Nothing has grabbed me so far about Big Brother 4. The housemates are all from too similar an age group and class background. I can only guess that the producers thought this was their best chance of some sexual goings on - why else would they not include any gay housemates? The first eviction has been and gone and I've barely watched the programme. Where are the standout characters? The Pennys? The Jades?

As commented on unofficial Big Brother site digital spy, in each of the previous years there's been a final housemate added as a replacement, so can this year manage without one, or will the last person prove to be the key element that sets everything off?

Time will tell whether this bunch prove to be exciting, but at the moment it's far more interesting keeping up with the shambolic careers of last year's contestants. Kate Lawler is truly awful presenting RI:SE, and it's such entertaining tv.

Matrix Redecorated this afternoon. Featherweight plot that doesn't really bear any commenting on, but I will confess a bizarre longing for Carrie-Anne Moss.

Maybe it's the PVC. Maybe it's the chiselled features. Maybe it was the way she handled a Ducati. She's just blummin gorgeous.

To look at.

Ahem.

posted at 11:16 PM •

--GROSS-OUT WARNING--

Sweet boyfriend that I am, I bought John a present this lunchtime - a blood sugar monitor. Five and a half years and the fire still burns for us, oh yes.

Delighted he was with his present, and the two of us pored over the instructions to see how we checked his defective claret. The Accu-chek™ Advantage System looked easy enough to use, but as we started to read through the instructions, it began to sound like the manual for the Tardis.

First prime the Accu-chek™ Stab-e-clix. This is starting to not look so 'Virtually Pain-free™'. I hold onto John's leg as he presses the little button on the friendly looking torture device. John screws up his eyes, winces, and we hear a little click.

Oh. That's it.

Quickly we try to get the teeny drop of blood onto the reader strip. It's going everywhere but where it should. I'm frantically reading through the instructions to find out what we're doing wrong.

"Put your finger there - THERE!"
"WHERE?"
"Hurry up, you've only got fifteen seconds"
BIP-BIP-BIP-BEEEP

We get another reader strip out of the sealed bottle. John has a bright idea. He rolls up his trouser leg and picks off a scab from an insect bite. Blood comes oozing out, more than enough to fill the little reader window.

BIP-BIP-BIP-PING

(The machine doesn't actually make a pinging noise, but it sounds better if I pretend).

His blood sugar is exactly the same as it was when he went to the doctor last week. Ah well, hours of fun drawing blood!

posted at 10:37 PM •

Bugger this for a game of soldiers. Two days without blogging and I'm missing it like crazy. The situation that made me take a holiday is still ongoing, but I've decided it's not going to stop me blogging.

One of the reasons I want to return so soon is because I had my highest hits ever over the weekend, what with blogging about Dale Winton's wedding and getting frantically Googled. I didn't watch the programme at the weekend (regular readers will know that I have far more interesting things to do on a Sunday) - but I managed to catch it last night.

So, for those of you looking for the real story, here's the best I can offer...

Dale's wedding was a piece of televisual fiction. It was a non-event designed to boost the ratings of Tessa Jowell's favourite channel, BBC Three (otherwise known as BBC Braindead). The pseudo-documentary was a shambolic mish-mash of celebrity interviews and fly-on-the-wall clips. Certain bits were better than others - Dale himself seemed to give the best performance, but everyone else was hopelessly off-message.

Chris Moyles and Tara Palmer-Tomkinson were particularly cringeworthy. TPT couldn't act her way out of a paper bag, and the interview she gave rubbishing Nell McAndrew was particularly wooden. Moyles' assertion that Winton was 'as straight as a die' was utterly laughable, but also vaguely sinister as Moyles doesn't come over as the most homo-friendly bloke around. In any case, all of these statements were going against Dale's claim that he has had relationships with both men and women.

The show was finished with the 'oh-so-teasing' voiceover from Dale - "So that was my dream wedding. But was it real?" - No, of course it bloody wasn't.

If Dale Winton wants the public to believe that he is bisexual that's his perogative. However, I know for a fact that he is often in gay club xxl - and in fact I saw him there with my own eyes a few months ago.

Dale goes for big fat chunky bears. He loves them - can't get enough of them. Nell McAndrew is about as far from Dale's ideal partner as she possibly can be - except for the voice of course.

It's unlikely the wedding was a real ceremony in any case - UK law states that you can only get wed in a licensed venue. Since 1995 licences have been issued to a variety of places such as castles and hotels, but I don't think Dale Winton's back garden is one of them.

And that (I hope) is the last word on the subject. Oh, but feel free to comment - welcome me back etc.

posted at 3:26 PM •

Time to take a blog holiday here folks. Some stuff has come up, and I think it's for the best that I give things a rest for a couple of weeks. I hope to return sometime in June, or earlier depending on when I get things sorted out. Thanks for all the support you've given me over the last few months.

