tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-218594382024-03-07T16:01:36.095+00:00Five CentresUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger868125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-20292826268914595392011-06-22T19:19:00.000+01:002011-06-22T19:19:40.433+01:001982: Hard times<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYVRNauDLRB_CmiPpMRKNTq4iNMq53Naz611kDO4o8-XqB80IQkAUJKeCLJtbmaqgZGNtOkY0dMaSzZk4fvqBGDNtOqt6LYfMz-G5sdVfGSuh5Dr-rkkjj2VC9l8qSSmGiYm4/s1600/the_human_league-hard_times_love_action_%2528i_believe_in_love%2529%255B1%255D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyYVRNauDLRB_CmiPpMRKNTq4iNMq53Naz611kDO4o8-XqB80IQkAUJKeCLJtbmaqgZGNtOkY0dMaSzZk4fvqBGDNtOqt6LYfMz-G5sdVfGSuh5Dr-rkkjj2VC9l8qSSmGiYm4/s320/the_human_league-hard_times_love_action_%2528i_believe_in_love%2529%255B1%255D.jpg" width="318" /></a>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. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Yes, I danced. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">No, I don't want to talk about it.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-75680127512999209302011-05-19T15:03:00.002+01:002011-05-19T15:03:37.307+01:00Step inside, loveThere's a new blog in town.<br />
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http://peakeofthepops.blogspot.com/Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-79958663555327673072011-05-12T11:53:00.000+01:002011-05-13T21:34:46.439+01:00The Long and Winding RoadI know I've said this many times before, but I have properly decided to wind this blog down.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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Thanks for all your support, though, and see you in my tweets.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-27964860497804520782011-05-04T15:53:00.001+01:002011-05-04T16:20:39.072+01:00Kajagoogoo were right<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharLt_pV9x4gD5e9EFzMtdMYnuDCQuVUl9HOQpG6VKdXxPOeq3EBEfJlG7-n7_1alEs9Q9ctoRlqMtTM-UroV46bZvR5SufNUYk38AJifiMbH66i8vUtyCotwc7RlFEcHD0k7c/s1600/600full-tootsie-screenshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharLt_pV9x4gD5e9EFzMtdMYnuDCQuVUl9HOQpG6VKdXxPOeq3EBEfJlG7-n7_1alEs9Q9ctoRlqMtTM-UroV46bZvR5SufNUYk38AJifiMbH66i8vUtyCotwc7RlFEcHD0k7c/s320/600full-tootsie-screenshot.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Mrs F-C at the Russian Tea Room: We *heart* NYC</td></tr>
</tbody></table>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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
So some observations:<br />
<br />
<b>New York women</b><br />
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.<br />
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<b>Losing it</b><br />
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.<br />
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<b>Star spots</b><br />
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.<br />
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...<br />
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<b>The Royal Wedding</b><br />
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.<br />
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.<br />
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. <br />
<br />
<b>Food</b><br />
Huge.<br />
<br />
Broadway<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-1592776959627254262011-04-11T09:37:00.002+01:002011-04-11T09:37:20.522+01:00Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!That's it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-77580396911036472232011-03-29T10:06:00.000+01:002011-03-29T10:06:13.248+01:00Inside they're laughing...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtQ_pP04G4K2X0qsiZxvFjUwr3Wnw_w2tyiHgOZBSz5nxCEi8veX5a9IUB4dsYmzbWOarsX3KtilqAKls_CQuUjc8WMoGY6ZKleh86FnbwrG1e_63F1YCE2SsNQDJzYJxw8AJ/s1600/Chris-Evans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVtQ_pP04G4K2X0qsiZxvFjUwr3Wnw_w2tyiHgOZBSz5nxCEi8veX5a9IUB4dsYmzbWOarsX3KtilqAKls_CQuUjc8WMoGY6ZKleh86FnbwrG1e_63F1YCE2SsNQDJzYJxw8AJ/s320/Chris-Evans.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Would you be upset if you overheard someone describing you as 'silly'? I think I might. Thankfully I know that I'm not.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
