Getting it wrong in Japan.

Rub you wrong time.

2007-07-27T21:05:00.000Z

No I haven't been accused of molestation, but I was required to intervene when some inappropriate and unwanted groping was taking place on the tube last week. It was all very distasteful.

Time seems to be in as short supply as ever as I try to balance work, study, singing practice and socialising, but things are panning out nicely. Preparing for our first outdoor performance, the Benetton singers prepare almost religiously (on our knees or drinking wine), arguing about harmonies, rhythms, backing vocals and my increasingly bizarre eating habits. We are a passionate trio, but my current spell of veganism seems to impact on any get together as snacking and boozing is a little bit tricky. It's the fish in the wine that ruiins it all...

And the studying is going well as I continue to learn Japanese with my private tutor. We work with a textbook and practice conversation which usually ends in me asking, "how does you say 'his eye was all mushy and smashed looking'", or, "how do you say 'it was as if she'd eaten a black girl was screaming for help from inside her."

The Swedish obsession has continued with a further Schlager party where my skills of playing hard-to-get ended up with the usual playing stuck-on-the-shelf. But it didn't matter, because after about 45 minutes of horrid techno remixes, they played the majestic "Vågar du, vågar jag" and followed it with "Piccadilly Circus" and "Högt över Havet". This is the holy trilogy of schlager. At least to me.

And then last weekend was a Swedish pop extravaganza at that subtly-named club for homosexuals, G.A.Y. The night was a historical look at the ongoing career of Swedish artist/ producer Alexander Bard, featuring reunion of Alcazar, a band he developed and produced, and climaxing with a performance by Bodies Without Organs, his latest project. However, the opener was what I'd wanted to see. As a teenager at school I'd fallen in love with an obscenely weird Swedish group. Their songs were clever, mad and controversial, their behaviour sexual and overwraught and their look was regency royalty, nappies and tarts. "Crucified" was their only hit in the UK, but it was the first of many across Europe including the majestic "Israelism" which was banned in Germany but went to no.1 in Israel. Unfortunately, last Saturday, they mimed to Crucified with the band members throwing about a black blow-up sex doll in reference to the group's first female vocalist, La Camilla, before going off stage to make way for Alcazar. But it was still great to finally see them...

Slice and dice and drain for approximately 9 and a 1/2 hours.

2007-06-28T22:16:00.000Z

The home surgery incident was born of long-term irritation about a skin tag on my inside leg. At 7:40 one early June morning I decided to take drastic action.

I grabbed the scissors.

I scissed.

I or-ed.

And as blood flowed down my leg, I thought, "oh, it'll be like having cut myself shaving. A shower will stop this too."

But it didn't.

What ensued was a 9 and a half hour frenzy of wound-packing, plasters, clothes changing and trips to hospital. The first trip to a minor-injuries unit was rather dramatic as blood continued to pour forth and expensive dressings couldn't stem the flow. It all ended rather dramatically with the nurse stating that I had lost too much blood and needed to go straight and insisting I went to Accident and Emergency. Oh dear.

So I went. And I bled. And I waited. And I bled. And finally when I was seen at 6:40, the bleeding had stopped.

I walked home, slightly dizzy and rather more than embarrassed, wondering if I should give up on home surgery or get some sand-paper and a stanley knife and set about giving myself that nose-job I've always hankered after...

The dos and don'ts of home surgery.

2007-06-15T12:42:00.001Z

1. Don't do.
2. Just don't.

I say this because I wish I had been similarly warned...

Euromania!

2007-05-15T22:27:00.000Z

So Eurovision is over for 2007. Or at least you'd think it was, given that the contest was on Saturday night and Serbia won. End of. Game over.

Well not this year it isn't.

Serbia won the contest beating Verka Serduchka, the Ukrainian tranny, into second place. Serbia's entrant proved that Europe can look beyond appearances and see inner beauty. However I can't. She is Europe's most not-pretty woman. And she was humourless too. While stood next to Denmark's entrant, the drag dueen DQ (who was bedecked in a sparkly pink mini-dress and feathered head-dress) she started babbling on about how it was "all about the music" and "it's not performance and show that matters". Yes, love, it is. If performance didn't matter, why did you, a rather not-good-looking lesbian, insist on having five L'Oreal sponsored lovelies pawing you throughout the duration of your song? Eh? EH?

