Sunday, July 25, 2004
Ngahhh. M25. Why the heck are people going around London on a Sunday afternoon? I can understand them heading into London, *waves at the stationary cars on the east-bound M4 carriageway*, but I’m thinking that the Dartford tunnel is not a common destination for Sunday cruisers. So why was I bumbling along at the warp-speed of 15mph? And oh ye oh-so-clever people who think they can beat the jam by treating the lanes as a slalom, I will introduce you to these new-fangled things called indicators. They give the person you’re about to cut in front of a nano-second more time to slam on the brakes. I’m sure my 89-year-old grandmother appreciated head-butting the dashboard.
Now favourite radio show: The Kiss-tory Hour. I spent the M4 leg of my journey shouting along to This Is How We Do It, No Diggity, and, best of all, Everyday People. Nothing like a bit of call and response as you hit the 40mph -> 70mph changeover to make you swoop like you ain’t driving a Fiesta (or rather that you don’t notice the severe shudder at 90mph over the top of the blasting stereo).
Apparently my nephew has good musical taste. He woke up and started bawling as soon as Tyra Banks’s single was played on America’s Next Top Model. But for that, Tyra, you can now come over to my house and prop my eyelids open and my right arm up, which funnily enough developed a serious case of the shakes after walking said bawling nephew around for AN HOUR AND A HALF. Though well done, nephew, for waiting for me to have finished my Domino’s (10 minutes between ordering and delivery. How is that possible?) before interspersing wails with confused looks of “you’re not my mummy or daddy!?”
On the homewares front, I’m doing well at purloining from my family. 2 tea-towels, a saucepan and a towel from my grandmother, a double duvet from my brother-and-wife, scourers/sponges ‘borrowed/earnt’ from 3M, £55 of Argos vouchers, and various kitchen-y bits built up over the years during which my parents thought that they were getting rid of me, and, well, the flat itself from my sister. The trip to Ikea and resulting devastation of my purse is looking less and less likely. Bless ‘em.
Motorways and crockery. Don’t they make an exciting blog post!?
Now favourite radio show: The Kiss-tory Hour. I spent the M4 leg of my journey shouting along to This Is How We Do It, No Diggity, and, best of all, Everyday People. Nothing like a bit of call and response as you hit the 40mph -> 70mph changeover to make you swoop like you ain’t driving a Fiesta (or rather that you don’t notice the severe shudder at 90mph over the top of the blasting stereo).
Apparently my nephew has good musical taste. He woke up and started bawling as soon as Tyra Banks’s single was played on America’s Next Top Model. But for that, Tyra, you can now come over to my house and prop my eyelids open and my right arm up, which funnily enough developed a serious case of the shakes after walking said bawling nephew around for AN HOUR AND A HALF. Though well done, nephew, for waiting for me to have finished my Domino’s (10 minutes between ordering and delivery. How is that possible?) before interspersing wails with confused looks of “you’re not my mummy or daddy!?”
On the homewares front, I’m doing well at purloining from my family. 2 tea-towels, a saucepan and a towel from my grandmother, a double duvet from my brother-and-wife, scourers/sponges ‘borrowed/earnt’ from 3M, £55 of Argos vouchers, and various kitchen-y bits built up over the years during which my parents thought that they were getting rid of me, and, well, the flat itself from my sister. The trip to Ikea and resulting devastation of my purse is looking less and less likely. Bless ‘em.
Motorways and crockery. Don’t they make an exciting blog post!?
Tuesday, July 20, 2004
Behold the genius of interior designer Laura McCree. If you don't snort at least three times during that biog, then, well, there is no place for you on this earth.
Monday, July 19, 2004
"We declared war on terror. We declared war on terror—it’s not even a noun, so, good luck. After we defeat it, I’m sure we’ll take on that bastard ennui."
I had momentarily parted from the Jon Stewart, but am now back in the fold after reading his Commencement Address to the graduates (graduans?) of his alma mater. Funny and appropriate.
"I am honored to be here and to receive this honorary doctorate. When I think back to the people that have been in this position before me from Benjamin Franklin to Queen Noor of Jordan, I can’t help but wonder what has happened to this place. Seriously, it saddens me. As a person, I am honored to get it; as an alumnus, I have to say I believe we can do better."
