It's not what she says...

I'm probably going against the grain here, but I can't stand this woman, Liberty director Shami Chakrabarti.

Did you see her on Question Time last night? She's like the head of the school debating society. She's so emotional, it's ridiculous. I don't think if you want to be taken seriously in political circles you can be emotional. She was close to tears on one occasion, clearly about something she feels passionate about and she's probably got a point. But she's so sixth form, it's laughable.

So it's not necessarily what she says - though she is so utterly reactionary it's untrue - it's how she gets her point across. Don't look at people with hate-filled eyes, Shami, because they don't agree with you. Don't shake you head with mocking laughter because you're not the winner of the argument. It's like a 14-year-old girl being told she can't have a pony. You can see her fighting back the tantrum before she runs to her room sobbing hot, angry tears of frustration. That or an overgrown firebrand student whose view is the only view. She must be impossible to live with.

In a nutshell, she gets on my wick. But doesn't she look like Tanita Tikaram? I wonder what her singing's like?

Panic on the streets!

It's well documented here how much I hate GMTV. I don't know why I do it to myself but still there I am, sitting up in bed seething while some no-mark reporter is live from the streets of Chesterfield working everyone up into a frenzy because the local authority is running out of grit.

So that's the latest TV panic. No salted or gritted roads. To add to the misery of no shops, no trains, no tubes, no banks, no money, no schools open, no cure for any illness, Terry Pratchett's Alzheimer's, the execrable Minder remake with Shane Richie (and you know my thoughts on him, too), no future.

I'm convinced the media have engineered the credit crunch. It's all Eamonn Holmes' fault, the fat cunt. Without widespread scaremongering we might all be doing okay, but it's fuelled by rumour and suspicion.

I really don't like the world very much at the moment. Do you?

Hurdy Gurdy Man

Went to the Barbican to see Richard Thompson's show 1000 Years of Popular song with my gig-going mate TT last night.

It was great. A brisk run through of everything from madrigals, opera, music hall, carols and trad folk, right through to Cole Porter, the Beatles and bringing us right up to date with Maneater by Nelly Furtado. That last song I've never heard before, not even by the originator, so the irony was kind of lost on me, and to my shame I also realise how many Beatles songs I don't yet know. I'm a Stones man, you see. However, what a lucky position to be in to have yet to discover Beatles songs. There can't be many of us over 40 who can say that.

Anyhoo, the Barbican is so groovy, with it's twisty staircases, wood panelling, brutalist towers and low level lakes. It's the F-C spiritual home. Of course it's impossible to navigate and just getting in is a feat in itself. Despite my map, I walked around for about 20 minutes trying to find the entrance. It's impenetrable. I felt like I was in The Crystal Maze.



I've seen RT many, many times, and this time was different because he wasn't doing any of his own material. I have to say he did look much older than last time, more stately and still wearing that bloody beret. But don't let that put you off. The musicianship was top notch - he even played the hurdy gurdy, which I've never seen before. He was in fine voice, accompanied by a fabulous vocalist called Judith someone (didn't catch the last name), who was so versatile. She was stunning, though we agreed that the Cleo Laine/X Factor hand movements and vocal gymnastics were nothing more than showing off. Josie Lawrence on drums was rather clunky, a cross between Animal from the Muppets and Don Partridge. But it didn't detract.

But RT was in fine voice. I could see him ever day of the week and never get bored. He did a nice version of Knight of the Road, which I've got by Maddy Prior and Tim Hart. And he's so jolly between numbers, very good at the banter. A super night out.

Celebrity spot of the night: Steven Mangan.

Until next time.

Snow day!

By now you'll be tired of other people's snow day stories. So I won't bore you with mine as I didn't really have one. Got up, no trains, tubes or buses, the car was snowed in so Mrs F-C and I stayed home.

To be honest, I was bored to sobs. She was hogging the computer, working, and I couldn't go anywhere, do any itunes stuff or ebay etc, so I watched endless DVDs (Misery, a great snow film, much like The Shining) and put away clothes. I'm quite good usually filling my time, but yesterday was severely limiting.

It would be different if I lived in the heart of the country. We could go out walking in wonderment. It's not really like that in south London, though I do always enjoy the silence that snow brings. It was pretty, I'll give it that. but then it gets all nasty and sludgy and I'm back at work today watching everyone struggle in from Dagenham and Brighton.