Anyway, she won and the song was boring but Europe loved it.

But it doesn't end there.

The show was dogged by claims of political voting. Every Turk in Europe voted for Turkey even though the song was the rubbish. The Greeks did the same. Russia voted for all it's ex-territories and they all responded. The ex-Yugoslavs all voted for each other and neighbours Greece and Albania. Malta is protesting. They were most upset at not hitting the final despite being the favourite. They are leading calls for a review of Eastern European voting as there are concerns the televote is unreliable. And they've accused others of vote swapping. And in the Netherlands, members of the Dutch parliament have proposed a new contest only for EU members (although a large proportion of the offending Eastern European countries are now in the EU so that's really no answer). Ireland is thinking about pulling out altogether. UK newspapers have been slamming the contest, despite none of them having clearly watched it (a Daily Mail columnist today claimed the Serbian singer couldn't sing when she clearly has a huge talent). And our MPs are also discussing it. In parliament.

And the best bit?

Seven songs from the contest have hit the UK midweek charts, a situation which has never happened before. Indeed, it's usually enough of an ordeal for our own entry to hit the charts. i-Tunes is solely responsible. This Sunday Scooch should stay in the top 5, Verka Serduchka is predicted to hit around no. 18, Russia's Serebro are due to hit inside the top 60 while Sweden's The Ark, Finland's Hanna Pakarinen, and the winner herself, Marija Serifovic and Sarbel who sang for Greece all have their entries in the top 75 as we speak.

And there's more:
Verka's Serduchka's in trouble with the Eurovision organisers. Having denied for months that she was singing "Russia Goodbye", instead singing "Lasha Tumbai" (which she claimed meant "whipped cream" in Mongolian), Verka clearly sang "Russia Goodbye" in her performance at the contest. This is highly controversial what with current tensions in that region and with the Eurovision being- ahem- non-political. Yet the Russians still gave her 12 points because she was simply breathtaking. The Eurovision organisers are yet to decide what action to take.

There is only one thing left to say on the matter:

Sieben sieben aylu lu sieben sieben eins zwei
Sieben sieben aylu lu sieben sieben eins zwei drei TANZEN!

If you want to read any of this information from it's original source, please head over to ESCtoday.com

Shock! Horror!

2007-05-12T16:21:00.000Z

Malta is out! Switzerland is out! Cyprus is out! The Netherlands are out! Israel is out!

The Eurovision semi-final was controversial once again. Two of the favourites were booted out as well as a number of other highly regarded songs that scored highly on internet polls and with bookies, but not, it seems with the European public. Fuelling the controversy is the fact that (if you include Turkey) the 10 qualifing countries came from Eastern Europe (although technically Georgia is in Asia). The strange thing is that they weren't even the good songs from Eastern Europe. Estonia had a great song and it didn't get through. The Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia had a rubbish song but made it. What is going on?

I am angry. Malta's entrant was great and had the best song of the whole contest and clearly should have won the whole thing. Cyprus' song should have come 2nd and gone on to become a European smash.

What happens on Saturday is anyone's guess. Although the winner will most likely be Verka Seduchka for the Ukraine or the girl who looks like Kelly Osbourne with Downs Syndrome for Serbia. If that slur is unkind to anyone, it is to people with Downs Syndrome.

That Sweden will win or Scooch get in the top 10 seems highly unlikely now, but maybe tonight a miracle will happen.

A walk in the gardens.

2007-05-12T16:03:00.000Z

Kew Gardens to be precise.

Juliette has just come back from holiday in Japan and we decided to spend the day catching up in Kew Gardens. Juliette is a member, so I got to go in for free (hurrah!). It's a huge place with all sorts of funny plants, indeed we spent 6 hours looking at things and there's still much more to see.

Birds of paradise.

Pretty blue flowers.

Are Vampires Alive?

2007-05-04T20:50:00.000Z

Switzerland seems to think so.

