Dynargh dhe'n Blogofrob

Monday 20th February 2006

The other Saturday afternoon I put on my suit. Just the jacket and trousers - none of the trimmings. Underneath, I wore a dark grey M&S shirt, with a pair of trainers poking out below the trousers. No tie, no stiff collared shirt, no cufflinks, no polished squeaky shoes. But I was wearing a suit nonetheless and felt a bit smart.

I had spent the previous 48 hours ticking boxes on a protracted To Do list. At work, I cleared my desk, tying up loose ends and palming off various files to less than appreciative colleagues. I got my hair cut (badly) and packed a large bag of possessions, giving it to a man who came calling on Friday morning. He put it in the boot of his car. I haven't seen it since, but am still optimistic that somehow it'll make the journey halfway across the world to my side.

Two of my suits were with that elusive bag. With the third hanging off my shoulders, I headed to Heathrow, accompanied by my better (in every way) half. Sadly, she was only coming as far as Terminal 1. My flight was due to leave at 10:20pm. It was 7:40pm and there was no queue at check-in, so I swaggered up to the desk, pleased with my earliness. This flight wouldn't be so bad. Not only would I be relaxing in "World Traveller Plus" but, seeing as I was this early, I'd also be able to bag a window seat. I was looking fairly smart too. I hadn't worn the suit to be upgraded - I just didn't want it creasing in my bag - but if it got me into Business Class, that would bode well for this whole trip, the wisdom of which I was starting to seriously doubt. I felt lucky.

I thrust the bag onto the conveyor belt, slapped my passport on the desk, and told the check-in attendant that I was flying to Hong Kong at 10:20. She slowly lifted her head, weighed down as it was by multiple layers of foundation, eye liner, lip gloss and blusher. This make-up mask expertly conveyed the image of the aging stewardess, looked over by multiple pilots and shortly destined to be waving passengers onto a big orange plane (...can you see where this is going?). Without a dreg of warmth, let alone charm, she dragged my passport towards her and started listlessly tapping away at the keyboard.

"Please could I have a window seat?" I smiled.

"I'll just see, sir. It's a very busy flight tonight": her best officious receptionist voice.

She spoke for a while on the phone. She replaced the receiver, tapped on the keyboard a bit more and pushed a boarding card towards me.

"Right," she said, in the same soulless monotone. "You've been downgraded for this flight sir. Boarding gate 52."

Downgraded.

What the fuck?

I looked at the boarding card. Involuntary downgrade. In an aisle seat.

13 hours to Hong Kong in economy. During a night flight. How dare she try and act as though this was the most normal thing in the world - actually, as though it was more than I deserved? Doesn't she, or anyone in British Airways, care that the full fare has been paid (yes, yes, not by me, but let's not dwell on that at the moment)? Doesn't anyone care that I'm going to have to fold my 6 feet and two inches in to a miniature metal frame loosely covered by some mite ridden canvas? She didn't apologise, she barely explained - she only snapped at me for getting angry. Of course: no-one has any rights in an airport because everyone's so bloody sensitive. You can't even raise an eyebrow in dissent, without the risk of a trigger happy policeman pushing you up against a wall, his assault rifle in your face and his eyes twinkling with the memory of Stockwell.

"Poor Rob," you may be thinking, your mind oozing with sarcasm, "he had to travel cattle class, how will his delicate soul cope? And he's not that bloody tall."

To that, I say, fuck you. Fuck you, fuck the bitch at the check in desk, fuck the piss smelling old gimmer from the ground staff who informed me that compensation was a measly £75 presented in the form of a cash card (have you ever tried getting £5 from a cash machine? Fuck 'em) and most of all, fuck British Airways, who overbook their flights and downgrade decent punters not because they're last in the queue to check in, not because they've chosen to take a downgrade for a decent pecuniary reward, not because they look like shabby cunts (you should have seen some of the smug bastards in World Traveller Plus) but because they're not members of the manipulative BA air miles club or other such exploitative scheme, designed to keep travellers away from the better airlines. Proper fucking bastards.

Although, having said that, the flight wasn't too bad.

I ended up sitting at the front of economy, and I could stretch my legs under the curtain in front, giving my feet a taste of the high life. At least until, irritated by the constant bumping of my seat by the passenger behind, I turned to see a gargantuan German freak trying to make himself comfortable. I had to swap with him: I felt too guilty not to - he really was huge, about 6 foot 5. So I moved seat and tucked myself into a little gap for 13 hours, dozed for about 5 minutes, and suddenly I was on the Airport Express, heading to Hong Kong island.

