The Perfect Blend

I was pleased and surprised today when Mona by Craig McLachlan - and of course, Check 1-2 - popped up on the ipod. I'd forgotten what a summery sound it is, and it really took me back to the summer of 1990 when it was a huge hit and all over the radio. Those jangly guitars, that soaring sound. It's a big production. So good I had to hear it again. Shame Craig himself was a bit of a tit.

This would have come off the back his Neighhbours megastardom, and let's not underestimate just how massive it was back then. Remember when it first started in the autumn of '86? Oh, those salad days...

I was a student and I remember the constant promos for the BBC's new look daytime schedule. Knot's Landing, long since forgotten, was coming back, and we could look forward to Valerie, the Valerie Harper sitcom she left when she fell out with the produces, game show Going For Gold and something new from Australia, Neighbours. As I recall it was an instant hit.

We used to be sitting in the refectory at lunchtime, someone would say 'Neighbours' and we'd all pile back to someone's house to watch it. And then take the rest of the day off. If you missed it at lunchtime, you could always catch the 9am repeat and go in late, if you had to go in at all. It reall was all the rage.

Des, Daph - who could forget her touching death scenes?, Helen, Jim, Paul, Max, Maria, Shane, Lucy, Danny, etc., all introducing us to places of which we'd never seen the like. Coff's Harbour, the Bungle Bungles and Surfers' Paradise were unbelievably exotic. It was colourful, warm, funny, sunny - everything mid-Eighties Britain was not. I fell in love with Plain Jane Superbrain, who you just knew would be unmasked as a beauty eventually. Then along came the next wave with Kylie, Jason, Madge, Harold and it went stratospheric.

When friends went to Australia, they always bought videotapes back. We were about two years behind at one stage so we were desperate to know what was going to happen. I remember watching one spoiler where Paul came home and announced to the family that he and Gail (wardrobe by Kamizole) were married. It came as quite a shock. But the novelty soon wears off, especially when you don't have as much time on your hands as you used to.

So years later and there I am working on a magazine and either getting up really early or staying up really late to interview the stars of the show on a regular basis. Even in the mid-Nineties our appetite for Aussie soaps was still voracious. They were over here all the time. I once went out to lunch with Lou Carpenter and a girl who played Jo Harrison who had a very odd pout, and the people on the next table thought he was Alf from Home & Away. He was not best pleased. Last year I met Harold Bishop when Neighbours moved to five to die. I have a photo of me with him. It's hard to tell which one is which.

So the soft spot remains. But when was the last time you actually tuned in? I have to keep up to date, but I do it through the pages of a magazine, rather than physically watching it. I only know Toadfish.

The Bucking-ham Beat

Because it's such a lovely day, not one you want to be spending in an office but one where you want to be tripping down Carnaby Street doing a spot of shopping in groovy boutiques and breaking for a spot of al fresco luncheon before dancing in formation around the fountains in Hyde Park, roaring off in a beach buggy for drinks on a penthouse terrace then hitting a psychedelic club in your fab new gear, here's Des O'Connor with his shameless 1969 Swinging Sixties cash-in Dick-A-Dum-Dum (King's Road).

Still, there's something about it that's eternally optimistic and quite sunny. Enjoy.

"A generation of narcissists"

This report can't come a moment too soon. I've been banging on about it for years, and it's all true. The way we treat our children has turned them into narcissists.

You see evidence of it every day: The X Factor wannabes for a start. They all think they're entitled to do well and can't believe it if they don't. Shattered dreams! All I have is my music, blah, blah, blah. If you've got no talent in a certain area, live with it and try something else. There's not very much than can be done about it. You're not the new Leona Lewis. Boo bloody hoo. Now go and train as a nurse or something. Parents may kick up a fuss but everyone needs to be realistic.

Kids should realise they need to work hard to get anywhere - it's not a right to land a marvellous job. And those who aspire to be a superstar DJ or footballer's wife (which is not an ambition anyone should be proud of anyway) should think again and get a few skills under their belt just in case it doesn't happen. I hear of kids all the time who storm out of work experience at magazines because they're not getting to write the cover story.