Last night the Eurovision mania continued with a second trip to Retro Bar, this time for the mock Final. They added the semi-finalists picked weeks ago to those artists already qualified and we drank, watched and voted.

The crowds awarded their points and the bookies' favourites appeared to coincide with the crowd's.

Switzerland and Sweden picked up top points, but on a back-count victory was awarded to Switzerland. It's not very good though. Should have been Malta.

Vampires are Alive- DJ Bobo for Switzerland

Vertigo- Olivia Lewis for Malta.

And after the results, the DJ played some lovely Eurovision music and I finally realised I am a Eurovision anorak. I knew all the words to all the songs, who sang them, which contest they were in etc. But I gained a mini-fan club thanks to interprative dance. I am now invited to umpteen Eurovision parties, but as per tradition, shall be watching it at home.

Go Malta!

New baby.

2007-05-01T20:30:00.000Z

These last 10 days without a camera have been rather difficult. It reminds me of when (after 24 years) I first stopped wearing glasses. I felt naked. And like I'd premanently forgotten something.

So after approximately 11 days of waiting I bought myself a new one.

Yay!

Who killed Bubba?

2007-04-30T19:32:00.000Z

Don't ask me, I was drunk.

Last Saturday Lyn held a murder mystery party. It was rather hilarious. Set in a small town in the backwoods of Texas, someone called Bubba had been murdered. And we were the suspects.

Lyn had decked out her house in flags and US memorabilia and guests were greeted by the soothing sounds of the white man's blues, otherwise known as Country and Western. Dinner was chilli con carne, corn and potatoes and all sorts of tasty fare that they probably don't eat in the South at all, but that we just think they do. It was tasty though.

My role was that of a country and western wannabe who ran a karaoke night at the local saloon. I was possibly having an affair with someone and may have been in cahoots with someone else over something or other, but I can't really remember. I was too drunk. As half the party had turned up late, Annette and I nad knocked back a few too many, er, sasparillas and by the time the game started we had no idea what was going on. But we all enjoyed speaking in a Southern accent and singing karaoke before finally we'd drunk everything, revealed the murderer and were ready to go home.

And on the night bus home I tried my hardest not to look as a fat, ugly, white girl who spent the entire journey talking into her phone with a Jamaican accent. It did cross my mind that she may have eaten one or two black girls and they were inside trying to fight their way out...

Pull shapes

2007-04-21T15:15:00.000Z

The gig-madness continued on Wednesday night with a trip to the Shepherd's Bush Empire. After an excellent gig at Camden's Koko last week, we were really looking forward to the Pipettes. And after a dinner of dim sum at Ping Pong on Eastcastle street, we trundled along with our standing tickets looking forward to a good dance and a sing-a-long.

Except Shepherds Bush Empire is crap. Whereas other venues have sloping floors so that everyone can see the band, Shepherd's Bush doesn't. So average-height Megan and Brenna couldn't see the band through the crowd. Gah. We ended up standing by the bar as this spot actually had the best view. The Pipettes were great though, and they did what it says on the label- 60's girl pop, harmonies and back-combed hair.

Friday night brought back the Eurovision/ Swedish schlager theme as Terese and I headed off to a Swedish schlager party in central London, and spent the night dancing to all your schlager favourites. And pestering the DJ for Piccadilly Circus.

Unfortunately it wasn't all dancing and smiling as my lovely camera decided to go walkabout and hasn't been seen since. I love you my beautiful IXY! Come home soon...

Party, Bjorn and NightBus

2007-04-16T20:52:00.000Z

The weekend was not uneventful.

Saturday was Fred's birthday party, which Terese and I went to. We'd planned to stay a while and then go to a hat party in South London, but the lure of booze and schlager music ensured that we couldn't leave and indeed we stayed longer than everyone else. Oops. And we all trundled off to the Black Cap in Camden to drink more and watch a terrible Philippino transvestite sing songs well and over rely on the phrase, "me lub you rong time" to raise a non-existent laugh.

The crowning glory of any night out in London is the nightbus trip home. And the wildlife you may see there.

