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Sunday, December 28, 2003
Dah-dah-dah-daaaaah-da-dah... Laydeez and gen'lemen, it's the inaugural, slightly-rushed and not-at-all-pointless MarkCity Awards 2003 aka the Markies. Even though that sounds like a make of dog biscuit. 2003 has been packed full of more fun than a bag of fun-sized Mars bars. It started beside a temple in Kyoto and will end (probably) in a flat in Tunbridge Wells. Hey, that's not our flat I'm talking about - we're not sad enough to stay in on New Year's Eve. Not this year anyway. We shall be raising a toast to all the marvellous things that happened in 2003: coming home, spending two months on the dole, new jobs, the patter of tiny rat feet, Wife Swap, parents splitting up, failed Mars missions, war, worldwide death and mayhem! Hurrah! So without any further preamble, let's start awarding the, um, awards. Starting on a musical note. The Spandex Catsuit Award for Best Band: There's only one contender - they came, they saw, they sang in shrill voices. They believed in a thing called love. They are The Darkness. They started the year as no-hopers and ended it astride the globe. Well, at No.2 in the UK singles chart. They're all about 45, proving that I could still be a rock star if I wanted to be! The When I Hear Music I Just Can't Make My Feet Behave Award for Best Single: No longer will we ever have to sing 'Happy birthday to you'. Instead, we can chant, 'Yo shorty, it's your birthday/We're gonna sip Bacardi like it's your birthday'. The single of 2003: 'In Da Club' by Fiddy Cent. The Tinnitus is Great Award for Best Gig: Suede at the London Astoria. But don't get me started on it coz I'll start blubbing again... The That Dog Don't Give a F*** Award for Best Album: Yes, it's the Lowestoft rock gods again. Just pipping Belle & Sebastian and The Strokes to the title, the top album of 2003 is 'Permission to Land' by The Darkness. Bringing big hair and bigger choruses back to music and not being at all ironic. He said ironically. The Phil Collins Award for Crimes Against Ears: As always, the charts this year were clogged up with crap. But who was the worst offender? Phil didn't do anything this year - apart from getting mugged (tee hee) - so he's ruled out. The biggest pile of musical poo this year was probably the appalling 'Make Love' by Oliver Cheetham. Closely followed by Westlife's 'Mandy'. Even they hated it. But not as much as the rest of us. And the rest... The Wot No Hobbits Award for Best Film: Yes, yes, the Return of the King was pretty fab, but it's ruled out because it hurt my bum too much watching it. And because The Two Towers was better. Best movie of 2003 was the sublime Lost In Translation, which just beat Kill Bill and the Rules of Attraction. BTW, the biggest cinematic disappointment of the year had to be the Matrix follow-ups, which were so awful that one of the Wachowski brothers is having a sex change so no-one will recognise him. The Mmmm...Pink Knickers Award for Top Foxstress: Of course, my girlfriend (who owns some rather fetching pink knickers herself, courtesy of Kylie and Agent Provocateur) has had to be ruled out of this award in the interests of fairness. So, narrowly beating Eliza 'Faith-out-of-Buffy' Dushku, this honour goes to Scarlett Johansson. Sophie Ellis-Bextor ruled herself out this year by having a dodgy hair-dye job and releasing a rubbish 2nd album. I'm sure she'll be mortified. The One For the Ladies Award for Superbuff Hottie: Just to show you that MarkCity is not one of the last refuges of the sexist, I've allowed Butter to name her own object of desire. She insisted it should be me, but I persuaded her to name someone else, so she reluctantly nominated Orlando Bloom (the elf-bloke out of LOTR). Hmmm, he's so dreamy... Actually, I wish my name was Orlando. The Not Vernon God Little Award for Best Book: It hasn't been a vintage year for books, despite JK Rowling's best efforts. It was the year of the teen massacre in fiction, with DBC (Dull Bloody Crap) Pierre's Booker-winning debut and my own winner - Twelve by Nick McDonnell. Waddya mean, it was published in 2002? Damn. But that's the kind of year it's been. The I've Just Got Something In My Eye, Honest, Award for Saddest Farewell. Sniff. Parp. Sob. This year we sang a rousing chorus of 'We'll Meet Again' for Japan, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and - no surprises - Suede. Well, it made me sad, anyway. The Squeeeeeeeaaaaaaaak!!! Award for Rat of the Year: Hey, I'm not going to show favouritism. This award is shared between Nancy and Syd. I love both those little critters. The Jim Davidson Award for Most Despicable Tosspot (Um, As Opposed To Lovable Tosspot?) Award: Whew, this is a tricky one... there are so many candidates, from the obvious (hi George) to the more obscure (hello, New York subway cop). The winner, though, in this most prestigious category, is Madonna. I used to be a big fan of Madge's, when I was 15 and hormonal, but this year she didn't do a thing right. Her records sucked, she vanity-published two rubbish books, she went hunting, she snogged Britney (ooh, controversial), she made that Gap advert and she continued to sleep with the almost-as-loathsome Guy 'I'm really rather working class, me' Richie. Spit. This award comes in the form of a bucket of bile. And finally... The Mother Theresa Award for Most Wonderful Human Being: Fewer candidates here than in the previous category, but there are lots of people who deserve it. And no, that doesn't include any of the bloody England Rugby World Cup Squad. I was tempted to give the award to Mori Chax, the inventor of Gloomy Bear, for bringing al that joy to the world. But my hero of 2004 is Jonathan Ive. Who? I hear you cry. Jonathan Ive is the head designer at Apple. He invented the iPod. And the iMac. And the iBook. He isn't a politician or an artist (not in the strictest sense, anyway) but in his own small way, he makes people a little happier. Happy New Year - see you in 2004. Saturday, December 27, 2003
Christmas seemed to pass in the blink of a (slightly bleary) eye this year and I spent most of it with stomach pains from having eaten too much. By nine o'clock I was searching the fridge for a bottle of wine that I'd forgotten I'd already drunk. And I got bitten by one of my sister's pet rats - it thought I was a monkey nut. My grandad complained all the way through Pop Idol and I made my nephew cry after he dropped a plastic toy in my wine glass and I threw it at him - goodnaturedly of course - and the alcohol stung his eye. And Claire bought me a turntable so I can now play all my old records. Well, not all of them. I'm managing to resist my Chas and Dave seven-inches. (I've been really lazy and stole all of the above from an email I sent one of my friends. Apologies to the friend in question!) We went round the sales today, but it was about as successful a trip as the Beagle 2's. Actually, it must be nice on Mars; all that peace and quiet. I hope the Beagle 2 hasn't been captured by Martians who are right now trying to work out how to stop it playing that bloody Blur tune. I realise that these days, 'Blur tune' is an oxymoron. Anyway, back to the sales: I bought a pair of trousers from Fenwick and Butter bought nothing. I've just been working out the MarkCity awards for tomorrow - or, perhaps, the day after! Although I'll be back at work then. My word for 2004 is "gravitas". Only one person will understand this! Sunday, December 21, 2003
Waaaah! I'm so gutted! Despite, ahem, sleighing the Pop Idols single, The Darkness are NOT the Xmas No.1. Instead, it's that old, baldy Michael Stipe-a-like Gary Jules. I admit, I quite like 'Mad World', especially when it's playing in the background on Donnie Darko. But there's NO WAY it should have beaten the Darkness to the No.1 spot. It's just another example of the British public kicking themselves in the baubles. Ooh, I'm so mad. Butter has just reminded me that I actually bought the Gary Jules single as well as the Darkness one, so I'm partly to blame. Damn. Sh**. Bugger!! What if they were only separated by one sale? If I took my copy of 'Mad World' back, would they change the charts? Oh, woe woe woe... it's too late. Due to this appalling turn of events, I've decided to postpone the MarkCity end-of-year-awards - or Markies, as I think they should be known - until next week, when it actually is the end of the year, and when I'll have a few days off work. I've spent most of today wrapping pressies, including Butter's GHD hair straighteners - possibly the best a woman can get. And now I'm all set for Chrimbo, ready to feign joy and surprise at the gifts I despise (copyright The Darkness 2003), and drink lots of wine in order to remove the taste of (bah) humbug from my mouth. Happy Christmas to all MarkCity readers. Tune in next week for 2003 Markies. Promise. Unless something else terrible happens - like me getting a Phil Collins CD for Xmas. Sunday, December 14, 2003
There's a ringing in my ears, and no, it's not the sound of Christmas bells or the new Darkness single (go on, go out and buy it tomorrow and make it Xmas No.1). It's the after-effect of three nights of loud music and dancing. Thursday night was the work Christmas party, which was fun, and then Friday and Saturday were the last ever Suede gigs*. Friday was great, but last night's farewell gig was explosive, exhilarating, emotional and, erm, lots more words beginning with e. Butter was in tears by the end of the last song, and the girl next to her held her hand. That's the kind of lovely people you find at Suede concerts. They played two sets: a funeral set, with loads of fans' faves, including old b-sides and album tracks; then there was the 'celebration' set, with most of the singles and anthems, like 'Beautiful Ones', 'She's In Fashion', 'The Drowners', 'Metal Mickey' and 'Trash'. We bounced, we cried, we bounced as we cried, we sweated and shouted and sang along. It was utterly f**ing glorious, the best Suede gig I've ever been to, the best gig I've been to full stop. There was a pre-show party too where all the Suedesters and Suedettes got together and prepared for the end. And my ears are still humming now, 24 hours later. Farewell, Suede. We loved you. At last, somebody is doing something about one of my bete noires. The Vegetarian Society has launched a campaign to teach people that veggies don't eat fish. Next week I'll be handing out the first MarkCity awards. What were, in my less-than-humble opinion, the best albums, singles, films, etc, of the year? Who was the biggest tosser of the year? Who should be sharing a cell with Saddam for crimes against humanity? Who will be the rat of the year? Tune in next weekend for the unveiling! And if you want to leave a suggestion, nomination, leave a comment. Arigato! *Brett said on stage that there will be another Suede record, but apparently the rest of the band knew nothing about it. Monday, December 08, 2003
