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Friday, April 28, 2006

Living the high life

At the Hilton Edinburgh Airport hotel this week, owing to previous incompetence on their part, I was upgraded to an executive suite - Suite 360.

Excited by thoughts of jacuzzis, panoramic penthouse views and complimentary goodies, I scuttled along the many corridors of the hotel. Finally reaching my room, the antcipation was just too much. Opening the door wide with a big smile, ready to greet my home for the next three days I saw...

... exactly the same sort of room as I always get. Except there was a bathrobe and two bits of shortbread. It did have a great view though... of the runway at Edinburgh Airport.

This would all have been OK except my TV didn't work, the hot water varied between scalding and freezing, and they tried to charge me the wrong amount when I checked out.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Jessica

In the early hours of Sunday morning, I had a very painful argument. A relationship of trust that had slowly been built up over the last few months suddenly disintegrated around me.

At precisely 12.21 a.m., I had an argument with my satellite navigation system.

Jessica, as I call her, had guided me safely all the way to a gig in Kingston. The traffic had been great, the evening warm, all was good. But on the way back, the little minx betrayed me. Trying to drop a fellow comic off at Liverpool Street she showed her jealousy, by:

  • "Losing" satellite reception just after London Bridge
  • Recalculating the route constantly - and never giving me the new route before recalculating again
  • Taking me the wrong way down London Bridge, and then back up Tower Bridge - just to gloat

There was shouting, there was swearing. There was a certain amount of crying. Mostly from Jessica. I am hard, and even a machine loaded with every map in Europe cannot defeat me.

Having said that, I absolutely cannot figure out my work mobile phone.

Still, Jessica and I made up by about 12.37 when we found Whitechapel, and all was forgiven. She can be moody and controlling, but I wouldn't have Jessica any other way.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Coalville

A shop called "What Everyone Wants" (selling exclusively things that no-one in their right mind would want), possibly the highest rate of incest in the country, and an entire family of children called Darren (so that when the eldest got into trouble with the police, they could claim the youngest, who was too young to prosecute, did it).

This is Coalville.

I worked in Coalville for a year. It's a ex-mining town near Loughborough and is famous for - well, nothing. It is inhabited by Coalvillians. They're like chavs - but stranger. Each and every Coalvillian has something wrong with it. It's different in every case, but it's basically God's reject shop.

My favourite Coalvillians:

  • The man who wanders round the town centre with his money in an old mug. Weirder still is that the shopkeepers seem to accept this as normal, barely raising an eyebrow when he rummages down his "World's Best Coalvillian" mug to get his coppers out. Admittedly a lot of the shopkeepers were born without eyebrows, which may go some way to explaining it.
  • The woman who chases through the precinct after her son, shouting, "Connor! Connor! Get that condom off your head!"
  • The woman at the jacket potato shop with the elephantine memory. Despite the fact I've not worked in Coalville for eight years, she still remembers I have a jacket with butter and cottage cheese. She still gets my change wrong, and the cottage cheese is - as always - rancid.
  • The educational elite of Coalville - the boy who can spell "FUDGE" with his GCSE results.

Believe it or not, sometimes I miss the place. I fitted right in.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Jane Austenova

I was on the tube earlier today, coming from Chancery Lane to Liverpool Street. The man next to me was reading Mansfield Park in Russian (by the famous Jane Austenova - obviously). I had this misfortune of studying this novel at A-level. Whilst parts of Jane Austen I love dearly (OK, mostly Colin Firth in a wet shirt), it has to be said that Mansfield Park is the biggest load of drivel in the English language. With the possible exception of almost everything written by William Blake, but that's another story.

Anyway, basic plot of said novel - very boring heroine called Fanny who doesn't do much, and after much hand-wringing and inaction, eventually marries her cousin. Really not worth translating into Russian.

However, the novel does have one redeeming feature. Chapter 19 reads:

"Sir Thomas was at that moment looking round him, and saying, “But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?”—and on perceiving her, came forward with a kindness which astonished and penetrated her, calling her his dear Fanny, kissing her affectionately, and observing with decided pleasure how much she was grown!"

Wrong on so many levels. Sadly, that's probably lost on the Russians.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Light meal

I went out for a meal last night with some colleagues to a Turkish restaurant near Liverpool Street. It's called Haz, and is one of my favourite work restaurants, serving little fried isosceles triangles of heaven (filo pastry filled with feta cheese and spinach - yum).

Anyway, halfway through this very pleasant meal, the restaurant lights were dimmed. I have never understood this custom. Admittedly I was there with work friends, so the whole dimming-of-the-lights thing was at worst a bit silly, but mostly largely irrelevant (though my little triangles became slightly indistinct). But if you were on a date, what difference would this make to your evening? "Ooh, it's very slightly darker. Actually, you're not quite as ugly as I thought. Will you marry me?"

