which I always thought was a bit cheap. The other grandma to Sainbury's. It's orangey tones made me feel warm and cosy and their breakfast rashers (no idea what they were made of), were delicious beyond belief.

These days I'm a Waitrose man. If you like food, that's got to be your supermarche of choice, right?

Glove to hate you

2010-12-01T11:23:00.000Z

Today's topic is gloves.

Do you own gloves? How do you get on with them?

I don't own gloves. I have had some in the past, but we just don't mix. The thing with wearing gloves is, you can't function properly. You can't count out change, you don't feel things through them, you can't smoke properly, fiddle with keys, etc. Plus, I always lose them. So I don't wear them.

I'd like to have a pair of leather gloves ripe for murdering with, or perhaps some backless brown chamois driving gloves. It's more likely I'd have mittens on a string. Mrs F-C has gloves coming out of her ears.

But me and gloves, we don't get on. Could have done with some today though, it's bitter.

On a warming note, we got some surprise Quality Street-type carol singers in the office today courtesy of a TV channel, who came bearing gifts of champagne, mince pies, chocs and spiced biscuits. Though it was but 10.30, it made the heart glad. And now it's offically Christmas, it's time to wheel out all the old Christmas tunes.

Don't Look Back

2010-11-29T10:44:00.000Z

Yesterday, waking at the crack of dawn and with Mrs F-C away, I decided to go on a road trip.

So leaving the house at 8am I bombed down to my old stomping ground, Southampton. I spent my uni days there, three years from 1984 to 1987. I haven't been back for at least 15 years and I was looking forward to revisiting all those old haunts, seeing those student digs and taking a look around the town as my specially prepared CD containing songs from the period transported me back to a time where there was nothing to concern you but where your album was coming from.

I was excited and as I entered the city - and yes I did have Barracuda, the fast theme from Howards' Way playing at full pelt - it all came flooding back. Or rather it didn't. Everything had changed. Oh dear.

*needle scratches across record which comes to an abrupt end*

If I'm honest I was shocked. What a bleedin' dump. I'm all for progress but it's like someone's being playing with Lego and just built wherever. As I zigzagged the city in search of memories there was hardly a thing the same. It's a jumble of Jurys Inns, flats where favourite watering holes once stood and discount superstores - and they've moved the entire city centre out of town.

So much of it has been knocked down and built over it was a miracle I managed to find my way around. What really struck me was how garish everything seemed. All shop fronts had ghastly in-your-facias wherever you looked. It all looked horribly cheap.

And as for those student houses - what once seemed rather roomy, almost elegant Victorian houses were now complete hovels. And the grafitti! I don't even think it had been invented back then.

I suppose in those days you made your home where you were, and having been a boarder I had no problem with just making the best of things. Standards and lifestyles have changed of course, and what you would have put up with back then is unimaginable now. But I don't remember it being THAT bad.

Despite all that, it was interesting and it was nostalgic - evocative street names and routes to friends' houses and pubs, etc all came flooding back. It was all rather Proustian. But it's sad to see so many memories flattened. Best not to think to hard about it. You can never go back.

I've Feltz better

2010-11-23T10:12:00.000Z

I see Vanessa Feltz has been announced as the Sarah Kennedy replacement.

So how long's that going to last? Everything she does seems to end in tears due to something she does. She can't help herself.

I'm not a fan. I have first-hand experience of her and found her rather brusque. Takes one to know one, I suppose. But it didn't make me warm to her exactly. Say what you like about Sarah Kennedy, she was cosy. VF is not that.

Oh well, back to BBC Breakfast.

An albatross around my neck

2010-11-22T10:06:00.000Z

It's been a while. I'm flattered that people keep asking me where I've been and even if I'm alright.

There's a simple explanation. I can't think of a thing to say. The other day I had a great idea for a blog post but the next day it had slipped my mind and remains at large. Just as well. This blog, as much as I have enjoyed it, is like having an essay hanging over your head. Even after 900 posts, with no inspiration, that's how it feels.

So I've not shut up shop, but - and I never thought I'd say this - I quite like the immediacy of Twitter, even though you're tweeting into thin air most of the time and no one who I want to know who I am knows who I am, if that makes sense, but at least you don't feel beholden.

Is that how other bloggers feel, seeing as no one blogs regularly anymore?

What have you done today?

2010-11-09T10:07:00.000Z

A City type sitting next to me on the bus this morning was reading a book called You're Pregnant Too, Mate!. He looked a right Charlie in his pin stripe suit and velvet-collared overcoat. He looked like one of those overgrown schoolboys who go into banking - all ruddy cheeks and rugger shirts.

I imagine the book was recommended by a kind friend who, seeing that he really wasn't coping with the little woman being up the duff, thought it might take the pressure off. It's definitely designed for the man who thinks even a pink shirt might compromise his masculinity.

I was listening to a playlist headed up by Mike Oldfield, and including Jon & Vangelis and the Alan Parsons Project. I needed something soothing after last night's Pride Of Britain Awards.

Not so strenuous, but a ceremony which in the past I've thought rather mawkish was a bit more stiff upper lip this year. When you see a bunch of ex-Battle Of Britain pilots standing on the stage, showing off their medals it's hard not to feel proud. And the child who lost his eyes to cancer, the policeman who was blinded by Raoul Moat and the man who risked his own life jumping onto the Tube tracks to save a drunk - it's an over-used word but they're heroes one and all.

I felt like such a non-person. I don't do anything good. But at least it was awash with famous faces. I like to catch and eye and smile, and did so with everyone from Nick Clegg to Cheryl Cole to Tom Jones to Bruce Forsyth to Phillip Schofield to Russell Brand to Adrian & Christine to (yes) Lord Sugar to Simon Cowell to Camilla Parker-Bowles. I high-fived all X Factor contestants, told each one I voted for them and got to tell Wagner he looked like Robert Downey Jr.

A good night was had by all. Now where's that VSO application form...

Same old, same old

2010-11-08T10:09:00.000Z

I went to see the new Mike Leigh film Another Year, yesterday.

I'm a big Mike Leigh fan, but to be honest this was not only deeply depressing but frankly it was just more of the same. And it was really long - or at least it seemed like it. It's been showered with praise as usual, and it's good, with good performances but really, I wonder if critics just adore Mike Leigh films by default and no one dare say they didn't like one because it might undermine their professional standing.

Anyhoo, it was one of those stories about nothing much, with Lesley Manville in full verge-of-breakdown mode. She's being tipped for Oscars but I thought she was a bit over the top, full of too many tics and actually rather annoying as the desperate, single friend, who drinks too much, hates her flat and her job and is ultimately rather lonely. It's not hard to see why that is. Less is more. There's always one character who's pitched just that bit too high in a Mike Leigh film, and in Another Year she was it.

The stand out for me was Peter Wight, who played Jim Broadbent's old friend from Derby, who was deeply damaged and rather disturbed and also drank too much. He was made for Mary but she wasn't having any of it, she's rather lust after men who wouldn't give her the time of day. Ruth Sheen was really good too, rather gentle, and a happy soul who bore the brunt of everyone else's misery.

The more I think about there is actually a lot of substance to it, and a Mike Leigh film is well-crafted and always worth seeing. But I'd like to see one that didn't include this usual themes. Then again, it wouldn't be a Mike Leigh film.

Celebrity lesbians

2010-11-04T09:45:00.000Z

That got your attention. I was actually going to do a little celeb lesbian quiz, but it's not right really, is it?

Daybroken

2010-11-03T14:04:00.000Z

I've resisted doing this for ages, but restistance is futile where Daybreak is concerned.

You already know my feelings about GMTV, but to honest I miss it compared to this debacle. We already know it's in a parlous state, so it's all academic, but I have some thoughts.

Adrian Chiles and beat-me-on-the-bottom-with-a-Christine Bleakley are plain wrong for mornings. And no one rushes to watch something because a double act who once may have been the subject of tabloid speculation due to the fact that may or may not have been knocking each other off and of course were doing no such thing, are now parking their behinds on a different sofa.

Mrs F-C hates Christine with a passion. She thinks she's vain, stupid and that it should all be about her. Adrian Chiles' role seems to be to make the camera crew laugh, which was fine for 27 minutes on The One Show, but is waring at 7am. You can hear the tubleweed rolling by.

Presenter without portfolio (thought she's ostensibly entertainment) Kate Garraway looks uncomfortable and out of place. She's better than she was but she does ask some dumb questions. Today she enquired of a bunch of closed order nuns in the south of France who've just put out an album of Gregorian chants if they'd ever heard of Cheryl Cole. They looked at her blankly, naturally. She longs to be taken seriously. This won't help.

But she's better than that showbiz plank they've dredged up. The world's worst interviewer and a man without personality or any relevant qualification. The sports dumbell is far more watchable. At least he knows what he's talking about.

The bit at about 7.10 where they all sit round in a circle and talk about the day's news stories is toe-curling, and the whole atmosphere is so dark and gloomy they're all clearly aware of what a mess they're in, but can do little about it.

There's been criticism of the London skyline. Yes it can look a bit grim on rainy days, but the programme comes from London and it is the nation's capital city, like it or not. We'd all be really depressed if it came from Cleethorpes. Everything on the telly seems to be set in Manchester these days, so to see a London programme makes a refreshing change.

The sombre set must go though. Dark purples and mahogany are more likely to soothe you into sleep than perk you up.

I never thought I'd say it: Bring back Fiona Phillips.

Until then I'd rather watch Everybody Loves Raymond for the 50th time.

Something old...

2010-10-29T09:51:00.000+01:00

What's your stance on vintage clothing?

Really, it's just the modern word for second hand of course, so do you ever wonder where it's been?

It's hit and miss anyway. I remember as a student we used to frequent a place that sold suede jackets and American baseball jackets and stuff of that ilk. It was quite pricey even then, and was all the rage, spreading outwards from the Flip phenomenon in London.

Even before that it was de rigeur at sixth form to get overcoats, etc., from Oxfam. My mum used to go mad. Why did I want to get a grotty old thing like that when she could get me a nice gilet or something. There had to be a compromise. But there wasn't really. I wore stuff from charity shops and when I was out she gave them to a jumble sale. So at least there was some recycling going on.

Mrs F-C is vintage mad, and picks up some groovy stuff. But me not so much. I'll go into the shops with her, of which there are many now, but for men it's a load of nasty sweat-stained airtex shirts, odd-shaped check numbers and don't even start on the shoes or trousers. I've picked up the odd nice jacket - one I recall was especially good from Martha's Vineyard near Cape Cod - but I've bought all sorts of things and eight times out of 10 there's a nasty old tissue lurking in the depths of the pocket or an ancient chewing gum wrapper. It's unlikely you'll find a tenner. The pockets are always really greasy and you just know someone's wiped a surreptitious bogey in there. And the smell...

And who knows under what circumstances these garments found their way to the vintage shop. That bomber jacket might have belonged to a murder victim. An old man may have lain dead for weeks in that jacket. Those racy 1970s floral curtains may have been hanging in a house of horrors. Brrrr.

But don't let that stop you.

Forever Autumn

2010-10-27T10:25:00.001+01:00

I heard Maybe Tomorrow by UB40 on the way into work today. They're not everyone's cup of tea but I've always had a soft spot for them. That song, though, reminds me of when I first moved to London and what a grim time I was having. I can hear that song now and wallow in a warm, nostalgic feeling that things were going to get much better, give it six months or so.

So I'm going to bore you with a story.

In October 1987 I was commuting from the other side of Twickenham to a job I absolutely loathed near Paddington. After a summer of doing a job where although I was earning no money whatsoever (commission only and you wouldn't see a penny for 13 months), I was enjoying myself and had met some great people through work. But my dad, highly concerned that I was on a hiding to nothing (he was right) made me leave and by pulling strings got a me a job selling classified ad space for in the London office of a Gulf-based Middle East agriculture magazine. (That might actually be it in the picture, it's the right road).

It was kind of him, but I loathed it. There was me and two other guys, much older than me, and a mute secretary. They were away most of the time, and when they were there they were cool with me. I was so bored. I was shit at the job, never wanted it in the first place, and was really lonely.

I'd spend lunchtimes wandering Queensway (pre-Whiteleys), as autumn leaves fell silently onto quiet Georgian squares, wondering what might be around the corner. I couldn't see way out. I earned £4000 a great, which was about £400 a month, IIRC. I was deeply skint. My flatmate paid for most things, while I tried to clear my overdraft. We never went out. We just sat in smoking dope and vegging out to The Two Of Us, Blind Date and other late Eighties heartwarmers. I feared I was wasting my life.

A year before I'd been whooping it up at uni, and a lot my pals were still there. I really missed it. I couldn't believe that life was going to be like this. Work, home, work, home, for very little money. As the weeks went by, I'd sold nothing. This job was not for me.

By Christmas the other guys and me got on fine, and the working environment was far more palatable. But I still hated the job. I was simply not cut out for media sales.

Thankfully there was light at the end of the tunnel. We go the news through that the magazine was closing and after Christmas we'd all be looking for new jobs. I'd never felt so free.

Admittedly I spent the next three months signing on, watching Open Air, Sons & Daughters and Knot's Landing, applying for various unsuitable jobs that caught my eye. I even applied to be Thames TV's new weatherman. What might have been, eh? I didn' t know what I wanted. But come March life was about to properly begin.

It was a darkish chapter - people go through far worse - and I learnt a lot from it. I got out there and grabbed life by both hands. Whenever I hear Faith by George Michael, Hey Matthew by Karel Fialka, Dinner With Gershwin by Donna Summer or Love In The First Degree by Bananarama, I'm transported back to that grim, gloomy, dismal time, but I have to smile that things did improve.

But it's also why I think 1987 is possibly one of the worst years for music.

Here's UB40:

Berk Wears White Sox

2010-10-22T09:40:00.001+01:00

Yes I did.

If you were a teenage boy who saw the ska revival come in around 1979, you wore tasselled loafters and Harrington jackets, then you wore white socks.

If you were me, you carried on doing this through the years, throughout the New Romantic era while everything went jazz funk and Haircut 100 and all you owned were pairs and pairs of chewing gum white terry toweling socks. There's a great photo of me c.1982 at Guildford Castle wearing blue and black stripey drainpipes with white socks and black suede soul slippers. What a style icon.

I think it was only when I returned to boarding school for the last year of boarding sixth form someone a mean girl took a look at my feet and said witheringly, 'still wearing white socks then?', that they finally bit the dust. She was probably right. This was 1983 after. Though Michael Jackson wore them. Nuff said.

How did this ghastly fashion get to be all the rage? Whenever there's talk of reviving things from the Eighties, white slocks and grey plastic soul slippers are not on the agenda. It's something best forgotten.

When I think back, I really should have left then in 1980. I was from the provinces, we didn't have much of a clue. When did this fashion actually die out, and what sort of person wore them?

Your views please.