Saturday night was a corker. Tired and slightly fed up that I have a possible 2 hour trip home on the bus, I plonk myself on the first seat available. Only for some dirty man with drug-induced pressure of speech and crutches to sit down opposite me and start off on his hard-luck story which ends with him aggressively asking for money. Apparently he tried to kill himself a few weeks ago but broke both his legs and he's a successful rapper and he's just down on his career and HE JUST NEEDS SOME HELP TO GET HIMSELF BACKONHISFEETANDIDON'TLIKEASKINGBUTINEEDSOMEHELPHAVEYOUGOTANYMONEY?

"Sorry, no." I replied firmly.

"WHYAREYOUBEINGLIKETHIS. MATE"

"Because it's true." I stated.

"Oh. Sorry", he said, and walked off, his crutches dangling from his upper arms.

And then I change buses and sit down, only for a man to sit opposite me. I spent the next 20 minutes trying not to look at him. Why? Because he looked rough as [insert expletive]. On his knuckles wsa tattooed the words "L.O.V.E" and "H.A.T.E" and his left eye was a little bit mushy looking and rather unlike an actual eye.

What else can happen on the night bus? Well, as we reached the end of the journey (which ended three stops earlier than usual for some reason) and the bus driver told everyone to get off I spotted a man asleep. So everyone got off, and I called out to the bus driver and asked him to hang on a moment while I wake up the man. And as the man wakes up, the bus starts moving. Heading back into central London. How nice. And it stops suddenly at traffic lights. So I ask the bus driver to open the doors and let us off and he starts shouting at me. I shout back. I walk up to the cab and explain that I just asked him to wait a minute and he just starts having a go at me again. At which point I just put my hands up and shout "OH, WHATEVER".

Night buses are fun.

On Sunday Terese and I went to see a Swedish band, Peter, Bjorn and John. Except that John was stuck in Dublin, so some un-named hotness was playing the drums. Terese and I were both tired and miserable, feeling like pensioners at a too-cool-for-school kids club. And after the crap support artists and rotten dj we were ready to go home, but fortunately the band were great. Bizarre, but great with guitar solos, singalongs and on-stage fights.

Swedish bands are fun.

Eurovision season begins.

2007-04-13T14:23:00.000Z

Alleluia!

Thursday night marked the start of Eurovision season proper as the London's Retro Bar (gay, indie bar) held a mock semi-final. And I was there to attend! The evening started of in a most convivial manner with a mini picnic in the park by embankment station, and with Terese and Swedes Peter and Fred in tow, we headed off.

And soon we were drunk. (Boo). At eight PM they put the punters into groups representing the 42 countries taking part in the contest and then they showed the 28 semi-finalists' videos. And then we got to vote in true Eurovision style, awarding points 1-8, 10 and 12.

Now if you've never seen Eurovision you might not know that it has a huge gay following, and that this is often reflected in the performers. And that in the true Eurovision semi, the top 10 scorers are announced in random order to go through to the final. No scores are announced as it would give a clue to the final winner.

Except in Retro Bar, where they announced the winner. And who won? Was it DJ Bobo, the established Swiss Europop star? Was it Malta's Olivia Lewis, one of the overall favourites? Or was it the Serbian munter who is all about the (intensely dreary) song?

No.

The Retro Bar, surprise surprise, voted a tranny to pole position.

It is a good song. But it should have been Olivia...

And so today...

2007-04-13T12:39:00.001Z

...once again, I wake up a little bit drunk.

Gah.

Spring into Summer

2007-04-02T22:33:00.000Z

The last few weeks have been a bit quieter as I've launched into money saving activities such as: sitting indoors, walking the streets of London and only drinking at weekends. This has been a controversial decision and has been unpopular amongst some friends, but it does work. And it means less mornings where I wake up still feeling a bit tipsy. Clearly this is good. The weekend of March 24th also marked my first ever trip to see friends in Chelmsford where I didn't wake up unable to eat/ drink/ move/ remember where my socks are (in my coat pocket on one occasion).

Walking round London is never a bad thing as you get to appreciate the bits of nature there are, such as these crocuses in Postman's Park (a very lovely little park that is briefly in the hideously awful film "Closer"). It;s officially British summertime, but for some reason these crocusses were still going strong.