I recall 1991, the last time it was like this. We were all sent home from work at lunchtime and didn't go in for the next two days. I didn't even bother to phone in, it was a given. Things have changed. Look at this email a friend forwarded on. Some people get it all out of perspective. There's only one word for this guy... Names have been changed to protect the dull.

From: The Boss
To: The Team
Sent: Mon Feb 02 14:26:13 2009
Subject: Normal Working Hours

Dear All

We are working normal office hours today (xxx will be providing reception cover, because xxxx in its wisdom is shutting the front desk).

If anyone is worried about getting back today because you live in particularly a difficult/distant area could you come and see me personally and I will give a sympathetic hearing to a request to leave early on a case by case basis.

I am expecting everyone to make a big effort to get in tomorrow, by which time I hope our transport system may have learned how to cope with some seasonal weather!
If you believe you cannot make it - could we either agree a relevant work programme for you with team leaders or let you take the day as holiday.

Many thanks

The boss

Stop Your Sobbing

It's always sad when one of your heroes or favourites dies. But as much as I admire an singer or an actor, it's unlikely I'd ever shed a tear over them, write poetry or publicly thank them for their good work on a personal level. You know, 'thanks Paul, for helping me through, etc'. I find all that especially cringeworthy. I didn't actually know them.

I remember my brother crying when Elvis Presley died, but I think he got caught up in the moment. He was only nine. When Kurt Cobain died, a colleague had to go home because they needed to play his records 'and say a private goodbye'. Frankly, I thought that was preposterous. I'd never even heard of him.

The whole of Britain sobbed uncontrollably when Diana died. Except me and Mrs F-C, who really couldn't see what all the fuss was about. She was right. Britain embarrassed itself and hasn't been able to look itself in the eye since.

I've never cried over anyone famous. I'm saddened of course, as I think it's a shame when someone talented whom you liked is taken. For example, Kirsty MacColl was a true tragedy, she had so many years left. I was shocked. But I didn't cry.

I wonder what sort of person you have to be to cry over the death of a famous person.

A normal one? A sensitive soul? You?

Am I being hard here, or am I just as I should be?

The Man Upstairs

Sad to see that John Martyn has died.

His blend of folky bluesy jazzy rock is not everyone's cup of tea, but there is a time when nothing else but Solid Air or Bless The Weather will do.

I met him at the Mojo Awards last year. I was behind him while he was being carried down some steps in his wheelchair backwards (so he was facing me) - he was a big man, and I mean big, and it took quite a few big lads to lift him - and he was smiling and chatting and chuckling all the time. He seemed in good spirits, considering. He looked quite scary but the twinkle in his eye meant he was clearly a lamb.

He'll be much missed.

All going swimmingly

While we all sit here worrying about how this country is finished - and let's face it, it is - I'm minded to recall Saturday morning swimming lessons after seeing a new poster campaign for the new-look Times at the Tube station this morning.

I hated them.

We'd go to the very art deco, St Louis arch-shaped Southampton Central Baths at what seemed like the very crack of dawn. I must have been about six or seven. It required effort and I just wanted to stay in the warm.

The mornings were cold and dark, the pool was echo-y and smelt very strongly of chlorine. The main pool was 16ft deep at it's big end, with highest diving board in Western Europe (no, really) and was populated by big boys you didn't want to cross showing off to the girls, and quite possibly petting. In the diving area!

Over at the little pool, about 80 kids were crammed in. All the water was warm and everyone was pissing in it. One time, a crowd gathered and when I got there they were pointing at something below the surface. Sensing a opportunity to cover myself in glory, I dove down to see what it was. I came to the surface with a melting turd in my hand, as the crowd scattered. I was not covered in glory. It's enough to put you off for life. I could never really master anything but floating on my back. The instructor barked. I never properly learned to swim. My brother of course, learned to swim exclusively in someone's private indoor pool. Always got the easy option.

The only consolation was afterwards, when my grandma would come to meet us and we'd have Bovril crips and she'd give us Pop-a-Point pencils - sometimes colour ones! (Surely we can't have got them every week?) Anyway, for years, when I tasted a Bovril crisp I thought of swimming lessons. I liked Bovril crisps. They tasted of salvation.