Phew! Wot a weekend... I really ought to lie and say that I didn't update MarkCity yesterday because I was too shagged out by three days of excess. The truth, however, is that Blogger was down yesterday. But, but, but: it was a riproarer of a long weekend, kickstarted by those rock n roll animals Belle & Sebastian. It was such a wild gig (at the Astoria, Thursday night) that at one point, several members of the audience removed their duffle coats! It doesn't get much wilder than that. But seriously, to quote the loathsome Phil Collins (who got mugged last week in London - cue evil cackle), while B&S were brilliant, knocking out an hour and a half of beautiful little pop gems, the crowd looked like they were auditioning for a job in the window of Selfridges. Or rather, Oxfam. While Maggie - my companion for the evening - and I, and two other lively audience members, tried to dance and enjoy ourselves, our fellows stood and stroked their girlfriends' chins. The guy standing next to me, who I think was German, looked so horrified that people were moving that he left before the end. He spent most of the gig with his head in his hands and a finger in his ear. Come on, it wasn't that bad. In fact, it was rather marvellous, and I didn't even miss my train home. Friday night brought forth the Butter Xmas Party. Butter's company had paid (a lot of money) for us to go to a big corporate do in a tent - sorry, marquee - in Battersea Park. It was entitlee 'One Night In Bangkok'. And if Bangkok really was like the interior of the marquee, nobody would ever spend more than one night there. It was full of yuppie skinheads, a new breed, and I'm sure half the inhabitants of Battersea's most famous home had got in. Actually, it was a fun evening, thanks to the beer, wine, more beer and more wine, even if Butter and her compadres got stuck in a mini-bus in Purley and nearly missed dinner. We watched fat blokes dancing in a cage, whilst we shook our stuff to The Darkness and, er, Robbie Williams. Then we all went home on the bus and nobody was sick. Which means it hardly qualifies as a Christmas do. On Saturday we went to see The Strokes at the Ally Pally, which is like a big aircraft hangar with ornate bits set on top of a hill. The hill has very nice views, unlike the one Butter had when the Strokes came on stage. The poor wee thing - all 5 foot 4 of her - could only see the backs of numerous heads and the lights at the top of the stage. They were very nice lights, but not worth paying £30 to look at. I, fortunately, am quite tall and could see nearly everything. The Strokes played a bleeding blinder, banging out practically every song from both their albums. The sound cut out halfway through the second song, 'Reptilia', and when it came on again they started up again at exactly the spot where they'd left off. Now that's professional! Highlights were 'Someday' and 'The End Has No End'. We rushed out during the last song to get the first bus to the tube, which was so packed by the time we got to Leicester Square I was having Tokyo flashbacks. Then we thought we'd missed the train and Butter had a strop - 'I can't believe I'm in this situation!' - but then we realised there was another train so everything was alright in the end. Hurrah! Talking of happy endings, Expedia have refunded all our money from the Manhattan House of Horror, which is what I believe they call a result. Sunday, November 30, 2003
Bzzzzz... prepare to be liquified, Mark... Cue gravelly trailer voice: In a world where sugar is more valuable than gold, one man and one woman stand alone against the winged hordes...Armed only with a can of Raid and a rolled-up newspaper, can they defeat the small-but-yucky messengers of Pestilence? You can run but you can't hide - from The Flies. Ewww. Gross. I came home on Friday night to find Butter standing on a chair, brandishing a magazine, small corpses littering the carpet. The MarkCity crib had been invaded by flies. We spent the entire evening killing them, which is a great way for a couple of vegetarians to unwind after a hard week at work. Saturday was worse. After trudging around Tunbridge Wells in the rain all afternoon trying to help our friend Lisa buy a party outfit, we came back to find that the second wave of beasties had arrived. Butter rushed out to buy a can of Raid. Pretty soon we were filling the dustpan with them and were both half blind with fly-spray poisoning. We think there's a dead bird in the chimney; you can hear the flies buzzing around inside. They keep coming. But we will not be defeated. Turning to less-horrid subjects, this week is Week One of the Big Fun Fortnight. Belle & Sebastian on Thursday, the Butter Xmas Party on Friday and The Strokes on Saturday. It's also the one year anniversary of MarkCity on 4th December! Unbelievable... have I really been writing this for a year? Well, yes. Gawd knows how many words I've poured into cyberspace, which I could have put towards my novel. The first post was about Beyblades and had a picture of the Golden Turd in Asakusa with it. Wallow in nostalgia here. Sunday, November 23, 2003
Affirmative, master - Dr Who and K9 Today is the 40th Anniversary of Doctor Who. Four decades of rotating through time and space, of battling rubbery monsters and saving the galaxy, of wielding sonic screwdrivers, scoffing jelly babies and clutching the sides of his head whenever those fab proto-electro sound effects went screeeeee yet always surviving. Okay, so he died seven times but always managed to come back, refreshed and as zanily-dressed as ever. I was weaned on Doctor Who - especially the godlike Tom Baker and Peter Davison - and am really looking forward to the new series. In celebration of the Doctor's birthday, and because it was pissing down outside and I'm skint, I spent much of the weekend indoors, watching The Daemons and The Pyramids of Mars on UK Gold. And no, I didn't spot a single wobbly set or monster made out of egg cartons. When I was a small child, my Dad spent weeks locked in the garden shed making me and my sister a K9. We pestered him about it until he finally wheeled it out on its castors into the garden. It was life-sized, sprayed with silver paint and looked almost exactly like the real thing. 'Thanks Dad!' we cried, mightily impressed. I think we played with K9 for about 2 days before forgetting about him. We left him in the garden with the snails and the weather. By the time we remembered his existence, the rain had rotted him and his wheels had rusted up. Kids are horrible, ungrateful creatures, aren't they? But, by God, I wish I still had that K9 - it would be sooo cool. Sunday, November 16, 2003
 Ooh, stick you! I was a very brave boy on Wednesday: I went to see an acupuncturist. This is despite having an aversion to needles developed while watching the psychotic Japanese horror movie Audition, in which a seemingly demure woman turns out to be a sadistic feminist-fatale with a penchant for sticking acupuncture needles in men's eyes. Ouch. My fear increased when I learned that my own acupuncturist practises the Japanese sort, not the Chinese. Still, I've been plagued with back pain recently - that pesky coccyx - so thought it would be worth giving it a go. And I'm pleased to report that it was actually very enjoyable and relaxing. The acupuncturist was English so didn't look anything like the killer in Audition, which was a relief. She made me strip to my undies - fortunately I was wearing some. (Don't get excited, female readers, but yesterday, due to a washing schedule mix-up, I had to go commando all day!) The needles didn't hurt at all, and neither did the clumps of mugwort that she burnt on my back. The needles wwere inserted into various points on my back, but not left in place like they are in Chinese acupuncture. And no, I didn't have any stuck in my head like the bloke above. I felt soothed and relaxed afterwards, although I still have back pain. I'm going back this week to see if a second session helps. I've also been going to the gym this week in an attempt to regain the flat stomach my gym-going gave me last year (see Phi Phi pictures for evidence). Must get fit before going to Cali. Must reverse damage done by excessive beer-quaffing, thus allowing more guilt-free beer-quaffing. Louis Theroux's on tonight. He's my TV hero. I just wanted to say that. Sunday, November 09, 2003
I mentioned below that we saw Lost in Translation in New York, but I loved it so much that I feel the need to go on about it in a bit more detail. It's about an actor, Bill Murray, who goes to Tokyo to make a Suntory commercial and meets a beautiful girl, Scarlett Johansson, whose husband is never around. Bill Murray is fantastic - very funny and sympathetic, and Scarlett Johansson is sexy and sultry... I think I have a new favourite actress - she was great in Ghost World too. They make a great pair - two lonely, lost souls in the big city. The film has a lovely melancholy air; Sophia Coppola perfectly captures that feeling of insomnia and sleep deprivation. There are some great, dreamy images of Tokyo; the film is slightly grainy so the it's like looking at a watercolour of the city, rather than the bright vivid images you normally see. Of course, it has extra resonance for anyone who's lived in Tokyo, with some cool shots of Shibuya, shinkansen and Fuji. And to top it all off, there's an awesome karaoke scene! And there's a bit on a crosstrainer that had Butter crying with laughter. It doesn't have a typical Hollywood ending - in fact, when the credits rolled, the moron sitting beside us shouted, 'What? What!?' Sleepless in Seattle it ain't. The soundtrack is excellent too - very slow and dreamy (that word again): Kevin Shields, Air and The Jesus and Mary Chain. We bought it as soon as we got back and have been listening to it non-stop. Oh, and if Bill Murray doesn't win the best actor Oscar for this, I'll eat one of Syd's droppings. Er, don't hold me to that. Friday, November 07, 2003
RIP Suede. What sad news. I guess the only consolation (for me at least) is that I've got tickets to their last two gigs ever. How emotional is that going to be? Sigh... roll on Brett's first solo album. My dream now is that he gets back together with Bernard Butler. Thursday, November 06, 2003
I ♥ New York Well, I quite like it, anyway. They say you should never meet your heroes because they’re bound to disappoint you, and I was a little worried that NYC, a city I’ve wanted to go to since I was knee-high to a Harlem Globetrotter (um, which I still am), would do the same. We had two great days and one which was not-so-awesome. Read on for the high- and lowlights of our trip. Actually, the lowlights are much funnier so I’ll probably concentrate on them more. Click here for pictures. And here for more pictures! Parklife Central Park is everything you imagine it to be. Well, unless you imagine it to be full of rapists and muggers, which it possibly is at night. During the day, however, it’s an idyllic place for a stroll, the trees ablaze with colour – or should that be color? – and buskers and birds competing to fill the air with sweet music. Manhattan’s heights rear up in the background, creating a stunning vista, while ice-skaters waltz on the outdoor rinks, joggers puff by and cool girls who probably work in publishing lounge on the grass reading the Times and smoking in about the only place you still can. Butter did some yoga on the lawn. For about three seconds – but it was the thought that counted. We walked from our hotel, on 101st Street, to the Empire State Building, on 33rd Street, meandering back and forth, probably covering about 120 blocks! Which was why Butter spent that evening and the next two days hobbling around like she had bumblefoot, a complaint commonly found in rats. We probably covered even more ground than the runners in the New York Marathon, which took place on Sunday. The crowds waved banners and watched out for Puff Daddy, or P Diddy, or Ken Doddy – whatever he’s called these days – who was taking part. No-one was interested in Ranulph Fiennes, whose feet, after running seven marathons, must be slightly sorer than Butter’s. Oh, and I should mention that the weather was glorious and freakishly warm.  