Steve

posted at 11:55 AM •

Thoughts on the Eurovision - tATu were scary - the Greek woman was made out of Fimo modelling clay - Jemma(ni) was flat as a fookin pancake - the Austrian entry was outdone by Ukraine - Turkey was fab.

posted at 9:25 PM •

"It is not going to stop a determined attacker with really subtle carefully worked out plans, but it is certainly going to deter the casual bomber," he said.

The casual bomber? Is that something like impulse buying at the supermarket?

"Right, let's see - I've got to collect my guerilla uniform from the dry cleaners, pick up some Anthrax spores and ricin, and - oh, why don't I bomb the Houses of Parliament as I'm going that way..."

posted at 12:37 PM •

Yes, it's true. In 2001, I became utterly obsessed with Big Brother. There are various excuses I can throw at you, but to tell the truth - I enjoyed it.

In the first year of BB - 2000 - to begin with I wasn't that interested. It sounded like something I should enjoy, but after watching it, I decided it was a load of crap. All that changed four or five weeks into the programme with the Nasty Nick episode. Where were you when you heard about Nasty Nick? I gave the show another chance, and I was hooked.

What's more, by this time I'd found out that the BB house was just down the road from me in Stratford. My mate Peter went down to one of the eviction shows on a Friday evening and had a great time. The following week I went with him. It was brilliant - a totally weird mix of people screaming for Davina - I think it was Mel's (the slut) eviction. I went once again, for the final, but as it was a Friday and I usually had stuff to do, I didn't get into it that much.

Then at the start of 2001 I got made redundant. My entire social circle was based at work, and once I left, it totally vanished. I joined my new company, but they weren't the socialising type. I soon found myself with nothing to do on a Friday evening - except - go to Big Brother evictions!

And so started my summer of shame as a Big Brother stalker...(to be continued)

posted at 11:16 AM •

Look, I did warn you this week might be a bit all over the place. I don't know if this is a common reaction to bereavment, but I can't help but track everything that my dead parents (I struggled for another way of putting that, but it's late and I couldn't think of anything) have missed.

Just trivial crap, nothing serious - but the stuff that everyone takes for granted. There's a line in macabre eighties comedy Hello Again!, where Shelly Long, who's returned from the grave a year after choking to death, mugs comically and says "Does anyone know what's happened on Knots Landing?" Maybe it's a particularly modern-age affliction. The secrets of life and death or the latest celebrity gossip?

In the case of my Dad, he never saw the arrival of Eastenders, and I can barely watch the programme without thinking of that fact. Dad, you lucked out there.

And now Mum. So far I can't think of much trivia she'd be interested in that she's missed - but then that's partly because I didn't follow the trivia she was interested in - soaps and whatnot - Eastenders for one.

I seem to be keeping a mental tally of everything in my life that she's missed too - passing my motorbike test, starting the blog, and now John's diabetes. But whenever I think of this latest development, my mind jumps one step ahead and I catch myself thinking "Oh, must tell Mum".

And it hurts each time.

posted at 12:09 AM •

This isn't the main confession, but since I'm baring my soul to the world, here's another little skeleton.

Shock, gasp - tabloid-style revelations - I'm in lust with a nineteen-year-old!

As I've mentioned a while ago, my preference for blokes has generally tended toward the hairy and beary. Through my twenties this meant that most of the blokes I went for were older than me. I should've realised I was on a slippery slide when I first started going out with Bear and I found out he was only a year older than me (despite looking at least ten years older).

Simple equation - the older I get, the more guys younger than me start to get fanciable, as they're able to grow beards and whatnot. The nineteen-year-old in question is precociously hirsute on account of his mediterranean parentage. He's 6'2", dark, and dare I say it, swarthy, but he also comes across as being pretty shy. He's adorable when he does this 'Princess Di' style head tilt, looking out from under his dark eyebrows.

Unfortunately, the studly sixth-former will forever be out of my grasp. He's far too like me at that age, lusting after older blokes - and I don't qualify as older enough.

Ah well, I shall just have to be content with befriending him, throwing available bears in his direction and shagging him vicariously.

posted at 11:43 AM •

Still no winners for the Confession Competition. A few of you are on the right lines, but so far the guesses are pretty luke-warm.

I may reveal all later today if I get bored enough at work.

posted at 8:58 AM •

Welcome to the all-new low-sugar my ace life - now suitable for diabetics.

It's not passed my notice that this weekend promises to be a gaytabulous televisual feast. Firstly, the culmination of months of blog commentary with the Eurovision. Still not sure where I'll watch this - Comptons? XXL? Home? Any offers of last-minute parties?

Secondly, it's the start of Big Brother IV - will there be any gay 'characters'? Transsexuals? Hermaphrodites? My money's on black transsexual siamese twins. Just you watch.