Exclamation mark included at all times

2010-10-21T13:48:00.000+01:00

Do you remember Tracie!? I was in love with her for the whole of 1983. She was surly, a bit older, someone to adore from afar. And then she was gone.

But now she's back! Here's her finest hour, now available on itunes at last.

I can't get this song out of my head since it popped up on the Word blog.

Bad Karma

2010-10-20T10:03:00.000+01:00

There are a lot of people on the internet getting very excited because they think Thatcher is about to kark it.

They've got the champagne on ice, they're getting their dancing shoes out and putting the fireworks on standby. And they don't care who knows it.

I'm afraid I'm not one of those people.

Now, before you accuse me of being a rabid Tory from a privileged background, let me tell you I'm not. I just don't see the pleasure in wishing an old woman dead and laughing about it.

Sure, she did some ghastly things that affected many lives, and as a student I was as anti-her as anyone else. I just didn't carry it through to adult life, that's all. I got over it.

'Oh but you wouldn't say that if she'd ripped your community apart,' people cry. Well I didn't live in Walfrod, so I didn't have a community. Still don't.

So I appreciate she's clearly not everyone's cup of tea, but I get uncomfortable with wishing people dead, no matter who they are. It's really bad karma.

My dancing shoes will be staying in their box.

Wot no Valerie?

2010-10-19T11:50:00.000+01:00

Me and my pal TT went to see Steve Winwood last night. What a disappointment. Read about it here

Facebook me

2010-10-18T10:36:00.001+01:00

I'm a Facebooker, you're a Facebooker - so have you seen The Social Network yet?

It's really rather good. What could have been a rather dull story about feuding geeks if put into wrong hands, cracks with sparky dialogue and cranks up the tension. What would you expect from the writer of The West Wing?

It's an odd film to make, and even though the story only begins in 2003 it feels like ancient history. It's hard to remember a time before we were all social networking, like it or not. It's indicative of the way the world has changed, and to commit this revolution to celluloid is timely and necessary.

The Creator, Mark Zuckerberg, was clearly borderline Aspergers, a brilliant man who thought nothing of dumping on his friends and was clearly under the spell of the charismatic show-off and Napster founder Sean Parker (a brilliant and surprising turn from the strange-looking Justin Timberlake), who should never have got near the business.

I won't ruin it for you by giving any more away, but what on paper could be so dull is the most gripping and exciting story I've heard in a long time, and makes for a great film with some really superb performances. Jesse Eisenberg as Zuckerberg is fantastic. I hear Oscars.

Now why can't I invent something that'll make me billions. I wonder if Mark Zuckerberg is happy with all that money? There's only one thing he wanted, and it wasn't that.

Straw poll

2010-10-15T10:02:00.000+01:00

Am I the only one watching Waterloo Road?

If you're unaware of it, it's Grange Hill for grown-ups (kinda). If I was about 12 I think I'd think it was the best thing ever.

Well I'm 45 and I still think it's pretty good. LIke Casualty or Holby City, it's one of those shows that because it's on all the time people think it's automatically rubbish. Not true. Some good actors, some not so good, some fanciful storylines, some firmly rooted in reality. I'm a fan, though I do miss Denise Welch. She was marvellous as rubbish French teacher Steph.

Did you know Amanda Burton was in it?

Anyone else following the show?

What can I say but 'Congratulations'?

2010-10-14T09:33:00.000+01:00

I've eulogised on here many a time about Cliff. And today he turns 70.

What a body of work. Far better known for his great singles rather than his classic albums (can you even name one?), he's been a constant through all our lives. We may not have liked everything, and for sure there have been some complete clunkers over the years, but recently I've been checking out some of his lesser known hits: Blue Turns To Grey, Sing A Song Of Freedom, Constantly, Joy Of Living (with Hank Marvin), Green Light, Suddenly (with Olivia Newton-John), the groovy Big Ship, Visions, Thrown Down A Line (with Hank again IIRC) and my absolute favourite The Day I Met Marie.

We've all got our favourites though. I've always had a soft spot for Wired For Sound, Devil Woman, Carrie, Please Don't Fall In Love and Do You Wanna Dance. You'll have yours whether you like him or not. Bit bored of Living Doll though.

Do you remember The Cliff Richard Show? In the early Seventies it was a Saturday night staple. He used to have guests and do comedy skits and Olivia Newton-John was always on. I remember a sketch where he came on and said 'I went out shopping today and bought Olivia a whole new wardrobe'. Cue Olivia coming on wearing... a wardrobe. I thought it was hilarious then, I still it's hilarious today.

When I interviewed Cliff about 11 years ago I wasn't disappointed. We had endless meetings before hand to hammer it all out. I interviewed him on the phone - he was at his Portuguese hideaway - and was told I had 15 minutes. But with so many stories to tell and and records to talk about, it was nearer an hour. The chat flowed and he was an absolute delight.

A few weeks later we went to shoot him at a hotel near his home in Weybridge. He's a small, slight man, quite intense, very well-preserved indeed but very tightly controlled by his management down to the last minute. I took along a bunch of singles and he signed them all most graciously. I was given a copy of The Millennium Prayer, and he was concerned it wouldn't get airplay. But it hit No.1 nonetheless. He was endlessly fascinating. There's no whiff of anything untoward, and if there was it was very carefully hidden. He was an all round Nice Man.

So happy birthday to you Cliff. You remain terminally unfashionable, there has been no revival or Tom Jones-like rebirth, though you did try with the whole Eighties Stock, Aitken Waterman thing, but it didn't make you cool. And the Young Ones just took the piss, albeit gently.

Like Matt Monro, Ken Dodd, Donald Peers, Val Doonican and Engelburt Humperdinck - wonderful voices all of them, he's in that naff bracket for most people, and though he's probably credited with kicking off British rock and roll no one ever says it too loudly. There has been no renaissance - he's always there. Long may he continue to be so.

Not going down very well

2010-10-13T10:12:00.000+01:00

Indigestion. It's a scourge, isn't it? I'm getting it all the time. I think it's not helped by stress. Not that I personally have much to be stressed about, but things in the course of your day can get you.

So when I woke up at four in the morning, dying of indigestion but convinced it was a heart attack, but realising it was the burrito I'd had earlier, I made a vow not to let things get to me. But I don't know how that's possible.

Do you?

"Would you do that for me, lovey? Would you? Promise me.."

2010-10-12T12:00:00.000+01:00

Sad to see Claire Rayner has died. I didn't realise she was so old and ill. She was a welcome staple of TV-AM, if I remember correctly, and despite finding her grating in the extreme, her presence was welcome and necessary.

There's something about her tied up with coffee, Woman magazine and my grandma and aunt that I find most comforting.

She's been off our screens for some time, but I'm glad - and I may well be alone in this - that her son Jay is on them. I like him on Masterchef and I gave that Food series a go on C4 but found the format wanting.

As I've said here many times, I fell down a pub cellar because I was walking down the street with a friend who'd spotted La Rayner outside Pret A Manger. In my effort to see her I plumemeted. That will be my abiding memory of her.

Eye Know

2010-10-08T09:47:00.000+01:00

On my way to and from work I pass a little supermarket. It always looks quite sparsely stocked but it's local and convenient. In fact, it's more of a convenience store in the way VG, Mace or Maid Marian was back in the day.

I noticed it was having a refit, and not before time, I pondered. However i see it's now become a peculiar hybrid of convenience store and optician.

Now, would you go for an eye test at VG? Well would you? Eyes are a delicate thing and must be cherished. If you get it wrong you could be in trouble. I've had endless to-ing and fro-ing to the opticians who got my prescription wrong - twice. Then at my last visit they told me my prescription was way too strong. Trust the professionals, right?

Well, yes, but I'd still rather to to a David Clullow or my current fave the 20/20 Optical Store in Tottenham Court road, than Mace. The 20/20 Opitcal Store is a cavernous hangar full of frames and eye-related products (and strangely, women's clothes). But it does have a cafe. The staff are to a man Australian-Asian, which is curious, though last time I got a woman who introduced herself primly as 'Miss Khan' while calling me by my first name. Her colleagues giggled at her behind her back and she was clearly unpopular among her peers. Or perhaps I'm reading too much into it.

Anyhoo, while we're talking of eyes, here's a song that reminds me of this time of year.

Putting One's Foot In It

2010-10-05T10:40:00.000+01:00

I went to get the cat a new basket at the weekend.

'How fascinating F-C,' I hear you trill. 'Do tell us more.'

Well not that interesting in itself, naturally, but it was one of those times when you think, what if i hadn't gone to get the cat a new basket? If I hadn't trekked miles to the Pets At Home superstore just so I could look at the bunny rabbits then I wouldn't have trodden in the most almighty dog shit that a nervous Staffy had just produced in the small animals aisle.

And I wouldn't have had to wait ages for a lackadaisical assistant to appear with some paper towels and Cif, while nearly gagging over the foul smell and trying not to look at said shit which had peculiar red bits in it.

The owner, clearly embarrassed, wasn't warning anyone so into it I stepped. I can still feel it now. Thank God I wasn't wearing shoes with treads. 'It's good luck' she offered, weakly. I smiled thinly.

I should have gone straight to Westfield instead.

Get off and milk it!

2010-10-01T10:10:00.000+01:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I HATE cyclists.

I don't want to tar everyone with the same brush, but those who abide by the rules of the road are few and far between.

Yesterday, while stationary at the traffic lights, a cyclist went into me and somehow this was my fault. When I hooted my horn, just because I would have liked them to acknowledge they fallen onto my bonnet while trying to weave through the tightest gap because of course they have to be right at the front of the queue or else, I was told to fuck off and should have left more room.

Needless to say I was incensed. Even the motorcycles and mopeds around her were dumbfounded.

So why was that my fault. She looked embarrassed and pissed off that she'd gone into me and the taxi in front - and left deep scratches on both of us, but is that a reason to be so hostile. Whatever happened to apologising? Perhaps just a small wave of the hand to acknowledge she'd gone into my car and didn't mean to. I wouldn't have minded.

The other day an old duffer on a bike rapped on my window and told me I was in the bike box at lights. 'When did you care about the rules?' I asked, as he proceeded to jump the lights against the oncoming traffic.

Grrrr. They should be banned. At once.

Look at the picture; that's David Miliband. As I came out of the office car park yesterday morning he was walking by with his wife and child. I nearly said something, but he looked so dejected with a head full of thoughts, I decided against it.

I'd like to see your face up in the sky

2010-09-28T13:41:00.000+01:00

Very sad to hear of the death of Sixties hitmaker Don Partridge. I've a huge soft spot for Blue Eyes, it's quite moving. The one-man band isn't to everyone's taste, but I liked it. His greatest hits is a lengthy affair, but if you're a sucker for a mouth organ then you'll love it.

Two princes

2010-09-28T12:08:00.000+01:00

So last night I went to a dinner at the Tower Of London.

I'd not been there since 1980 when we took our German exchange person to London on a day trip. He said he wanted to go to Stonehenge, being a bit Nuklearfission? Nein danke!, but dad wouldn't hear of it, he said it was too far away, although it wasn't, so off to London we went. Lipps Inc's Funkytown on the radio every half hour it seemed. He sulked the whole day. In fact he sulked the whole 10 days.

Anyhoo, I suppose we must have seen the crown jewels back then but I don't remember one single thing about it. So it came as a surprise to me just how interesting it all is. It's steeped in history at every turn. 'That's where Elizabeth I was imprisoned,' said the beefeater, 'and Anne Boleyn walked through that arch over there. In those towers the Krays were kept after going awol from the army.' You could feel the ghosts. It was a hauntologists dream.

It's so huge as well. At one time 5000 people lived there and there were more than 20 taverns. It's like a little other world. I once worked with a woman who lived there because she was married to a Beefeater. She had nothing but bad things to say about it, but frankly when it was all empty and floodlit it was quite beautiful. So clean and green and really...old. And I mean really old. No wonder Americans love it.

So we had a private view of the crown jewels, which was great not having to fight to see them through throngs of tourists - the excess is breathtaking. But the skip-sized gold-plated punchbowl would make any shindig go with a swing. Each scoop from it is a bottle-and-a-half of claret.

We had dinner in a tower, haunted apparently by Thomas A Beckett, and then got to see this ceremony where they lock up. It's all very atmospheric in the dark, whith no tourists around so it's all quiet and echoey. They do this every night I hear, whether there are people there or not, but if a tree falls in the woods and no one sees it... I love England.

I'd also never seen a raven before. They're huge and make a strange, almost tropical noise. There they were, all tucked up in bed, just in case they fly off and disaster subsequently strikes.

I used to walk past the Tower every day for two years when I worked round there, and it never crossed my mind to go in. When you live in a place you rarely make best use of it. It made me resolve to visit things like this more.

What a Corrie on!

2010-09-27T10:16:00.000+01:00

I don't normally blog about work stuff but I have to tell a little about the Coronation Street 50th birthday jamboree I attended on Friday.

I've never been to such a great do - and I've been to many. Much like the Silver Jubilee street parties of yore, it was a real treat. Almost the entire cast (no Eileen Derbyshire of course) were in attendance for pies, peas, singing, stalls and merriment on the very street itself. It was enormous fun, and for a lifelong fan like me a real sense of occasion. It's part of history, let's face it.

In my 15 years of going up and down to Corrie there are some people I've never met, some I've never so much as clapped eyes on. One of those was the legendary Betty Driver. I've never ever seen her until now. She's always reminded me of my grandma, a bustling woman from Wigan who was just like Betty. Seeing and meeting her on Friday was like grandma was born again. It made me feel quite weird. And she's just like she is on the telly, too.

Another enigma is Barbara Knox, who plays Rita. She may be elderly but she looks great and she was charm itself.

So after a day of drinking and chatting with cast and crew, we came away laden with Corrie goodies, like DVDs, books and flying ducks. It was quite a surreal experience, and one that's unlikely to be repeated in my lifetime.

We see Betty Turpin, but only when she's working

He stoops to conker

2010-09-23T09:20:00.000+01:00

Walking through an on it's way to becoming autumnal Regent's Park this morning I saw some horse chestnut shells lying on the path. And best of all, they were unopened.

Remember the thrill of conkers? As a shiny, bunny rabbit-brown nut popped out of its case I was transported back to a time when going to get conkers was a really big deal. Though I wasn't acutely aware of it at the time, it meant autumn as upon us and lots of fun was to be had boring holes in them, attaching them to bits of string and seeing how long they'd last against your equally vicious and single-minded opponent.

Dad would drive us miles to find horse chestnut trees, and often we'd find ourselves on private land. There was no point going to parks or any trees we new of - they'd already been totally decimated but others in similar pursuit. Once we'd found our quarry we'd bake them in the oven, pickle them in vinegar, coat them in clear varnish - anything to make a champion. None of this really worked of course. One smart smash from another one and it'd be in bits. The playground was littered with mulched conkers.

I noticed the park's trees this morning were more or less untouched, with the pods just dropping naturally to the ground. This either means kids don't do conkers anymore or there's a super-efficient parkie on the look out for boys with long sticks.