Heh. When David Puttnam picked up his honarary doctorate from my college, the announcer first went through all his other honorary degrees, at which point a slight snigger ran through the audience. I’m sure he appreciated another degree from our little art school, though. Uh, well, he put on that silly robe and sat through us tripping across the stage and us refusing to shake the Head of Theatre’s hand.
"So how do you know what is the right path to choose to get the result that you desire? And the honest answer is this. You won’t. And accepting that greatly eases the anxiety of your life experience."
That is possibly the best thing to say to a graduate, ever. It cheered me up, anyhow.
I had momentarily parted from the Jon Stewart, but am now back in the fold after reading his Commencement Address to the graduates (graduans?) of his alma mater. Funny and appropriate.
"I am honored to be here and to receive this honorary doctorate. When I think back to the people that have been in this position before me from Benjamin Franklin to Queen Noor of Jordan, I can’t help but wonder what has happened to this place. Seriously, it saddens me. As a person, I am honored to get it; as an alumnus, I have to say I believe we can do better."
Heh. When David Puttnam picked up his honarary doctorate from my college, the announcer first went through all his other honorary degrees, at which point a slight snigger ran through the audience. I’m sure he appreciated another degree from our little art school, though. Uh, well, he put on that silly robe and sat through us tripping across the stage and us refusing to shake the Head of Theatre’s hand.
"So how do you know what is the right path to choose to get the result that you desire? And the honest answer is this. You won’t. And accepting that greatly eases the anxiety of your life experience."
That is possibly the best thing to say to a graduate, ever. It cheered me up, anyhow.
It’s 11pm at night. Most people would be surfing for pr0n. I’m surfing for cutlery. Along with everything else household-concerned. I’m in the weird situation of owning 2 crystal champagne flutes and 3 corkscrews but no normal glasses. Also, how is it possible that a Swedish company can sell a plate for 50p but the beer in the Swedish capital costs £3.50? Even considering their 25% tax, I’m confused.
Ah well, off to research duvet prices...
Ah well, off to research duvet prices...
Wednesday, July 07, 2004
Am greatly looking forward to tonight's The Long Firm. The cast looks great (apart from possibly the Walford One, that is... I'll reserve judgement), Joe Penhall is adapting, and Mark Strong's presence reminds me of another great BBC 2 drama, Births, Marriages & Deaths. Perfect scheduling, because I can follow it up with what will be my last viewing of America's Next Top Model before I leave the land of cable. Now that is a power-combo for an evening of television viewing.
Brought back down to earth by the spotting of Anneka Rice wearing sunglasses on the escalators in Topshop.
Brought back down to earth by the spotting of Anneka Rice wearing sunglasses on the escalators in Topshop.
Life’s equations...
People running into things is always funny
Unexpectedness factor (see Fairuza Balk in Almost Famous) + running into faux backdrop (see Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back) = possible boundless hilarity
Kenickie is far more attractive than Danny
Baby’s bottom chin + girl pouty lips + crap bouncy walk is not > Kenickie.
There is never a possibility of a director’s commentary being entertaining unless there is more than one person on the recording.
y=those present on commentary. 1 < y < 5 x bottles of beer consumed - random freeloading crew member (helloo costume designer on Cruel Intentions commentary) - numbers of expressions of adoration for cast members + extraneous slaggings of Colin Firth = entertaining commentary.
Tennis players’ swearing caught on mic
Calibre of swear word x how many hours before 9pm it has been aired on BBC x number of times the phrase “audible obscenity” is uttered x number of times Barry Davies apologises + number of times Barry Davies cites other programmes’ swearing in attempt to be on top of popular culture = high entertainment
Collective mutinous frustration of commuters delayed
Blatancy of bullshit excuses x number of times arrival time is altered / number of cigarettes consumed by populous = Likelihood of station worker being garotted by baying mob.
The Blockbuster embarassment factor
Lameness of your password x desire to explain that it is actually meant to be a good film and that you haven’t rented it for the sex scenes x decibels of “OK, this is SHE’S ALL THAT” statement from clerk + number of Dawson’s Creek cast members present in film = degree of need to skulk out of Blockbuster fast.
People running into things is always funny
Unexpectedness factor (see Fairuza Balk in Almost Famous) + running into faux backdrop (see Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back) = possible boundless hilarity
Kenickie is far more attractive than Danny
Baby’s bottom chin + girl pouty lips + crap bouncy walk is not > Kenickie.