Thirdly, BBC Braindead is showing... Dale Winton's Wedding. Still not sure what the spin on this is all about - I'm just upset they didn't hold the reception in XXL - they could've combined it with BearPride (shudder) and the Eurovision festivities.

Confession competition time - I have a deep dark secret to reveal about one of the above telly events - any offers? I will reveal all before Friday.

posted at 1:00 PM •

Just when you think life couldn't get any worse...it doesn't.

John went for a blood test last week. He's lost three stone in as many months, has been constantly low on energy, and susceptible to colds and flu. Luckily for him, I'm a born worrier and hypochondriac, so I packed him off to the GP. He was expecting to have to phone back in a week or so to make an appointment to get the results, but yesterday afternoon he got called in for an appointment this morning - subtext: we've found something.

My mind went on overdrive, but actually not as bad as I've been over things in the past - looks like I'm getting better at coping with this sort of stuff. Also, I've got a mate who's a GP, and he managed to put my mind at rest, relatively speaking. We knew it was unlikely to be anything fatal - hiv for instance was out of the picture, as he wasn't being screened for it - you have to know you're being tested for hiv, they can't just rummage around in your blood without telling you.

Still, I was pretty worried.

Well, he just phoned me (he didn't want me going to pieces in the doctor's surgery with him) - and he's diabetic. He doesn't have to take insulin, but he'll have to control his diet from now on, which actually is something of a good thing - no more secret squirrel biscuits hidden around the house. On the whole, not the end of the world - hopefully he's going to have a lot more energy once he's got his diet sorted!

posted at 12:11 PM •

To borrow a blog form [from Rob], I feel like this today


Marc Chagall - Job Praying

posted at 10:29 AM •

Oh God.

I just passed the runty one outside on the street. He gave me a very forced smile - I wonder if he has worked out who I am? He'll be making voodoo dolls of me with a cock for a nose as revenge!

posted at 3:42 PM •

Nothing like a good workout to get over a mini-depression. Lots of Endolphins flowing round my body - gotta love those dolphins.

Didn't mention last week I joined a gym - bit of a big thing for me - I've been meaning to do it for ages. Last time I was enrolled at a gym was over 2 years ago, when I worked at Traffic. We had a corporate membership at the local borough gym which was only 4 minutes down the road, and it meant I didn't just spend every lunchtime down the pub. Well, I got made redundant, and as the gym was over in Marylebone it didn't make sense to carry on there. I started at Soda, and almost immediately got thrown into a flat-buying fandangle, where all my spare money went into saving up for a depsit on the flat. I looked around for a new gym, but none really appealed. Nearly a year passed since I'd been in a gym, and then - January 2002 happened. That old chestnut again.

I can't believe how much 2002 was a complete write off. I look back through emails I sent during the year, and I can remember writing them, but the whole year seems compressed into a month. 2002 ended, and the first half of 2003 sped past. In the last month or so I've started to take stock of my life, such as it is.

I'm standing in the rubble of my life and realising I've got to start rebuilding things.

posted at 11:01 AM •

A bit of a family interlude

My Nan. My only remaining directly related relative.

She's diabetic, and only has one lung after contracting tuberculosis at an early age. She's eighty-one years old, and has barely aged in the thirty years I've known her.

She was in a TB sanatorium when Mike, my Dad was a teenager, and he went to live with her mum, my Great-Gran. My Great-Gran lived into her mid-nineties, and in fact outlived Mike. She was slipping into senility in the last couple of years, and so was never told about the death of her grandson - it would have been far too hard on her. At the time I remember feeling sorry for her, and wondered if she'd be upset on arriving in heaven only to find Mike waiting for her.

Great-Gran was Grannie, so my Grandmothers had to be called Nana. My sister, who had a precocious imagination gave all our grandparents names to distinguish one from another. My Mum's mum was Nana Boatie, on account of the fact that we had to get a boat to visit her. Great-Gran was Granny Sticks, as she used sticks and a zimmer frame to walk with. Her imagination ran out with Dad's mum, as she ended up being just Nana Law, on account of her surname being Law.

That was one of the tangled webs that I had to work out when I was growing up. My Dad's parents were actually his mother and step-father, and so my Nan had a different surname to me. Nan had divorced (sometime after the sanatorium I think), and remarried before I was born. I can only imagine the difficulty of a middle-aged woman getting a divorce in the fifties or sixties.

So, my Nan has lived through: a world-war; the death of both her parents; a divorce; the death of her second husband and the death of her son and daughter-in-law.