Anyway, my one conker is sitting here by my side so I can admire it's rich patina and pretend it's still the Seventies. Just like a normal day.

SWs to her

2010-09-21T10:26:00.001+01:00

I realise I'm probably alone here, but I'm rather fond of Sarah Kennedy.

I think it's a bit of shame she's off. Indeed, she is the human embodiment of the Daily Mail, but in the interests of balance I think we need someone like that. We don't necessarily agree with what she says, and the very fact that she says it and makes us cross or agitated can only be a good thing. We don't all want wall to wall political correctness all the time. It's dull.

But her proclivities aside, I find her strangely comforting. Those fruity, home counties tones are somehow rather comforting. I like her quirkiness, the way she cuts off records and plays sound effects, and even the way she witters on about pets and children. She should be everything I hate but for some reason I don't.

I don't know about any alleged drink problem, and for sure she's come on a bit slurry sometimes, but there have been vicious rumours about her for years and they quite clearly come from within the BBC. Doesn't she look tired, though?

I think my soft spot for her goes back to her Southern TV/TVS days. It as my local ITV station and she seemed quite affiliated with it. Then came Game For A Laugh and Busman's Holiday and I never, ever found her irritating. Not even on the radio.

I wonder where she'll turn up next? I don't know who'll take over, but to my mind there's no one as restful or as bonkers who is right for that slot, unless you know different.

Glass-topped coffee tables

2010-09-17T10:29:00.000+01:00

What do all the following have in common?

Trevor Eve
Joan Armatrading
Imogen Stubbs
Valerie Singleton
Juliet Morris
Pam St Clement
Jennie Bond
Richard Gere
Jerome Flynn

That's right. They all have unsubstantiated stories attached to them.

We won't be telling the stories, obviously, but can you think of others who fall into this bracket?

Did Lesley have a smashing time?

2010-09-16T09:46:00.004+01:00

I went to a book launch last night. Only briefly, but it was full of stars both old skool (Cilla Black, Barbara Windsor, Rolf Harris) and not so old (Louis Spence, Roberta Taylor). Most interesting though was the low key appearance of Rita Tushingham.

She's instantly recognisable by her pixie face and that long ash blonde bob she's sported pre-Bread. I didn't speak to her, but I was hovering with intent armed with Straight On Til Morning, Smashing Time and of course, A Taste Of Honey. In fact I didn't speak to any of the celebs in attendance last night except the host. I can never think of a thing to say. Unless you're forcibly sitting down with them they don't really want to talk to journalists, unless you have history. I think it's my problem, as colleagues don't seem to have any difficulty at all. Me, my mind goes blank.

Sometimes it's better just to look. One thing we did see on the way out was light opera buffoon Lesley Garrett being told she wasn't on the list. She smiled grittedly, but was clearly mortified, but the girl on the door clearly had no idea who she was. It was too embarrassing to watch so we left. They hate it when they're recognised by even more so when they're not.

A breed apart.

TV Scream

2010-09-15T09:45:00.003+01:00

I think I'm tired of the Seventies.

Not all the wonderful things that occupy me to this day, but the way they are portrayed, especially on TV. If you saw any of that Young Ones programme last night, in which Sylvia Sims, Kenneth Kendall, Lionel Blair, Derek Jameson, Liz Smith and Dickie Bird - all ancient - moved into a house to live their life like it was 1975, then you'll know what I mean.

Now, the Seventies have become one long decade of novelty garishness. But as we know, having lived through the decade, it wasn't ALL like that. Perhaps I missed something, but every room of that house was the most unsettling it could possibly be. With hugely patterened wallpapers, sunglasses-on paintwork and fabrics Margot Ledbetter would baulk at. It truly was an assualt on the senses. I do hope that this was done on purpose, in order to give these old sticks a jolt. Because if it wasn't, then the researchers should be shot.

Everything about those years has now melded into one. No attention is paid to what year a song was released, what was popular on TV or what the fashions were. It's now simply all 'Seventies'. The Eighties are going the same way. Even if something was set in 1989 you can bet you'll see white socks and soul slippers, while something from Top Gun plays on the radio. I find it incredibly irritating, don't you?

Anyway, this show was mildly amusing. It's meant to be a social experiment to see if age is all in the mind, but really it's just time tourism. Some great clips though. I love the music that plays on the Generation Game when the conveyor belt goes along. What's it called and where can I find it?

Yes, okay, can't stay away

2010-09-14T10:12:00.005+01:00

Well that didn't last very long did it? Sometimes I think you just need to admit it's not working and it solves the problem, so here we are again, hurtling toward 1000 posts.

So at the weekend my parents celebrated their golden wedding. Fifty glorious years. Of course, they've had their ups and downs but which marriage doesn't. As a family we've had our moments too, but at the end of the day blood's thicker than water. I had to give a speech which I was dreading because I knew I'd well up during it, and I did. But then so did everyone else and when that happens everyone's very forgiving.

At their silver wedding in 1985 when I was 20, a family friend grabbed me in the kitchen (now that hurts) and strong- armed me into making a speech. I had nothing prepared as it hadn't even occurred to me to do so, but I winged it and it was fine.

This time I was prepared but it was so much more emotional. So much water has passed under the bridge since then. What was really noticeable about the day was not who was there, but who wasn't. At the 25th we had grandparents, uncles aunties, great uncles and aunts, cousins, etc. This time there was mum's sister and my dad's sister, with accompanied by one fifty-something son apiece. The rest are either dead or scattered to the four winds. But there were grandchildren there. Does this sound like an M&S ad.

But the heartening thing was the amount of friends who were there. Socially they're busier than we are! They're still whooping up in their seventies. Many's time I've had to send them to bed for being drunk and laughing at their own jokes until they cried. Secretly of course I thought that was great.

I'm not holding out much hope for a 60th, but hey, you never can tell. They're an example of growing old gracefully. I hope I've learnt a lot from them.

See ya!

2010-09-11T13:34:00.001+01:00

This is blog is now on indefinite hiatus.

I've really run out of steam at last.

Thanks for all your support. Watch this space though, I may return.

It's three from Five Friday!

2010-09-03T09:56:00.002+01:00

Still devoid of anything meaningful to say, music is still grabbing me. So let me share it with you.

First up is this little gem I discovered on a Dutch compilation. It was a Netherlands No.1 in something like 1974 and when I heard it the other day I had a major Proustian rush. I'm sure this cartoon clip was shown endlessly. In France it was and it was a hit in Australia. It's from the should have been massive concept album The Butterfly Ball. Vocals by Ronnie James Dio.

Talking of Australia, here's the lovely, Tull influenced, Arkansas Grass, a top ten hit in 1969.

And staying on a down under tip, he's the wacky but super poppy Hayride by the very Sixtiesly named Flying Circus. Ignore the woodpeckers and chipmunks. Not sure of the significance.

It's five from Five Friday!

2010-08-27T09:53:00.003+01:00

Mull over these tunes during the Bank Holiday weekend. And have a good one.

First of all, here's a current fave, from that time in the late Sixties carrying on throughout the Seventies when the funk got gritty. See also: Love Child, Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology), Ball Of Confusion and all Sly & The Family Stone.

Now it's the Wurzels-like Bottle of Wine by the Fireballs (without Jimmy Gilmer).

Now it's Manfred Mann foghorn and the best-preserved man alive with his 1967 solo smash

And now my 1983 crush, available at last on CD:

Because I never tire of it, it's Joy. I'm at a loss to understand why this was on Disco Fever:

The star of the show...is him

2010-08-26T09:24:00.006+01:00

Finally got around to watching both those Unforgettable... programmes on Jeremy Beadle and Bob Monkhouse this week.

What do you think of when you hear those names? One's a beardy irritant with a withered hand and the other is a much-missed national treasure? Probably. That's what I thought. But the difference is Bob was lucky enough to be able to transcend his cheesiness, reinvent himself for a new generation and remain a comedy giant in the eyes of the public.

Poor Beadle was more or less hounded off the telly, reviled by all and not welcome on our screens at all. It was so sad, We never got a chance to see the real man and he never got a second chance to show us. Rehabilition was not an option. I wonder if people even know he's dead.

The show was most illuminating. Did you know, for example, that he put on the Bickershaw pop festival in the early Seventies? Not growing up in London, I had no idea he was an LBC radio regular which then led to his inclusion on Game For A Laugh which, like everyone else, I loved until all the good hosts left and Lee Peck turned up. And as I've said before, we don't have enough programmes featuring stools these days, especially ones in which people sit on them, laughing. There was some great archive footage.

Anyhoo, why did we all go off Beadle so much? The pranks certainly became tiresome, I didn't like him on You've Been Framed and it seemed he was on everything. But of course behind the scenes everyone loved him. I nearly cried when I saw the inscription on his gravestone - "ask my friends', the people who really knew him wouldn't hear a word against him. Turns out he was one of nicest men in showbiz, raising more than £100m for charity. And we never knew.

I'm never disliking a celebrity again...until next time.

I'm gonna jump in a crater! (See you later!)

2010-08-25T09:46:00.005+01:00

Look, I'm not dead, just not in the mood really. There's nothing wrong, but better to come back blazing than dribble on about how seriously, properly funny and well-written series one of Friends is, my new admiration for Lava by the B-52's and it's relationship to the tiki craze of the late Fifties/early Sixties, and have I done the right thing buying meatballs for dinner.

I'm busy with our annual awards ceremony too, and the aftershow playlist is all-consuming: New Seekers or not New Seekers?

See you soon.

More beautiful plates of food

2010-08-19T09:32:00.004+01:00

We haven't talked about Celebrity Masterchef yet.

Are you watching? I'm loving obviously. I really want Lisa Faulkner to win but I think it'll probably be Dick Strawbridge.

So Dick Strawbridge. A good cook, but would you really want to eat anything he'd prepared. Chances are it would have brushed against that hideous 'tache and there may well be wiry little hairs in your posset. It's most off-putting, like David Crosby doing the dinner. That, and that he's constantly sweating all over the place really puts me off, though I liked the look of his poached quince very much. I've not seen a quince in real life, only the cheese version, and so it came as a surprise. He grows all his own food, has a farm and is by all accounts a great cook. But if he asked for supper, I'd have to decline.

Lisa Faulkner looks on the verge of tears. When I saw her at a Sky Xmas do she was filming this and was very stressed. I can see why. Last night's dinner at the Taittinger estate piled on the pressure. She didn't cry, but it was touch and go. If she wins there's no point opening a restaurant - she'll never cope.

I've warmed hugely to Christine Hamilton, but she's a bit suburban dinner party so she won't win. She seems quite jolly and she's a real keep calm and carry on person, if I may be permitted to add to the overuse of that phrase. She's capable and turns out good stuff, but it's between Dick and Lisa. And she always wears the same fleur de lys earrings. I wondered if they might be hearing aids?

Your thoughts please.

"Not for those of a nervous disposition"

2010-08-18T10:00:00.003+01:00

Last night we did something we've not done for yonks: we went to the theatre.

London's glittering West End was host to Ghost Stories for a what must be described as work's outing. And very enjoyable it was too. It certainly chilled me, and coming from the men behind the League of Gentlemen it's suitably twisted. And if, like me, you're a fan of those Amicus portmanteau horror films of the early Seventies then this is the show for you. Shocks a-plenty as far as I was concerned, though others in our party thought it was unscary tosh, though none the less enjoyable for that.

I'm not a theatre fan per se - it's poky, hot, crowded, expensive and often hard to hear. TV actors on the stage don't know how to project unlike proper actors who've done their time in rep, etc., and I've seen some shockers. I once fell asleep in Artist Descending A Staircase, but then I'd had a few drinks and it was dull.

So not something I do often. People say, you live in London, 'You must go to the theatre constantly', to which I say 'I don't, but at least I know that if I want to, I can'.

Starring in alphabetical order

2010-08-17T12:46:00.003+01:00

There's nothing Mrs F-C and I like more than a mini-series. Usually to be enjoyed as the nights start to draw in, we've started earlier than usual with my picking up Holocaust in a sale in Jersey.

An odd thing to make a starry mini-series about, but I'm sure that when it first aired in 1978 it was probably quite something. The subject matter is of course shocking. It follows the story of a Jewish family from 1935 to after the war, taking in everything that entails. Believe you me, no stone is left unturned. You dont' even need me to tell you what those stones are, but they're far-reaching into every related corner of the history of the Holocaust.

The best thing about it is how full it is of well-known faces. Meryl Streep, already a biggish star back then is one. It also boasts David Warner (channelled by Ralph Fiennes in Schindlers List it's plain to see), Robert Stephens, a very young Tony Haygarth, Nigel Hawthorne, T P McKenna, James Woods, Rosemary Harris, Michael Moriarty, Sam Wanamaker, Tom Bell - the list is endless. Then there's all sorts of cameos by well-known faces. It's epic. They don't make these much anymore.

We've seen Rich Man, Poor Man, Roots, QBVII, you name it. When was the last time a truly epic, large scale, time-spanning lavish mini-series was on our screens? I don't count trash like The Deep cos it may have some big names but there aren't enough of them. And it's rubbish.

The late Seventies/early Eighties are truly the most productive time for this sort of thing. It seemed you could get anyone of any calibre to appear in them. And they were always talked about. Perhaps they do do them, but they're just not called mini-series anymore. Remember things like The Thorn Birds, Lace, Hollywood Wives? Packed with stars, and some currently reshowing on CBS Drama too. I know Red Scharlach wrote a great piece about them for TVCream but I can't find it. Can anyone provide the link.

Are you a fan?

...and relax

2010-08-12T09:14:00.005+01:00

I'm off for a bit for some much-needed soothing.

So until next time, let me leave you with a days schedule for my new TV channel that's designed to soothe you. Names were bandied about: Relax, MellowTV, Margaret, Cushion - but I think we'll go with Soothe.

What would you alter?