There is never a possibility of a director’s commentary being entertaining unless there is more than one person on the recording.
y=those present on commentary. 1 < y < 5 x bottles of beer consumed - random freeloading crew member (helloo costume designer on Cruel Intentions commentary) - numbers of expressions of adoration for cast members + extraneous slaggings of Colin Firth = entertaining commentary.
Tennis players’ swearing caught on mic
Calibre of swear word x how many hours before 9pm it has been aired on BBC x number of times the phrase “audible obscenity” is uttered x number of times Barry Davies apologises + number of times Barry Davies cites other programmes’ swearing in attempt to be on top of popular culture = high entertainment
Collective mutinous frustration of commuters delayed
Blatancy of bullshit excuses x number of times arrival time is altered / number of cigarettes consumed by populous = Likelihood of station worker being garotted by baying mob.
The Blockbuster embarassment factor
Lameness of your password x desire to explain that it is actually meant to be a good film and that you haven’t rented it for the sex scenes x decibels of “OK, this is SHE’S ALL THAT” statement from clerk + number of Dawson’s Creek cast members present in film = degree of need to skulk out of Blockbuster fast.
Friday, July 02, 2004
Ironically, despite having much more time due to unemployed status, I haven’t updated. So, as I sit still chuckling at Billy Ray Cyrus’s “he’s probably upset, Lorraaaayyne,” from Mulholland Drive, here’s some thoughts on London...
• Walking across the bridge and seeing the higgledy-piggledy array of architectural styles and eras arranged on both sides of the Thames never fails to make me smile. It may not have the ‘wow’ factor of seeing NYC for the first time at night from the front of a coach on the way to New Jersey, but it always just chills me out. Word to the wise, ye tourists who are taking photos of said lovely panoramic view, you don’t need to stand by the opposite barrier. Just a foot of space would allow us to barrel onwards to Waterloo to catch our train without creating a picturesque blur in front of Marge by the London Eye. Ta.
• When the central London compass finally kicks in and you can dive down random streets with fair confidence in ending up where you desire, with the side effects of you going “ah, so that’s where the Ivy is”, or spotting the lovely old Raymond Revue Bar sign. America can keep its neat block system, I like the nooks and crannies.
• Dozy tourists. As much as I love you making the 100m dash to Border’s from Oxford Circus seem like the assault course bit from The Krypton Factor, for the love of God, look the way you are walking. ie., that be not staring sideways at some grotty branch of Knickerbox or Mr Byrite. They’re really not worth the eye time.
• Sinner or Winner man. Driving commuters stuck outside a ‘closed due to overcrowding’ Oxford Circus tube to tears. Well those of us without headphones.
• Everyone just trying to make a buck. From the heinous knit poncho sellers on Oxford Street to the capitalist edifices of Canary Wharf, London draws the entrepreneurs. The wheeler-dealing is an essential emblem of London, both good and bad sides of it.
• On which note, go visit the folks at Carnaby. Lots of nice peeps just trying to survive, selling lovely original bits and pieces. Basically anywhere around Carnaby that isn’t on the main street. When I’m earning lots of money, I will be chucking some of it their way.
• Trust your hunches. They’re based on subconsciously reading physical signals and picking up indications based on previous accumulated knowledge, so believe them. I’m usually comfortable walking around most places in London at night when I have to; the area around my college was fine, Tooting slightly less so. The only two places in which I have felt the need to employ a black cab or a lovely friend escort to the station were Bermondsey and New Cross Gate. And that was before I knew that my mate’s little sister had her bag snatched in the middle of the afternoon in New Cross Gate. So anyway, lesson is, trust your instincts.
• Because I’m a masochist, I made 3 trips right across town during the tube strike. It was also as an up yours to the RMT, who to me occupy a land of hate unknown to man. As a Connex guard who explained to a confused little girl, “they’ve all gone to have a barbecue”. I would have been alright on the second journey had the 91 bus not disappeared into the ether, resulting in a walk to Holborn to pick up another bus, which I would have quite happily done had I known half an hour previously that the 91 had been abducted by aliens. Anyway,... uh, yes, the RMT can bite me. Stop yapping about how “picket lines mean nothing to people nowadays,” and realise that you’re responsible for the devaluation of the picket line with your bullshit strikes. You’ve just about doomed every profession to strikes becoming meaningless with your Cry Wolf attitude. Train workers in France and Australia worked their strike, meaning that those workers earning far less than you with far less job security, could still actually get to work and survive. Learn it, love it, before you damn your profession.