She has a fairly non-standard belief system for a person of her generation. She joined a spiritualist church, and believes in reincarnation. I don't think she still attends the church, but still has strong beliefs about the spirit and our purpose on earth. The day before my Mum died, she told me that Dad had been with her all day. I usually only half-listen to this sort of talk, but to be honest, I actually really envy my Nan's faith. I suppose growing up in the late twentieth century, an age of unswerving rationality, it's hard to have a belief system based on faith.

My understanding is that there was nothing before I came into existence, and there will be nothing afterwards. I had to start thinking about this at the age of eleven, and used to keep myself up for hours contemplating my own death and oblivion. As I grow older, I discover that's not the total terror it used to be. I'm still scared of death, but once in a while I can accept it.

posted at 3:33 PM •

Really bad weekend - I've not felt like posting anything, but there have been a few thoughts bubbling around in my head. I visited my Nan on Saturday, which turned out to be the start of the bad stuff.

It's quite a hard thing to say, but my Nan is a very difficult person for me to be around. I love her, and I know she doesn't say anything out of malice, but she's got very strong beliefs, and doesn't mind telling me all about them.

I didn't realise it, but Saturday was the anniversary of my Dad's death. It's not a date I remember, or try to remember, but as Dad was Nan's son it's one she doesn't forget. So she started asking me about how I was feeling, and I told her I was missing Mum a lot at the moment. Nan went on to tell me about her spiritualist beliefs. I opened up more than I have done before and told her I was basically agnostic about everything like that. It was a difficult moment, and I was on the verge of breaking down, which I think she sensed, so she dropped the subject.

Anyway, it's opened up a whole load of emotions that I don't really feel able to deal with, and it's put me into a depression that's just floating under the surface. I can put a brave face on it, but really all I want to do is be by myself and weep for a month.

I'm in two minds as to how to move on. Part of me wants to put the blog on hiatus for a while, until I can get over this depression, but the other half wants to keep going, and offload my thoughts and feelings here.

I'm going to try the latter, but postings may be a bit all over the place for the next couple of weeks.

posted at 11:20 AM •

I was walking past this poster for The Truth About Charlie on Great Eastern Street the other day - nothing unusual about that, they're plastered all over London at the moment. Something unusual about this one caught my eye however - hang on just a second - co-starring....I didn't know she was in it!?

Click the little pic - click it and make it go big!

posted at 12:39 PM •

Grammar - the final frontier.

These are the voyages of the Starship Enterprise. It's continuing mission: to explore strange new syntax. To seek out correct spelling and use of punctuation, to boldly go where no-one has gone before.

Finally, I understand this split infinitive nonsense - I think.

"...to boldly go where no-one has gone before."

The infinitive is the simple present form of a verb used either as a noun, adjective or adverb. The verb of the infinitive (in this case go) is usually preceded by the word to.

In the case of the famous Trek speech, the infinitive to go has been split by the addition of the adverb boldly, which should go after the infinitive:

"...to go boldly where no-one has gone before."

There, I feel much happier now!

posted at 11:38 AM •

Stuckism International, Charlotte Road.
Stuck in the heart of London's fashionable East End, surrounded by the bleeding edge of the art scene, is the headquarters of the self proclaimed "First Remodernist Art Group". Stuckism claims to be:

Allow me to interpret as best I can:
Modern art is rubbish. It makes people like Charles Saatchi lots of money, which means it must be decrepid. Tracey Emin is an annoying cow since she became a star and Turner Prize nominee. She used to be our friend, but now she hangs out with Nicholas Serrota we don't like her. That lot make stuff with readymades, so we'll do the complete opposite, and paint instead.

We had this sort of thing going on when I was doing my Fine Art Degree. All the painters would hang out in one corner of the studios, all the sculptors in another... and so on.
I appreciate a lot of what the Stuckists are saying, although a bit of it does seem a bit like sour grapes. Plus, I wasn't a painter at university, so I'm slightly less sympathetic.

Still, as I was taking the photos for this post, a nice bloke ushered me into the gallery and proceded to tell me all about what they were up to - and gave me a free catalogue - so they're nice chaps really.

posted at 4:26 PM •

Everybody's doing it, so why can't I? Part III

I started smoking in my second year of university. That was a pretty hellish year for me for reasons too complex to go into now. I'd smoked only occassionally up till then - you know, the odd ciggie when out drinking - but then I got chummy with this gorgeous straight Spanish student called Jose-Carlos.

I needed an excuse to spend as little time as possible in my shared digs, and so I spent most evenings round at his bedsit, chatting and smoking. I'd like to say it was all entirely innocent, but from my perspective it wasn't in the least. Ah, the fantasies I had of goateed J-C.

Anyway, before I knew it, I was smoking 5 a day. As most of my other friends at university smoked, it was all perfectly socially acceptable, and even encouraged.