7am Ellen. Audrey inadvertantly causes a motorway pile-up
7.30 Ellen. Audrey inadvertantly upsets Nelson Mandela.
8am Everybody Loves Raymond. Marie and Debra fall out over a buncake recipe
8.30 The Good Life. Margot wears a kaftan while on the phone. Gerry pours another drink. Tom and Barbara make paper hats and snigger a lot.
9am Howards Way. The hostage situation at Periplus takes a shocking turn. Polly guests on Radio Solent, but finds it's Gerald who's doing all the talking.
10am Watercolour Challenge. Hannah Gordon marvels at the many different shades of green around Durham Cathedral gardens.
10.am Antiques Master. Sandi Toksvig collapses into a fit of giggles while modelling an original milkmaid's yoke.
10.30 Autumn At River Cottage. Hugh cooks kitten and nettle stew for the Cowslip Society's annual board meeting.
11.30. Out Of Town. Jack Hargreaves ruminates over a long-forgotten farming object while smoking a pipe.
12pm Pie In The Sky. Henry uses a double murder as an excuse to resurrect his mother's veal and ham pie recipe.
1pm The Fall And Rise Of Reginald Perrin. Joan's home made scones raise eyebrows at Reggie's birthday party.
1.30 Farmhouse Kitchen. This week: Grace jugs a hare and there's junket on the menu.
2pm Blockbusters. The person in the single seat doesn't win anything, and thinks he looks cool with his Morrissey quiff.
2.30 Fifteen-To-One. William G Stewart can't hide his irritation at the supercililous librarian in trap 12.
3pm Gems. It's a race against time to get that order out, and the hunt is on for Shirley's handbag.
3.30 Houseparty. That awful woman with the long dark hair, an ex-air hostess who lived in America and who my mum couldn't stand, talks us through her egg and milk diet. Ann Ladbury runs up a tabard, while Cherry and Mary Morris nearly come to blows over a lemon chicken.
4pm Wallander. Kurt experiments with an inadvisible hair tint, Svartman's hat blows into the canal and Ebba goes into a spin when someone leaves a foal in reception.
5.30 Robin's Nest. Victoria's father arrives unannounced with a business proposition. Meanwhile, there's panic in the kitchen when Albert temporarily looses the use of his other arm.
6pm. Food, Wine & Friends. Robert Carrier calls everyone darling and goes on a tour of the vineyards of Northern California with Petula Clark.
6.30 Degrassi Junior High. Someone you've never seen before but who's inexplicably in the opening credits for the series entire run finally gets a line. The twins play detective when they discover their mother running a gift shop at the Eaton Centre.
7pm Brookside. Sheila folds laundry while staring glassily from a window.
7.30 Brookside. Edna's sordid past as a former Miss Wallasey is laid bare.
8pm Cranford. Tongues wag when Miss Matty takes delivery of a facial sauna.
9pm Celebrity Masterchef. Gregg pronounces Mary Peter's fishcakes divine. John barks at Richard Fleeshman. Working in the professional kitchen has no bearing whatsoever on anyone's final scoring.
10pm The Two Of Us. Elaine's drinking drives a wedge between her and Ashley.
10.30 Survivors. The country is decimated by a hideous disease, which only the middle classes survive.
11.30 Juliet Bravo. Jean looks wanly on as a 10-year-old in a parka throws stones in an empty car park.
00.30 Classic Coronation Street: Hilda causes a scene when she discovers Stan doing a wordsearch with Betty Turpin.
1am Upstairs Downstairs. Hudson gets more than he bargained for on a day trip to Southwold.
2am Thriller. Donna Mills stars as woman new to town who unwittingly becomes embroiled in a blackmail scheme that goes tragically wrong.
3am Bergerac. Jim takes a roundabout route to question a Portugues cafe owner about a series of robberies.
4am The Protectors. Nyree Dawn Porter covers her breasts with a sheet.
5am Sons and Daughters. Irene finds herself in demand when the verandah collapses at Woombai.
5.30 The Cedar Tree. Word reaches Arthur that Lady Alice has taken a turn for the worse.
6am. All Creatures Great And Small. Siegfried is furious to find Tricky Woo asleep in his sock drawer.

Old Masters

2010-08-10T09:06:00.007+01:00

Every so often, and when you least expect it, a quiet little TV show hooks you in. You know, the ones that really relax you like River Cottage or Pie In The Sky or Name That Tune.

One such favourite of mine was daytime daubfest Watercolour Challenge with Hannah Gordon? Was there ever a more mellow show? Amateur artists, often with an inflated opinion of their own abilities, noodled about in the shadow of a cathedral or by a riverbank overhung with willow trees. Often in gently rained. Hannah would go from one artist to the next discussing technique, life, colour, love, etc. Then, at the end, there'd be a winner. What a lovely way to spend half an hour. Was there ever anything more soothing?

Since that got the axe there's been not much in that vein, but now I think I've found what I've been after. Tucked away on BBC2 at 8.30 on a Monday night is Antiques Master. I don't even know if it's series one, it's gone so under the radar. Here, four amateur collectors, often with an inflated opinion of their own abilities, are presented with a bunch of artefacts they must either put in the correct date order then value, identify an object from the past, answer questions on their chosen speciality then face a small quiz at the end of the show to determine the winner. Sandi Toksvig is your host, while Eric Knowles is the resident expert.

Shot - in all places - in a stately home in Burnley, these often pompous know-alls are soon shown up for what they are. You see them in antique markets and fares the length and breadth of Britiain, loudly proclaiming something to be worth a fortune, or misidentifying an object d'art. It's worth it to see the wind taken politely out of their sails, though last night they weren't too bad.

Sandi Toksvig is suitably jolly. In the hands of say Sue Perkins or David Dickinson it would be far too tense and noisy. She gets it just right. Her jokes are subtle and she's got a nice voice. Nasty line in suits though. She looks like Bernard Bresslaw on a daytrip to Cromer in 1974, only shorter.

We're reaching the semi-finals soon, and what I haven't gleaned about Spode or mid-Victorian spun glass is nobody's business. Catch it while you can. Some would call this a guilty pleasure, but not believing in such a thing I just call it pleasure. No need to feel guilty about liking something others may not. Only those who believe themselves to be on a higher cultural plane than everyone else have guilty pleasures.

Are you a fan?

Marry in haste...

2010-08-09T09:39:00.002+01:00

This popped up in my inbox this morning.

So who's tempted? I'm sure she's a hoot. And I hear her stuffed marrow is the toast of Minsk. A great catch for any man.

"Hello from russia, my name is Aleksandra I'm interested in so may things in this life. I enjoy socializing and going out with my friends, meeting different interesting people, learning something new from them. Reading is an important part of my life, I like many kinds of books, fictional and non-fictional. I'm interested in fine arts, philosophy and religion, cinema and music. I enjoy going to movies, theatre, and exhibitions. I love travelling and visiting new places, getting acquainted with their culture and traditions. I think of myself as of an open-minded, easy-going person, always ready for something new. I'm kind, tender and passionate, honest and reliable. I'd say that I'm a very romantic person, an idealist. I think that joy and happiness of life consist of those small things, which may be very important and which we can find in a smile of a friend, in a song of wind and in a ray of sunshine, in every drop of rain. My dreams…ther're so many of them. Some of them may seem crazy, some of them are common ones, but I'm happy that I have them and that I'm able to dream. I want to be happy, to love and to be loved. I wish to give my best to a man who would take me as I am, who would appreciate my thoughts and opinions, who would care about me, who's able to understand and support me. Of course, I'd do the same for him. I believe that somewhere in this world my soul mate lives, and I hope that someday we will meet. Meanwhile, I try to be happy with what I have and to take this life as it is, for it's worth living by all means! A man of my dream is smart, honest, kind, well balanced, confident, hard working, independent and reliable. He knows what he wants from this life and how to achieve it. He's romantic, tender, affectionate and understanding. He's able to love deeply, able to show and give his love. He'd be my best friend, my beloved one, my husband, a father to my children, my everything, and I'd be everything for him my email magnoliya333@yahoo.com"

Blimey

2010-08-06T09:57:00.001+01:00

It's all gone a bit quiet round here. Is it a summer thing or has the blogging bubble finally burst?

It was 20 years ago today

2010-08-05T09:36:00.003+01:00

August 1990

1. Working at I job I hated - and would be there for five more years!

2. Had a bitch of a boss called Madeleine. Up until then I liked that name. Now it reminds me of panic and hairy legs above the knee.

3. Hadn't yet got together with the future Mrs F-C.

4. Owned a flat with my brother and another that was far too expensive for us. One day he announced he was moving out, leaving me to it. Cheers for that.

5. Was totally and utterly skint

6. Squandered the mortgage money on myself. Consequently went into arrears.

7. Felt, at 25, that I was far too old to be doing whatever it was I was doing and should grow up.

8. Had a series of flatmates from hell, friends who turned into people you'd happily knife.

9. Was too, too hot

10. Was somewhat thinner than I am today.

1990: Glad that's over.

Here's that year's Capital Radio Party In The Park standout:. She knocked The Chimes and Beverley Craven into a cocked baseball cap. So where were you?

Livin' It Up

2010-08-03T09:26:00.003+01:00

Were you into jazz funk? Were you white socks and soul slippers? Did you groove to D-Train's You're The One For Me or Rodney Franklin's The Groove in a shiny grey suit with little chain over your tie?

Me neither,. Well, not as such. But back in '81/'82 there were plenty who did. This particular genre of music reminds me very much of that time. I was living with some relatives for six months while I finished off at the local college from Jan to June 82 while I waited to go off to sixth form boarding school. My cousin was at home and she was four years older than me. She was always out going to discos - never clubs - with her moustachied soulboy boyfriend Ashley, and from her room was an endless stream of funk, but usually Let's Groove by Earth, Wind & Fire or Kool & The Gang's Get Down On It.

Obviously I loathed all this. It was DEEPLY untrendy. From my room it was Japan, Human League, whatever The Face told me I should be listening to and the David Jensen show while I did my homework. I did rifle her record collection for things like Bryan Ferry's Let's Stick Together and Fox's S-S-S-Single Bed, and even a bit of Jethro Tull's Living In The Past, but she wasn't living in the past, she was out strutting her funky stuff to Shakatak and she never looked back.

Thing is, where I grew up, discos played disco songs. You had to go further afield to get specialist and at that time I didn't dare. I remember going all the way to Windsor once on a coach with some friends to see someone's brother and his band Funktion (!) play at a club there. It was a sea of shiny smart casualwear, lots of grey, lots of Modern Romance hairdos and would be Anthony Price suits, girls dancing around handbags in mint green and shocking pink, all getting down to the band. Then the disco started and we were all doing The Chinese Way whether we liked it or not.

My two abiding memories of that night are 1) being so desperate for the loo on the coach on the way there that I considered just doing it there and then in front of everyone; and 2) having my grey jacket stolen. I got it back week's later, but the moment had passed.

Anyhoo, it's only now when I hear such a thing that I can feel a warm affection for this stuff. Where I once would leave a room when Shakatak played I'm all over Easier Said Than Done, and Level 42 can slap their bass at my house any time they like.

Whatever happened to Penelope Tree?

2010-08-02T13:57:00.004+01:00

Crown half done, concussion gone, it's back to business. So, let's talk about Twiggy.

We may have done this before, so I do apologise, but I do think she's endlessly fascinating. And she's aged so well. I happened to chance upon a programme last night I'd not normally have bothered with. It was the first in a series in which professional irritant Alan Titchmarsh goes on a walk with a famous person, kicking off with Twiggy in Southwold.

The interesting thing about it was though, that it wasn't really about the walk but about Twiggy herself. Archive footage illustrated her rise to fame, with her and Alan talking about all the things she's achieved over her long and illustrious career. It was totally gripping. Imagine being such a Sixties icon. She said people often ask her what it was like to be in the Sixites, and she quite rightly said that she wasn't aware of being in the Sixties as it was just life back then. Lucky her.

She's managed to keep going all these years by trying so many different things, from singing (her song Please Get My Name Right was my old friend Jim's favourite song of all time. Not known for his discernment he also counted Air Supply's All Out Of Love in his Top Five), acting (I've not seen The Boyfriend, but it sparked a brief 1920s craze at the time, I'm told), TV presenting (This Morning wasn't a success), Broadway (good for her) and back to modelling again. I wonder if also she's quite easy to work with.

For such an icon she could be a nightmare, but she seems perfectly normal. And according to people I know who've had the pleasure, she is. So many tales to tell, she really should capitalise on it more. She's got such an insight into the Swinging Sixties, no one else comes close. You never hear a peep out of Jean Shrimpton do you?

Great name too. I remember going to a play of my cousin's in the local village hall when I must have been under five, so it was the Sixties. An old woman came on and was asked her name. 'Twiggy!', she replied. I thought that was hilarious. I still find it amusing now. She tried Twiggy Lawson for a bit but there's really no need for that. She's one of the few who are identifiable by their single name. You don't see Lulu calling herself Lulu Frieda or Lulu Lawrie or whatever surname she currently officially has.

Of course, she's a fox. She's still as natural and beautiful today as she's always been, if not more so.

I'll stop now.

The Bump II

2010-07-28T09:46:00.004+01:00

Thanks to all those who were concerned about the bang on my head.

You were right. I went to the doctor and he diagnosed concussion. Mild concussion, but concussion nonetheless.

I've banged my head before - often much harder than that, like when I fell out of a tree in 1973 because someone said Monster Mash was going to be on Top Of The Pops (it wasn't) and in my haste I slipped off the branch and cracked my head.

And there was the time when a kitchen cupboard corner practically pierced my skull. Then there was the lunchbreak in which Alison Tibbals pushed me into a wall outside the art block. It was my own fault, I was being mean to her. But that time I got to go to X-ray and we watched the Royal Variety Performance in the evening. Donovan was on. It's funny what you remember.

But I've never felt like this. I had all the classic signs. Thankfully it's fading, but it's kind of worrying. How quickly a life could change after such a simple thing. Like that woman who slipped on a mushroom in Sainsbury's and was paralysed from the neck down, you never know what's waiting to get you. You really have to watch yourself.

I'm either grabbing life with both hands and will do all those things I've never done before or I'm never going out again. I've not decided which.

The Bump

2010-07-26T09:49:00.005+01:00

Have you seen Inception? I expected nothing but I thought it was perfectly watchable. It made little sense but I thought it was well done. I actually at one stage found myself wondering how this whole dream controlling thing could be done, but then I think it was the concussion.

I banged my head so hard going up some stairs on Saturday night at someone's birthday do, I didn't realise quite how bad until I felt the matted blood in my hair on Sunday morning. I hit it on a very sharp-edged brushed steel thing that had been attached to this bit of wall going up the stairs. God it hurt all day yesterday I thought I'd have to go to A&E. I'm glad to say it's better today, but I can feel it as I write.

Serves me right really. I did bound up the stars after having had far too much to drink. We said we'd probably only stay for a couple of hours. Naturally it was 3am by the time we got home. We felt ultra-grim all day yesterday, what with my injury as well. I couldn't tell if it was that or the hangover. I think it was both.

I wasn't not looking forward to the party, but then again I wasn't looking forward to it either. It was vampire-themed, and although Mrs F-C made a good effort I thought wearing all black was enough. I'm not big on fancy dress. I looked at vampire teeth at the joke shop and baulked at the £27 price tag. I blame True Blood and Eclipse. For some odd reason vampires are all the rage and have pushed up the price of fangs.

Anyhoo my real point I was going to make was about rubbish DJs. Not that he was awful, but what DJ worth their salt doesn't have Amii Stewart's seminal disco classic and guaranteed floor-filler Knock On Wood? When I asked for it he said, 'the Eddie Floyd version?'. At that point I knew I was on a hiding to nothing. But he did have Funkytown by Lipps Inc., so that's alright then.

But he played We Are Family. I couldn't believe my ears. The dancefloor emptied. Someone came and asked for less Eighties, which at a 40th is the last thing you want. Poker Face went down well, nonetheless.