Blame the American psychology that we've embraced over here in the past 20 years. Kids are all told that they can do no wrong, they can be anything they want to be and don't let anyone tell you your dreams are beyond your reach. And they believe it. They think the world is there to facilitate their dreams and they go into a terrible spin if they don't get their own way. The parents are to blame here, and now we have a generation of out of control narcissists. No wonder Britain's in such a mess.

When I was at school, my parents always backed the teacher. Sometimes this was unfair, but generally they understood what was really going on. Nowadays parents always back the kids. It must be truly awful being a teacher.

As it says in the report, narcissits make poor parents, employees, partners and everything else that requires communcation and some kind of relationship. They're way too self-involved.

What have we done?

Get it sorted.

International bright youngish thing

Loved that show about life in East Germany under communism in BBC2 at the weekend. That's right up my alley, post-WWII footage of life behind the iron curtain, unseen Sixties, Seventies and Eighties pop 'videos', neighbours dobbing one another in, punks spying on punks - it was top notch stuff, the sort of thing you expect to find on BBC4, so I was pleasantly surprised.

Did you have a good weekend? We had the mother-in-law, which was fine, so we kept her busy - going fusion restaurants in the Fulham Road, seeing that Clive Owen film The International (which was far better than I expected - great shoot out scene in the Guggenheim and wonderful European locations, especially Luxembourg) and popping her on the sofa with the Sunday Express. Super weather too, though lets not go mad. The shorts brigade are already out in force - it's only 62 degrees.

So, who do I hate on the telly at the moment? Yasmin Alibhai-Brown for one, always trotting out her tired old arguments that don't hold much water now. I saw someone - can't remember who - run rings around her on Sky News paper review and she ended up looking like the biggest, most ill-informed fool of all time. High time she was put out to grass.

In other news, I think I'm growing tired of The Word messageboard. There are quite a lot of people with a martyr complex on there. You know how a thread's going to go. It's like the Record Mirror letters page, with people totally misunderstanding jokes or the tone of the message so it all gets a bit nasty. And someone inevitably mentions Richard Thompson. I need a new outlet.

I had a dream I saw a full moon reflected in a lake. What does that mean?

Have a good week.

For those of a nervous disposition, look away now

While I was waiting for Red Riding to come on - and frankly, it was so slow and boring after last week that I really shouldn't have bothered - I caught about 20 minutes of Jade's wedding.

It's the very definition of car crash TV. That poor girl. I'm not sure whether it's all her idea or all Max Clifford's idea, but talk about milking it. She looked beautiful, it must be said, being the belle-laide type normally, but the whole thing was a ghastly circus, as if the pages of OK! magazine had suddenly burst into life.

There was Max, Jade's mother, the odd journo I recognised sitting in the congregation (and quite far forward too), the odd famous face (if you can call singing coach Kevin Whatisname from Fame Academy famous), all looking on as the frankly rather odd celebrant - not sure if he actually was a vicar - took charge of proceedings. This sweaty, bizarre man said some really quite strange things about heaven and death then suddenly burst into a reedy, tuneless song. Jade and Jack didn't know where to put themselves. But of course the overriding graveness of the whole situation put paid to any laughter. That came later.

Jack and Jade had to say their vows and repeat otherworldly sentiments at each other, and both cracked up laughing. But for all this, while Jade cut a tragic, hairless figure who was clearly finding the whole thing really difficult to deal with, both mentally and physically, what with her being just weeks away from death, Jack looked as if he was there under sufferance. It may be harsh but I don't believe his heart is in it at all. He's a smirking, bad to the bone no mark. Rumour has it he's already tried to get his money back on his wedding suit, and in this he seemed far happier than any man who's about to lose the woman of his dreams has a right to be. His speech was literally 15 seconds long and mostly about his best man. Don't get too excited Jack, none of that cash is coming YOUR way. It's the kids I feel sorry for.