There was one interesting side-effect of me smoking however. Not long after I started smoking regularly, I happened to sniff my fingers, and the smell triggered a long forgotten memory. The scent of my Dad.

posted at 4:46 PM •

Everybody's doing it, so why can't I? Part II

3 cigs so far today. Not bad for 12:30, and the cravings are getting a lot easier to cope with.

I thought I'd go into a bit more detail about why I never told my mum that I smoked. I think she suspected, she said as much once or twice, but I would have never admitted it to her. The reason? My parents were both heavy smokers up till I was about ten years old.

My sister and I pestered our parents relentlessly for ten years to give up smoking. My sister is a world-class emotional blackmailer, so how they held out for that long I'll never know. Perhaps she was just toying with them. After innumerable caravanning holidays with the two of us trapped in the back of the car choking on their smoke, they gave into our whining and badgering and gave up.

The following year my Dad died of a massive heart attack - funny old world isn't it?

So, I never admitted to my mum that I'd started smoking while at university. I couldn't handle my deferred hypocrisy - the years of pestering that I'd put her through, only to start smoking myself.

Still - to this day, I don't like people smoking in cars, so at least I was right on that front.

posted at 1:02 PM •

Everybody's doing it, so why can't I?

Giving up the cancer sticks, that is.

Seems I can't move in my blog-circle for running into a post about smoking, or a how many cigs have/haven't I smoked counter.

I registered at the GP last month - something I'd neglected to do for about three years. That's not entirely down to the fact that I don't like GPs, although I do have a fear of GP waiting rooms - so many working class people, ick. It's mostly because apart from a few minor scrapes and infections, I've been pretty darn healthy, so I've not really needed one. Obviously there are more reasons to be registered with a GP, so I went and did it.

And the first thing Dr Hari comments on is my smoking. Naturally, I lied about how much I smoked - I couldn't bring myself to admit to 20 a day, so I put 15. Doctors probably know about this, so add 5 to every estimate. I'm pretty sure it's policy to offer help to cut down smoking, but it pissed me off a little that she just jumped right in with the 'cut down smoking' speech without even finding anything about me.

Until last January, I was smoking about 10 a day. Until last January, I never smoked around my family. Until last Januray, my life was pretty much under control.

I travelled back to the Isle of Man in January 2002 to sit beside my dying mother, and it just seemed stupid to hide anything about my habits. I was having a hard enough time keeping myself together without having to hide the fact that I smoked from my relatives. Mum never found out, as she never regained consciousness - although I'm pretty sure she suspected I smoked.

The following year has been...difficult, to say the least. I've not really paid much attention to how much I've been smoking, and so gradually it's crept up to 20 a day. My health has started to suffer just a little - especially after the weekends, when I tend to smoke more. On top of that the cost of smoking is starting to have an economic impact, and I need to cut a few corners, so I'm cutting down. That is all - no quit-o-meter, no daily updates. I really don't feel like even mentioning I'm cutting down, as I feel like I'll jinx myself.

And if anyone writes anything even slightly sanctimonious in my comments, I will not be pleased!

posted at 8:59 AM •

If I keep losing fiddly balls from piercings, I'm going to weld the bloody things shut permanently. Bit tricky with my septum piercing that I only have in occassionally though. Dropped a ball while at LA3 on Sunday, and then another somehow went adrift last night while I slept. I hope John hasn't swallowed it.

For some reason, these two stories on BBC got mixed up in my head this morning - Wanted: Klingon interpreter for Clare Short's resignation statement. For some reason I like the thought of Clare giving her speech in Klingon - it would've been so much more punchy.

Actually, quite a few interesting stories from the BBC today - they report that there are moves afoot in the Scottish Parliament to give gay and straight couples the same rights as married couples. This is one of the interesting things that arises from an increasingly decentralised United Kingdom - once a precedent is set in one parliament, it becomes difficult for another parliament to oppose it. Or something. I'm not that politically minded - I'll get John to give his opinion, if I can tear him away from analysing the latest government shake-ups.

I'm suprised he hasn't dropped a comment on Tom's site yet today. Tom of course remains fairly quiet on the matter of his neighbouring MP. Except for spelling her name wrong yesterday.

posted at 5:14 PM •

My mood has lightened quite considerably lately. Despite a slight marital-bliss hiccup on Thursday, last week was peaceful and rewarding, and the weekend has been nice and relaxing. Dragged bear to the Vauxhall Tavern yesterday - not exactly kicking and screaming, but I think he would have preferred to be slouching on the sofa, reading the Observer.