Bright Sights, Big City Sugooooiiiiiii!!! That was the considered opinion of the Japanese girls who stepped onto the observatory deck of King Kong’s fave building at the same time as us. Sugoi means excellent, which has to be the understatement of the year. The night view from the top of the Empire State Building is mesmerising. As a connoisseur of views from the top of tall buildings, I can tell you it’s up there with the view from the Tokyo Metropolitan Towers, and slightly better than the view from the London Eye (which isn’t a building, but what the hell?) The only bad thing about the Empire State is that someone is trying to get money off you at every turn – audio tours narrated by a taxi called Tony, photos for which we refused to pose – and the security checks, more of which later. Also, I got asked about my Strokes T-shirt by one of the attendants: ’The Strokes, huh? You know, that could have several meanings. What does it mean to you?’ ’It’s the name of a band.’ ’Really?’ ’Never heard of them.’ ’But they’re from New York!’ People stared at my T-shirt all weekend, not because they like the band (who no-one in NYC has heard of) but probably because it translates as The Wanks. Nice. The Manhattan House of Horror The hotel wasn’t as bad as we expected (click here to see what some other people thought of it) but I wouldn’t recommend it to my worst enemy. Although on second thoughts… We arrived to find Beavis and Butthead on the front desk, discussing the merits of a Norwegian death metal band that was blasting from the TV (‘Dude, this band are from, like, Norway but they sound American.’ ‘Sweet, dude.’) and then took the elevator from Hell – yes, I think it actually had come up from the depths of Hades – to the fifth floor. The door of our room would have given Laurence Llewellyn-Bowen a heart attack. It nearly gave me one too, especially when we found that it wouldn’t shut properly. Neither would the window. The bed had mismatching pillows and yellow stains on the sheets that I don’t even want to think about, and the mattress must have been manufactured in the sixties – every time you moved, the springs and the bed mites screamed in protest. The fridge roared like an elephant and shook like Elvis all night. We were provided with two rough towels and two small bars of soap that had been stolen from the Holiday Inn. There were three bathrooms on our floor (en suite? Don’t make me laugh, dude). The shower only worked in one of them, the toilet in another and the sink in another, so you had to visit all three to shower, go to the toilet and clean your teeth. I give it seven out of ten.  Sweet Liberty Since 9/11, New York has gone security berserk. Everywhere you go, you get scanned and prodded. Getting on the plane was the worst – you had to remove your shoes, your watch, everything metal bar your fillings – but taking the ferry to the Statue of Liberty, which you’re not allowed up since 9/11, is nearly as bad. After being sold a ticket by the rudest woman in New York (a title with a lot of competition) we queued up for the ride, having to remove our coats, watches and belts. Fortunately, my trousers didn’t fall down. The terrorist attack has given the authorities carte blanche to do whatever they like in the name of ‘freedom’ – I could mention Iraq and Guantanamo Bay at this point – including treating every visitor to the city as a potential member of the axis of evil. Kind of ironic when you’re going to see the Statue of Liberty. The Statue itself is very impressive, and the view of Manhattan from the boat is jaw-droppingly iconic. Just like in the movies. Down in the Subway On our way to the Statue, Butter had a fight with a ticket attendant who wouldn’t let us through the barriers because we’d made a mistake and gone on to the wrong platform a few minutes earlier. ‘You gotta wait 18 minutes,’ she growled. ‘But why?’ ‘Because those are the rules!’ when we eventually got on the train, a man near us said to the woman beside us, ‘Hey, move your bag a minute,’ then stomped on a cockroach that had been scuttling near it. The conductor made a helpful announcement: ‘If you’re going to South Ferry, please make sure you’re in the first five carriages.’ Except the way she said it, it actually sounded like this: ‘If any one of you motherf**kers wants the motherf**king South Ferry, PLEASE make sure you travel in the first goddamn five carriages. I REPEAT…’ I think she was having a bad day. On the Subway to JFK on our final day, a gang of youths from the hood got on and started breakdancing, 50 Cent blasting from their boombox. One of them, who was rather overweight, nearly did himself a mischief. They halfheartedly asked for donations then rapped along with their favourite violent, misogynistic lyrics before skulking off. ‘They could have had guns,’ I whispered to Butter. They coulda popped a cap in our asses at any moment. But the worst thing about the Subway was almost getting arrested. Yes, that’s right - almost getting arrested! On our final day – my birthday – we lugged our suitcase to Grand Central Station so we could check it into left luggage for the day, because our flight wasn’t until 9pm. Guess what? Left luggage has been closed since 9/11. Literary joke alert: I almost sat down and wept. Thinking we were going to have to lug it around town all day, we headed back down to the Subway. In London, it’s quite easy to get your luggage through the barriers – you just slide it through those black gaps beside the barriers. In New York, you have to queue up by a gate and ask one of the miserable attendants to buzz you through. The queue was massive so I caught the gate as someone came through from the other side and strolled on into the Subway. Big frigging mistake. A plain clothes cop immediately appeared and flashed his badge at us (yeah, just like in the movies) and started interrogating us. Cop: Where you from? Us: England. Cop: Is that how you do things in England? Us: Well, the system’s slightly different over there… Cop: So you just stroll through the barriers, huh? Us: Pardon? Cop (belligerently): Do you speak English? You got any ID? We then had to show the nice man our passports and he made us walk back through the barriers and swipe our tickets. Cop: You ain’t gonna do that again, are ya? Us: No. (Me, in my head: F*** you, you goddamn De Niro wannabe) Cop: Coz next time, you’re going to jail. That’s what we’re doin’ here today. ...Pause... Have a nice day. We had to sit down after that. We made it to Macy’s where, to our huge relief, you can leave your bags all day, for free. Hurrah for Macy’s! To celebrate, we did some shopping, before Butter’s feet swelled up again and it was time to go to the Airport and home to Blighty. Phew! That must be the longest blog entry ever. And I haven’t even mentioned the great diners we went to, the two excellent films we saw (Kill Bill and the brilliant Lost in Translation, the Met or the flights (Kuwait Airways – cheap as potato chips – you get what you pay for). In all, we did have a great time in NY, apart from the Subway incidents; ooh, if I ever see that cop in England I'm going to... well, I won't do anything. But I hope he gets his suitcase stuck in the barriers. That'll learn him! Saturday, November 01, 2003
There won't be any new posts here for a few days because we're going to New Yawk this afternoon. The bags are packed. Almost. The rats are at their boarding house. Kuwait Airways await, as does the Cockroach Hotel. Alright, it's not really called that, but I made the mistake of looking up some reviews of it on the net yesterday. It sounds a bit like the place he stays at the beginning of The Beach. But I'm not going to write about it until I've seen it with my own eyes. Wish us luck. Big Apple, here we come... Sunday, October 26, 2003
Walking to Sainsbury's this morning, Butter and I paused at a zebra crossing, expecting the oncoming cars to stop and allow us to cross. Did they? Hah! This prompted me to declare 'people who fail to stop at zebra crossings' as one of my pet hates. But what are my other bete noires? Here, for people who don't include top ten lists among their personal peeves, are my Top 10 Pet Hates: 1. The words 'Do you eat fish?' I know I've gone on about this one before (see my FAQs) but it really does make me go all wobbly with frustration and rage. I only tell people I'm a veggie if I have to because I can't bear the inevitable follow-up question. I've considered getting T-shirts printed with 'No I don't eat fish' written on them, but that would prompt even more discussion about my non-fish-eating. By the way, being asked 'Do you eat sugar?' and 'Can you drink tea?' don't irritate me as much because they're so patently bonkers. 2. Celebrity authors. This is a biggie, and I'm unashamed to say that it's caused mainly by jealousy and bitterness. It's also a fact that all novels by celebrities are rubbish. I know this because in the past, I read a few. Now I'm staging a one-man boycott of all novels by Ben Elton, Louise Weiner, Alexei Sayle and every other pop star/comedian/actor who's always had a book in them. I'm not even going to make an exception for Pammie Anderson's forthcoming meisterwerk. 3. The saxophone player who lives next door. We used to think it was a clarinet, before Butter spotted it through the window. Being the Devil's own instrument, saxophones are bad enough when played by professionals. When played at 8am on a Saturday morning by a tone-deaf moron who hasn't quite yet mastered his scales, it's torture. Actually, I heard the US military were thinking of recruiting him to assist him in their efforts against internatiional terrorism. 4. Nose-blowing in public. It always happens to me. I'm sitting on the train, minding my own business, when some flu-ridden Typhoid Mary comes and sits next to me then spends the entire journey coughing, sniffing and blowing their nose. Why didn't they stay at home? I don't want your germs! The Japanese have the right idea. Nose-blowing is practically illegal. It is, however, okay to hawk up huge gobs of phlegm and send them pavement-bound. Which is worse, I suppose. 5. The way people act around babies. I don't dislike babies per se. In fact, I'm completely indifferent to them. I just don't get the way people ooh and aah at them as if they're amazingly unique and attractive. The presence of a baby - which will probably grow up to commit most of the other crimes on this list - turns normally sensible people into idiots. (Having said all that, I once held my nephew while my sister went to the loo in Tesco and I was quite amazed by the way women suddenly looked at me. Babies can be amazing babe-magnets.) 6. Phil Collins I'm not sure if a person can be a pet hate, but Phil Collins makes me want to projectile vomit. The music, the way he looks, his politics, everything he says and does. I used to wonder if I could ever be friends with a Phil fan. Fortunately, there aren't many of them around these days, so I hope this will never be tested. 7. The phrase 'Is it beyond the wit of man?' This is a hangover from my Connex customer services days, a trauma from which I'm still recovering. Actually, I hate all hyperbolic phrases in complaint letters: 'I was appalled that the train was a minute late', 'The presence of a pigeon on the platform ruined my life', and so on. 'Let the train take the strain? You must be joking!' makes me turn purple too. 8. Everything the Daily Mail believes in If I'm ever confused about something or am struggling to form an opinion, I just have to check out the Mail's stance on the issue. I then know that I should adopt the opposite point of view. Works every time. 9. Ironic dancing. Trendy people - or people who think they're trendy - dancing ironically and 'hilariously' to pop songs that they despise. Is there a more pathetic site in the universe? No. 10. Automated telephone systems. I want to speak to someone about my mobile phone bill. First I have to negotiate a maze of random numbers. Take one wrong turn and I have to hang up and start again. Then I do exactly what the company wants me to do: I give up. And weep. So that's my top ten. Oh, and I also loathe all forms of racism, homophobia, sexism, animal cruelty, prejudice, ignorance, violence, war and abuse. I'm not completely shallow, you know. Thursday, October 23, 2003