The thing is, this particular restaurant is in a very business-y part of the city. I would guess that around 90% of its clientel are people out with work. So, other than very-slightly-reduced electricity bills what, exactly, are they hoping to achieve by their light-dimming?

"So, Geoff's promised to have the attrition rates to me by Monday, and Sarah's delivering the 2007 marketing plans."

"That's great; can you confirm to me what you're planning to do about staff training in our Leeds site?"

The lights are dimmed.

"Enough of your work-talk, Terry. Kiss me. Kiss me now."

"I never knew you felt that way, Brian."

Monday, April 17, 2006

How come when I can have a lie-in, I wake up at 7 a.m.? And when I have to get up really early, I know I could sleep for hours.

Perhaps God hates me. Oh well, you can't please everyone all of the time. I've got loads of friends anyway.

Saturday, April 15, 2006

Hair raid shelter

"Suppose you're used to it though. When it's not July 7, it's the RAF, innit?"

"Hmm, sorry?" I said. I was at the hairdresser's in Loughborough. A few minutes ago we'd been talking about the threat of terrorism - suddenly we appeared to be blaming the Royal Air Force.

"You know, the RAF?"

"Erm, yes. But I'm not sure..."

"Them Irish ones. Bombed that Parrot Point."

"Erm..."

"What was it called? Mags! Mags! What wor tha' building thut the RAF bombed? Parrot summit."

"Canary Wharf, Steph. The IRA, not the RAF. Have you got one of them hairpieces you can purrin fur meh tonight? Daz is commin' over - he's been dead mardy wi'mi recent like."

East Midlands. Yeh gorrah love it.

Friday, April 14, 2006

Right Wing (geddit?)

The Eastern Airways flight on the way back from Newcastle had a copy of The Spectator in each seat pouch.

Now I know what the sick bag was for.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

Tax-ing

Fear not, my friends. I've not given up my blog (plog - pass it on, it might become a craze). I have been - and still am - in sunny Gateshead and miles away (well, metres at least) from a PC. Obviously I'm not metres away from a PC at the moment. My arms aren't that long.

I flew up from London City on the world's smallest plane. It had propellors. They sat all eight of us passengers at the back "to balance out the weight of the engine". That's not really something you need to know, is it? My favourite moment was the announcement that "The cabin crew will now tell you all about the safety feature of this craft." Feature? Just the one? Instead of an in-flight magazine and some shopping manuals, I had a safety card and a sick bag. The seats, I noticed, were wipe-clean.

I'm returning to London this evening, and wind gusts of 50 mph are currently whistling past. This could be fun.

Still, Gateshead has been... well, a bit odd actually. I've had two separate taxi drivers tell me how much they love "Les Misérables". Me too. I think it's a great musical. But clearly far more popular up here, amongst the taxi-driving literati than in London, where it's had to move to a smaller theatre. One taxi driver even put the soundtrack on for me, and we had a singalong. Well, he had a singalong, whilst I smiled politely but awkwardly, dug my fingernails into the palm of my hand and clenched my buttock muscles.

Why does this stuff only happen to me? Come on, seriously. Any of you ever had to have singalongs in a taxi? Twice? And yes - I know I should be practising my friend Erica's "smile and walk off" (SAWO) technique. But it's pretty hard to walk off when you're in a taxi, when they have your luggage. And are singing "Empty chairs at empty tables".

This morning's taxi driver favoured Barry Manilow. At least it was a short journey.

Sunday, April 09, 2006

Two's company

Nearly-two year-olds are a tough crowd, entertainment-wise. My clever word-play and carefully-contstructed comedic allusions to Elizabethan drama seemed lost on my special weekend visitor.

I was a bit depressed when I realised that almost all of my clothes are significantly older than her. In one or two cases by more than a decade.

Despite my comedy failings, it does have to be said that she did find it extremely amusing when I (genuinely) fell off the office chair in my living room, straight onto my head. In fact I got a spontaneous round of applause and an encore. (Though much of that was from her mum.) So pleased was I with this comic breakthrough that I re-enacted said incident three or four times. It seemed to get funnier for her with each repetition. And after a brief visit to Casualty this morning, I'm fine now.

Still, I got a laugh.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Adult-ery

According to my friends, I was "born aged 42" and have been hovering around that mark every since. Even as a child, I don't think I was very good at it. Early video footage shows me aged eight, earnestly trying to read the newspaper whilst my younger brother dances around me annoyingly (admittedly, he was only about two at the time).

I like tomato juice, theatre, olives, art deco and grown-up books. I dislike nightclubs, reality TV, mobile phone ringtones and studenty conversations along the lines of "why are we all here?". I like the grown up stuff.

I also like not having to tidy my bedroom before I go out and play. And the fact that I can go out on a weeknight without having to do my violin practice first.

I was coerced into going to Center Parcs a few weeks back. There was a giant chlorinated swimming pool, utterly rammed with germy children. In the ensuing melée, I was kicked by three of the little nasties. And I only managed to get two of them back.