Well, he really enjoyed himself as it turned out. Whenever he's come in the past, the weather has been fair, so he's just stayed on the green and left when DE came on. Yesterday of course it was wet and miserable, so he got a wristband and braved the interior. Despite starting off a little ill-at-ease, he eventually settled down (once all the bears had given up eyeing him up) - and stayed for DE, who gave one of her best shows in a few months. By the end of the show, he was singing along like a seasoned SLAGS veteran.

posted at 11:12 AM •

Yesterday's winning Lotto numbers weren't:

18   28   32   35   43   46

I know this because for a change yesterday I bought a lotto ticket. I must admit I do agree in general with my beloved spouse that it's a tax on idiots. The national lottery has never really appealed to me, and so much of it is annoying - from the tv show taking up god knows how much prime-time air to the distribution of the spoils, both charitable and prize money.

Desperate times (I have no money) take desperate measures - so a modest flutter is allowed, following my:
Golden Lottery Rules ™ - only buy one ticket, and only ever get lucky dip numbers.

Started playing The Legend of Zelda: the Wind Walker - it's a video game folks... It took me a few hours to get into it properly, but now I have - I'm hooked. It's one of the first games to utilise a feature of the gamecube that allows you to hook up a gameboy advance and get extra bits and pieces in the game. I didn't have one, so yesterday went into the West End, and went in just about every electronics and games shop in central London to find one. But of course everywhere has sold out, as everyone is getting them to play with Zelda. Eventually I got the last one in the entire of London, in Game in Stratford - so I can now have my Tingle Tuner! (Just smile and nod, and don't make any sudden movements, OK?)

The other thing about the game is it's all rendered in stylistic cartoony 3D graphics. The effect, called cel-shading, has never been used so well before - however, certain effects such as explosions are rendered as disney-esque stylised swirls, and they're quite mesmeric. After playing for a few hours, I stagger away bleary eyed and blinking, and all I can see are these cartoon swirls everywhere.
It's better than K - and cheaper too.

posted at 11:29 AM •

I hope this one isn't a Google-bomb.

My best search string EVAH...
totally free porn sites in hindi which download their all contents in less than 30 seconds

Oh, the mental images this one conjures up!

posted at 12:07 AM •

This website is the home of the organization protesting against the second installment of the J.R.R. Tolkien Lord Of The Rings movie being named "The Two Towers".

This website is the home of the organization protesting against the third installment of the J.R.R. Tolkien Lord Of The Rings movie being named "The Return of the King".

Arf.

posted at 12:41 PM •

Bit of a slow week, the old grey cell hasn't been working too well.

I've had a bit of an overnight transatlantic ratings blip on account of a cute Japanese bear cheesecake link I sent over to Jockohomo. Next time, could you give me warning that you're going to slashdot me so I can spruce the place up? People dropping by in their - oo, tens, and there's hardly anything on the site. If I'd known, I would've baked a cake or something... put up a flag.

I was reading recently the results of one of those surveys of national intelligence. You know, the one that claimed that over 90% of americans believed in the existence of the devil, but only 2% could name the current president*. One of the interesting points thrown up by the survey was that hardly anyone in the US knew where the United Kingdom was - most thought it was in the Middle East. To be sympathetic, I don't think this is particularly alarming, given the number of names our small island has accumulated. For the benefit of any visiting Americans, here's the my ace life dummy's guide to the place where Ab Fab comes from. (And for my sake, I hope I get this right).

The United Kingdom
An entirely made up place. The United Kingdom (UK) is a total contradiction in terms, as we're not particularly united, and we're currently not a kingdom. For academic purposes, the UK comprises England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales. No-one over here refers to the UK very much, as everyone from each part of the nation hates each of the other bits, and so we talk about our own particular region.

England
Almost as difficult to define as the United Kingdom, England is a disparate group of regions that don't really like each other very much. For Americans, 'England' means London and Stonehenge. This is also true of Londonders, who don't really think that there's that much north of the Watford Gap. Outside of London, the country is divided roughly into North and South. The only way to tell which part you're in is to find a local Fish and Chip shop, and ask for "chips, mushy peas and gravy". If the proprietor looks at you blankly, you're in the south. If he hands you a polystyrene tray filled with rectangular sticks of lard, covered in a green substance that looks like vomit and a suspiciously brown viscous liquid, you're in the North.

Great Britain
A geographical term which refers to the island comprising England, Scotland and Wales. Probably the most confusing name, as it's used quite often but it excludes everyone in Northern Ireland - half of them are quite glad of that, and the other half aren't, so they fight quite a lot about it. It's got the word 'Great' in it, which explains why we're quite arrogant.