Sunday, October 19, 2003
The greatest band in the world, Suede, release their Singles album tomorrow. On Tuesday, they're playing a free gig at HMV in Oxford Street, and to get tickets you have to be one of the first 150 people to buy the CD at that store tomorrow. So I'll be there, along with all the other, ahem, beautiful ones show, show, showing it off and shaking their meat to the beat, feeling somewhat like the litter on the breeze and sheltering from the nuclear sky. Actually, it'll probably be just me. Maybe Brett Anderson will be there to personally greet me and sign my copy. Or maybe there'll be massive queues, like in that U2 video when they played on that rooftop, the traffic snarled up and the cops mildly perturbed because of ROCK N ROLL! Phew! Syd keeps trying to bite my toes. How sweet. I almost wrote a Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells grumble to the BBC this week ('Come on BBC...') because they broadcast a programme that showed little boys beating rats to death with sticks and presenting this as if the kids were not future serial killers but, in fact, lovable little blighters. They then presented rat fanciers as looney nutters who should be locked up and spat on for being slightly different. Ooh, it made me angry. Talking of the Beeb, still no news about Killing Cupid. And still talking of the BBC, they announced the Big Read top 21 yesterday. No Secret History. I've read 8 of the books - I guess that's not bad going. I've voted for Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials. But everyone knows Lord of the Rings will win, with Harry Potter in second place. Or there could be a huge shock, with Harry winning and Tolkien coming second. God, the tension is too much. I just had an apocalyptic experience while walking to Blockbuster. Which isn't the kind of sentence you get to write every day. There were hundreds of small birds - starlings or sparrows, maybe - swooping into a single tree in the town centre. I walked beneath the branches and looked up: there was a swarm of them, their combined voices drowning out the passing cars. Well spooky. It was like being in that Hitchcock movie. Then they flew down and, taking hold of my clothes, lifted me into the air, carrying me high above the houses and away, through the clouds, to a faraway land where humans, birds and small hooded rats lived together in harmony, listening to Suede records. Alright, I made that last bit up. Monday, October 13, 2003
 Happy Thanksgiving! Last night Butter and I went to a Canadian Thanksgiving dinner. No, I didn't know such things existed either. American and Canadian readers discuss: did the Canadians steal this idea from their southern neighbours? Hmmm. Anyway, the food was good - Butter made a fab veggie mushroom thingie - but afterwards the hostess announced that it was traditional for everyone to say what they were thankful for. Butter and I recoiled in horror. What, we had to say something sincere? Something about how thankful we are for good friends and family and for not having George Bush as President and all that horrible treacly stuff? We couldn't do it. Butter said afterwards she was thankful for the gift of irony. Anyway, Happy Thanksgiving to my Canadian readers. Not that I'll have any left after this. We bought Syd and Nancy a digging box at the weekend - a tray full of dirt with seeds and other treats buried in it. They proceeded to carry each individual clump of mud under the sofa. Little sods. Sunday, October 05, 2003
Alex won Fame Academy. It's so nice to back a winner for a change. Without wishing to sound sorry for myself, I nearly always back losers: Jon Tickle, Nottingham Forest, Darius, my entire Fantasy Football team... My last experience of backing a victor was when Labour won the election, and look how that's turned out. Alex, however, is unlikely to wage war on Iraq or abolish student grants, and is more likely to release an album which will be part Coldplay and part unique. Talent won through. I just hope she doesn't become a puppet churning out cover versions. It's a big day for music tomorrow. New Belle & Sebastian album plus new singles from The Strokes and Suede. A big day for music and an expensive day for me. Tonight, somebody might shoot himself in the head live on TV. I was excited to read this, but then realised that it wasn't going to be Jim Davidson and lost interest. Sunday, September 28, 2003
This way to the Ally Pally, chaps! Woo-hoo! We're going to see The Strokes in December, at the Alexander Palace. Which is quite posh, apparently. I knew the shows were going to sell out in nanoseconds, so at 9am on Friday, when the tickets went up for grabs, we were primed and ready... Well, Butter was ready. I was making a cup of coffee and having a chat beside the kettle at work. Actually, the tickets went on sale a few minutes early, and Butter was in like Flynn, whoever he is, bagging a pair. 20 minutes later they were sold out. Like I said, woo hoo! It makes up for missing this week's Suede gigs. This being 2003, Strokes tickets were on sale on eBay within minutes of going on sale and are now reaching crazy prices. Can I take this opportunity to say that people who buy concert tickets and then put them straight on eBay are scumsuckers of the lowest order; the kind of people who used to rob their gran's purse; the kind of people who should also be thrown into that special, new corner of hell where the spammers suffer. It's wrong. It sucks. Suede are playing a free gig at the HMV store in Oxford Street on October 21st. I really, really want to go. Entry is by armband, and the armbands are free. No doubt half the people who get the armbands will put them on eBay. Is it possible in any way to have these people shot? Staying on the subject of music, I've just been listening to the Top 40, awaiting the glorious news about the world's best spandex-clad rockers, The Darkness, getting their first No.1. It didn't happen. They're No.2, behind the Black Eyed Peas. Sigh. Still, all the best records get to No.2: 'Vienna', 'Common People', 'I'm Too Sexy'. I'm sure The Darkness will have this year's Christmas No.1. Either them or that fat girl off Pop Idol. It's been a very musical week. I bought the Suede (yes, them again) biography, plus the Jet album. Also, tickets for Belle and Sebastian's tour went on sale. I really want to see them, but I don't know anyone else who likes them. Is it really sad to go to gigs on your own? Rat watch time: we no longer have a DVD player after Syd chewed through the cable. She's hiding behind the bookcase at the moment. The other day, rather worryingly, she tried to mount Nancy. Remember, they're both girls. Perhaps Syd is confused by her name. And Nancy didn't seem particularly distressed. Sunday, September 21, 2003
I went to see Sen to Chihiro no kamikakushi this week - that's Spirited Away to you and me. It's about a young girl who finds herself trapped in a weird world full of creepy spirits, disembodied heads, sentient pieces of soot and flying Maggie Thatcher lookalikes. Hmm, sounds a bit like the Connex office where I used to work. It's a wonderful film - beautiful to look at, eerie and funny and about a thousand times better than anything Disney have done recently. Just as the film was about to start, the old man sitting next to us leant over and growled, 'Don't move or make any noise.' I froze, then Maggie and I spent the half the film shushing each other. When the old bloke started shuffling about I was so tempted to ask him to stop moving... We've bought our tickets for California. Woo-hoo! It's so exciting. Cruising down the highway, the wind in our hair - well, the aircon in our hair, anyway. I need suggestions for the perfect cruisin' in Cali soundtrack. 'Go West', 'California Dreaming', 'The Boys of Summer', 'Summer of 69'... er, not sure if that's got anything to do with California but I'm sure it would sound great beneath the open sky in a pink Cadillac. Shame we'll be in a brown Ford Taurus. (That was a guess, made purely for the sake of a joke.) Sunday, September 14, 2003
Sigh... our week off is almost over, but it's been wonderful having some time to chill out for a little while. Got some writing done, got loads of sleeping done, spent a good deal of quality time with Butter and the rats. We've also booked a short trip to New York for my birthday in November. We're going with Kuwait Airways. No booze. Hopefully no crashing, either. The lowlight of this week was going to do the doctor with my bad back - I've got a dodgy coccyx. At least that's what I think it is, anyway. I can't sit on anything soft. The doctor, who was clearly newly-qualified, seemed quite baffled. She made me drop my trousers and had a poke around then made me have a blood test 'just in case'. So I'll probably be dead before my birthday, anyway. He joked. Last night, while I was at the v trendy Bed Bar near Smithfield Market, Syd chewed through the telephone wire, meaning that we had to buy a new phone today. It cost more than she did. She has also learned to scale the dragon tree. She is SO naughty. We had tears on Friday night because we thought she'd escaped through a hole in the bathroom wall. Luckily, she was just hiding under the bed. Nancy hasn't really done anything to report. She's the straight rat to Syd's clown. Monday, September 08, 2003
 The Full Bronte We've returned from our venture up north, about three stone heavier - each - due to the consumption of vast quantities of beer and black pudding. Alright, that's a lie about the black pudding. But my vegetarianism must have been commented on at least, ooh, a million times this weekend. At least nobody asked me if I eat fish. And I mustn't grumble as we were well looked after by the Butter-relatives. We stayed in Holmfirth, where Last of the Summer Wine was filmed, and saw Nora Batty's house and the Wrinkled Stocking tearoom. Nobody threatened to beat me up for being a southern paff, and we got to see our friend Helen who lives in Penistone. Tee hee. Penistone. Ho ho. Penistone. It never fails to amuse me.  Better than Connex Highlight of our stay, along with visiting Helen in, ha ha, Penistone, was taking a trip on a steam train, something I've wanted to do since I was about six. We chuffed along for 20 minutes then turned around and chuffed back again. It were great. The steam train departed from Haworth, where the Bronte sisters lived. The Buttermother went wandering across Wuthering Heights, but probably didn't re-enact the Kate Bush video. Anyway, we're back now in the land of quiche and expensive beer. My sister, Ali, rat-sitted for us and has done a grand job. Here's a picture of Syd clambering on the clothes horse.  Thursday, September 04, 2003