Jolly good fun in Redcliffe Gardens

2010-07-23T09:12:00.006+01:00

Medallion Man. That's a person you don't hear much of anymore.

Once bestowed upon anyone who wore a gold necklace amid a forest of chest hair, it was everyone from Fred Wedlock to Gary Davies to George Michael to Frank Butcher to the flash bloke in the espadrilles and silk shirt unbuttoned to the navel you'd find in nightclubs or wine bars. That man has all but died out.

So what's the modern equivalent of this lothario? For women, it seems to be the term cougar. How did this enter our parlance - and why? Now it's any attractive woman over 40 who's out to get a man. Calling all women: what do you think of this term?

There are all sorts of epithets that have bitten the dust over the past 25 years. Whither the Yuppie or the Dinkie? Where's the Fulham Wanderer, the Young Fogey or the the Nouveau Pauvres? They attempted a Sloane Ranger revival recently, updating it for the modern world, but it probably officially died when Diana did.

I've got a pile of handbooks at home on how to be most of these things. I have to say, Peter Yorks Official Sloane Ranger Handbook kept me amused for years. I went to school with many of the stereotypes, and it was spot on. A lot of them played up to it, protesting that the biggest insult in the world to them was to be called a Sloane. Secretly of course, they reveled in it. How Eighties is that?

So what media-invented tribes do we have knocking around today?

Dog on a string and other stories

2010-07-22T13:23:00.004+01:00

They've torn down that Democracy Village from Parliament Square.

Good. Bloody eyesore. What started off as a legitimate anti-war protest (we all agree with that) was inevitably hijacked by a bunch of crusties, latching onto anything remotely anti-establishment and thereby ruining it for everyone else. You need only take one look at the knitwear to know the score. It's all so studenty.

Anyway, it was a terrible mess. Parliament Square is quite lovely when it's all green and the trees are out, all surrounded by imposing statues. Commentators have said it's the death of democracy but of course I disagree. I'm afraid I'm not a woolly liberal.

I remember being in the car with my mum about 1990 and some crusties were demonstrating about the M3 being built through St Catherine's Hill in Winchester. We came to a standstill as they battled with police. This was Swampy time and, being 25, naturally I was on their side. But then the scales suddenly fell from my eyes and I knew then what we all know now: they were simply a bunch of middle class students slumming it for a bit, smoking too much dope and thinking they were living this romantic, nomadic existence outside society. They'll be accountants now. I've never taken them seriously since.

On another note, I'm really quite getting into Sight & Sound magazine. I've flicked through it at friend's house in the past, but never considered buying it because I thought it rather worthy and bit Pseud's Corner. I was wrong. It's a thumping good browse.

Wild in the country

2010-07-21T11:31:00.005+01:00

Do you find the countryside quite creepy?

When you're in the middle of nowhere and all you can hear are birds singing and a sudden breeze whips up - might a maniac Morris troupe appear out of nowhere and burn you at the maypole? Might a ghostly highwayman appear at the edge of the woods then disappear just as quickly? Whose is that abandoned bike on the bridle path? What's disturbed that murder of crows. It is quite chilling really. A light wind rustles the witches' brew and darkness is just around the corner. Better not be alone...

I was reading an article about the films of 'old, weird Britain' in Sight & Sound. It's not usually a magazine I buy, but the old weird thing caught my eye in the newsagent. It's a great feature, going back to almost as films began right up to the present day. The countryside is all about Straw Dogs and The Wicker Man, really, but of course that's only the tip of the iceberg. Apparently it all comes under the umbrella of hauntology.

I've dabbled in the music of hauntology, by the likes of Belbury Poly or Mount Vernon Arts Lab or The Focus Group. It's difficult, chilling, electronic and rather cold, and you can just imagine it as the soundtrack to a some Seventies British horror set in the country. I must discover more.

I've not finished reading the piece yet, but I'm hoping for more about films like And Soon...The Darkness, thought that's filmed in France. Still, it would work just as well in Britain. Old, weird, Britain. Brrrr.

The Generation Game

2010-07-20T09:19:00.002+01:00

There are lots of words that become so overused they begin to lose their impact and their meaning.

Hero - anyone who does anything we wouldn't do
Diva - any female singer, no matter what age or how she behaves
Legend - anyone who's been around for more than six months

But my current bugbear is generation, as in 'the best band of their generation' or 'we've not seen their like for a generation'.

Isn't a generation meant to be 35 years? In which case Oasis, currently being touted as the best band of their generation, should by rights lose out to Sailor. I think this whole generation thing is now taken to mean the last 10 years. Correct me if I'm wrong of course - and I know at least one person will - but I'm sure this can't be the correct usage of this phrase.

Here's the best band of their generation, then:

You can stop believing now

2010-07-19T09:15:00.005+01:00

So did you catch any of Five's Don't Stop Believing yesterday?

No? Well aren't you the lucky one.

I was kind of looking forward to it. It was to be a real-life Glee, the cream of Britain's show choirs competing against each other in what was sure to be a moving and entertaining experience.

Oh dear. This sub-X Factor froth was appalling. One and a half hours of pure bollocks. Hosted, and i use that term very loosely, but Emma Bunton, it was execrable. Yes it was flashy and HD but it was utterly derivative and though live, didn't need to be.

I felt a bit sorry for the judges. All were tough and doing their best Simon Cowell. We had some unfortunately-named choreographer called Chucky, 'Duncan from Blue', (M)Anastacia and Tamsin Outhwaite, currently wowing them in Sweet Charity I believe, and having worked very hard to get to this power position couldn't shake the 'How the hell did I end up in this shit?' look off her face.

The choirs were flat, tuneless, out of time, and embarrassing. It was all eyes and teeth, exaggerated movement and of course there was the requisite slightly camp fat one who stuck out like a sore thumb. And all the names are really bad. Where to do they get them from? Sing Station? What does that actually mean?

Let's go through them.

Eschoir, a bunch of blokes who fancied themselves told us they were going to do a really 'sexy' routine to a great song. They sang Sex On Fire (yawn) to a showgirl which was about as passionate as a damp flannelette nightie. It was so cringy it was laughable. They lost.

Dice were a bunch of show-offs doing a mix of something old-fashioned yet modern with a bit of Abba thrown in. Better, but only just.

The Manchester Show Choir did Lady Gaga's Poker Face. There was so many of them, and I really think some songs do not lend themselves to a thousand voices. It just gets messy. They lost too.

I can't even recall what Step Up did, though they were urban, but the worst by far was The Classix who did a really awful, unnecessary version of Video Killed The Radio Star, with a fat bloke and someone who looked like Robin Gibb in giant TV. You can guess what happened to them.

The eventual winners were a group of kids, mainly from a children home, who used paint to enhance their rendition of Cyndi Lauper's True Colours (double yawn). They were terrible, and clealry only won because of their sob story.

Now, I'm no expert, but I do watch Glee and with that being the bandwagon they were jumping on I expected more. Last Choir Standing was far better and that was pre-Glee. If only it had been post-Glee it might have stood more of a chance.

This show is shamelessly bad. They've really got to lose Emma Bunton. Who cares about her anyway. Always the least interesting Spice Girl - and that's saying something - she can't host, she fluffed every line, she has zero personality and she's not a draw.

Let's not even get started on the show's Supergroup, a talentless mix of showy wannabes drinking in the last chance saloon.

Will I be watching again? No.

And much as I like it, I don't think I want to hear Don't Stop Believin' for a very, very long time.

Pale and Wan

2010-07-15T09:23:00.004+01:00

It's official. Gok Wan is the world's most irritating man.

I've suffered through many - Mrs F-C is a fan. She says she thinks Gok is just the sort of person you need to put you at ease and make you feel good about yourself. She may be right, but I think he just tells people what they want to hear. In this day and age when people can't even open a wardrobe without bursting into tears he's a shoo-in for this psychological fashion fix. The whole thing's absurd.

From his hair to his glasses to the horrific outfits he shoehorns people into, his whole persona gets right on my pip. His lexicon, his silly parlance: 'Get those bangers out, girlfriends', 'Auntie Gok is always right', etc., etc. And the way he uses his being gay to define himself - it's cringe-worthy. Note to Gok: We know.

Last night he 'did' a man (cue endless double entendres running throughout). It was interesting, but the man didn't really need doing in the first place. In fact, many men would have killed to be that slim, including me. But not how others see you, is it. Anyway, he and this guy almost came to blows because Gok, though calm, was a bit bossy and quite rude and you could tell he'd rather be dealing with emotionally-damaged fat women from Runcorn.

I do wonder that if once the cameras off he's mocking these poor creatures with his acolytes. I'd hate to think so. I want to know he actually cares deeply about his subjects. But he seems to have an edge.

I have met him, and he was friendly if mildly dismissive, but he was quite new to all this back then and was wide-eyed with wonderment at this showbiz world he'd stumbled into. Not anymore, allegedly.

It's always the way. They start off lovely, then get well-known, start to believe their own hype, won't take no for an answer (if anyone dares say it in the first place), get ghastly and demanding and difficult with an eye on Hollywood and end up doing adverts for yoghurt. They don't know when they're well off. I'm looking at you Martine McCutcheon. There's a lesson for every showbiz wannabe right there.

It's not to late to turn back now, Gok.

Raindrops on roses No.19

2010-07-14T09:18:00.005+01:00

It's satisfying when you come to a decison about something.

After many years of not giving it a second thought, I've decided on my favourite colour for the first time ever.

It's cream.

I'm not sure how I came to this conclusion, but I have. We're talking clothes here of course, though It'd be appropriate in any area of life. I find it fresh, modern, unshowy and calming. But it's got to be that nice, pure cream, not tipping over to magnolia or Buff or DHSS.

For a while there it was green, and I've been told red is my colour on more than one occasion, but it's never my first choice. I'm most often seen in black and white, but it's time to branch out. Anyone know where I can get a nice cream shirt from? My least favourite colour is aubergine purple. Reminds me of my old boss. She even had the hair to match.

On a similar note, I have also decided that my favourite flavour yoghurt in the Activia range - and I've tried them all - is kiwi. Apricot is No.2. My least favourite? Strawberry.

God I sound like I've got Asperger's. Or just dull.

Twonk

2010-07-13T09:51:00.005+01:00

I went to a quiz last night organised by UKTV channel G.O.L.D.

It was held at a social club in Euston that had been decked out like the Nag's Head in Only Fools And Horses - not that it needed it, it had it all going on already - and it was hosted by Boycie actor John Challis.

It was fun. We came third.

Knocking around all night were lookalikes of Uncle Albert and Del Boy. I've seen the Del Boy one a lot at things over the years. He's aged along with David Jason and is uncannily like him. With his camel coat and his Del Boy patter and his wristsful of watches and flat cap, he lives the dream.

When me and a colleague were having a fag outside between rounds, he came by with his penis x-rays and his Viagra jokes and while mange tout, mange tout-ing we managed to get him out of character for about five minutes. He's a former actor - he's played the dame - he's been doing this for 15 years, everyone thinks he's David Jason but he's not allowed to pretend he is to autograph hunters so signs himself Del Boy 2. And his name's Maurice.

Hat's off to him, he must make a good living out of it. But what a strange life. Can there more bizarre than being someone but not having all the benefits that actually being that person involves? This impersonator is an actor by trade, and now he acts as David Jason as Del Boy as a full-time job. Well, it's a means to an end and he seems to enjoy it.

If it all went tits up, who would you be?

Mojo not working

2010-07-07T09:27:00.002+01:00

Has everyone kind of gone off blogging?

Perhaps it's the weather but it's a struggle to find something to say and I feel I'm repeating myself a bit, which is needless because there are a million stories to be told. It's just that I can't be bothered to tell em. And besides, it's not there's a queue to hear them. They're far better in a nutshell.

So here I save myself many blogposts:

1. The time I was barred from all branches of Carrefour for life for throwing a mushroom at a fat woman who turned out to be a store detective.

2. My hateful summer job working at the B&Q show warehouse with a fellow student from a different university who sat in his car all lunchtime and ate chips.

3. The night I was made to sing Summer Nights with a girl who'd run away from an arranged marriage at the work Christmas party. (the shame).

4. The day I realised rave culture was not for me.

5. Why, at 25, I thought my life was over.

6. The time I squandered my flatmates' rent money on myself.

7. My super-mean flatmate who forbade us from having any heating on, putting the gas fire on before she got home and chided us for using too many (free) matches.

8. My flatmate who did washing in the middle of the night and appeared on Crimewatch (it was definitely him).

9. The time I stayed at the British Embassy in Qatar and how we ate the same turkey for one whole week.

10. Feeling out of depth day one at boarding school, but soon getting into the swing of things.

11. How I wrote of a car on a test drive and pulled my mother from the smouldering wreckage.

12. Auntie Maggie's groundbreaking 1972 hip replacement op after falling off the open platform of a bus.

13. When I worked with Seal's manager's girlfriend and our trip to see him on Wogan.

14. My very first job in London, and what a total disaster it was.

15. What the Farmer's Wife dairy range meant to me.

Here's Golden Earring(s) with my song du jour:

Don't bring Lulu

2010-07-06T09:19:00.004+01:00

So I was just about to tut at Cheryl Cole for 'collapsing' at an X Factor audition, chiding her for feeling exhausted after doing nothing much but sit in judgment on other people - I mean really, what sort of monster does that? - and not taking into account her marriage woes because, let's face it, that is quite another story altogether, when it turns out she's actually got malaria.

Ouch.

I know from experience - not my own I might add - that this is an awful thing to have. I remember when I was at school and a Nigerian boy had it. You could hear him howling in agony through the night. It stays in your system forever.

So instead, let's rubbish Adrian Chiles and 'beat me on the bottom with a' Christine Bleakley. They're coming to brighten up Five-Centres' least favourite show of all time but a must-see nonetheless GMTV. Only, when they come they're calling it Daybreak or something.

On the one hand it's good for them for seeing off my sofa wonks Ben Shepherd and Andrew Castle. But on the other hand I'm fighting back hot, angry tears here while writing the words £6m deal. Seriously? They think they're worth that much? I doubt it. It's the usual TV think of, 'someone said they like these people, so we must throw ridiculous sums of money at them and over-expose them' - because that always works.

A taciturn Brummie prone to tantrums, stuffed into uncomfortable shirts who does a nice line in dry quips for half-an-hour a day on The One Show, and his coat hanger WAG of a sidekick with her Armchair Thriller grin - they're hardly filling the world's gaping talent void. They have a certain chemistry, I agree, but can they produce that in the a.m.? They'll be knackered for starters. The knives will be out, and the whole thing will be a disaster. And they're keeping top of the range oddity Kate Garraway which is not ideal. Shame about Emma Crosby though, as I was just beginning to get irritated buy her.

So we'll see.