• Of course, rubbish celebrity spots. There’s nothing like seeing an obscure comedy actor to cheer up your day.
I never meant to be in London. I always thought it was scary, dangerous, dirty and expensive. My family are from there, so it holds little mystery for me, and had I not had the choice of college town taken away from me by the subject I wanted to study, I would have been based elsewhere. Now, you can’t tear me away from it, because the industry that I love is based there, and how one can never really get a hold on London, be it geography or inhabitants.
• Walking across the bridge and seeing the higgledy-piggledy array of architectural styles and eras arranged on both sides of the Thames never fails to make me smile. It may not have the ‘wow’ factor of seeing NYC for the first time at night from the front of a coach on the way to New Jersey, but it always just chills me out. Word to the wise, ye tourists who are taking photos of said lovely panoramic view, you don’t need to stand by the opposite barrier. Just a foot of space would allow us to barrel onwards to Waterloo to catch our train without creating a picturesque blur in front of Marge by the London Eye. Ta.
• When the central London compass finally kicks in and you can dive down random streets with fair confidence in ending up where you desire, with the side effects of you going “ah, so that’s where the Ivy is”, or spotting the lovely old Raymond Revue Bar sign. America can keep its neat block system, I like the nooks and crannies.
• Dozy tourists. As much as I love you making the 100m dash to Border’s from Oxford Circus seem like the assault course bit from The Krypton Factor, for the love of God, look the way you are walking. ie., that be not staring sideways at some grotty branch of Knickerbox or Mr Byrite. They’re really not worth the eye time.
• Sinner or Winner man. Driving commuters stuck outside a ‘closed due to overcrowding’ Oxford Circus tube to tears. Well those of us without headphones.
• Everyone just trying to make a buck. From the heinous knit poncho sellers on Oxford Street to the capitalist edifices of Canary Wharf, London draws the entrepreneurs. The wheeler-dealing is an essential emblem of London, both good and bad sides of it.
• On which note, go visit the folks at Carnaby. Lots of nice peeps just trying to survive, selling lovely original bits and pieces. Basically anywhere around Carnaby that isn’t on the main street. When I’m earning lots of money, I will be chucking some of it their way.
• Trust your hunches. They’re based on subconsciously reading physical signals and picking up indications based on previous accumulated knowledge, so believe them. I’m usually comfortable walking around most places in London at night when I have to; the area around my college was fine, Tooting slightly less so. The only two places in which I have felt the need to employ a black cab or a lovely friend escort to the station were Bermondsey and New Cross Gate. And that was before I knew that my mate’s little sister had her bag snatched in the middle of the afternoon in New Cross Gate. So anyway, lesson is, trust your instincts.
• Because I’m a masochist, I made 3 trips right across town during the tube strike. It was also as an up yours to the RMT, who to me occupy a land of hate unknown to man. As a Connex guard who explained to a confused little girl, “they’ve all gone to have a barbecue”. I would have been alright on the second journey had the 91 bus not disappeared into the ether, resulting in a walk to Holborn to pick up another bus, which I would have quite happily done had I known half an hour previously that the 91 had been abducted by aliens. Anyway,... uh, yes, the RMT can bite me. Stop yapping about how “picket lines mean nothing to people nowadays,” and realise that you’re responsible for the devaluation of the picket line with your bullshit strikes. You’ve just about doomed every profession to strikes becoming meaningless with your Cry Wolf attitude. Train workers in France and Australia worked their strike, meaning that those workers earning far less than you with far less job security, could still actually get to work and survive. Learn it, love it, before you damn your profession.
• Of course, rubbish celebrity spots. There’s nothing like seeing an obscure comedy actor to cheer up your day.
I never meant to be in London. I always thought it was scary, dangerous, dirty and expensive. My family are from there, so it holds little mystery for me, and had I not had the choice of college town taken away from me by the subject I wanted to study, I would have been based elsewhere. Now, you can’t tear me away from it, because the industry that I love is based there, and how one can never really get a hold on London, be it geography or inhabitants.