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUTTER! Today, Butter turned 30. The big three zero. Ah, I remember it well... We've just returned from Hatton Garden in London, where we went diamond shopping. No, not diamond rings - don't get excited, mum. A pair of platinum diamond earrings. They sparkle and shine like... er, like diamonds. My girlfriend is lying on the bed gazing at them as I type this. I think that stuff about diamonds being girls' best friends is scarily true. We went to Madame Tussauds because I wanted to try out the Simon Cowell Pop Idol exhibit - but it's £17.99 to get in! F*** that. Rat watch: Syd and Nancy are now free to scamper and scurry around our living room. Syd enjoys digging in the plant pot and spraying dirt everywhere. Nancy prefers to hide behind the bookcase. For hours. Even the rustle of the choc drops packed cannot tempt her out. After it got past our bedtime, there was only one course of action: I had to remove EVERY book from the bookcase, pull the bookcase out from the wall and retrieve the very naughty rat. Here is a shot of the devastation: 
We're heading oop north tomorrow to visit the Butterfamily, so this will be the last post for a few days. My sister is going to be ratsitting while we're away. It's a very important job. Sunday, August 31, 2003
My current hometown, Tunbridge Wells, has been in the news again. Apparently, it used to be the most debauched town in England. Hey, it's still pretty wild now. The other day, I saw two of the spotty teens who hang around at the end of my road, looking like they've escaped from an Avril Lavigne video (have I said that before?), snogging! And the local Blockbuster has one or two soft porn films on the shelves, or so I've heard. Wild, huh? Walking through the Wells is like being in a scene from Caligula, or even Carry on Camping. I went to a wedding reception on Friday night and things actually did get a bit raunchy, in a very British way. A hairy old rock band played hoary old rock standards all night - 'Woolly Bully', 'Ridearound Sally', er, 'Teenage Dirtbag' - before launching into that one that goes 'You can leave your hat on' from The Full Monty. I think it's called 'You Can Leave your Hat On'. A group of the groom's friends proceeded to pull their shirts off and drove the ladies wild with their writhing bods. They were sickeningly well-toned. It almost made me want to go to the gym. Almost. One of Butter's colleagues was drooling and wondering aloud why her boyfriend didn't know any gorgeous men like that. However, it didn't get very debauched because there was no sign of an actual full, or even half, monty. Last night, the 'give peace a chaaaaaance' brigade had another of their parties. Which might have been quite debauched, although their proximity to the Tunbridge Wells Conservative Association and the HQ of the UK Independence Party probably made them feel the need to tone it down a bit. There was no out-of-tune singing this time, and the music, which sounded as if it was emanating from a huge speaker inside my pillow, only went on until 3am. Butter bought some LoveKylie undies yesterday. I asked if she'd let me take a picture to put on here. She said, 'Don't be a moron.' Monday, August 25, 2003
 The future is female Terminator 3, which I went to see last night, scared me even more than T2. Why? Because there's this virus, right, that, like, gets into all the computers across the world and, kind of, like, takes over and kickstarts nuclear armageddon. Just like the Sobig F virus! Um, without the nuclear bit. But it's pretty bloody terrifying, innit? And if there was a computer-launched nuclear attack we Mac fans wouldn't be able to sit back and say, 'Oh well, it doesn't affect us.' We'd be fried along with all the Windows users! Rat fanciers will be delighted to hear that even though our vet is so rubbish that he didn't even charge us because he knew he was rubbish (he looked at them, sprayed them with flea stuff and then said, quaveringly, 'Get back in the box, you little bugger' when Nancy went near him), the sneezes and splutters have almost completely stopped. The only rodent-related problem we have now is that our flat smells of wee. No, it's nothing to do with my girlfriend. Not this time, ha ha. (I'm going to get beaten up for that one.) Nancy and Syd have soiled their hammock and are lying in it. But in an adorable way. I was dancing in the window earlier after getting overexcited watching Blue Crush (it's Point Break in bikinis, dude), when I sensed an outbreak of mirth down below. There were six people in the street looking up at me and laughing. Hey, I'm sure they were laughing with me. Congratulations to cousin Martin for getting engaged to Andrea. Nice to see someone other than Bush and Blair doing something for Anglo-American relations. Friday, August 22, 2003
Is it me or has the whole world gone spam crazy? Before yesterday I got one or two junk emails a day. Today I've been getting one or two every five minutes! The people responsible will hopefully burn in their own little corner of hell, where they will be forced to delete unwanted emails for eternity (whilst having red hot pokers shoved up their jacksies, of course). I've been working at home today because the workmen outside our office cleverly drilled through our ADSL line. But it meant I got to spend two extra hours in bed... bliss. A day without enduring the living nightmare that is the daily commute. I bought my annual season ticket this week. £2852! I could have bought a new iMac, the services of a couple of wenches and 3 or 4 Wolves players for that. Sheesh. Right, back to shovelling my way through the spam mountain. Sunday, August 17, 2003
 We want goals The football season is back back back, and I'll quickly pass over Forest's 3-0 defeat to Reading and move on to the real topic of interest: Fantasy Football. Yes, MarkCity FC are competing in my office league. We had an auction the other night - 50 million quid each, a wishlist of players, mucho tension and sneaky tactics. I managed to end up with precisely one of the players I wanted, and that was Veron. My strikers are well-known friends-of-glamour-models Andy Cole and Dwight 'not quite as ugly as Ronaldhino' Yorke. Now, there are some who might say that Cole and Yorke are past it, but Andy Cole knocked in two past the hapless Wolves keeper yesterday, and with a goal from one of my midfielders, Paul Scholes, I was laughing. Until I realised that because I have a Wolves defender, Dennis Irwin, I'd lost loads of points because the Premiership newcomers let in five goals. So after one day I'm languishing in mid-table obscurity. Go MarkCity!  A sweet but sickly rat Syd and Nancy took their first trip to the vet's on Tuesday. He gave them antibiotics to tackle what looks like mycoplasmosis, a horrible respiratory disease that can be triggered by exposure to wood shavings. Guess what bedding the crappy pet shop were using? Syd is still fine, but Nancy's wheezing like a creaky door. Poor little thing. Despite the sickness, both of them are much less shy now - they both love coming out of the cage and exploring the bed and sofa, sitting in our laps or on our shoulders. Syd is a true star, leaping out of the cage the moment you open the door, running up and down your arm. Although she went a bit far and ran up my trouserleg... no, we didn't have to give her the kiss of life. Nancy particularly enjoys pooing on the quilt and then settling down on Butter's lap. Aah, it's like a proper family. I just hope poor Nancy gets better soon. Sunday, August 10, 2003
So, today history was made: the hottest day in England since records began. 98.1C. This event has lead to much use of the word 'torpid' in the MarkCity crib. As in, 'Uuuurgh, I feel really torpid' and 'Syd and Nancy look everso torpid'. Speaking of the little critters, Nancy is still sneezing and will be going to the vet very soon, but she's perked up a lot and she and Syd are wrestling as we speak. Now, I hope it's play fighting and not heatstroke that has made them go mad. The heat hasn't made me want to do much wrestling, although last night I did feel the urge to mow down my neighbours wiv an uzi. Butter and I had returned from a barbecue, the highlight of which was when a stray greyhound wandered into the house. Surreally, we were talking about dogs at the time (cue Twilight Zone music) and if we'd been imbibing substances other than Pimms we might have thought we'd, like, conjured the dog with our thoughts, man. But we hadn't. No, it had sensed the imminent cooking of sausages. We christened the pooch Willie then called the dog warden who came round with a big net and some dog food flavour lollipops... sorry, the heat's getting to me too. He was actually a very nice man. Let's hope Willie is claimed by an equally nice family and not her original neglectful owners. We got home, went to bed, tried to sleep, feeling as if we'd slipped into one of the circles of hell. And then, at 1 am, just after I'd fallen asleep, our neighbours started to have a garden party. For the next two hours we were treated to the following one-liner, sung over and over again in the style of a tone-deaf football hooligan: All we are saaaaying, is give peace a chaaaaance There's an irony in there somewhere. After that, they started murdering 'Imagine' before turning to what I heard one of them proclaim the "greatest song ever written - better even than David Bowie" - 'Three Lions'. Aaah, there's nothing better than hearing a dozen pissheads bellowing 'Football's coming home' at two-thirty am on the hottest night in the history of the world. Butter said she could feel me glowering beside her. But I've calmed down now. Deep breaths, Mark. On a more positive note, the 2nd best programme in the history of television, after Big Brother, has returned to if not rock, then pop my world. Pop Idol. It's brilliant. And I praise God that I'm too old to audition because otherwise I might be tempted to shame myself on national television. Butter says they'd say I was 'pure cabaret'. Cheek! Thursday, August 07, 2003
Here's the first picture of Syd. It's a bit blurry, but she won't sit still and also I don't want to dazzle her with the flash. No pics of Nancy yet. I'm worried about her - she keeps sneezing and her breathing's a bit funny. Could be stress, or an allergy. Hope it's nothing worse. Maybe it's just the heat... it's disgustingly sticky tonight. Anyway, there may be a trip to the vet's in the offing. Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Today was the hottest day ever recorded in London. Ever! It was 35.3° C in the capital today, although it felt more like 53° in my office. However, my boss, being a very kind, wonderful and warm human being, let us go at 3 o'clock. Hurrah, I thought. I can put the afternoon to good use and go to the pub. Butter had other ideas. She instructed me to collect and carry a huge flat-packed chest up the hill. Miraculously, I'm still alive. I had to rest about 100 times on my way up the hill. This was after travelling on the hottest train this side of... well, I was going to say India but Hell would be a better example. All I and my fellow commuters could do was sit and ferment in our own sweat juices, enjoying the odd breeze that floated in through the windows. The trolly man was selling warm cans of beer and looked as if he wanted to kill himself. International readers might be mind-boggled to learn that this week trains in England have been running at a maximum of 60mph in case the rails buckle. I'm so glad I don't work for Connex any more. Sigh... his whole heat thing is probably a sign that global warming is flaming out of control and that soon we'll all be floating around in a post-polar-meltdown ocean, or dodging endless forest fires. Time to move swiftly on. 