The loveliest evacuation point in the world?

2007-03-20T23:51:00.000Z

I started a temporary job in February which has me communting to the Aldwych, part of the Strand in London. It's a nice job with good people and some interesting things to do. I thought it was the best job ever on day two when the building was closed due to power failure and we were sent home with full pay. And then on the fifth day the fire alarms went off. And we were evacuated. To Somerset House, a lovely old building with a beautiful courtyard and fountains of water which are shut off over Christmas to make way for an ice rink. And we got to enjoy it for half an hour while the alarms were switched off.

Britain decides.

2007-03-19T22:03:00.000Z

I am slightly preoccupied with the upcoming Eurovision song contest. I can only explain this as being a reaction to having to watch it on the internet in Japan last year as opposed to watching it at home with my Ma as I have done for as long sa can remember (including the first year I was in Japan when I flew home for four days). And so the madness continued as Britain chose its entrant on Saturday.

While my friends were away at a fancy cottage celebrating Mandy's 30th birthday I was pressing redial like a man possessed, just to make sure a French girl singing a dreary celtic ballad didn't end up representing the UK. And who was the other option? Well, after the (s)hitlist had been whittled down from 6 to 2, we were left with French Cyndi and Scooch. Scooch had a marvellous top 5 hit in 2000, then two top 20 hits, then the singer made a baby with their producer and they decided childbirth and fizzy pop didn't mix. And then they came back from Eurovision with a song that you either love or hate. I hateed it until I saw them perform it, and now I love it. It's like a Carry On film set to music. And here it is:

I'm ready for my ASBO*.

2007-03-14T21:03:00.000Z

(ASBO= Anti-Social Behaviour Order/ Badge of honour for louts, thugs and chavs)

Yes, it all came to a huge climax last week. Melodifestivalen reached its peak and so did our alcoholism. Terese and I had pre-booked seats in the Harcourt Arms which turned out to be seats in a the upper bar with a fridge full of beers and cider and a gaggle of excited gays. Including me. The Swedes were outnumbered 5-1 and we won't even talk about the small number of women in the upstairs bar. And the event kicked off with cheers for our heroes Andreas Johnson, Sanna Nielsen and the Ark, and boos for the tranny (not the actual tranny who was in it a couple of weeks before, but the fat bird with make-up application problems). And lashings and lashings of Tiger beer for us. Indeed, we each had 5 bottles of beer in an hour and a half. Which is not wise. And makes you take photos like this:

Well, unsurprisingly the Ark won the Melodifestivalen and will go on to represent Sweden in the Eurovision Song Contest this year. This is probably a very good thing.
And after the show the pub filled with more people who'd not been able to get tickets and had been watching at the nearby Swedish Church. Which is where Johanna, Ivan and Sarah had been. And with the schlager music pumping the party was soon in full swing. So we drank more, talked to lots of people and danced. And sang. And had a brief relax in the Swedish Salongen.

And I was being told to get off the chairs by the bar manager. And when the pub was closing, I lead a sing-a-long of "Take Me To Your Heaven", and was told to quieten down by the bar manager. So, song over, we headed off into the streets of London, still singing, me swinging around lampposts and laying in the road to take photos (as you do). Fortunately the girls mirrored my behaviour.

Apparently we boarded a bus to Camden, singing "Vagar du, vagar jag" at the top of our voices even though no-one knew the words, and we ended up in Camden's notorious gay bar, the Black Cat. Well, we could have been in church for all the use a gay bar was to me at that specific time. I was neither use nor ornament while Terese and Johanna seemed to be happily carrying on. It was while trying to find the loo that I managed to not find the loo, instead leaning over a railing that gave the impression of a balcony where there was in fact just more roof. And I was rather ill.

I was rather ill for most of Sunday too. Terese was marvellously hospitable and we enjoyed a lazy sunday of hangovers, Charlie's Angels and baked beans on toast.

I heart my camera (part 9,867,142)

2007-03-12T20:58:00.000Z

Covent Garden, February 27th 2007. Moody and old looking.

Marching on...

2007-03-09T13:20:00.000Z

Lordy! It's already March!

