Mr Big

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Year, New You

Hello. We're Santander.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow: Romeo Beckham, style icon

Nobody's Diary

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Glove to hate you

Today's topic is gloves.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Don't Look Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've Feltz better

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

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

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

Oh well, back to BBC Breakfast.

An albatross around my neck

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

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

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

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

What have you done today?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Same old, same old

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

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

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

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

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