Kitchen Person

Do you cook? Do you like to cook? Are you any good?

Watching a lot of Masterchef recently, I'm always amazed when they come up with something really interesting from the pile of random ingredients they're given for the initial invention test. Sometimes of course it's a disaaster, other times it's truly amazing. I just know that as good a cook as I am, I couldn't do this.

If someone stuck me in front of chicken liver, marjoram, oizo pasta, cherry tomatoes, maple syrup and Blu-tack and asked me to come up with something I'd be stumped. Given time, I'm sure I could whip up something amazing, but not just like that. I think I'd go into freefall. Liver in a Blu-tack sauce. Mmmm!

About 15 years ago, Mrs F-C, me, and my then sister-in-law who ran off to become a lesbian (long story), did a cordon bleu cookery course.

It was all hugely competitive. Mrs F-C missed some sessions due to travelling, my sister-in-law got bored and fizzled out after a few weeks, but I stayed the course. It didn't take long to settle into it. Once you can follow a recipe and get your timings right, it's really no problem at all.

The teacher loved me, and week after week held up my veloute sauce or my chicken a la king as a shining example of how it should be done. Mrs F-C was furious. The guy who arrived on his moped with everything beautifully packed up, cooked really quickly then packed it all away again perfectly, blanked me the entire course. We were still there draining the cooking wine and haphazardly washing up long after the lesson had ended.

Anyhoo, I didn't go back for part two because it involved finding muslin and buying fresh fish, etc., and there was no way that could be sourced on the isle of Dogs on a weekday back then. Canary Wharf was but a pile of bricks.

Now, I enjoy cooking and I'm confident enough about it. It's a question of being bothered, but if you can, it's all rather satisfying. That said, there's no way I'm going on Masterchef like my pal GKW. He's good. He eats goat and squirrel. I draw the line.

So what's your signature dish?

Am I boring you?

I'm feeling awfully dull at the moment. I'm wracking my brains for something interesting to blog about but, and let's face it, if you have to do that it's not worth doing.

So after yesterdays most boring posts ever - yes, they were just fillers - I've decided I'll be back when I've got something interesting to talk about, like why was Gabrielle wearing the biggest sunglasses in Europe while eating in a restaurant on Masterchef, or how much I really, really hate London cyclists and Addison Lee cab drivers and how the world is going to hell as everyone completely ignores traffic lights/lanes/their own safety just to get one over on their neighbour and how it'll all end in tears.

Or I could talk about how much I'm enjoying Extras second time around, more so than the the relentlessly gag-filled The Office, or how brilliant Suranne Jones was in Unforgiven, how much I'm looking forward to the return of Mad Men and Damages, how Morrissey's Hairdresser On Fire is my chanson du jour, why I'm enjoying everything Eighties, how Mrs F-C said I was unromantic for wanting Ralph Fiennes to have just moved on in The Reader, why I'm always tired, how Britain is just melting down bit by bit where there's no jobs, no money, no shops, no nothing, and why I feel itchy feet coming on.

I'm going for a lie down.

Ciao!

A touch of Frost

All this talk of Frost/Nixon makes me recall interviewing Frosty himself about this very subject about eight or nine years ago.

Some channel or other was showing the Nixon interviews in full, and Sir Dave was doing publicity. So off I went to a swanky central London boutique hotel to meet the great man himself.

Along with several other journalists I'd never seen before, we were ushered into a side room with a huge table in it, at the head of which sat Dave smoking the world's biggest cigar.

I was nervous of such a legend, but he was avuncular "I had dinner with your editor last week. Super chap", etc., and were allowed to ask one question each, which as it happened was all you could do as he talked for Britain without drawing a breath, puffing all the time on his huge cigar, the smoke from which was filling the room. The windows did not open.

So it was me, and tons of foreign journalists, who usually get in their 'what do you think of Amsterdam?', 'Have you ever been to Croatia?' questions really early on. This was no exception. But he did recall in some detail the Nixon interviews and very interesting his take on it was indeed.

But it was great to hear the man talk first hand about such a legendary interviews, and I minded not one jot leaving the hotel an hour or so later smelling like the bar at the RAC Club.

A career highlight.