Actually it's nice that it's March. For a start the date has finally caught up with the temperature and it feels like it should be warm (or at least almost as warm, it's still slightly unseasonal). And the evenings are getting lighter which means socialising would be great.

Except that I've stopped.

Almost.

I'm trying to save money, so the dinner dates are being cut down and the random shopping has been cut down. I am a soup-man now and have tins of soup for lunch most days (too lazy to get up early and make something else) and I am also trying to develop discipline by setting myself a running plan of at least 3 times a week.

In fact I've been quite unsocial of late, having gone to dinner one week with Mark, then round Megan's for tea, dinner with Adam and drinks with Roland and Neil. That's been it for 4 weeks. Except for one thing of course...

Melodifestivalen.
It's all coming to an end this week and I think I shall miss having somewhere fun to go every Saturday night. The company's been brilliant- there's always someone new to talk to, some great songs to dance to and tasty beer. And the contest itself is more than entertaining.

Last week was the "second chance" round where contestants were paired against each other. One of the pairings was Magnus Uggla (think 50 year old dwarf with too much hair, a comedy song about nationalism and dancers in army uniforms) against perennial favourite Nanne Gronvall (think 45 year old dwarf with too much hair, a song about kissing and a dance routine based around a ropey climbing frame). The crowd wanted Nanne to go through- after all she was robbed of victory 2 years ago- but Terese and I, and seemingly most of Sweden had other ideas, and in a perfect display of how to make friends and influence people we sang Magnus' lovely ditty and laughed as much as we could while the gathered throng booed and hollered.

Fortunately we were all united by the mighty Sanna Nielsen, a lovely traditional Swedish blonde singing a lovely traditional Swedish schlager stomper.

There had been much gnashing of teeth when she didn't make it straight through to the final as it pretty much the perfect example of how to make a Eurovision song the Gays (tm) will love. And we all did. And to add insult to injury, she was beaten by a fat woman whose make-up had been applied by a transvestite using a sandblaster. Fatty's song was called "I remember love", which was probably a reference to the thinner days when she wouldn't accidently crush someone to death in the name of rumpo. Bitter? Me? Taking it all a bit too seriously? Me?

Anyway, as has become the norm, we drank till the bar closed and headed off to a club. Trash Palace to be exact. It was quite odd to be in there and not be molested in seconds, but actually it was quite nice. Although what wasn't nice were the sulky teenagers that were hanging around the stage bit where Terese and I were dancing. I couldn't help but wonder what was wrong. They were young, they weren't unattractive (although their scowls could maim from 50 feet). They should have been taking drugs, having unprotected sex or robbing pensioners- whatever it is the young people do for pleasure nowadays...

And so to this week, a week of early (ish) nights, indigestion, running and soup. Soup, soup, soup. It does taste nice, but the novelty's wearing off, and I'm sure there's a type of person who enjoys soup. I don't want to be one of them. Next week I'll have to reintroduce solids...

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner...

2007-02-26T13:51:00.000Z

Many British people doubt me when I say I'm from London. They say I'm from Essex. I say, "Yes, but where I live falls in East London". They argue, they protest, but whenever there's a local crime, I'm proven right.

Take this example- an article from the BBC website on Tamil communities tackling gangs. It clearly states that Ilford is in East London. Thank you local Tamil gang members and the people who oppose you for bringing the truth to the people.

Svenska Hjärtan

2007-02-18T21:18:00.000Z

In case you haven't been paying attention lately, I have been talking a lot about Sweden- or more specifically the Swedish Melodifestivalen which is the Swedish national preselection contest for the Eurovision song contest. It's almost better than the contest and possibly more fun. Well, it makes a change from blogging about the weather...

This week saw heat 3, the best one yet. It featured a broad range of song styles- the usual schlager (done very well), electro pop, house, and for the first time bhangra. And I dragged Terese along with me to the Harcourt Arms to enjoy it.

Terese is Swedish, but is not one of those that is crazy about this contest and the Eurovision. But the atmosphere at the pub won her over even if the songs didn't. We craned our necks to see the screen through the tall people that stood in front of us and whooped and booed and drank. And drank. The crowd were appalled when one of the favourites didn't get through to the final, and even moreso when a drippy ballad did.

