Dynargh dhe'n Blogofrob

Friday 1st August 2003

A while back I whinged about the unexpected and unexplained removal of Seinfeld from the Paramount channel's schedule, a removal that left UK viewers completely bereft of the sitcom, as it still resists the lure of DVD/Video. Not long after the Paramount authorities indulged in this televisual cruelty, I was caught in a fit of resentment and confusion as I attempted to go cold turkey from my daily fix of New York Jewish comedy. The odd bagel on the way into work wasn't enough, so I wrote to Paramount demanding an explanation. All I got in return was a fobvert (the combination of a fobbing off with an advertisment) along the lines of, 'thanks for enquiring about Seinfeld which will be back some time soon, meanwhile did you know that Becker is on instead, in which a C-list actor past his prime pretends to be a cranky doctor, with hilarious consequences'. I accepted my lot and turned to Curb Your Enthusiasm instead.

Then someone called Zoe from Paramount sent me the following e-mail, which arrived yesterday:

"Have You Seen This Man? You Soon Will.
Since leaving our screens earlier this year, the absence of one Jerome Seinfeld from the Paramount Comedy schedule has brought a veritable outcry from our loyal viewers. Having been deluged with e-mails, phone calls and letters, our schedulers have decided to bring Jerry, George, Elaine and Kramer back from September 1st. Yes, in just a few short weeks make sure your alarms are set for a daily wake-up call with the wise cracking New Yorker. Don't forget. Write it on a post-it note and stick it on your forehead. Better still, have it tattooed on your arm. I have - just under my tattoo of Frasier and Niles Crane.

SEINFELD
9.30am
EVERYDAY FROM SEPT 1st"


Initially I skim read this e-mail with something approaching delight. But the phrase 'make sure your alarms are set' ignited my suspicious nature and on closer examination I realised that 'Zoe', clearly a Ted Danson fan, was celebrating the fact that Seinfeld was now on at half nine, in the morning. Perhaps it's the fact that I don't own a video recorder that made me angry, or the completely fatuous advice to set my alarm for 9:30am, when I'm already out of bed and staring blankly at a PC in the office by that time. Or perhaps it was simply that this nonsense was being imparted to me by some freakish obsessive, a walking Radio Times/TV Quick (depending on her upbringing), tattooed head to foot with TV schedules - the main channels displayed on her forehead and chest, the satellite channels on her limbs, the regional variations on the back of her knees or ears with Men&Motors, UK Style and five imprinted somewhere dark and nether-like.

So, easy to spot if I ever bump into her on the street. I'll quickly check what time the Hollyoaks omnibus is on, then give her a piece of my mind.

So much for that.


30 - posted at 19:21:15
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Monday 21st July 2003

"You have arrived at a propitious moment, coincident with your country's one indisputable contribution to Western civilisation - afternoon tea. May I press you to a cucumber sandwich?"

Thus speaks Hugo Drax to James Bond. And despite Goscinny and Uderzo's claims to the contary (which state the convention was introduced by an indomitable Gaul) this most eloquent of Bond villains has a point. Coffee is an indispensible beverage, but, to further strengthen the sterotype, I will always be in the mood for a cup of tea - not solely in the afternoon. A mug acted as a handy replacement for a cigarette when I first gave up a couple of years ago, and still functions to fill that void, that slightly disconcerting feeling which is often difficult to pin down - I'm on the sofa, in front of the telly, comfortable, the remote control nearby, tranquility almost graspable...but something is missing, something is barring the way to utter contentment - tea completes the picture and settles the mind.

I've often endured ridicule for my choice of tea - I like the smokiness of Lapsang Souchong or the strong distinctive flavour of Assam (made from leaves carefully selected "from the best tea estates situated around the humid banks of the Brahmaputra River in Assam, north east India" according to the box of tea bags sitting on my desk) both which appeared to offend the more delicate tea sensibilities of Earl Grey drinking ex-housemates. But I'm equally happy when the local Chinese tosses a couple of complimentary Green tea bags into the delivery. Which brings me to the point of these tedious ramblings - to pass on the story of a recent criminal trial in the States, which suggests that not only does tea have, even when undoctored, stronger effects than Drax's slightly patronising aside assumes, but also provides a watertight legal defence to certain illicit activites.

Various newspapers have reported the story of a Florida man who landed up in court after chasing his neighbour with a dagger. And quite right too. However, he escaped prosecution on the grounds that the "chasing with a dagger" activities (I'm not sure of the legal term for this act) and other instances of criminal behaviour were caused by the halucinogenic properties of Jasmine tea. Gilbert Walker was on ten cups of the stuff per day, and as a result had been having apocalyptic nightmares based on the Biblical struggles between good and evil.

Other, less theological, delusions included ceramic dogs shouting at him (although I think this might happen somewhere in Ezekiel) and the compulsion to throw a brass duck through his neighbour's window - which he did. If it wasn't enough for his neighbour to have metal water fowl interrupting her daily fix of Jenny Jones, she then had to endure the terror of Mr Walker bursting into her house, doped up to the eye balls on jasmine. He subsequently chased her into the street at knifepoint. The Roll on Friday website reports that "the police arrived to find him bug-eyed and shouting 'I'm crazy' - an accurate, if unneccessary, summary of the situation".