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All these I have known.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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If you know what I mean then, I'd like your nominations please. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-33629614441239456532011-03-28T13:59:00.001+01:002011-03-28T14:17:35.790+01:00And now for something completely stupid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8GhxyLv9Wh2Ksz4uEQv0mFCRdZIH4xByr6TOnkPWyzAP-1KzhpDr-y9iJo-ZXEQoXBiT6dDTPmisLCBAvFJjeupuGFNiuzADpBgjP9aoS-Busf90NdJ4w41O_Zr5m9LiHv7zt/s1600/Mr_Creosote-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8GhxyLv9Wh2Ksz4uEQv0mFCRdZIH4xByr6TOnkPWyzAP-1KzhpDr-y9iJo-ZXEQoXBiT6dDTPmisLCBAvFJjeupuGFNiuzADpBgjP9aoS-Busf90NdJ4w41O_Zr5m9LiHv7zt/s1600/Mr_Creosote-01.jpg" /></a></div>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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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?<br />
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Actually, there's a thought...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-53367452569509128132011-01-10T14:25:00.000+00:002011-01-10T14:25:41.783+00:00Dimming Of The Day<a href="http://fivecentres.wordpress.com/">http://fivecentres.wordpress.com/</a><br />
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Yes, couldn't make the template change and it's all a bit limiting. So follow the link.See you at the new place.<br />
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Last one there's a lemon!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-46450404474246915622011-01-10T10:44:00.000+00:002011-01-10T10:44:06.970+00:00Now Matter How I Try?No matter what I do I cannot change the design of this blog. Blogger won't allow it. Any suggestions?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-62609294451293238042011-01-07T10:09:00.000+00:002011-01-07T10:09:19.403+00:00I Just Wanna Be Your Everything<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOphUKfWNytQBj5d3fgwn3jKFonemlUlFNr2UB5kIzRrDjbLc4kUCuIjYbsmkYBorPZxy3zwtmpd3FmmHMfBACzPqk_ctDbcViZsOAcQMd11idWvYT74MMvXBRwekmeUJ8-5vR/s1600/Andy+Gibb+-+Shodow+dancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOphUKfWNytQBj5d3fgwn3jKFonemlUlFNr2UB5kIzRrDjbLc4kUCuIjYbsmkYBorPZxy3zwtmpd3FmmHMfBACzPqk_ctDbcViZsOAcQMd11idWvYT74MMvXBRwekmeUJ8-5vR/s400/Andy+Gibb+-+Shodow+dancing.jpg" width="397" /></a></div>The older I get, the quieter I like my life to be. I'm talking musically.<br />
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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. <br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OuioHTdW5CE?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OuioHTdW5CE?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-34473017831787949562011-01-06T10:03:00.000+00:002011-01-06T10:03:57.363+00:00Mr Big<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLI6PqdbPJzIpC8z6SIIlYn4KpHNuZbdydy52onSHkiIfcRbJRXL1Bh6UjOqdQ355jygektwYtGoyhMMF26gHaxU2V3OuDaxkUOtIWYdbdXEw6xNha04P_yH-TDw4t5Pdg8dM/s1600/image-3-for-romeo-beckham-added-to-best-dressed-mens-list-gallery-432290191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLI6PqdbPJzIpC8z6SIIlYn4KpHNuZbdydy52onSHkiIfcRbJRXL1Bh6UjOqdQ355jygektwYtGoyhMMF26gHaxU2V3OuDaxkUOtIWYdbdXEw6xNha04P_yH-TDw4t5Pdg8dM/s400/image-3-for-romeo-beckham-added-to-best-dressed-mens-list-gallery-432290191.jpg" width="386" /></a>I'm still reeling that GQ has named Romeo Beckham as a style icon, despite being just eight years old.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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.<br />