But the good thing about all this is there seems to be no way back for Fiona Phillips. Where is she now? All those 'other projects' she was meant to do; what, like taking out the rubbish or making a devil's food cake? Busy now, eh Fiona? Her political ambitions came to nought too, but then if Gordon Brown was a fan alarm bells rang. Perhaps she could do a couple of mornings a week in a boutique if she was stuck, or Mondays at War On Want. It's nice to give something back.

Who wants a powerpop summer?

2010-07-05T09:46:00.005+01:00

I thought I might have an 80s American powerpop summer. This may comes as bad news to Mondo, on whose blog I'm guesting shortly when I've made my mind up which three tracks to pick. Or he might embrace it. It's a minefield, I tell ya.

Anyway, this stems from a sudden remembrance of John Parr's Naughty Naughty. John Parr was of course the hitmaker behind the briliant St Elmo's Fire (Man In Motion), one of my favourite tunes of all time (and for a very long time my ringtone) from one of my favourite films of all time. The growling rocker reached a peak with that, and from there it was downhill all the way.

So, listening to some US stuff over the weekend I was reminded of Naughty Naughty. At the time I thought it was daft, but now I can see it's a corker. I love anything from sort of 83-86 that fits in with that Brat Pack feel. You know, post-new wave powerpop with a rock edge that could only have been made in America. I loved it then as I love it now: John Cafferty, The Romantics, The Cars, Cyndi Lauper, The Go-Gos's (sic), Joan Jett, Journey, The Motels, John Cougar Mellencamp, etc. And let's not forget the bands from here who were bigger over there: The Fixx, Wang Chung, Naked Eyes, etc., and not forgetting John Parr himself.

Sadly you can't embed the video (don't know why people disallow these things) so click the link

So here's the Go-Go's

Death to Lenny the Lion

2010-07-02T09:55:00.004+01:00

You can't create a craze, it just happens.

So with that in mind if I see one more advert or poster campaign featuring some silly little animal puppet or alien character whom you're encouraged to then follow on Facebook or go directly to their internet page in the hope that a nationwide love-in of Meerkat proportions gets off the ground, I will carry out my threat to run through a country town in a see-through latex bodystocking and footless tights.

I noticed one this morning as I was going up the Tube escalator. This was something called 'Hector'. There was no info, except a URL where we can, if we are so inclined, follow the adventures of this cartoon dachsund who no doubt is meant to be a character we're all meant to find hilarious and fall in love with. Enough already.

Those meerkats have a lot to answer for. That particular moment passed a long time ago. I don't want to see them building up their part in little stories about wars or family history. It's not funny. It was never funny. But now TV is full of these wannabes.

I noticed two in swift succession just the other day, but so tedious were they I don't recall anything about them. It just registered with me that here once again was some shameless bandwagon jumping by marketeers with an eye on the main chance. Well, that is their job I suppose.

There have been many hateful creatures over the years: flat Eric, those Vauxhall Corsa things, the Comfort family who look like they were created out by Clothkits, etc., and they all have their Twitter accounts and their Facebook pages. I mean really, what kind of nutcase actually checks these things out? Kids? Educationally stunted adults with an under-developed sense of humour? Probably.

Or is it you?

Mummy, Matthew said there's an alien in the pantry

2010-07-01T10:10:00.003+01:00

I never saw kid's TV favourite Chocky first time around. Though I remember it being on, I was far too busy being 18 to take any notice.

So when the chance came to see it, I thought I'd give it a go.

If you're unfamiliar with Chocky, it's about a boy who's possessed - sort of - by an alien creature scouting the earth for it's natural resources or something. Anyway, he acts strangely, parents get worried, but it all seems to be real and not the early signs of schizophrenia. The end. John Wyndham wrote it.

It was quite watchable, not for the very thin, very stretched out story, but more for the 1984ishness of it. Kids would never sit still for this today. It's what we would now call painfully slow in the way that kids TV was back then, but what is now known as the story gently unfolding, like Mad Men without the acting.

The acting is shocking from the main boy. No wonder he was never heard of again. The horrid little sister Polly is pain in the arse but quite funny for all that. James Hazledine and Carol Drinkwater shine as the middle class parents trying to keep it together, but toward the end Carol just can't help losing it and spends the last few episodes hysterical, trapped in her pastel green kitchen, surrounded by wheatsheaf print toasters and kettles. No wonder she hits the wine.

That said, it was quite entertaining, and I'm now on the look out for Chocky's Challenge and Chocky's Children, but I do hope they're a little more fast-moving and hta tsomething actually happens.

Other DVD sets I've really enjoyed recently include Big Love, series 3 and we've just started Roseanne, series 1. Talk about stilted. I used to think this was very funny indeed, but she's a TERRIBLE actress and it hasn't yet found its groove. I'm sticking with it hoping it will.

And on Cocktail's advice I watched the excellent Bronco Bullfrog, a black and white Mod classic from 1969.

Now, let's have some music

2010-06-30T09:19:00.005+01:00

Who remembers calling Dial-a-Disc?

For those whose memories don't go back that far this was a GPO (pre-BT) service through which you called a number and listened to a chart hit. Usually you'd come in in the middle of the hit and either wait to hear it again or hear another one. They had about three or four on a rota, and that was kind of it. I remember hearing - appropriately enough - Meri Wilson's Telephone Man.

This was the Seventies - I don't remember it being around in the Eighties - so you couldn't put it on speakerphone or anything, you had to hold the phone to your ear to hear a record. So why not just put the radio on? I think it's one of the oddest ideas of all time.

Ever use it? I'm sure we just called it because it was there, usually when mum and dad were out between prank phone calls to people telling them we saw their husband kissing the woman from number 14 outside Peter Dominic, saw their daughter on the back of a black man's motorbike (well it was the Seventies), or that their Chinese meal was ready, complete with comedy accent. Oh those salad days.

So thinking about it, I'm at a loss to think of a good reason to have Dial-a-Disc other than it being a revenue stream for the GPO. It's not like you could listen in quadrophonic stereosound or anything. At best it was tinny AND fuzzy. But listen we did.

What was the number? Three digits, surely? How long did it go for, when did it start and is it still going?

Mixing it

2010-06-29T09:04:00.004+01:00

I'm sure I must have posted about this before because I can't believe I haven't. So stop me if you've heard it before, but did I ever mention that I used to take compilation tapes to parties and insist they get played?

I flush with shame every time I think of it, and I can't believe I was such a controlling monster but whether requested or not (usually not), I'd take off what was playing and put my own stuff on, convinced I knew how to get the party swinging.

Now, often it worked. But just as often it didn't. A misjudge of major proportions was a house party in Crouch End where the music was flamenco background. Everyone seemed to be quite comfortable with this, except me of course, so I surruptitiously ejected the tape and put my own in, kicking off with Martha Reeves & the Vandellas Nowhere to Run. The hostess came flying over to berate me and put her music back on, but I physically blocked her path and refused. How dare I! It didn't end well.

At another do in Hendon I threatened to punch someone and called them a dwarf as they wanted to take of the Sixties ska compilation I'd forced on.

I think I must have been a very different person then, as I wouldn't dream of doing that now. It's INCREDIBLY rude. I don't know when or why that behaviour stopped, but it must have been about 10 years ago when the house parties started drying up. Thank God that period of life is over.

Invariably they were either a terrible crush or only had about five people rattling round in the kitchen making awkward smalltalk. You usually travelled a fair distance across London to get there, only to have to hide your booze in the oven or somewhere else no one would think to look for it. You'd know perhaps a handful of people and wonder why you bothered, then have to get a nightbus home, dodging drunks and streams of vomit, then waking up vaguely hungover the next day.

I can only think of a few I enjoyed, and they were strictly confined to an era during which I worked in a shop and you knew everyone at everything. And the studenty ones were fab in the main, even the shit ones are memorable. Otherwise they were simply dire. Invitations would chill me to the bone, depending on the person.

So when do house parties stop, exactly? Once everyone has children or gets coupled up or gets a place they actually own rather than a rental property that can be trashed and no one cares? Nowadays it's polite drinks parties or dinner parties, where you'll know people and it's far more civilised. No one's going to steal your Hoover or piss under the stairs... or insist everyone listen to the hits of 1971 whether they like it or not.

Anyhoo, now if anyone asks for music then I'm more than happy to provide it. But otherwise, that's their affair. I may think it's dreadful, but it's not for me to say. I'll just pick something else while they're not looking.

Look! Emma Watson's got a new boyfriend - and it's official

2010-06-28T16:34:00.005+01:00

I see Emma Watson's gone official about her new boyfriend George Craig.

Fans must be up in arms. She's not actually allowed to have a boyfriend if they have their way. Remember the fuss this post caused?

Let me refresh your memory. I stood next to her at the bar while she openly snogged some bloke. I was called a lair, among other things, and I'm proud to say for a brief moment there I became an international hate figure among the Emma Watson barmy army for daring to suggest she's not really Hermione Granger and that a woman has needs.

Good for Emma. She's just a young woman having fun. I took a peek at one of the trillions of fan sites and already the terminally bonkers have a misplaced concern for her. "But what sort of man is he?" they shriek. "I'm so worried for her," they cry.

Leave her alone fans. It's not like she'll ever date YOU. And she won't be going out with Daniel Radcliffe anytime soon either because... well, let's leave it there.

She's clearly got bigger fish to fry.

A new day dawns

2010-06-28T09:54:00.006+01:00

If I'm totally honest, I'm quite glad England are out of the World Cup. Only because it serves them right.

It's the relentless hype in the run-up, all this bravado about how we can win it, should win it, deserve to win it. Then there's all the silly superstitions about how this and that happened in 1966 so therefore it's a good omen. But of course we're shit and we know we are, so here we are embarrassingly dumped out of the competition. Was I alone in snapping my vuvuzela over my knee?

I think I really hate Wayne Rooney. The spud-faced nipper is defiantly rude. One of only two players not singing the National Anthem in some misguided show of defiance. Actually he's probably too thick to know the words. Then marching past the press, headphones in, face like thunder like their shame was someone else's fault. But at the end of the day, as they say in the football world, that lardy git let us all down.

You know, we put up with their immoral behaviour, their show-pony WAGS, their vanity and their seven-figure salaries, and what do we get in return? We're expected to support them every step of the way and we get nothing. And as for the manager, don't even start me. Six million nicker! It's an outrage. Blimey, anyone would think I actually cared.

So now we're back to normal. The England flags will be coming down all over Britain and supermarkets pretending those hugely pricey marketing spends never happened. We knew it was going to end this way really, didn't we?

Aim low

2010-06-25T09:34:00.004+01:00

I'm off to what they call a blogmeet tonight.

It's organized by the readers of a magazine I subscribe to and whose message board I'm all over. They all seem like a nice bunch and we certainly have lots in common, but it doesn't make me less anxious about going.

There have been a couple of these meet-ups before but I've never had the courage to go. The last one I chickened out of, despite having been out elsewhere earlier and fuelled by alcohol I couldn't bring myself to go into the pub. I walked past it two or maybe three times, but I didn't know who anyone was so I didn't want to go up to complete strangers and force myself upon them. Not that I'm a pushy person you understand, but you know what I mean. I wasn't ready to throw myself into a roomful of people I've not met before.

Thankfully, Mondo is coming to this one, so at least there's a friendly face to go with. I'm sure it'll be fine, but it's nerve-wracking. Despite being a journalist and have to go to all sorts of things solo, it's still not the easiest thing in the world.

Very early on in my journalistic career I was told by my editor that I had to attend a 45th birthday celebration for The Archers. It was held in really lovely room on the Thames embankment and was very busy. Being new to this world I didn't then know any other journos on the circuit - if I go to anything now I'll know at least three or four people minimum - so just kind of stood rooted to the spot for a bit, along with someone else doing the same. I'd also never listened to The Archers.

As we made strained smalltalk, a rather statuesque, grey-haired grande dame swept over and introduced herself. "I'm Paddy Green,' she intoned theatrically. "I play Jill Archer".

"Oh I know," said my companion, "I'd recognise that voice anywhere". And for everyone there but me, this was a dream evening. Mrs Antrobus arrived with her Afghans, Lynda Snell held court. I had no idea. If it were now I"d be find, and after that I did listen to the show regularly. I even did at homes with Peggy Woolley and Lynda Snell.

Anyhoo, I managed to hold my own but couldn't find the press officer who I vaguely knew but had never met, so I spied two youngish girls and asked them if there from the press office.

"No, we're in the programme," they laughed. They were a very pre-Office Lucy Davis and faux Geordie Felicity Finch, who plays Ruth. But they were charming and we had a laugh. Then it was time to go. I'd survived. And it really wasn't as awful as I'd imagined.

Nothing ever is, is it?

PS Last night I was in the same room as Simon Bates

Corps D'Esprit

2010-06-22T09:41:00.003+01:00

They've not even broken up yet but already some shops have the dreaded 'back to school' displays in their windows.

Remember how ghastly it was to see that as the summer came to a close. Well imagine it now and you've not even begun your summer holidays yet. Junior mannequins decked out in generic school uniforms - it still sends a shudder. Not that I didn't like school per se, but you'd much rather not be in it than be in it, wouldn't you?

What was your uniform like? Did you have a uniform at all? I recall four hideous ensembles:

Flannel grey blazer with royal blue piping, with cap to match which I was made to wear.

Flannel grey blazer with red piping, with catch to mach. Again, made to wear it.

Plop brown with gold piping, including the long socks and cap. Shorts until the fourth year. I remember the day of the new term when they were allowed. Obviously I wasn't allowed them quite so soon, and schoolmates who were stood at the gates checking everyone out. I went home that day and demanded them. They came pretty quickly after that, to my great relief. I wanted to be one of the big boys.

Then finally navy blue jumper, navy blue shirt, no blazer to speak of. By this time (secondary school), it was modified to whatever fashion was around. Thankfully a Harrington jacket was allowed, so along with your tasselled loafter and Sta-prest black or grey slacks, it was actually quite bearable, what with it being 1979 and all that.

But caps. How embarrassing are they, making your ears more prominent than they need be. Most people look like a simpleton in them, and even when I was on my way home from school I still kept it on. I hated it but it never occurred to me to take it off. I'm amazed I never got beaten up. My mum went to a school where the spies were carefully placed along the route home, and if you weren't wearing your white gloves or your boaters then punishment was severe. Naturally it was a convent school. Mine wasn't that bad, but whatever school you were at you had it drummed into you that you were an ambassador for it.

The brown and gold school was far from home, and involved two bus rides which I did aged eight. Imagine letting an eight year old do that today!

The grey and blue school involved a longish walk home by a secluded stream and across waste ground - aged six! But was there a paedophile lurking behind every hillock? I think not. Of course when I remind my mum about this walk home she denies all knowledge that she could ever have placed me in such danger, but here I am.

You don't see many uniforms in the traditional style, but then I'm not really looking. All friends' kids seem to wear sweatshirts with the school name on. But at least they wear a uniform. I think they're a good thing - less fashion competition. I suppose caps if they are worn at all are now baseball caps. Why didn't we ever turn them backwards?