This story made me worry a bit - I'm sure my mum drinks more than 10 cups of tea a day - in fact, despite some strong competition over the years, I have still yet to meet anyone who drinks as much tea as she does. Her tea of choice is regular Yorkshire Tea, which is, I hope, only a Class B or C tea, unlike the positively skaggy Jasmine. But there is hope if I catch my mother busy on a crime spree suggested to her in a conversation with a particularly chatty ornament. I can rely on the precedent set in the Walker case, which could be pursuasive in an English court. A band of psychologists and forensic toxicologists assembled by the defence attorney helped the judge to come to the conclusion that Walker "had been suffering from a psychotic episode induced by drinking the ostensibly innocuous beverage". The charge was dropped and Walker is free to put the kettle on another day.

Would be misfits might like to note that this defence has variants, as mentioned by The Houston Chronicle when reporting this story:


"Prosecutors likened the tea theory to the "twinkie defense" used by former San Francisco Supervisor Dan White, who was charged with killing the city's mayor and another supervisor in 1978. He avoided a first-degree murder charge and was convicted of involuntary manslaughter after his lawyers convinced jurors that eating junk food had diminished White's mental capacity."

29 - posted at 12:24:28
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Wednesday 2nd July 2003

I don't know if my screaming sore throat and my freely running nose have anything to do with spending three days on a hillside in Somerset, but if so I welcome these symptoms as a cheap price to pay for a blinding festival. Glastonbury this year was the most laid back, easy and friendly festival I have been to yet. Glastonbury has always had the edge over the Reading festival (my other festival experience) for many reasons: Generally the atmosphere is different, indefinably special, the music is more varied and it's not full of gobby 14 year olds in long sleeve black t-shirts. But at Glastonbury in the past there was always a moment or two of mental discomfort, a slight threat, a whiff of the chemical loos. But for some reason this year that was absent. A lot of it may have been to do with our excellent pitch - on the hill above the Pyramid Stage, easy to access, spacious and close to the most desirable sanitary facilities in the festival - the flushing toilets (but not so close that you could tell when they had stopped working). Some of the papers have made a lot of the fact that tighter security, better organisation and the 'superfence' contributed to the safe and happy feeling this year - and this is undoubtedly true: the year that seemed the dodgiest to me was 2000, the year of the gatecrashers, when (some statistics claim) the population of the festival was almost doubled by free loaders. What is encouraging about the reports coming out of Glastonbury this year (as opposed to last) is that people have stopped going on about the erosion of the Glastonbury spirit and accepted that these things have to evolve, that ultimately feeling safe and being able to relax and have fun is at the heart of the whole experience.

The music was excellent - a comfortable front(ish) row spot during Lamb amongst a happy and fun crowd helped make for a stunning gig, and a similar position for the Manics did the same. The Manics played a short set with noticeable gaps for a fan, but it was still fantastic: the rain was falling at this point but it didn't matter, epecially since we were sopping wet with the water generously thrown over the crowd (I still hope to be forgiven for pouring water over Claire's head during La Tristesse Durera).

I could go on and on - I think between the seven of us we perhaps ate most of the different food on offer, saw scores of bands and reached more than a few varied states of mental inebriation. The person found passed out with sick all over his face mid-afternoon shall, at this point, remain nameless.

And now, back at work, dull dull dull, trying to convince people that this is a tan, not dirt semi-permanently ingrained into my face.

28 - posted at 11:10:10
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Monday 23rd June 2003

Angel

Yesterday Claire and I went to Highgate Cemetery, having finally got the better of some of the slightly difficult timeframes that it appears London tourists have to operate within - for example Saturday brought the disappointing news that Westminster Abbey shuts at 1.45 on a Saturday afternoon, scuppering any chances of a wander around there at a normal time. It was unfortunate that we only discovered this standing by the door of the Abbey at 3.00pm. Highgate's last tour of the Western Cemetery is at 4.00pm on weekends, and we arrived a bit too late. But the cemetery is guarded by a crack legion of fiercely possessive silver haired pensioners, who, in their infinite wisdom and mercy, granted a couple of overspill tours - this meant hanging around a bit rather than searching in the East Cemetery for Karl Marx and George Eliot, but the West Cemetery is certainly worth the wait - I've been once before but the decaying Gothic allure of the place, complemented by thick creeping undergrowth dotted with wild flowers, seems enduring, and I don't believe its beauty and curious appeal can dim, however often it is visited.

Visitors must take the tour, which is slightly frustrating, as you gaze though the trees into the darkened wilderness of tombs and grave stones from the safety of a main path. The place is virtually woodland, the trees, especially in summer, are thick and threaten to consume the unluckier stones - I saw one flat grave with a tree thrusting through its centre, the cracked slab tilted away from its original position, leaning at an angle and clutched by roots that disappeared into the blackness of the tomb. There are roughly 51,000 graves in Highgate, containing close to 160,000 bodies and there must be memorials in there unseen for decades - the guide, the young buck of the management team (a bespectacled 45 year old) mentioned, for example, that Michael Faraday's grave was 'almost inaccessible'. He wasn't willing to go into the more morbid attractions of Highgate, but was an informative and knowledgeable guide, unlike the woman who guided me around there last year. For a more eldritch description of the cemetery this account is enyoyable reading.

Only Pere Lachaise and the Cemeteries in New Orleans can, in my experience, match Highgate for the beauty of the headstones and the ability to inescapably evoke those base but oddly pleasant darkling feelings of macabre morbidity and, of course, mortality.

27 - posted at 14:34:15
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Wednesday 18th June 2003

I'm late in posting this up, but that's because I've been away, busy being relaxed and happy. Anyway, its good to know her Maj has a browse around the weblogs every now and again. Congratulations Rog.

26 - posted at 10:11:37
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