The British Isles
Confusing one this... Basically it refers to Great Britain and all the other little bits of rock which surround it - but there's a lot of little bits of rock, and some of them have other ideas about their status with regards to Great Britain. Ireland for instance, is a totally separate country but Northern Ireland is part of the UK. The bit of rock I grew up on - The Isle of Man - has it's own government, as does Jersey. Does anyone know the answer to this? Does 'The British Isles' mean the whole group of islands, including all of Ireland for instance?

posted at 11:29 AM •

[Courtesy of Peter, who seems to have too much time on his hands]

posted at 12:58 PM •

You're wondering what that last post is all about? I was saving it for a run of posts about the oh-so-cool scene in Hoxton and Shoreditch. Believe it or not today is boring is a video rental shop on Kingsland Road specialising in Art House, World Cinema, Indy and Cult Classics. Although on the surface it's quite a cute idea, I can't really see them lasting more than six months. For ten of your coolest quid, you get your "I am boring" membership card:

It's all so achingly cool, the epitome of Shoreditch Twat.

I may feature more Hoxton haunts, if I can get past the utter banal coolness of it all.

posted at 3:32 PM •

Just about says it all.

posted at 1:27 PM •

Dragged myself out of bed yesterday afternoon, and me and John went to see X2. Turned into a bit of an expensive night, as they'd sold out at Stratford Picture House, so we ended up schlepping into Leicester Square to go to the big Odeon. It was all worth it though. It's a great film, couldn't fault it at all - some great performances, particularly Alan Cumming as Nightcrawler, who I was a bit worried wouldn't be able to pull it off. Huge was wonderful of course as Wolverine.

Bryan Singer directs with a feather touch, using stock Hollywood set pieces without being clumsy or obvious. He manages to translate the comic perfectly and at the same time create believable charaters and situations. Needless to say everything is set up for a third film, with hints of one of the more complex X Men storylines left dangling.

I'm off to look at Sir Ian's website to look for amusing Magneto anecdotes.

posted at 10:43 AM •

Went for a bit of a blat in the country yesterday, and visited a mate in Essex. Rode back early this morning, and my helmet now looks like an insect version of the Normandy beaches after D-Day.
Where did I put those screenies?

posted at 2:02 PM •

A lazy Saturday morning digesting blogs. After visiting everyone on my sidebar between ten and fifteen times, I've grown impatient waiting to see those comment boxes fill up - "Come ON!! I posted a comment nearly 2 minutes ago - why isn't anyone replying!!!???" - so I've been forced to extend my circle wider. Hello to Groc and Trash Addict.

Note to self - must put Tom Watson on the sidebar.

posted at 1:57 PM •

Come along children, put your copy books away and put on your smocks. It's art hour!

I've been snorting derisively watching with interest the recent efforts in blogland to satirise/lampoon the world of contemporary art. It's true that some performance and installation art can seem a little nutty, but as someone who did a Fine Art degree I feel I should stick up for the practice. Having said that, I myself am guilty of knocking it at times, so I'd just be a hypocrite. Damn.

The funny thing is though, I've mentioned once or twice in real life that blogging is the most exciting thing to happen to internet art. The blog has begun to crystallise what the internet is about - a network of links between thoughts and concepts. The internet as a medium has taken a step forward in maturity, and the blog is at the cutting-edge. You could argue that all blogs are already performance art - and some of them are damn good performance art.

I've been thinking for a while now of steering my ace life towards commenting on the contemporary art scene. It's something I turn to every once in a while, but there's a whole world of other stuff out there I'm interested in.

So, I've been pondering over all this, and then something cropped up last night. I received a comment on this post about Jake and Dinos Chapman, way back in January. If Jake and Dinos have found this blog, then I'll sheepishly just like to apologise if that post caused offence...! For what it's worth, I really like a lot of their work, and I've seen a fair few of their shows. I would love to mention to them that I like their work when I pass them on the stairs, but it just sounds a bit simpering and twatty. But then, now I'm sounding all simpering and twatty on my blog - which is worse...

posted at 12:42 PM •

Let's meet and greet... Miss Gee Whizz... The Memphis Queen... And a lotta other beautiful titles... C'mon, let's meet Miss Carla Thomas! C'mon Carla!

So starts I Like Love - Morris T remix. For the past month or so it's been played every Sunday at LA3 (or as we like to call it...La Trois). It's a fantastically uplifting thudding disco/trance/french filter house hybrid that builds up to a frenzy of euphoria. Pure dancefloor bliss. I heard the original mix last week while drinking in Comptons with my mate Z* - much heavier on the french house sound, so much so it sounded like Daft Punk. The following Sunday I had to attend La Trois, and Z went and asked the DJ what the track was for me. A couple of days later, we had both versions of the track, and I've been listening to it non-stop all week. It's even kindling a desire to run out and get a set of decks (vinyl of course darling).

The voice bit (is there a proper term for that in deejay speak?) is much longer on the remix, and after listening to it about twenty times, I started to wonder - who is "Miss Gee Whizz"?

One speed-google later, and I'd found out all about Carla Thomas - the Queen of Memphis Soul, and Stax diva.



Sweet soul serendipity - I've downloaded a few tracks - B.A.B.Y, Knock On Wood, I Like What You're Doin' To me, Tramp... and they're just wonderful. I think I shall treat myself tomorrow - I deserve it don't I?