I'm spending this weekend with a toddler (and, thankfully, her mum). Really looking forward to seeing them both, but not sure how the little one is going to enjoy the lectures on postmodern readings of feminist literature that I've got lined up.

Maybe we could go to the Rupert the Bear museum. Only joking of course. Life isn't that desperate. Yet.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Bear Necessities

Not that I'm obsessed with children's entertainment or anything, but I was doing a gig in Canterbury last night, and couldn't help noticing the Rupert the Bear Museum.

Two points about the Rupert the Bear Museum that occurred to me:

1. It barely (bearly?) qualified as a museum, as it appeared to be the size of a small terraced house.
2. What on earth could you put in such a museum? After you'd framed a couple of comic strips and maybe mocked up some amusing yellow tartan trousers, there's really not much left, is there? This, I suppose, goes some way to explaining why it's very small.

Why bother? Well, according to the Rupert the Bear cartoon that I remember watching on CITV in my youth:

Rupert you're a wonderful bear;
We want you to know that we really care.
From the start you're in everyone's heart
For the things you say and do. Sing a song of you.

Clearly Rupert is a very insecure young bear. He needs to know that we "really care". He wants everyone to like him. He's probably a bit of a slut. Evidently he has issues. But is it right to pander (panda? Oh, come on, that's a good pun.) to his egocentric, deluded self-image by opening a museum in his honour?

My memory of the cartoon was that Rupert never actually got up to much. Wasted a bit of time in the woods every so often and got into not-very-exciting scrapes such as nearly - but not quite - losing his scarf. This is NOT museum worthy.

Having said that, it looked a damned sight more interesting than the Chaucer Museum "The Canterbury Tales". Synopsis of "The Canterbury Tales": Here are some short stories. Most of them are rubbish and some of them involve farting. Aren't I hilarious and medieval? No Chaucer, you're not. You're just stupid and rude. Now sod off back to Canterbury. No-one likes you.

Or you, Rupert. You're a rubbish bear. I want you to know that I really don't care. I prefer Paddington. And Sooty. I even like the Care Bears more than you. Get off my TV. And don't forget your ugly scarf.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Valet Girl

Every so often I have to fly to Edinburgh for work. Luckily, I don't live too far from London City Airport, so if it's just for the day, I leave my car at the airport.

Whenever I drive to City Airport, I take advantage of the valet parking service or three reasons:

a) It's the same price as putting the car in the short-stay carpark, but I get to drive right up to the terminal
b) If I did put it in the main carpark, chances are I'd never find it again
c) It's very, very amusing watching a man wearing top hat and tails have to park my 1992 Vauxhall Astra.

When you drive up to the terminal, a chap comes to greet you and has a form for you to sign. You let him know when your flight lands again at City so that they can have your car ready for you.

Now, this form has a little picture of a car on it, on which the man circles any dents or scratches on your car, presumably so you don't try and claim that they damaged it at a later date. Fair enough. But it was with not a small amount of scepticism that the man looked at me last time. He eyed my little car up and down, particularly noticing the large dent (caused by Laura vs. Parish Church iron gate) in the driver's door. Carefully and with not a small amount of irony, he drew a circle round the entire picture of the car.

Git.

Luckily I managed to find out where he lived and burned his house down. These people have to learn.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Do bananas have DNA? This is a question that kept Nice Kate and me occupied for - well - minutes on Sunday. She maintained they did, and what is more, had less than 1% difference to human DNA.

I argued this could not possibly be true. Bananas can't have DNA - surely? Unless, of course, she was referring to Bananas in Pyjamas. As they were able to walk down a flight of steps, one might imagine that they had some sort of DNA that enabled them at the very least to emulate some aspects of human behaviour.

As we all know from the kids' tv programme,

Bananas in Pyjamas are coming down the stairs.
Bananas in Pyjamas are coming down in pairs.
Bananas in Pyjamas are chasing teddy bears.
Bananas in Pyjamas will catch you unawares.

To be honest, you kind of wonder how they pitched this at the storyboarding meeting.

Pitcher: So there's these bananas, right? And they wear - get this - pyjamas.

Pitchee: Oh, I like it. Edgy.

Pitcher: That's not all, right. These night-clothed bananas, they're upstairs, right? But they want to - hang on - come down the stairs.

Pitchee: I see their challenge and understand where they're coming from. But I'm worried that these bananas are going to get lonely. Could they come down together?

Pitcher: Sure, sure, anything you want. The point is, they're trying to catch teddy bears. By stealth!

Pitchee: It's got relationships, it's got tension, it's got the thrill of the chase, it's got fruit wearing inappropriate clothing - it's a hit! Hmm - what do we do for episode 2. The teddy bears are going to catch on, surely?

Pitcher: Sign here.

I think I might need more sleep.

I had the loveliest of weekends with Nice Kate. Glasgow is really, really nice. If you haven't been there before, go now. Take my car. If you can remember where I parked it.