Left-right: Butter, Mark, Ron, Scabbers Have you seen the pics from the forthcoming Harry Potter film? Terrifyingly, Harry now looks more like me than ever. He's even got a track top like mine, with stripes down the sleeves, and although Hermione doesn't look much like Butter, apart from the blonde locks, they share a number of characteristics. Number one: they're both bossy. Two: they're both swots. And three: they both hang out with boys with hair that won't lie flat. BTW, I read The Order of the Phoenix and loved it, despite being cynical about it when it first came out. Sorry, JK, I take it all back. And now, the big news. We've got rats. I wasn't going to announce it until I'd managed to get them to pose calmly for photos, but that might never happen. Also, Butter has leant our camera to one of her friends. Anyway, the little beasties are called Syd and Nancy, a pair of does, and they are sweet as. Syd is lively and has already performed one daring escape, hiding behind the bookcase for half an hour. Nancy is shy and quiet and spends most of the time hiding in her tube. There'll be lots more about them in the weeks to come. Saturday, August 02, 2003
 
Thursday night I went to launch party for the BBC Book of the Future. Yes, that's right - it's out. Only £4.99! From all good bookshops, if you can find it. It's not exactly Order of the Phoenix, is it? Anyway, you can buy it here. The party itself was cool, as you can see... no actually, you can't see hardly anything in the pictures above. Except that my friend Maggie and I did a great impression of conjoined twins and if you have a powerful enough microscope you can see us in the middle of the group photo, beneath the chandelier. Butter couldn't make it, due to an attack of lazyitis, so I went with Maggie instead, which was interesting because she attracts sleazy blokes like Coke attracts wasps. One such sleazy bloke was a BBc employee. He was chatting to her, everything seemed wonderful, and then she mentioned her husband. I've never seen a conversation end so abruptly. Not since I was an English conversation teacher, anyway. He should be ashamed of himself. The only real problem with the party was that they were giving away free booze. Yes, I know that's a quality problem, but when you have an hour-long train ride home and have to go to work the next day, it's not funny. The train journey home seemed to last about a thousand nauseous years, with the woman beside me squawking about 'being sent to Baghdad' into her mobile the whole way. Got home at 12.30, still pissed. Had to get up at 6.30, feeling like I wanted to die. Or at least not go to work. Somehow, I made it. Anyway, the book's great, and I'm on page 76. And I'm going to stop going on about it now. It's also time to wave sayonara to the Bad Lyrics competition. There's been lots of discussion about this on this site, by email and in my office. As grand judge, jury and executioner (oh, I wish... someone put Bryan Adams's neck on a block for me...) the final decision is mine and mine alone. Here, in reverse order are The Worst Lyrics in the World... Ever! In fifth place, the so-called Queen of Pop proves she's as good a lyricist as the Queen of England: I drive my mini cooper And I'm feeling super-dooper Yo they tell I'm a trooper And you know I'm satisfied -Madonna, 'American Life' In fourth place, it's those New Romantic goons, Spandau Ballet: She used to be a diplomat But now she's down the laundromat -Spandau Ballet, 'Highly Strung' In third place, the most reliable of all atrocious lyricists, Stiiiing: It's no use, he sees her He starts to shake and cough Just like the old man in That book by Nabakov -The Police, 'Don't stand so close to me' The runner-up would have taken the crown, but for the brilliant rhyme of 'triangle' and 'my angle': Bermuda Triangle Makes my woman disappear Bermuda Triangle Don't go too near Looking At it from my angle Do you see why I'm so sad Bermuda Triangle Very bad! -Barry Manilow, 'Bermuda Triangle' And here it is, the winner of the Worst Lyric of All Time. It's unspeakably bad. so bad that it's not even funny. Just totally totally tragic: I'm afraid of the dark Especially when I'm in a park When there's no one else around Oh I get the shivers I don't wanna see a ghost It's the sight that I fear most I'd rather have a piece of toast Watch the evening news -Des'ree, 'Life' Sunday, July 27, 2003
I've added another new page to this site - my Top 10 Albums. A late entry in the Bad Lyric challenge, from David. This is a classic piece of goth pretension from Bauhaus (pronounced Bowwwwww-haus): In the Marbled reception Halls I received a three band Gold ring from Mark. A token of esteem. Running through Ghost Hall locker rooms to hide from Clancy who has fallen to the floor emitting a seemingly endless stream of ectoplasmic white goo from ears and mouth.. Beautiful. I have a feeling this bad lyric thing could run and run. Saturday, July 26, 2003
The world is a sadder place today. Big Brother is over. To mark this occasion I've got The Cure's best and most miserable album, 'Disintegration', playing on the stereo and I've arranged for it to piss down. I feel slightly depressed because BB was won by a fish trading virgin who refuses to drink and have fun, and who thinks that gay couples shouldn't have the same rights as straight ones and that it's okay to belt children. Still, at least Steph - who has never masturbated because she thinks it's 'violating yourself' - didn't win. I'm not going to dwell on it. It's over. And Pop Idol 2 starts soon. I've been a bit rubbish at blogging lately because I've been trying to concentrate all my writing efforts into 'Sayonara Baby'. I'm resisting pressure to change it to 'Love in the Time of Karaoke'. Speaking of writing efforts, the BBC Book of the Future comes out on Thursday, and I'm going to the launch party that same day. I will of course report back on it for you. I'm not sure where it's going to be yet but I've been assured it won't be in the infamous BBC canteen. Shame. My bad lyric challenge went quite well. I think Darren came up with the worst - the entire lyric to Bryan Adams' I Wanna be Your Underwear: I wanna be - your lipstick when ya lick it I wanna be - your high heels when ya kick it I wanna be - your sweet love babe - ya when you make it From your feet up to your hair - more than anything I swear I wanna be - your underwear Well done, Darren. You win an old pair of brown Y-fronts from the Tunbridge Wells Oxfam. This week's challenge is to find the best lyrics of all time. Here are my nominations: I dreamt about you last night And I fell out of bed twice -The Smiths, 'Reel Around the Fountain' Wait! What if there's an explanation for this shit? What? She tripped? Fell? Landed on his dick? -Eminem, 'Guilty Conscience' Well, I think they're good, anyway. Your mission, if you accept it, is to beat them. Saturday, July 19, 2003
 Antmusic for sexpeople, sexmusic for antpeople After watching Channel 4's brilliant Adam Ant documentary on Thursday night, I would like to publicly take back the unkind things I said about Adam Ant after seeing him at the Groucho Club. I feel like some scummy tabloid sneerer and have been punishing myself by lying on nails and listening to Phil Collins records. Only joking - I'd never go that far. No crime could ever deserve the punishment of listening to Phil. Actually, no one listens to him any more, do they, for any reason. And the world is a better place for it. Returning to the subject of the original White Stripe, like many other 30somethings I went out and bought an Adam and the Ants CD yesterday so I could wallow in nostalgia. Ah, 'Stand and Deliver', 'Prince Charming', 'Antmusic'... such great records. It's a shame the CD doesn't include that old classic 'Lady', which featured the immortal lines: I saw a lady and she was naked I saw a lady she had no clothes on I had a good look through the crack Footmarks up her back How did they get there? She was naked They don't write 'em like that anymore. Actually, I think that listening to pervy Adam ant records when I was 11 probably turned me into the well-adjusted pervert that I am today. And sticking with pop lyrics, Butter was amazed that I could remember the lyrics to all of these songs that I hadn't heard for nearly 20 years. But we can all do that, can't we? Our brains are full of junk from our teenage years: adverts, pop lyrics, the plots of Doctor Who stories. Leaving very little room to remember important stuff like the date of the Battle of Waterloo, or your own telephone number. This is true. I know the lyrics to 'Ant Rap' but not my own phone number. Scary stuff. Anyway, here are my nominations for the worst pop lyrics of all time. Please feel free to suggest your own terrible lyrics. Go on, leave a comment! Promises me I'm as safe as houses As long as I remember who's wearing the trousers -Depeche Mode, 'Never Let Me Down Again' She used to be a diplomat But now she's down the laundromat -Spandau Ballet, 'Highly Strung' I'm hot like an oven I need some lovin' -Marvin Gaye, 'Sexual Healing' Before he leaves the camp he stops He scans the world outside And where there used to be some shops Is where the snipers sometimes hide -The Human League, 'The Lebanon' And the winner of the worst lyric of all time: A Pizza Hut, a Pizza Hut, Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut -Fast Food Rockers, 'A Big Steaming Pile of Poo' Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Fame at last. Well, a miniscule dose of nano-fame. The Beeb sent out their Book of the Future announcement email today, and guess who the lead item's about... Here's the first 2 paragraphs: Dear Contributors, Welcome to the newsletter for the Book of the Future. You may have already heard that there are 76 articles to be published in the book, but there are some added extras, too. In this newsletter you'll get the low-down on some of the contributors and an insight into the world of those people who are changing the world for the better. This is also where the BotF Team do the Full Monty and bare all for a sneaky peek behind the scenes in the countdown to launch. *** Researcher of the Week *** Mark R Edwards (http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/onthefuture/U217481) wrote his article for the Book of the Future while living in Tokyo, where he worked for a year as an English teacher. In his contribution to the Book of the Future - Harry Potter and the Mortgage Repayments of Doom (http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/onthefuture/A959989) - he looks at how the Potter phenomenon spiralled out of control for both the central character and his creator. Sunday, July 13, 2003