At this point, I switched over. I think this whole thing is the worst kind of exploitation, and as I've said previously, people are like the women who knitted at the foot of the guillotine, waiting to witness a death. Truly, I'm really uncomfortable with the way this is playing out.

When Jade dies, will this type of celebrity will die with her? I do hope so.

Such a boor

While sitting in the dental surgery this morning, being kept waiting longer than I would have liked as the distant sound of a drill cut through my very soul, I got to flicking through GQ magazine.

What a load of toss.

Once you get through acres of high-end homoerotic adverts, featuring boy-men clad in mauve plus fours and bolero fur gilets with nothing underneath, while Kate Moss poutily holds a puma on a lead in the background, then the real fun begins.

Silly interviews in which Clive Owen - who in my experience is a chain-smoking, tensed-up dullard who grudgingly grunts back at you - talks about his stage craft while moodily modelling astronomically expensive suits in bronze gaberdine, or Rio Ferdinand, never out of the pages of GQ, leans menacingly against a bare brick wall in some inappropriate outfit made of leaves or something, talking about - yawn! - football and his image. GQ man seems to a cross between Jeremy Clarkson and Orlando Bloom, a metrosexual boor.

Then there are endless pages of exclusive gadgets that would make James Bond baulk, non-accessible fashion shoots in exotic locations for Harrington jackets that are a grand a pop, pages of 'must-have' pointy shoes and this season's essential voile scarves that you can just about make out in the shadows, sixth form standard op-ed pieces about little of interest, the obligatory interview with Tory popinjay George Osborne, wordy travel features touching on whatever's concerning the world at this juncture, just so it doesn't look too frivolous, a page to help you get those summer abs and lots of dull guff in between aiming at everyone from fans of Nuts to readers of The Spectator. And everything appears to be written by the same three people, who are snapped looking serious and intellectual in the contributors to this issue section.

And don't even get me started on the Editor's letter. Here, prize tit Dylan Jones recounts his trip to a football match in Milan (pronounced Mee-laahn) as guests of Dolce & Gabbana. He makes the world's most unconvincing footy fan. How does he have time to edit a magazine? I'd love to know.

I think this mag sells around the 100,000 mark, which is not to be sniffed at, and the advertising is top notch, but who do they think their reader is? Someone who lives this rarified secret agent style life, or someone who works in the Carphone Warehouse in Rotherham and dreams of one?

Nothing gonna change my world...except maybe this

We've all seen something we've described as 'so bad it's good', but after having watched the film Across The Universe, I'm really not sure if this is true.

Have you seen it? I read about it a few years ago: Liverpool lad works passage to the US in search of long lost GI dad, finds him working as a janitor at Princeton of all places, dad's not interested, inexplicably falls in with racy rich student crowd, gets invited home to Thanksgiving, meets rich pal's sister who's just lost her fiance in Vietnam and falls in love, moves to chi-chi hippie pad in NYC and there his life really takes off, all to a soundtrack of other people singing Beatles songs and the backdrop of every major US history moment in the late Sixties.

Like a car crash, I couldn't look away. It's peculiar because it's not a musical, not a stage one anyway, and some of the set pieces are really quite good. But there's some shameless shoehorning in of a Beatles song just to suit the story, and vice versa.

Then there are the clunkly plot devices: 'This is Prudence', announces the Liverpool Lad. "She came in through the bathroom window'. CLANG! When Prudence has a minor meltdown and locks herself in the cupboard, guess what everyone sings? Actually, that was quite nice. So everyone you meet is of course called Sadie, Jo Jo, Lucy and the main lead, played by the likeable 21 star Jim Sturgess is called - yes! - Jude! So at the end of the film when Jude is slightly troubled...you get it. I half expected to see a spinster bicycling to evensong with a sign on her back saying Eleanor Rigby, or some go-go booted poppet to introduce herself as Penny Lane. It was that obvious.

It's full of surprises: Bono pops up as 'Dr Robert' who takes everyone on a magical mystery tour in a psychedelic bus while singing I Am The Walrus (great FX), and Joe Cocker is belting out a number on a street corner apropos of nothing. Eddie Izzard does a Pythonesque headfuck to For The Benefit Of Mr Kite. It made a refreshing change to hear some new versions of old classics.