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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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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 <i>definitely</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-61934351119960099212011-01-05T10:03:00.000+00:002011-01-05T10:03:09.405+00:00New Year, New You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrheaOZUE6AAgelm6hWnXhXLksQSdbqNjI8JqcuKolREjBCBnP8QOsACr_bqxBAw3WVaZhQtFRSTHLSix0n9mNyjYBKzHu6EGRZuwlgOqsmOhp8jRiNwvQqvKw7Dh_FdxvgYMR/s1600/lucknam_park_hotel_bath_03-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrheaOZUE6AAgelm6hWnXhXLksQSdbqNjI8JqcuKolREjBCBnP8QOsACr_bqxBAw3WVaZhQtFRSTHLSix0n9mNyjYBKzHu6EGRZuwlgOqsmOhp8jRiNwvQqvKw7Dh_FdxvgYMR/s640/lucknam_park_hotel_bath_03-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>Hello. We're Santander.<br />
<br />
Probably the most annoying line ever spoken in an advert, but new year, new me so we'll let it pass. Happy 2011 everyone.<br />
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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).<br />
<br />
It was like something out of Agatha Christie. Or Rosamund Pilcher.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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Tomorrow: Romeo Beckham, style iconUnknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-84949257676549229802010-12-16T12:05:00.000+00:002010-12-16T12:05:18.862+00:00Nobody's Diary<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5PQVsWyOR3yduqLGVGXGS2WTSREw_QlPLc517WXU1sKGeIPEFkNKqXeQlCWdqvTOjON7UP2IuXrGtwNfxK5I4ZvWWEcgg07IXQaQ64RBMsSmOwusFtvPFWtfsN5xF4HY6kmIF/s1600/1204christmas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5PQVsWyOR3yduqLGVGXGS2WTSREw_QlPLc517WXU1sKGeIPEFkNKqXeQlCWdqvTOjON7UP2IuXrGtwNfxK5I4ZvWWEcgg07IXQaQ64RBMsSmOwusFtvPFWtfsN5xF4HY6kmIF/s320/1204christmas.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>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.<br />
<br />
<b>December 9</b>: 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.<br />
<br />
<b>December 10</b>: 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.<br />
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<b>December 11</b>: 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.<br />
<br />
<b>December 12</b>: 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.<br />
<br />
<b>December 13</b>: 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.<br />
<br />
<b>December 14</b>: Rode a dapple mare. Not really. Work, then a very Christmassy double bill of Home Alone/Home Alone 2 (at home, but not alone).<br />
<br />
<b>December 15</b>: 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.<br />
<br />
And here we are, looking forward to tonight's next round of drinks, and so it goes on. Not too exhuasted yet. And you?<br />
<br />
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. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-87616745195740058732010-12-08T10:29:00.000+00:002010-12-08T10:29:57.245+00:00It's clean, it's fresh at Sergisave!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JKDnd-GCLjXBtHQZ1_9GgflIYQ-mu4jqu-mbpzWtqinY89mFyVTEKAqN-5fMHBDV76FA3F3wxVJrWuUWyOmUrbWBB01RHJAylV7P5Mto1sIWjZ3jbf55F_7E8Ankv8JDTUYV/s1600/3142421.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4JKDnd-GCLjXBtHQZ1_9GgflIYQ-mu4jqu-mbpzWtqinY89mFyVTEKAqN-5fMHBDV76FA3F3wxVJrWuUWyOmUrbWBB01RHJAylV7P5Mto1sIWjZ3jbf55F_7E8Ankv8JDTUYV/s320/3142421.jpg" width="320" /></a>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.<br />
<br />
So have you been watching the highly entertaining, at times quite moving, but always fascinating Turn Back Time: The High Street?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
There was great excitement in July 1974 when a <i>hypermarket</i> 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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