85 - posted at 13:04:04
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Tuesday 3rd January 2006

I was planning to break my lengthy silence with a riveting travelogue, told with the kind of witty self-deprecation that would make Michael Palin and Clive James give up and go home without so much as an ironic gurn at the camera. Unfortunately, that's proved difficult. Two reasons: for a start, instead of effortlessly conjuring up tales to rival those of Patrick Leigh-Fermor, over the "festive period" I remained slumped in an armchair eating Stilton and trying to work out which televised fragrance advertisement was the most pretentious. Secondly, "witty self-deprecation" and doing anything "effortlessly" do not come naturally (is that tautologous?). Oh, and my laptop's fucked, but that's another story.

So as the perfume ads give way for chirpy chav-friendly invitations to furniture warehouse sales, I'm back at work. No time to do my foreign adventures justice. But just enough time to comment on the spooky goings on in my neighbourhood.

Macrobiotic drudge Chris Martin and his marginally more interesting wife, Gwyneth Paltrow, have decided that their house is full of bad energy. Apparently, this is to blame for Gwyneth's difficult second pregnancy (I suspect it's more to do with eating seeds and drinking fucking Yakult all the time). The rumours are that they're getting some followers of Kabbalah in to do some chanting and scare away the ghosts.

I happen to live opposite the Paltrow-Martins. The only bad energy I've sensed in the area is the bloody prices charged by the gas supplier. OK, so standing staring at their house for hours on end, tapping gently on their windows and flinging excrement into their front yard in the middle of the night isn't the kind of thing that's going convince Mr and Mrs P-M that the neighbourhood is bubbling with good energy. And perhaps it was wrong to repeatedly order a Meat Feast Pizza on their behalf. But they still live in a massive 3.5m pound town house in Belsize Park. It's gated off from the rest of the street and covered in CCTV cameras. If you can't get good energy in that haven of luxury, getting a handful of Kabbalists to chant dreary psalms in the sitting room is unlikely to make a difference. Besides, if Chris Martin spends time rehearsing at home, any ghost loitering in the airing cupboard is going to be familiar with dirgy chanting.

I think the only way to ensure good energy is returned to their house is for them to invite all their neighbours around for a massive celeb-heavy party. For the avoidance of doubt, that includes the neighbours opposite as well as next door to them. And tonight I'm going to climb into their garden and leave a little note in a pentangle arranged out of twigs, straw and human hair, telling them to do just that.

84 - posted at 17:58:01
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Thursday 13th October 2005

Just a quick one, but I want to get some kind of comment in before the tedious stop-it-now-it's-getting-boring wait for the Broccoli mafia to announce which actor will "don the tuxedo" (copyright all lazy showbiz hacks) ends. And according to the BBC, the announcement might be made tomorrow.

Gosh, I can barely piss straight with excitement.

But I can, although I would have been all over the place if they'd cast the new Bond within a reasonable period of time. As it is, with the tiresome speculation going on for almost a year, this just seems like an overcooked publicity exercise.

However, the end is in sight. And, yes, the toilet seat is getting sprinkled a bit. But partly with nerves as well as excitement. I'm worried about the recent rumours that suggest the filmmakers are taking the world's best film franchise, strapping it to a table and burning a laser beam right up its jaffas.

No Q? No gadgets? Bond aged 28? Oh sod off. The last time they tried this kind of reinvention the franchise spluttered to a six year halt and fed Timothy Dalton's career to the sharks. Looney Tunes: Back in Action? Oh, Tim.

The thing is, Dalton was a brilliant Bond. The Living Daylights is a great film. Back then the filmakers were trying to make Bond a bit more realistic, with a harder edge - and in general it didn't go down well. But even during that experiment, Bond was still in his forties and had a few toys to play with. So the choice to stray even further away from the successful and comforting formula is worrying. (Gold)fingers crossed.

The new man can't be any worse than Pierce Brosnan, the preening prince of punir. Straight out of the jumpers page of the Freeman's catalogue he squinted his way through two shit films, one good one and one which I can't work out whether I like or not, all the way ripping off the four previous Eon Bonds. His so called emotional side he nicked off Tim. His attempts at humour and charm he half-inched from Sir Rog. His affected swagger and style was from Connery and his complete shitness he took wholesale from Lazenby. That's a bit unfair actually. George Lazenby was quite good.