Now, where did I put my shoebag...

Hats: Still a must-have at weddings?

2010-06-21T09:27:00.005+01:00

I'm just about to reply to a wedding invite. We're going. Not that we wouldn't. I can only think of one wedding invite I've ever turned down, and that was because it clashed with one I'd already to replied to.

This wedding will probably be about the 10,000 I've been to. I mean, I've literally been to dozense of weddings over the past 20 years, and have at least one a year, every year.

My first wedding was my dad's cousin Wendy's in Christchurch, 1973. I was eight. I don't remember much about it save for my dad getting me one blackcurrant cordial after another, meeting his other cousin Jeff for the first time, and there being a mynah bird behind the bar. Looking at the pictures now it's another world.

Then there was a 15-year-gap in which no relatives married and only my parents went to weddings. The next one for me involved a very lengthy trip up to the Isle of Man for a schoolfriend's wedding. She married young, to someone who was in the SAS.

It was great fun in the run-up, and the groom has a stag night on the eve of the wedding. Needless to say it was a bad idea, which involved variously, doing the Timewarp with a load of his squaddie mates, nightclub hopping and getting horribly plastered.

I don't know why we thought it was a good idea to push the groom down a riverbank without noticing the low chainlink fence halfway down, but it was brought home to us the next day that it wasn't when he went down the aisle on crutches. And it pissed down. Every time I hear Jane Weidlin's Rush Hour I think of the Isle of Man. I borrowed a tenner of the schoolfriend I went with and I've not seen him since.

So nothing for a year, then they started in earnest and we've never looked back. Since then I've been to so many weddings I've seriously lost count. Sometimes even two in one weekend. I remember borrowing a friend's car and going to Devon, then back early doors to London for another one. Never again.

We've done them all: young marriages, late marriages, cathedral, register office, Jewish, Greek, second marriages, high church, low church, stately home, old school, gay, shotgun weddings and ones that have taken years of military planning; marriages in Scotland, Ireland, USA, France, Canada; white dresses, black dresses, red dresses shorts and t-shirts, transsexuals causing a commotion, no one laughing at the best man's speech, family bust ups, one where everyone was convinced the bride wouldn't show (she escaped from his terrible clutches six months later), large crowds, family only, Las Vegas (they never last), the list is endless. I've never been to a fancy dress wedding. I hope I never have to.

It's a bit of a blur. I'd have to have a really good think to remember some of those weddings. Some of those people would be even more hard to recall.

Oh well, it's all good fun. I'm looking to this wedding. I like a nice wedding, don't you?

The REAL 'new' Full Monty

2010-06-18T09:32:00.003+01:00

You know how, ever since The Full Monty came out, just about every British film of a certain type is touted as the 'new' Full Monty. If it involves a triumph over adversity, the little guy sticking it to the man or some leftfield activity captivating the heart of the nation then it's immediately, 'the new Full Monty'.

But no amount of Morris: A Life With Bells On or Kinky Boots have even come close. However, if they really want to find the new Full Monty I think I've found it.

Did you catch the Storyville: Sync or Swim documentary the the other night? If not, it was about a Welsh guy who moved to Sweden to marry, learnt the language but found himself with a lovely family but no friends and a job as a carer, whereas he'd previously worked in the film industry over here.

Depressed and lonely, he decided to act upon the old Swedish adage that goes something like 'you've not properly integrated into Swedish society until you've joined a club'. And of all things he found a male synchronised swimming club.

Lucky for him, everyone there was just a bit like him. While some had good jobs, they were stuck in a middle aged rut - failed musicians, perpetual singletons who couldn't find love, busy professionals needing an outlet, etc. So they were all great pals and put their heart and soul into the swimming. But they were terrible.

Thinking they were the only male synchronised swimming club in existence, they were shocked to discover there was actually a world championship. With some help from a professional trainer they decided to go for it and had three months to get it together to go to the championships in Milan.

And of course, against the odds, they did it. They were brilliant. It was quite moving.

It was a great story. You could transplant it to Britain, explore the home lives more, turn up the tears and make a great little film.

Hollywood, are you reading?

Oh Harry day

2010-06-17T09:57:00.004+01:00

Who fancies going to the new Hogwarts theme park in Florida? I know I do. Shame it's all the way over there and not here. The weather would surely suit the subject matter so much more appropriately. You don't expect to see Hogwarts castle against a clear blue sky. It's got to threaten snow! But that's by the bypass.

I do like a theme park. The last time I went to one was when Mrs F-C was doing a show in Orlando - the home of the theme park - so there was plenty to fill my days. First day I went to the Epcott Centre alone, went on the Innerspace ride, felt sick for the rest of the day, felt like a paedophile, gorked at the morbidly obese hiring those stroller wheelchair things so they could motor round with a gallon of Pepsi in the front basked and a skip of chips on their lap, went home.

Another day, I went to Cape Canaveral which may as well be a theme park. It's fascinating, but you really could do without that constant'truth, justice and the American way/triumph over tragedy' music which is on loop, loudly.

Mrs F-C is not a fan of theme parks, but I did persuade her to come to Universal Studios. I'd been to the California one in 1982, a holiday during which we went to every theme park in the area, from Knotsberry Farm and its then legendary corkscrew rollercoaster to a funfair at Monterey with Disneyland in between. Dad encouraged it. We loved it.

The Jaws lake and the flooding Mexican village were quite a sight to behold. We went down what is now Wisteria Lane, then former home of the Munsters. And they were filming Fast Times At Ridgemount High while we were there. We got a T-shirt which I wish I still had. The special guest host at the theatre show was Kim Fields from The Facts Of Life. Where is she now?

Against her better judgment, Mrs F-C admitted she did have a nice time after all, but not to push it: there's only so much she can bear. I remember the thrill of the back to the future ride.

I'm still not mad on anything that goes round though. We had to put off our holiday to the Isle of Wight by a day and a half after going on the Waltzer at Eastleigh fair. We were spun like salad. I've never felt so bilious. Every time I hear the song below I smell friend onions, chips and brown sauce on a polystyrene tray and want to stick my head in a bin.

Anyhoo, I'd love to go to Harry Potter World. But not on my own. I don't want those looks. Who's coming with me?

Dennis! Come back wi' me apple pie!

2010-06-16T09:50:00.004+01:00

Kids of today, eh?

As I was entering the building yesterday I passed a mother dropping her son off for work experience. As she straightened his hoodie and pushed his hair to one side, she was a mixture of nerves, pride and "look at my little boy going off for work experience, it seems like only five minutes ago, etc".

Totally unembarrassed was he by this, and kissed and hugged mum and made himself known at reception. It was a nice scene. I was thinking that, if that had been me at that age, I'd have been crushingly humiliated in an instant.

I would have been made to wear and suit and tie for a start, and mum would have done all the talking while using my name over and over. She was like the mother from Please, Sir!

I vividly remember the girl from my geography class who worked Saturdays in Jill's Wools smirking quietly as I died of shame as mother bellowed: "F-C likes this one, don't you F-C. And what about this one F-C? Auntie Maggie's knitting F-C a jumper, everyone. What about royal blue, F-C?", while holding up skein after skein of deeply unfashionable Norwegian knits. Still, it's because she cared and I do love her dearly. I still tell her off for superfluous use of my name.

On a related note, my aunt once arrived at my cousin's workplace in London and asked to see his boss to have a talk about how he was getting on. He was mortified. Wouldn't you be? That's overstepping the parental mark.

Anyhoo, when I passed this work experience boy at lunchtime he was hood up, phone glued to ear, daft patois emanating from sneery mouth, smoking what I'm sure was a spliff. I haven't seen him since, so perhaps he went back to the office stoned and they showed him the door. Mother will be heartbroken. She clearly sees a very different boy. But don't they all?

So bad it's good - or just really, really, REALLY awful?

2010-06-15T13:58:00.002+01:00

I dare you not cringe at this family group. Soon to appear in the new series of Pineapple Dance Studios (it won't called that but it's Louis Spence's new show).

I know I like bad pop, but there is a limit. And watch her ask him to kiss her all over her body. They're brother and sister, you know! And mum is truly Sue Sylvester sinister. They're Irish by the way.

Me and me mum and me dad and me gran

2010-06-14T09:54:00.004+01:00

Yes, okay, I crumbled like I always do and watched the England bit of the World Cup. I can't help but find it quite exciting really.

It all takes me back to a time in 1990 when a few of us from work went on a night out. We found ourselves in Islington where the streets were all but empty. We couldn't work out why - until we heard football coming from every pub and bar we passed. Then it dawned on us that this was England's semi-final game and we really should be watching it.

Up to this point, not being a football fan, I had dipped into the World Cup but I wasn't quite so caught up in it. But 1990 was the World Cup to change everything. That's when it really took off among the middle classes, and why you now read silly things like some ad agency art director who'd die if he couldn't see his beloved Gooners of a Saturday. Yeah, right. It's all spiralled out of control until people pretend to follow a team because everyone else does and they don't want to be left out, or it's bad for business.

Anyway, we wandered the streets but we couldn't get in anywhere. Eventually we found a back street, rather rough, boozer where the only place to sit was on the floor, which we did. But it turned out to be one of the most fun nights ever, despite England losing. The atmosphere was electric. But I was quite glad to leave that pub.

Another footy-related fun night was watching England beat Holland in a pub during Euro '96. [Edit: World Cup 98, I have been told]. Yes, that was me standing on the table leading the singing of Vindaloo and Three Lions. What happens during a tournament, stays during a tournament, okay?

Anyway, I've only watched one match. That dreadful bluebottle-trapped-in-a-jam-jar noise drove me crazy. It's almost unwatchable. Ban the vuvuzele now!

At least there's no Nessun Dorma, though.

What doesn't kill you...

2010-06-11T09:43:00.004+01:00

We all have those nights where we're tossing and turning, can't get off to sleep, lie there with things churning through your mind, getting hot and throwing the covers off, getting cold and pulling back over you, looking at the alarm clock which is mocking you with its superquick countdown to getting up time at which, just as you have to haul your carcass out of bed, you fall into a deep slumber. It's a nightmare.

Thankfully it doesn't happen very often, but when it does it comes with an added hell. All the while through this torment you have a song going round your head that you just can't shake off. Certain bars of one or certain lyrics just keep swirling around your mind in a tortuous psychedelic whirl, driving you to the very brink of insanity.

When you awake the next day you have to sing it out really loud, perhaps in the shower, in order to exorcise it from your body as if the very devil himself has tried to take you over.

Know what I mean?

Well here's what's been trying to kill me recently. (Obviously, I love it really).

Song du Jour

2010-06-10T10:28:00.003+01:00

I can't get this number out of my head. It's a real peculiarity. It's Sixties guitar whizz Duane Eddy making a Top Ten comeback with this single Play Me Like You Play Your Guitar.

It's notable for the vocals really. Weedy, reedy Ladybirds-esque stylings over the top of Eddy's very recognisable licks. How it became a hit is anyone's guess, as Duane Eddy was off the pop scene by then. (How do some songs find themselves big hits? Lori Anderson's chillingly excellent O Superman is a perfect example).

Anyway, it's been in my brain for a weeks now. It's actually damn catchy and kind of moving. It says 1973 on this vid, but it's actually 1975. It reached number 9. Groovy background. Reminds me of clothes shops like Snob.

Would you like to see my slides?

2010-06-08T13:24:00.005+01:00

Okay, back now and I'm sure I have lots of catching up to do. So in the meantime, without you even asking, let me bore you with a few high and lowlights from my trip to Las Vegas.

1. Mandals. Regular readers may know that I eschew this type of footwear. So I'm loathe to tell you that I had little choice but to join the flip-flip brigade. With temperatures at 96 on arrival and pushing 112 when I left, they were the only option. I didn't have any of course, so Mrs F-C frogmarched me to the Forum shops at Caeser's Palace where I bought a pair, knowing full well I'd never wear them. But dear reader, once I put them on there was no going back. I've never felt so free. As they say, however, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas and they won't be leaving the shoe cupboard anytime soon.

2. American men. The most unimaginative dressers in the world. Baggy shorts, baseball caps on backwards, dull as ditchwater golf polos on men of all ages from kids to pensioners. With so many great shops offering a lot of menswear choices, why not try something different? Seems it cannot be done. I may be just this side of mutton dressed as lamb, but I'm glad about it.

3. The Beatles "Love". I'm not one for performance art or musical shows. But I really wanted to see this Cirque Du Soleil show as I'd heard so many good things about it. Last time went to a CduS show we walked out. I have no time for fat clowns making over-exaggerated faces or people on rollerskates, but this show was something else. It helps of course that you know the songs - is there another band in the world whose album tracks are as well-known as their singles? - and some over-enthusiastic stiltwalkers aside, it really was spectacular. A great use of the music, and some brilliant special effects, amazing acrobatics and the fittest (as in healthy) cast I've ever seen made this one not to miss. The seats had speakers in them, and to hear songs like A Day In The Life and Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds all remixed and used imaginatively was a real thrill. Not quite sure what teh story was meant to be as it made no sense whatsoever, but the staging was brilliant and I thoroughly recommend it.

4. Don't mock the slots. We won $1000 dollars.

5. Always keep your original stake in your top pocket. Then whatever you win or lose matters not. We got quite good at Blackjack. It's just so much fun. You'll be throwing your money away on craps though.

6. Food. The food in Vegas is truly fantastic. When I first went I only remember Dennys, McDonalds and the inevitable Subway. But now all the (nice) hotels have great restaurants. I do find the whole "Kabuki by Issay Takayashi" or "Le Soir Du Nord by Guy Jarondine" (all made up by the way) style of presentation a bit pretentious, but don't be put off. These giant-sized eateries are really, really good. I've had some of the best food I've ever eaten.

7. It's worth paying more for your hotel room. Our bath overlooked the strip. One button opened or closed the curtains. I wish my house was like this. The rates changed every day and it can end up being far, far less than you'd think.

8. Seen one casino, seen them all.

9. French Canada - is it for real? My connection the way back was via Montreal. I had about 10 minutes to change planes and every person I asked in my panic to find my gate spoke French, even if I spoke English back. I didn't have time to speak French. And it's a funny accent. I think it's an affectation. I very nearly missed the plane, though as it turned out we sat on the tarmac for 90 minutes while they fiddled with an engine part, which was tedious in the extreme. Still, I managed to watch most of A Prophet before the plane had even taken off.

10. Theme hotels go off really quickly. All those pyramids and New Yorks and fairy castles now look really shabby and are really low rent. Talk about redneck city. Paris and Venice are okay, but you can see they're on the turn. They never did do that London one. If I was to open one, I'd base it on the glamour of the Vegas of the Fifties and Sixties. Groovy cocktail bars, Engelburt Humperdinck on every night in the Lave Lounge...You can see it, can't you?

Anyway, Mrs F-C is there for another week. She's worried about bankruptcy, and with good reason.

So what have I missed?

The oldest swinger in town?