A quick catch-up as I've been inexcusably slack this week. Although it's not really inexcusable - I have been busy, and not just watching Big Brother. However, while we're on the subject of the greatest show on earth, I just want to say two things: Jon Tickle's back! Woo-hoo!; and Despite a start that tested even the most devoted BB nut, this series has turned into a classic. The Scott-Nush thing is almost as exciting as the Paul-Helen romance. But we've only for 2 weeks to go. What am I going to do after that!? I went to the Groucho again the other night. Celeb spot: Stephen Fry, again; one of those psychologist women from BB (exciting for me); and Ricky Gervais from The Office, smoking a fat cigar in Dean Street. I also bumped into an old friend, Salena, who I've mentioned on here before. It was weird, knowing two people at the Groucho. Made me feel dead popular! Butter and I have spent the weekend planning. No, don't get excited. Not marriage and definitely not a baby. But we might be hearing the patter of tiny feet soon as we want to get some rats. (I hope my landlord never stumbles across this site.) I will, of course, update you. We're also planning our holiday for next year: we want to do a road trip around California. It will, of course, be hugely expensive, so there's going to be a lot of penny pinching over the next few months. I've come up with a title for my novel: SAYONARA BABY. This was after everyone told me that Love in the Time of Karaoke, my original title, was crap. I've spent the last few weekends knocking the first 35,000 words into shape, because it was a total mess - loads of scenes in the wrong order, characters not connecting properly. It's almost sorted out now, but I've still got masses to write. Tuesday, July 08, 2003
 To blog or not to blog I've been left to fend for myself tonight because Butter has gone to an al fresco performance of Twelfth Night. I probably could have gone (note to self: remember to ask girlfriend why I wasn't actually invited!) but Shakespeare is one of those things, like running and watersports, that I don't do. When Butter started going out with me, she misguidedly believed that I was cultured, because I read a lot. Since then, she's realised her mistake and there's been a culture war going on between us. Long time readers of MarkCity might recall that she forced me to go to the ballet earlier this year. In return, I dragged her to the Big Brother eviction. She enjoys Radio 4, I dig Radio 1. She wants to go to the theatre, I'd rather play on the GameCube. She says tomato, I say toma'o. But I'm not a complete philistine. I read highbrow literature (but not classics because they're boring). I know my art from my elbow. And I watch films with subtitles. So I could be much worse, as I realised last time I was on the South Bank. I'd popped into the National Film Theatre to use the loo, and while in there I heard the following exchange between a bloke and his 10-year-old son: Son: What is this place? Dad: It's the National Film Theatre, innit? Son: What's that? Dad: It's like a cinema. Where they show foreign films. Son (astonished): Foreign films? But... how can people understand them? Dad: They have subtitles, don't they? Son (incredulous): Foreign films? Why? I would guess he's not a big Shakespeare fanatic either. But here's a thought: if Shakespeare were alive today, I bet he'd have a blog. Thursday, July 03, 2003
I'm reading The London Pigeon Wars at the moment, which has given me a new word to use: twirtysomething. That's someone between 27 and 34. My friend Maggie (who's 22) said this is just a way for some 30somethings to cling to their youth for a little longer. To which I say, 'Yeah. So what?' I'll be clinging until my fingers bleed. However, we are doing something grown up this week: we're having a dinner party. Unfortunately, we don't have any furniture, so it could be the world's first 'bring a bottle and chair' party. So Henman's out. What a surprise. I'm always torn between cheering for him because he might be the only British player within my lifetime with a chance of winning, and jeering him because he's a posh twit. It's his dad that really gets me. He looks as if he's just had a bad strawberry. Which leads me to bad apples. Lisa is stirring things up in the Big Brother house. God knows it needs it. Here's a public plea: please please please vote for Gozzzzzzzzzzz. He has to be the most boring man in the history of the world. Apart, perhaps, from a former colleague of mine called Reg, who proclaimed himself to be 'an accountant with a sense of humour'. This is just stream of consciousness drivel, isn't it? Look, if you want biting political satire, read something else. It's my blog and I'll witter if I want to. Sunday, June 29, 2003
 We've just spent a very pleasant hour on the Common, sitting in the shade of a horsechestnut tree which made Butter's eyes itch, watching the local ragamuffins and simple folk playing with their balls. England bathes in sunshine this afternoon, Tim Henman is still in with a chance at Wimbledon, and across the country the clink of ice cubes in jugs of Pimms competes with the twitter of birds. And car stereos pumping out the Fast Food Song, possibly the greatest cultural crime of the 21st Century so far, the perpetrators of which deserve to be taken onto the common, put in the stocks and pelted with tomatoes and sharp-edged rocks. But I digress. We're spending the kind of lazy day that sunshine and a killer hangover demands. I should be working on my book but feel as hazy as the sky. Maybe in a minute... Last night we went out with some of Butter's colleagues. I haven't been so drunk in a long time. Ooh... at least two weeks. I was practically convulsing with alcohol poisoning. Great fun. Woke up this morning feeling as if I'd been left out in the desert for a month, my head pulsating, my body crying out for liquid. Then my girlfriend made me get up and make her a cup of tea, which took about an hour (well, it felt like it). Commuters across south-east England are rejoicing at the news that my former employers, Connex, have had their franchise taken away and will cease to exist before the end of the year. I have friends who still work for them (albeit indirectly) and although I'm worried about them and their jobs, I must confess that I shed no tears when I heard the news. Working for Connex was the unhappiest two years of my life. Travelling with them isn't much better. On Tuesday it took me three hours to get to work because of a bull on the line. It was attracted to the red signal. Eventually, the Connex matador was called in to remove it. Then on Wednesday I was an hour late because the on-train computer crashed. Better than the train itself crashing, I admit. The staff were unable to fix it. How stupid. Everyone knows how to fix a knackered computer: you just turn it off and on again. British holidaymakers have voted Tokyo the third best overseas city in the world, behind Sydney and Melbourne. There's a report on how to visit Tokyo without taking out a mortgage here. Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Good News! Regular readers of MarkCity should remember that, earlier this year, I wrote an article for the BBC's Book of the Future site. The 100 most highly-rated articles on the site are going to published in a book on 31st July. Guess what? I'm in! Had an email today to congratulate me. If you haven't read it yet, here it is. Or, of course, you could wait until the book comes out and buy a copy. Harry Potter and the Mortgage Repayments of Doom Saturday, June 21, 2003
 Give us a Tickle It's been a sad week, a week of departures and fond farewells. First, Beckham left ManYoo for Real Madrid, which was bad enough. But now a real tragedy has occurred, the British public making a huge mistake. They've voted Jon Tickle out of Big Brother 4. And yes, I know I've criticised him a couple of times recently, but when his name was announced on Friday night it was like hearing the death knell for the series. Jon Tickle - MarkCity salutes you. There's loads of speculation over what's going to happen next. Will there be a swap with a contestant from South Africa or Australia? Will Anouska be put back into the house? Or somebody completely new? I have a feeling it could be Anouska, especially since she was missing on Friday night. But getting someone in from a foreign BB house would make sense, as they must be the only people with no knowledge of what's going on in the British BB. The other big media event this week is the launch of Harry Potter 5. I was kind of half-tempted to go out and get it at midnight last night. In the end, I couldn't be bothered. I want to read it, but I hate to be part of all the hype. The HP books aren't that good, for God's sake! If you want to read kids' books, the Philip Pullman ones kick Harry's arse. Thursday, June 19, 2003
So Beckham's gone... to Japan. Here's a report of his mega-bucks trip East. Went to one ye oldest pubs in England last night - the Old Mitre in Holborn. Apparently, there's a cherry tree under which Elizabeth I lost her, ahem, cherry. I didn't know such an event ever took place! Fans of Jon Tickle should check out this site - Jon's Geek Army. But his attacks on veggies and arguments with Nush are starting to really annoy me. Fed's gone psycho and Cameron's gone randy. Maybe Cameron should stay. Though his chances of getting any action with Nush are slim. And there are no cherry trees in the Big Brother garden. Sunday, June 15, 2003
Had a great time in London. I've written a separate page about the Big Brother eviction. Click here to read it. We also went for a ride on the London Eye, walked along the South Bank, crossed Millennium Bridge, saw the giant inflatable Blockhead statue outside the Tate Modern, had dinner at a Thai restaurant, went shopping in Covent Garden and generally behaved like excited tourists.  Be afraid. Be very afraid. We also saw a totemo scary Japanese horror film called Dark Water (Honogurai mizu no soko kara ) directed by Hideo Nakata, the guy who also directed super-spooky Ring. That's the Japanese original, not the rubbish American version. In Dark Water, a single mother and her daughter move into a creepy apartment block. The ceiling drips. A red child's bag keeps appearing. And they soon hear about a young girl who went missing a couple of years before. Guess where she lived? It has no gore nor blood, but leaves you feeling strung out and shaken. Brilliant stuff. Nowhere near as horrific as Audition, but scarier than Ring. Thursday, June 12, 2003
Had a bit of a funny turn on the train this week. (Note to self: must reduce references to trains on this site. It's starting to look a bit sad.) I was standing up near the doors as the train was coming into London Bridge, when I had the sudden urge to vomit all over my fellow passengers. Not an uncommon urge, but it wouldn't have done much for my popularity among the Tunbridge Wells commuter set. My vision went white and I was drenched with sweat. I managed to stagger off - the train had stopped by this point, so I didn't plummet to my death on the tracks - and sit on the platform. Since then, I've heard about lots of people having dizzy fits in London. Is it Sars-related, I wonder? Of course it bloody isn't. Off to the Big Brother eviction tomorrow. My cultish love of Jon Tickle was dented when he dissed the house vegetarians. However, I'm still hoping Fed goes, due to the fact that he's a tosser. For evidence of this read his Friends Reunited entry. Speaking of FU, I had an email this week from an old friend from school - hi David! - reminding me of my goth past. So before he publicly outs me, I'm going to do it myself. I used to be a goth. Dyed black hair, skintight jeans, winklepickers, talcum-powdered face, Cure obsession, habit of saying things like 'I wear black on the outside coz black is how I feel on the inside.' (Morrissey, 'Unloveable') But at least I never went out with eyeshadow on only one eye, David. Sunday, June 08, 2003