I loved it. I hated it. The ending is shit. Like Tommy, it's probably better appreciated while your on a higher plane, yeah. So is it aimed at teenagers or dreamy nostalgics or just anyone? So many questions. I lay awake most of the night trying to work it out.

I could go on.

It's written by Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais, which took me totally by surprise.

If you've not seen it, it's currenlty showing on Sky Movies. Do catch it. And you've seen it, what on earth did you make of it?

Have a look and see:

'Course you can, Malcolm

I've not been at all well. Last Friday I felt I was maybe coming down with something, but put it down to Las Vegas jet lag. Saturday I woke up with a sore throat and so it went on. Yesterday I was off work feeling rather sorry for myself.

A restful day at home lying on the sofa watching TV (Mississipi Burning, the last part of Moses Jones, From Russia With Love in HD, two Law & Order: SVU - a current obsession - and Escape From Alcatraz), expectorating, dozing with the cat on my lap and blowing my nose until it came off was just what the doctor ordered. Perhaps now I could do with a tonic wine. I miss Lucozade when I'm ill and how it used to come in that amber cellophane. It was a tonic for the convalescing, not a skateboarder dude favourite. Where did it all go right?

Anyhoo, it is of course just a cold (don't say manflu - men are allowed to be ill too, you know), but it's been everything from diabetes to throat cancer to Legionaires disease to shingles. I've managed to avoid every single illness that was doing the rounds over the autumn and the winter - all those vomiting bugs and heavy doses of flu - so I think I've got a away rather lightly with this cold, though it has been quite exhausting. Well it would be, wouldn't it.

So back at work today and soldiering on. Talking of soldiering, it occurred to me that I was born 20 years after WWII. Imagine if I was born today, WWII would have ended in 1989, and how recent does that seem?

Just a thought.

Now We Are Three

It began as a little experiment, a place to jot down random meanderings and be part of this new-fangled craze called blogging.

But three years later, and after various rants, fits of pique, semi-meltdowns and enthusing about the hits of 1971, Five-Centres turns three today.

Thanks for all your support and comments. Sometimes I do wonder what you make of me. I don't want to think to hard about it in case you're asking 'Who is this clown?', But thanks anyway for reading. I enjoy doing this blog, it rarely becomes a chore, so thanks for keeping the faith. I'm flattered and bewildered.

So if you're lurker, and have never posted before, why not leave a birthday message? It'll be much appreciated.

And to the regulars: I love you all!

Everybody's Laughing...

Life's not really real anymore is it? It's like some frightening vision of the future, like Children of Men, or V For Vendetta. Financial institutions are crashing around our ears, shops are disappearing at a rate of knots, we sit knitting at the foot of the guillotine as a dying woman is the centre of some bizarre, exploitative media cirucs, people have stopped buying records and only communicate through websites (hi!), ITV will no longer be making any programmes and honeybees are mysteriously disappearing.

So if that's not enough, I thought I really was living in in a Will Self novel this morning when I stopped to let a Del Boy Trotter yellow three-wheeler vanette pass in in front of me, then finding I had no choice but to also allow the Batmobile, the Dukes of Hazzard car, James Bond's Aston Martin, Noddy's little yellow car, another James Bond Lotus (the one that can work underwater) and Starsky and Hutch's car to cross too.

Then it dawned on me; It's soon to be Comic Relief, already pre-irritating me with various dance-offs - I thought Robert Webb was a very cross looking woman, like someone who's in Gladiators or something. I was stunned to discover she was a he - and silly adverts where students dye their chest hair red. You already know my feelings on this particular unfunny love-in, so no need to go into that again.

It's going to take more than world's unfunniest man Lenny Henry, Holby City stars doin song and dance routines from Oklahoma! or Mr Vain Steve Jones and the stupidest woman in Western Europe Fearne Cotton to lighten the mood of the nation.

I'm not laughing. Are you?