These days I'm a Waitrose man. If you like food, that's got to be your supermarche of choice, right?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-25866746217104174592010-12-01T11:23:00.000+00:002010-12-01T11:23:04.290+00:00Glove to hate you<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhuiRTObS5AkmizPmwIRAL6T75vxXE_oU-6IjkwTYTYz_fs2PIbO1VKMM7LPvTZMjw67557Lm1yLPENP8LcSogPAoi0qQbJ0rEKs0TAhpCMJo826-TTOy5o7JhhGJQQN-rbK7/s1600/gloves_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuhuiRTObS5AkmizPmwIRAL6T75vxXE_oU-6IjkwTYTYz_fs2PIbO1VKMM7LPvTZMjw67557Lm1yLPENP8LcSogPAoi0qQbJ0rEKs0TAhpCMJo826-TTOy5o7JhhGJQQN-rbK7/s320/gloves_400.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Today's topic is gloves.<br />
<br />
Do you own gloves? How do you get on with them?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But me and gloves, we don't get on. Could have done with some today though, it's bitter.<br />
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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. <br />
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<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/YMt0wlQOwSw?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/YMt0wlQOwSw?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-58062274176439446872010-11-29T10:44:00.000+00:002010-11-29T10:44:26.788+00:00Don't Look Back<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodHhsoSjWnynhBHZxhVwIY0oJmNf2vZ1e-rLb8WOIpUoNE8I_zxVdfYi5nl7ZGpuclEbHD29wEAte-5oqAV_fOwexOgSNqpGoToSIULfB4G127WYyh_12wNaixNBcwOWP0V08/s1600/southampton_above_bar_precinct.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodHhsoSjWnynhBHZxhVwIY0oJmNf2vZ1e-rLb8WOIpUoNE8I_zxVdfYi5nl7ZGpuclEbHD29wEAte-5oqAV_fOwexOgSNqpGoToSIULfB4G127WYyh_12wNaixNBcwOWP0V08/s400/southampton_above_bar_precinct.jpg" width="400" /></a>Yesterday, waking at the crack of dawn and with Mrs F-C away, I decided to go on a road trip.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
*needle scratches across record which comes to an abrupt end*<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-5853599851226041142010-11-23T10:12:00.000+00:002010-11-23T10:12:11.537+00:00I've Feltz betterI see Vanessa Feltz has been announced as the Sarah Kennedy replacement.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Oh well, back to BBC Breakfast.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-11913954281337181612010-11-22T10:06:00.000+00:002010-11-22T10:06:42.631+00:00An albatross around my neckIt's been a while. I'm flattered that people keep asking me where I've been and even if I'm alright.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
Is that how other bloggers feel, seeing as no one blogs regularly anymore?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-29065179919971072952010-11-09T10:07:00.000+00:002010-11-09T10:07:39.908+00:00What have you done today?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5WRIXNtoZRN7C9DWMjhZDlgAiosL9nBJcPOp00Si3K45qCF1JklPW7m5eHyCg1_gXgNPuv5oWHqmGLPi-MWzY3w6YQ2npoi2gWRPTAKnUiYym93JkbFCc9CeylcGzbSy4ByJ/s1600/pob-09-10-11-image-3-524007014.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI5WRIXNtoZRN7C9DWMjhZDlgAiosL9nBJcPOp00Si3K45qCF1JklPW7m5eHyCg1_gXgNPuv5oWHqmGLPi-MWzY3w6YQ2npoi2gWRPTAKnUiYym93JkbFCc9CeylcGzbSy4ByJ/s400/pob-09-10-11-image-3-524007014.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
A good night was had by all. Now where's that VSO application form...Unknownnoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-23628617802574283602010-11-08T10:09:00.000+00:002010-11-08T10:09:07.908+00:00Same old, same old<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5eSF8M7Krrtl5hVMlyzT3V6JuDrThrDQgJWGO8DSyB-WGpvjrv9Asu5aNWg3H1WKQkIXZk3NN6lcleqvI3qXiC4TskEx0EPeiDirTdPQ2jZce3_8JDvZUSnI2r_IPGwzTh1Z/s1600/another_year_595.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-5eSF8M7Krrtl5hVMlyzT3V6JuDrThrDQgJWGO8DSyB-WGpvjrv9Asu5aNWg3H1WKQkIXZk3NN6lcleqvI3qXiC4TskEx0EPeiDirTdPQ2jZce3_8JDvZUSnI2r_IPGwzTh1Z/s400/another_year_595.jpg" width="400" /></a>I went to see the new Mike Leigh film Another Year, yesterday.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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. <br />
<br />