 The MarkCity crib. Two weeks ago I posted a picture of our flat looking, as my mum used to say, 'like a bomb had hit it'. (This is one of the phrases that all new mothers learn while in the maternity ward, along with 'if X jumped off a cliff would you want to jump off too?', 'life's not fair', 'were you born in a barn?' and 'ask your father'.) As the picture above shows, our flat now looks far more respectable, and Butter would like me to draw attention to the fruit bowl, pictured, which she just mortgaged her soul for at Habitat.  Our tickets to the Big Brother have arrived! And Mr Tickle is still in the house, which means that, if I can be bothered, we'll be able to make a Give Us a Tickle banner, or similar. Sharp-eyed readers will notice the 'Entry Not Guaranteed' stamp on the ticket, which is rather worrying. They dish out more tickets than they have space for, to allow for no-shows, so we have to get there in plenty of time. If we don't get in after all this hype, I'll scream and scream and scream until I'm sick. Or until they let me in - whichever happens first. The Tunbridge Wells superhero has been exposed as a fraud. It's a great story. Friday, June 06, 2003
As so many mobile phone users like to annoyingly trumpet, I'm on the train. Of course, I won't be able to post this till later, but one day, all trains will be travelling wi-fi hot spots. Also, they will never be late and will be towed by flying pigs. I'm on my way home from my first ever visit to Cornwall, county of clotted cream (as my cousin Martin pointed out) and surfers, although the only surfing I did was on the net. I am now able to use Dreamweaver, which is very exciting. Well, it's exciting to me, anyway. Cornwall is indisputably beautiful, and the train journey - on the Penzance-Paddington line - is astonishingly picturesque. The track runs along the rocky coastline; you almost feel as if you could hang your arm out of the window and trail your fingers through the choppy water. Plump grey clouds hang low overhead and the only word I can think of to describe the countryside is verdant. Which is a good word. On the way down, I went for dinner in the Pullman carriage (on expenses, of course) and found myself sitting opposite a pair of Lords, fresh from the house. Actually, fresh is not a good word. Mouldy would be more apt. They seemed to be having a 2-man Most Ludicrous Combover competition (did you know: in Japan, combovers are called barcodes; how cool is that?) and one of them proceeded to eat a rare steak with his three remaining top teeth. They droned on and on about 'the House' and 'ghastly foxes'. Put me off my falafel. I've just had a call offering me tickets to go and watch the Big Brother eviction next Friday (13th). I registered on their website but never thought I'd get any. I'm really hoping Justine goes this Friday, then it will be exciting if Jon Tickle, comedy genius, goes the night we're there. Sunday, June 01, 2003
After last month's stuck-in-a-train-tunnel nightmare, I finally made it to the Groucho Club to see my friend (and co-author of Killing Cupid), Louise. The Groucho is a members-only club in the heart of Soho, all cracked leather sofas and minor celebrities discussing cerebral topics like the latest developments in literature and Big Brother. Louise is a member and I'm not, so when I arrived early the doorman recognised me as an interloper and member of the hoi polloi and wouldn't let me in. Perhaps they thought I'd cause a scene and start following Kate Moss to the toilets, or something. Anyway, Louise eventually arrived, I cocked a snook at the barman and in we went.  Adam Ant then... I guess you want to know which major A-list celebs I spotted, don't you? Hmm, well Madonna and George Clooney were chatting with Beckham and Elvis... no that's a lie. But I did see Stephen Fry (note to non-English readers: he's a comedian/writer who starred in Wilde), the author Margaret Atwood and my childhood hero, Adam Ant. 20 years ago, if I'd seen Adam Ant in the flesh I would have fainted with excitement. This time, I went, 'Oh.' Maybe it's because he's fat and bald now, and completely nuts. I couldn't see if he was carrying a gun though.  ...and Adam Ant now. Our flat is now fully sorted out, and I will provide pictorial evidence soon. I'm going to Cornwall this week, training. Hah! Who needs Toronto or Houston. Bodmin is where it's at, dude. Readers outside England might be interested to learn that we've had a mini heatwave this week. Now it's raining again. Wednesday, May 28, 2003
 Japan might have better trains, funkier phones and bigger mountains than England, but there's one area where the UK beats Japan hands down - unless you happen to be a particularly crazed danger junkie. I'm talking earthquakes. Crazed danger junkies might scoff and ask where the fun is in living in a country that never wobbles or shakes, has no dangerous animals (except for football hooligans) and is in little danger of being destroyed by volcanoes or tidal waves. But in Japan people live with the niggling fear that one day the neon forests they live in could topple around their ears. So, two nights ago there was a big quake in Japan. Not Big with a capital B, thank God(zilla) but from the way the newscaster was vibrating on the news report I saw, it was bigger than anything I experienced out there. (I think there were two, maybe three, small quakes during that year - enough to make a glass or water ripple and for Larae, a teacher at my school, to freak out. Which ain't saying much.) Anyway, here are the reactions from some of my friends in Tokyo: Paul: The epicentre was up the coast near Sendai, so in tokyo just the usual wobbling and shaking. gave us a taster for the real thing though! My Dad and my Gran called me right away to check I was OK, I'm fine but I'm definitely getting an earthquake kit together now! Tetsuya:I and my family are OK! I felt the earthquake in my office. It wasn`t so big because tokyo is far from the focus. Keiji:There were a magnitude 7 quake in Tohoku region yesterday evening. It was a tremor with an intensity of 6 on the Japanese seven-stage seismic scale at Iwate Pref. It was an intensity of 3 at Tokyo. I felt an unpleasant rolling for about one minutes. I guess the Nova's teachers who don't become familiar with quake might be surprised. Sunday, May 25, 2003
The tyranny of the blog: I have roughly a squillion things to do (our flat still looks as it does in the picture below) but still feel I need to keep this site up-to-date. Before I start, if anyone has found this blog to be slower or more difficult to access recently, let me know. Friday night I got to do one of my favourite things: karaoke. But karaoke in England is rubbish compared to Japan - fewer songs to choose from, having to stand on a stage, being at the hands of a DJ scrabbling to find the relevant CDs - and it made me feel terribly nostalgic. Sigh. The worst thing was that the choice of songs was so poor. I did 'Gold' by Spandau Ballet and 'Reach' by S Club (quality songs, no?) but I didn't know how the verses went. So I had to kind of make up the tunes, squirming until the chorus arrived. Luckily, the choruses kicked arse. I'm sure I could have done better than last night's British Eurovision entrant. Nil points? And Tatu only came third, which is a travesty. Actually, I didn't watch it because I was in the pub. And my karaoke evening meant I missed the Big Brother launch show. I'm very much looking forward to becoming addicted to it again though. Must go - like, I said, I'm very busy. I need to watch Butter put the bookcases together. Wednesday, May 21, 2003
 Who would live in a house like this? Butter and I are currently trying to win the prize for World's Messiest Flat. This is what happens when you have about a million books and no bookcases. We also have no TV unit, wardrobe, chest of drawers or pot to piss in. Luckily we have a toilet so the pot is unnecessary. The nice people at Argos (hey, we spare no expense) will be delivering lots of furniture this weekend so I will spend the entire weekend with a screwdriver and an indecipherable diagram. Excellent. I am now a commuter and am delighted to report that Connex's service this week has been marvellous. Unfortunately, the London Underground's service has made me want to jump on the track with the mutant mice that live there. We're watching the Uefa Cup final at the moment. A little while ago a streaker ran on the pitch, treating the continent to a full view of his meat and two veg. John Motson said, 'If this had been in Britain we wouldn't have covered that incident, but we're in the hands of our Spanish producer.' 'Three cheers for the Spanish producer' said my girlfriend. Friday, May 16, 2003
 The mean streets of Tunbridge Wells. We've found a flat, smack in the centre of the Wells. The flat is very... cosy (ie small) but very light and welcoming, with new fittings, carpets, etc. The landlord, who is everso slightly obsessive, has left a screwdriver in the bathroom in case we ever get locked in. Don't ask. There's a branch of the Samaritans in the same street. I'm hoping that never comes in handy. Anyway, we won't be in danger in the Wells, because the town now has its very own superhero. This comes from the Daily Telegraph: Loud music in the pubs, the drunks stealing one's hanging baskets, the dreadful parking problems and, oh, the graffiti! Yes, on the mean streets of Royal Tunbridge Wells, the residents were crying out for a superhero. On Easter Monday, their prayers were answered. The superhero appeared, in full costume: cape, mask, boots, mysterious symbol on rippling chest, tight belt. They say that Ellen Neville was the first to spot him. There was trouble in the Pantiles area of town. The Pantiles? Think Batman, think the dark streets of Gotham City; then think, er, elegant 17th-century colonnades patronised by royalty, the healing waters of the famous Chalybeate Spring, and spa-town shops selling organic coffee and herbal teas. A Tunbridge Wells matron was "having bother" with a group of youths. Who could save her? Onto the well-lit shopping area, the rescuer "came from nowhere". "To my great surprise," recalls Miss Neville, "a masked man wearing a brown cape rushed to assist. He swept in, broke up the commotion and ran off leaving myself and the woman in a state of shock." The reports came in from all over town last week. "A very kind gentleman wearing a brown cape and mask tapped me on the shoulder and told me I had dropped my purse," wrote Ruth Barker. Gladis Webb had a similar experience. "Your masked man helped me up the stairs with some very heavy shopping bags late last Wednesday," she wrote. "What a gentleman he was, and I do like his cape." I think he should be called Captain Disgusted. And he needs an arch-enemy, like Lex Luther or The Green Goblin. Now, what terrifies the good citizens of Tunbridge Wells more than anything else? What fetid-breathed would-be horror would give them the biggest collywobbles? I've got it. Meet Captain Disgusted's arch-foe: The Labour MP. We're moving on Sunday and won't have a phone line/internet till the middle of the week, so this will probably be my last entry until then. Bye for now. |