Anyway that transatlantic fucker's gone now. The favourite for the job is Daniel Craig. He's got my vote - certainly he's the best actor in the running and he looks the part as well (or he would with a bit of boot polish rubbed into his hair). I think he would be an excellent James Bond. Otherwise there's Clive Owen. I used to think he'd be good, until I saw him act. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think that when Albion is threatened and King Arthur majestically returns to defend the realm he'll speak in a Kermit the Frog-esque monotone. Also some children called Sam Worthington and Henry Cavill are in the running. And the less said about Jude Law, the better, but suffice to say, if the producers of Casino Royale want a smug balding twat in the role they'd do better to ask back Sean Connery.

One thing's for sure. You can guarantee that whoever is picked to be the Bond girl will give interviews saying, "my character's different from all other Bond girls, she's Bond's equal and more assertive". Yeah, whatever love - you'll proceed to spend two hours stuck on a ledge in your bikini screaming, "James, James, help me James", before getting nailed by 007 and caught mid-coitus by M/Q/Thatcher/The Queen/Pope Benedict XVI etc.


83 - posted at 17:02:30
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Friday 23rd September 2005

September again, a month with the potential to fling you into a mortar and, with its autumnal pestle, grimly powderise you. Then drive a steamroller over your remains.

Yep, September grinds me down. With the exception of last year's glorious ninth month, it brings the end of any hopes for summer, unwelcome memories of new school years (disinfected classrooms and being forced to play football in arctic storms) and getting out of bed and leaving work when it's dark.

And I haven't done much with September this year, except work and worry about work. There have, however, been a couple of recent noteworthy events.

Last week Matt, Jerry and I went to Zigfrid in Hoxton and saw Lou Rhodes doing her thing. At the risk of sounding like a broken record (and not a very good one at that, certainly not Beloved One by Lou Rhodes) it was great. My six month Guinness hiatus came to a malty end and by the time the support (excellent acoustic sets by Ed Laurie and ex-Lamber Oddur Mar Runnarson) had ended I was half-cut. Guinness or no Guinness, the atmosphere there was relaxed and ultra friendly. I found myself chatting to various people, all of whom enthusiastically chatted back. It's so unusual in London to be at a gig (or out anywhere) and for there to be a complete absence of aggression. Perhaps encouraged by this, after spotting Lou packing away and with the desire to right past wrongs, I trotted over.

"Lou," I smiled. "My name's Rob. I'd just like to say how much I enjoyed your music this evening."

Her eyes sparkled with delight. "I recognise you", she purred. "I've noticed you at some Lamb gigs. I once saw you in the Tipi field at Glastonbury, and felt so sad when you didn't come and speak to me. And then I saw you again at this year's Glastonbury. You seemed so ill, all I wanted to do was abandon the gig and nurse you back to health. But unfortunately that would have meant breaking my deal to perform there, and Michael Eavis is a real fucker when it comes to breach of contractual obligations."

"Tell me about it," I said archly. "What you need is a clause in there allowing you to forgo a performance on compassionate grounds. I'll happily draft one for you. Here's my business card."

She took it coyly. After a moment she said, "All this talk of the niceties of legal drafting makes me go weak at the knees. I don't want your office address. Take me to your home, now."

Actually, I can't quite vouch for the above being a verbatim transcript of our conversation. I'm having trouble remembering. I suspect the following may be more accurate:

Me: "Bleurggh, um, Lou, how the fahk are you you were fuurrrrkin great man."
Her [eyes sparkling with terror]: "Thank you."
Me: "Buerouhgg jegh hergl I love Lamnalldatshit and I think that...um...all reeeeeeallly good...great...urm...hfoipn."
Her: "..."
Me: "I'm ganna come again, aaand again yes I aam. Bye, great chhat."

Ah well.

The following evening I went to another gig, JJ72 again, in the Islington Academy. The requisite aggression was there this time, mainly from me getting pissed off with the gig goers who insist on barging to the front and then spend the entire gig either (a) standing there like one of those wanky out of work actors in Covent Garden pretending to be a statue or (b) chatting loudly all the way through. One such talky twat put me off-side from the start by braying away to some midget woman he was obviously trying to pull.

"Yeah, they were quite big about five years ago, they're a bit crap actually, middle of the road." Could have been worse I suppose. He could have said they sounded like Placebo.