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. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-22768068856144168392010-11-04T09:45:00.000+00:002010-11-04T09:45:26.686+00:00Celebrity lesbiansThat got your attention. I was actually going to do a little celeb lesbian quiz, but it's not right really, is it?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-11526308455124385112010-11-03T14:04:00.000+00:002010-11-03T14:04:07.475+00:00Daybroken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyya14nH-jlE-4Md3Pwcrbx-o42cqH7zDJo2eAnINgVDci9FP0M1YIuP5Qn1R0_g4swwM6X2FxknjdIxoyxo0ScJGdXH7VUOfpCM-dqvclVHn7wSn5aFwmxyHaxuS9_BkxpsAE/s1600/Daybreak-006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyya14nH-jlE-4Md3Pwcrbx-o42cqH7zDJo2eAnINgVDci9FP0M1YIuP5Qn1R0_g4swwM6X2FxknjdIxoyxo0ScJGdXH7VUOfpCM-dqvclVHn7wSn5aFwmxyHaxuS9_BkxpsAE/s640/Daybreak-006.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>I've resisted doing this for ages, but restistance is futile where Daybreak is concerned.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
The sombre set must go though. Dark purples and mahogany are more likely to soothe you into sleep than perk you up.<br />
<br />
I never thought I'd say it: Bring back Fiona Phillips. <br />
<br />
Until then I'd rather watch Everybody Loves Raymond for the 50th time.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-2069648276670277142010-10-29T09:51:00.000+01:002010-10-29T09:51:43.162+01:00Something old...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqEUBY4qn6iNKVaGivfLObqzVrIpqcoW3C8_oy1UMf6zu1Va3zURxex90j9YfIFMEDaiCndJaafgyshHYVTQ9MyGPZpUmE9HMm55kMWjLmvvICadHmLq3X36NijQVq7WOIUb7/s1600/Charity+shop+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqqEUBY4qn6iNKVaGivfLObqzVrIpqcoW3C8_oy1UMf6zu1Va3zURxex90j9YfIFMEDaiCndJaafgyshHYVTQ9MyGPZpUmE9HMm55kMWjLmvvICadHmLq3X36NijQVq7WOIUb7/s400/Charity+shop+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>What's your stance on vintage clothing?<br />
<br />
Really, it's just the modern word for second hand of course, so do you ever wonder where it's been?<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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...<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But don't let that stop you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-52666974674830636382010-10-27T10:25:00.001+01:002010-10-27T11:50:15.154+01:00Forever Autumn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8w2rCvjlfw9nCDPnfeFNVXbgT1QsIWzmcri8-LGSFYPX-0QGu5dYpOdMGzOuR987XwayBMN2q03snqD93jShLQJ7QboEy2fe-8OGm9Q7zRTSzAbWnuz76BIAoHrPwJGiMJLb/s1600/36542_TR1068_IMG_00_0000.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8w2rCvjlfw9nCDPnfeFNVXbgT1QsIWzmcri8-LGSFYPX-0QGu5dYpOdMGzOuR987XwayBMN2q03snqD93jShLQJ7QboEy2fe-8OGm9Q7zRTSzAbWnuz76BIAoHrPwJGiMJLb/s1600/36542_TR1068_IMG_00_0000.JPG" /></a>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.<br />
<br />
So I'm going to bore you with a story. <br />
<br />
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). <br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
But it's also why I think 1987 is possibly one of the worst years for music.<br />
<br />
Here's UB40:<br />
<br />
<object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxKYJKVSbY4?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxKYJKVSbY4?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21859438.post-61762069140017267002010-10-22T09:40:00.001+01:002010-10-22T09:42:57.258+01:00Berk Wears White Sox<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghM69663TlyP-kR-vxIsAHtSZEoW_6K3ZUq-n-Ul2xCmGI3L3rjcBbmjmGZkr5Fq7iuDQvkFUF7I8XVKcX5Aqg9M_CbMKiBMNOVg7WzVIDBjn28-p7IccCGoAkO9wEu8xbR4UV/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghM69663TlyP-kR-vxIsAHtSZEoW_6K3ZUq-n-Ul2xCmGI3L3rjcBbmjmGZkr5Fq7iuDQvkFUF7I8XVKcX5Aqg9M_CbMKiBMNOVg7WzVIDBjn28-p7IccCGoAkO9wEu8xbR4UV/s400/images.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Yes I did.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
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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.<br />
<br />
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.<br />
<br />
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?<br />
<br />
Your views please.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com10