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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. |