I enjoyed the gig and was pleasantly surprised by the support, a band called Red Organ Serpent Sound. I wasn't feeling particularly optimistic when they strolled to their instruments, all face paint and bowler hats. The lead singer then bounded on stage. He was wearing what appeared to be a red sock over his head and large white rimmed dark glasses. A top hat was rammed down firmly on the sock. He was also clad in a leotard, and wore a red boxing glove on his left hand. In fact he looked a bit like this. At first, as the guitars screamed into action I worried that this might be a death metal/performance art hybrid. But it was fun, highly charged, good music. Kraftwerk inspired lyrics from a song called Autobahn - "Autobahn, autobahn...DAS AUTOBAHN". I think they probably all went to art school together.

This week I decided to go upmarket, and accompanied my parents to the Ritz for afternoon tea, after starving myself. I was a little disappointed in that it reminded me of the Egyptian Hall at Harrods, the columns dripping with gold leaf while stucco lions roared down from the ceiling. Also, our fellow tea takers were hardly what I would have expected (something out of Agatha Christie perhaps) although at least their hoop earrings went with the décor. But the service was impeccable, the tea perfect and the sandwiches and scones just kept coming. I left feeling quite sick, exactly as planned.

82 - posted at 16:58:32
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Friday 26th August 2005

"Wonderful" - Daily Mail.

So say the billboards outside Wyndham's Theatre, tempting punters into the current production, Arse You Lick It.

Private Eye helpfully places this in context:

What Quentin Letts actually said was this: "All the knowing innovation finally proves too much in David Lan's arch-casual direction...Shakespeare's wonderful story is near indestructible but the aftertaste here is of tinny, modernist zeal."

Of course, anything that provokes even the slightest grumble from the Daily Mail has to be checked out, so I bought a couple of tickets. I've always been a bit irritated by AYLI, but my interest in all things bardic had been revived by seeing the National Theatre's excellent Theatre of Blood the week before. I skipped down to the box office 90 minutes before curtain up in good faith.

The performance started a little earlier than I had anticipated. As I was leaving the box office, tickets in hand, I noticed two burly fellows standing just outside the doors, large cameras discretely held behind their backs.

"'Ere she is," said one of them.

A car had pulled up to the curb. Sienna Miller and a yobbish looking bodyguard got out and made a beeline for the door, as the Paps let off multiple flashes in her face. As they did they crashed back and forth, barging into anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. I was shielded by two women, who were bundled into the wall in pursuit of that elusive shot of Miller brushing some grit away from her eye ("Sienna Weeps!").

The play itself was faintly tedious, but the terminally unfunny source material was often managed in a way which brought some humour to the lines. The above mentioned Ms.Miller, although a bit awkward on stage, acquitted herself in her supporting role better than her erstwhile fiancé could ever do. I enjoyed Reece Sheersmith's Jacques but I imagine purists would disapprove of the absence of melancholy in his performance. Dominic West and Helen McCrory were, y'know, alright, as the leads. I thought the latter a bit too shouty. In fact everyone on stage was a bit too shouty. This was a bit frustrating because really all I wanted to do myself was shout. Loudly. At my fellow audience members.

It amazes me that people don't know how to behave in a theatre. For a start, it was like sitting in a TB ward, the two old gimmers behind me hacking up their guts at frequent intervals. It was as much as I could do not to turn round and look at them pointedly as Sheersmith gave us life's final scene - "...second childishness and mere oblivion/Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." Actually, it sounded as though they were already sans teeth. In between the curdling of their phlegm, they popped cough sweets, which rattled around their mouths resulting in the unpleasant salival smacking of lips. I could have done that for them.

At other times I could hear theatregoers' comments on the action unfolding on stage from three or four rows away ("Oh yes, isn't he fan-tas-tic?"). Another cougher on the opposite side of the theatre was prompting annoyed head-turns from all around her. Someone (remarkably not an English teacher) was laughing like a deranged harridan at Sean Hughes's Touchstone, perhaps Shakespeare's least amusing character (and that includes Lear, Macbeth and Bottom).

There was a point where I was convinced it must have been some kind of conspiracy. Behind me, there was the sound of frenzied hacking and bile bubbling on lips. To my left, a man was furiously playing with his change. To my right, a girl was loudly complaining to her boyfriend in Japanese. But no, it was just your average Wednesday night at a celebrity-heavy play in the West End.

Perhaps my indifference to the play itself is testament to the quality of the production. Given the distracting goings-on off stage, I could easily have turned my anger towards the performance. But although it wasn't great, I enjoyed it. Maybe then, if those behind me had already reached the eighth stage of Man, the Japanese had stayed in Tokyo and the harridan had laid off the Seroxat, I would have been treated to a "wonderful" play.

81 - posted at 11:25:50
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