By the way - if anyone wants the mixes of I Like Love - drop me a line...

posted at 7:04 PM •

Mum's the word part 2



Whenever I'm particularly missing Mum, I like to have a look at the picture above. It's the first picture I've posted of her here, and I think somehow it's appropriate.

In Januray 2000, I discovered that an internet cafe on the Isle of Man had set up a webcam. Excitedly, I phoned Mum and told her the skeet. Later that day, she went down into Douglas town centre, called me on her mobile and walked past the camera. I sat at my desk in my office far away in London and saw my mum on the internet.

posted at 11:47 AM •

Mum's the word part 1

Dave's mother is staying with him and Darren this weekend. Something he wrote triggered a load of memories of my mum, and I just feel in the mood to write about her today.

Dave's mum always brings a pair of slippers with her when she visits, a perfectly sensible, mum-ish thing to do. My mum did exactly the same thing, and somehow, my flat felt more like a home on the couple of occassions she stayed with me and John.

We argued whenever we saw each other, which was quite often. Although she lived on the Isle of Man (abroad), she was really involved in athletics, and came over to the 'mainland' (as we call it on the island), nearly every month. Arguing was our way of showing we loved each other, in that funny sort of family way.

One of the last rows we ever had (a fairly spectacular one even by our standards) was over an Aunt Bessie frozen toad in the hole. I had offered John's culinary delights, but mum didn't want the fuss, and insisted she'd be fine with said meal. I became annoyed that a woman with a medical condition that meant she should be on an extremely low-cholesterol diet (she had gall-stones) could quite happily eat a dish consisting of lard, eggs and pork.

Her dietary habits eventually killed her, doing things like a traditional Christmas binge that she shouldn't do - but I like to think that it was Aunt Bessie that did for her.

posted at 11:39 AM •

Cubs are from Venus, Bears are from Mars

It's OK folks, this isn't one of those posts, although I am in an absolutely shite mood, and despite my own advice given to someone yesterday, I'm going to carry on with the post.

John hasn't been bringing any money into the house for two months now. It took me three or four weeks to realise how depressed he was, and the fact that he wasn't doing anything about it - as you may remember, I had a lot on my plate back then too. I feel upset that I didn't notice sooner, and that it took us nearly breaking up to notice.

John and I don't really have joint finances. He had told me six weeks ago that his salary hadn't gone through, and his current account had been frozen. Now, if that were me, I'd be going frantic. I wouldn't be able to talk about anything else. John however told me once, and because nothing changed, he didn't mention it again.

Now, two months, two depressions, and a lot of arguments later, he still hasn't got any money. The company he works for is sliding down the pan, but as far as I can make out (he isn't particularly forthcoming with information, so anything I find out is through me ham-fistedly interrogating him) - the MD is frantically trying to stop this happening because it's third strike and he's out time - ie, this is the third time a company he's managed has gone tits up, and he'll be struck off from managing a company if it goes under.

He wont make any staff redundant, but he can't pay them either. Now, apparently in this situation, it turns out that short of resigning, there's not a damn thing you can do. And anyway, if you resign under these circumstances, apparently you can't sign on.

Now, unfortunately, this is what I've gathered from John, but he manages to tell me in such a dispassionate manner and reveals things like "I heard that off this chap who heard it from these people", that I just don't believe that's the end of the story.

So let's just recap the situation:

John works for company X
Company X cannot pay John
Company X still exists, and will not make John redundant
John cannot resign as he will not be able to sign on
John is stuffed

Now, is this just another of those wonderful emplyment law situations that seem to actually penalise peole in situations like this, or is there something he's missing? The story (from a mate of a mate of course) is that the only way forward is to slap a wind-up notice on Company X - which will take three months minimum anyway, and would in all likelihood result in John being fired, again - no government benefits.

The other big problem I face is that John just does not talk to me about problems or worries, and he finds it hard to reassure me of mine. When I quizzed him tonight about the situation, he started telling me details of how his crooked employer has been talking to the liquidators, wah, wah, wah. I'm getting to the end of my tether here...John refuses to go to the CAB, because he thinks that they can't tell him anything he doesn't already know. Does anyone out there know anything, or if not can you:

a) Leave a comment saying "there, there Steve"
b) Deposit money in my paypal account (ste_powell at hotmail should work)
c) Offer John a job lead (he's a kick ass defense journalist)

Thanks, oh faithful readers.

posted at 1:46 AM •

I've just come up with a cracking idea for an e-commerce website.

Now all I need is:

An e-commerce system
A website
Billing accounts in the US
A distribution network in the US

...and I'm set!

I can't tell you what the idea is, but if anyone in the states wants to be my business partner...

posted at 1:30 PM •