2010-05-28T09:49:00.003+01:00

Do you think it's really necessary for people to have mid-life crises anymore?

Nowadays, you can do what you like forever. Youth doesn't stop at 45. Obviously being about to turn 45 I can say that. My only worry is that I'm mutton dressed as lamb. It takes an awful lot of courage to go into All Saints. If questioned I'm ready with the I'm-buying a present for my nephew routine. Not that I think I should have to, but sometimes I'm made to feel old. Sometimes I think I look old. I saw a friend of a friend the other day, who told me I've looked the same for 20 years. I disagree, but I was pleased to hear it.

I think it's oldest child syndrome. My brother, who's only three years younger than me isn't fazed by that sort of thing at all. If only I could be as relaxed. I used to make him come into shoe shops with me so I wasn't intimidated by shop assistants dancing in midriff tops. I'm slightly better if I feel like I'm on a mission, but nowadays I find clothes shopping anxiety-inducing because what is the cut-off point for some places? I know I'll never go into TopMan again.

Anyhoo, as I was saying, despite some misgivings, you really can do more or less what you want. I do know the odd person who's leaving their wife for their first love or shacking up with a Thai girl half their age. But I think that's because they've got children and feel trapped. Luckily, I don't have that.

I remember our dentist having his ear pierced in the Seventies and my mum being horrified. But then when my dad came back from town in double denim with a shark's tooth on leather thong hanging round his neck, she didn't bat an eye.

Anyway, I'm off to Las Vegas with Mrs F-C for a holiday at last.

So how's your mid-life crisis going.

Pure evil

2010-05-27T09:33:00.004+01:00

On my arrival home last night after a super evening celebrating the South Bank Show at, well, the South Bank, which involved meeting Lord Melvyn (tiny but well-preserved) and quaffing red wine with arts types, none of whom I recognised, Mrs F-C greeted me with the news that our neighbours had been burgled.

There's been a few break-ins in our road but next door is a bit too close for comfort. They took TVs and cameras and some bits of jewellery and thankfully they didn't make a mess. But what they did do, which I find unbelievable, is that they took their dog.

I didn't even know they had a dog, but apparently for the past two weeks they've been in possession of a lovely pedigree puppy. I thought I heard barking over the weekend but I dismissed it as my imagination or the telly, but no, they had a dog. I think taking someone's beloved pet is possibly the cruellest thing a burglar can do.

I don't care if anything electrical goes missing or DVDs or stuff like that. Of course I'd be heartbroken to lose things of sentimental value, things you've collected over the years that would be almost impossible to replace. I could sort of get over someone shitting in my bed and pissing on my record collection (it would be very, very hard though), but I could never come to terms with someone stealing my pet. It's like someone taking your child. What kind of maniac does such a thing?

I wonder if they'll ever get it back. And why did they take it? As a gift? To sell it on? It's monstrous. I'm in shock.

It's Five from Five Tuesday!

2010-05-25T09:41:00.002+01:00

I'm a but busy to get down to any blog business, so instead, let's have some tunes that have been wowing me lately. Sadly, my song du jour, Confusions About A Goldfish by John Kongos is not on YouTube, but do check it out if you have the inclination. It's a corker.

So some of these are old faves, some are new, but they're all smashers nonetheless. Enjoy.

First, here's the excellent reggae stomper from 1969 Wet Dream by Max Romeo. Banned by the BBC it sounds saucy, but apparently it's about fixing a hole in the roof to stop the rain coming in. Hmmmm...

Now, here's my Dutch sister-in-law's favourite teenage pinups Doe Maar, with Pa. It's a song about dad telling you to do this that and the other, you rebel, but you know he's probably right at the end of the day. Doe Maar were a hit in Holland as they sang in Dutch and not English, something of a rarity she tells me. I like to think they're Holland's Wang Chung.

Something German now, more from Deutsche Neue Welle period. It's the wonderful Zauberstaub by Za Za, who likes John Keeble meets Owen Paul. Very Eighties, very German, very good.

Not sure if this vid really was made for this song, but it's kind of appropriate. Here's hippychick Julie Felix with the exotic Snakeskin.

Here's the other side of the Eighties, the better, more fondly remembered side. It's Tallullah Gosh with their eponymous non-hit. Still sounds very, very of its time.

I'm resisting Albert Hammond's wonderfully titled I Don't Want To Die In Air Diaster - well, who does, Al? So instead it's the memory-invoking I'm A Train. Never a hit here, but surely it should have been.

Super Creeps

2010-05-24T12:10:00.003+01:00

I've given it my best attention and I've really, really tried. But this series of Doctor Who really isn't doing it for me.

It's part Matt Smith (too silly, too Palin), part rubbish stories, part last 10 minutes when everything gets miraculously resolved. It's rather kiddy. it reminds me of why I gave up watching when Tom Baker left. It was too young for me.

True, there have been some scary moments, and if I were nine years old I'd be a permanent fixture behind that sofa as I was at that age. But I don't know, it's just not engaging me. I don't like the dopey boyfriend of Karen Gillen, but I do like Karen Gillen.

And what really bugs me about the whole thing, is that no one ever notices the TARDIS when it lands in 15th century Venice or in the middle of a village. And surely they would. And no one ever comments on their clothes either, despite them being clearly not of the age they're in (mostly).

I'm not a sci-fi fan, never have been, and I only ever like the Who stories set on Earth. It makes it more real and therefore scarier. But even though this series has lots of earth-bound stories, it's really not that good. In fact, it's quite boring. And the FX are sadly low budget.

Am I alone?

Tutti Frutti what a cutie!

2010-05-20T09:39:00.004+01:00

We were recalling possible the most annoying advert of the early Nineties and all agreed it had to be the one for Gino Ginelli ice cream.

Do you remember it? It says on YouTube it's 1994 but I remember it earlier than that. It was a ghastly, colourful romp including women with dalmatians, children and balloons and dozens of other cliches that make things fun and exciting. The worst part was the song, though this version is slower than I remember - I'm sure it was far, far more cruiseship than this. The words Italian verve got me every time. I still cringe.

Of course as sunny and hip as this is meant to be the truth is it was full of E numbers and more than likely made on a light industrial estate just outside Warrington.

I think the irritation is twofold: the singer and the fact that it was on ALL the time. But I did spend an awful lot of time slumped in front of the telly back then.

Is the brand still going? If you look down the side there's all sort of European versions too, for Germans with their paprika ice cream, etc.

Listen! Do you want to know a secret?

2010-05-19T09:31:00.005+01:00

I was beside myself with joy the other day to finally track down The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra's Top Five hit of 1981 Hooked On Classics.

Nothing more than a few light classics/advert favourites backed by a handclap drumbeat. Needless to say it works. It was a front-runner in the medley craze of 1981, striking big as the fad really took a hold.

The first - and best - of these was of course Stars On 45, the Dutch studio group who came up with the genius idea of putting snippets of Beatles songs to a beat, bookended by some fine Europop that had us all reaching the same conclusion: Yes, the Stars on 45 did indeed keep on turnin' in our mind.

I realised recently that a lot of the Beatles songs in this track I'd never actually heard until I heard Stars On 45. In fact I was rather disappointed to discover We Can Work It Out and Do You Want To Know A Secret didn't come with handclaps. They might have been even better if they had. You can't beat handclaps, they make everything go with such a swing. I don't know why they've fallen out of favour.

Anyhoo, doing a bit of Stars On 45 digging looking for the follow ups (Stars On Stevie and the Abba one with no name) I came across this 1982 Dutch No.1 Stars On 45 Proudly Presents The Star Sisters, in which faceless backing singers do a medley of things like Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy and In The Mood, beating Jive Bunny by seven years. I had to download it. It's not all that.

And look, not really faceless at all!

So why did that craze fizzle out? Too many of them? Medley fatigue must have set in. Looking through the charts for 1981 there were thousands of them, from Beach Boy Gold to Pump Up The Bitter to Bras On 45 to Holliedaze to Back To The Sixties parts 1 and 2 and more. Enough already! We probably thought that instead of bits of songs, let's just have whole ones instead.

They carried on for ages in Europe, so perhaps where pop is king it wasn't such an issue. But despite Jive Bunny's many hits the medley has all but died out. Orange Juice do a good one, Blokes On 45, in which they sing bits of their hits over a disco beat, thereby proving that all medley records were essentially identical, but no worse for that.

Anyway, here's Lobo (not that one) to remind you of those salad daze.

Oceans Of Fantasy

2010-05-18T09:27:00.005+01:00

Following on from a discussion about jumpsuit pop, kicked off by my recent Kelly Marie post, we got to talking recently. Offshoots include boiler suit pop (New Musik, The Buggles) but it all began with what Red Scharlach has christened Spacefunk.

Let's think back to the late-Seventies. Dee Dee Jackson was doing it with a robot with her highly irritating Automatic Lover. Eruption had a One Way Ticket and Boney M were on a Night Flight To Venus.

Ming the Merciless collars abounded. Silvery foil all-in-ones ruled. If you were lucky you might get an elaborate head dress. We're talking Amii Stewart, No Doubt About It period Hot Chocolate, Earth, Wind & Fire, possibly the Gibson Brothers, Lipps Inc, Donna Summer and just about every other disco-oriented group in the charts. It was fantasy, pomp, over-the-top showiness looking to a vision of the future we'll never see. It was sci-fi. It was fun. I'm sure Sly Stone started it.

I'll take your suggestions for more, so in the meantime, here's Amii with the classic floor filler Knock On Wood.

It's funny 'ow their missus always looks the bleedin' same

2010-05-17T09:47:00.005+01:00

Shall I tell you about the time I went to prison?

I've been gripped by that Wormwood Scrubs doc that is currently on. Having been there myself it's of special interest. Relax, I've not done time, but I have been inside the Scrubs. The programme made me realise that the brief glimpse I got of the place, though grim, was nothing like the reality. Yes, yes, yes, F-C, you cry impatiently, but what exactly were you doing inside a prison? Well, let me tell you.

We had some friends who were doing work that involved Wormwood Scrubs. Something social worky, not quite sure what, but through that they got invited to the lifers' Christmas do. Would we like to go to, they asked? We nearly bit their hands off. Well, we were curious.

So we went through those familiar gates, up the tunnel. Counted in, counted in again, past the dogs and the razor wire and into a huge hall where the show was to be held. Like a village hall that hasn't been cleaned for 45 years, it was awful. There was a trestle table bar, and several tables of families and friends who'd come to watch their loved ones perform.

The show itself was a curious mix of bonkers and heartbreaking, as well as being slightly scary. Most people sung songs about being free as a bird (their own compositions), there were some unmemorable skits and someone sang Love Changes Everything very badly. People snickered. I watched with a mixture of horror and bemusement. What did they all do? What did that weasley accountant one who looks like he didn't harm a fly actually do to get life?

So when the show was over, and I was awash with cheap wine (and I mean cheap - I'm sure someone distilled it in their cell as I had the mother of all hangovers the next day), we met the case our friends had been working on. He'd murdered someone but of course he didn't do it. He was clearly mad. That was the first murderer I'd ever shaken hands with. The other one came years later and was in EastEnders. Anyway, I've a feeling he might be dead now.

We met the terrifying (female) governor, Mrs F-C had to go the loo behind the stage where murderers and rapists sat louchely smoking fags. I had to go through the billiard room to oblute in a loo that had seen better days. The greenhouse scene from Scum was playing on a loop in my head.

It was dreadful, but I wouldn't have missed it. That said, I never want to go back there. You hear tales. Mum and Dad had a friend who went to jail for fraud. This happily married man was spotted seven years later arm in arm with another man at Junior Wimbledon. And the mother of a friend of mine did nine years for drug smuggling. In prison she became hard. It changes you.

Anyway, did you see that Boy George thing last night. I loved it. Great music.

It's my least favourite kind of weather

2010-05-13T09:33:00.005+01:00

Never be the first one on a TV show to be shown saying 'I will win this competition because I am better than all the rest', because it's highly likely you'll be off the show by the end of episode one.

So when a petulant, pouting, spotty precocious Northern Irish show-off aged about 11 was seen saying just that at the beginning of last night's Junior Apprentice, we knew he was off that day. But while he was there he proved to be everything we've come to expect from Apprentice contestants. Bossy, collapses under pressure, believes their own hype to the bitter end and is generally a bit useless.

Their task to sell a load of cheese in a London market couldn't have been easier. But they chose wrongly - I have to say I've lived in London for 23 years and I've never heard of Whitecross Market. The girls did well in Covent Garden. The boys cheese of the days was mild cheddar. Since when has that been ANYONE'S cheese of the day? Someone made up snack packs but ran out of steam. It was all priced wrongly. It was a disaster. You could see the effette teen in the shiny suit was on his way out. The pout was priceless. Reminds me of a horrible little girl I know.

Needless to say, the show's excellent. I'm already hooked. The boys range from a 17-year-old with a full beard to a 17-year-old who looks like a young Lance Percival and looks under 12. The girls range from fashion conscious mean girls desperate to look older than their years who tut and roll their eyes at anyone else's opinion, to cossetted Asian girls who break down in tears when things don't go their way. Again they're all about 17 but to hear them talk they crave to be older.

It does make me cringe about what I was like at 17. I don't even want to go into it it's too toe-curling to contemplate. But I know ! was a pain in the arse who thought he knew it all. I'd have been perfect for the show, except I've never run my own business. But's that's a mere bagatelle.

Anyhoo, I'm in for the duration. They're more entertaining than the adults because they're less self-aware but a bit more self-concious. Sir Alan - actually it's Lord Sugar now - was gentle with them but fired the right one. If you haven't seen it you must.

Whatever happend to Margaret Powell?

2010-05-11T09:40:00.004+01:00

A friend just had a baby and called it Atticus.

I don't know about you, but I think that's appalling. Whatever happened to ordinary names? Not that one should strive to be ordinary, but one shouldn't go out of one's way to be extraordinary either. You either is your ain't. You can't become it or it looks forced. Like those people who say: 'I'm an eccentric'. They're not of course, because a true eccentric has no idea they're eccentric. In fact, they probably think they're rather ordinary.

So back to names. When I was at school - and most of you were too - the class consisted of Susan, Peter, Richard, Stuart, Diane, Jonathan, Andrew, David, Alison, Caroline, Simon etc. The most unusual name was Sian. Now they're 10 a penny.

These names have all but died out. Can you imagine someone introducing their baby Paul? Or Raymond? Names like Derek, Clive, Norman, Rodney, Gordon and Tim are a thing of the past.

About 25 years ago it was Sophie, Emma, Jack and James mania. Now we've moved onto 'servants' names like Stanley, Alfie, Ruby, Lily, Maisie, Cuthburt, etc. It's like living in Upstairs Downstairs.

So once this revival dies out, what next? Can we see a return to fashion of names like Sharon or Tracey, Perry or Warren? Actually, I think they're quite groovy Sixties names and one day will return.

But I doubt we'll ever see another Myra.