We made friends with people from many countries, a blonde Swedish lady started chatting me up and and after the show the pub stereo blasted out old schlager and we danced, chatted and sang. Everyone sand along, and each song was met with a cheer or a scream. And then they played "Give Me Your Love".

"Give Me Your Love", sung by Fame, is as close to perfect as a song can get. It is genius. And they played it. And as they played it, something took over control of my body (or, at least, this is what I like to claim). I ended up dancing on the bar, making a ridiculous show of myself, even carrying on dancing while I was being "assisted" down. And after the bar finally closed Terese, Johanna (Swedish, not LeeJay) and the Dutch guy headed to the Phoenix on Cavendish Square. And danced, and drank more. Until Terese and I eventually wondered off home. I arrived at 6, and spent Sunday in bed wondering what had gone wrong...

Here are songs from this week's Melodifestivalen. It continues to be genius, although the Swedish public aren't demonstrating good taste. These two should have got through, but didn't in favour of drab ballad/floaty dress combo and something else:

1. The Attic feat. Therese - The Arrival

2. Magnus Carlsson - Live Forever

Kung Hei Fat Choi!

2007-02-18T15:08:00.000Z

Happy Chinese new year!

Yes, London is a multicultural city, and close to its centre is a nice big China Town. but being London the local councils are a bit stupid, and if rumours are to be believed, the want to place a branch of Tesco (the supermarket that is eating England) on China Town's main street. The reason? China town is too ethnically singular. If it wasn't so ethnically singular, it would be "Multiethnic town" and would be no different to anywhere esle. D'oh.

But in a nicer development someone decided to hang chinese Lanterns over the road at Oxford circus. And they look lovely.

Childish? Us?

2007-02-15T20:56:00.000Z

Never...

The only thing of note this week was a trip to the cinema with Megan. It being Valentines' day, and us being romantic, we thus decided to do it in style.

We met in Mile End, drank flat beer in a rotten student pub and then went to see a lovely romantic film about a crazed lonely lezzer who fancies the fit new teacher at school who in turn more than fancies one of her students. In this case "more than fancies him" means she is having relations with him. And he is 15. Oh dear.

As you can imagine, it was a rather serious film, but not one without its moments of dark humour. And these certainly weren't lost on us. Nor were the many opporunities for dodgy innuendo we could locate amongst the script.

"Notes On A Scandal" now takes pride of place in a long list of films that I have been accompanied to see in the cinema and have laughed inappropriately at. Other members include the hilarious "Gladiator" and the side-splitting "Texas Chainsaw Massacre".

Something fishy going on...

2007-02-12T23:09:00.000Z

Since I came back from Japan I've eaten a lot of fish. Whether at a sushi bar, at a turkish restaurant or at home, I've enjoyed fish. But there is a problem.

I only know the Japanese names for many fish.

Of course I know cod, tuna, salmon and plaice. And I've eaten canned mackerel and pilchards in my time, not to mention sardines. And swordfish. But could I recognise these last four at a supermarket fish counter? Probably not.

Conversely I recognise aji, saba, hamachi, katsuo, suzuki and hirame in their raw forms.

What's the solution? Yesterday, after moving stuff into her new flat, Megan and I went to Fujiyama's in Brixton- a marvellous Japanese restaurant, once again with non-Japanese staff. And they let me have one of their placemats- a photo-guide to a la carte sushi. In Japanese, English, French, Spanish, and Dutch. And one other language I couldn't decipher. So soon I shall be able to order fish in many countries. Bravo, etc.

Swedish crooner

2007-02-11T10:46:00.000Z

Last night I went to a Swedish pub in Marylebone, London to watch the second round of the Melodifestivalen. It is something I have wanted to do since I read about it 2 years ago, and it was certainly worth it. Not only do you get to watch Melodifestivalen on a big screen, you also get to cheer and jeer with the crowd, and impress (or distress) with your knowledge of Swedish slanger songs as everyone sings along to the interval acts.

This week's round contained the likely winners of the whole shebang- Swedish glam rockers The Ark. They are huge in Sweden and critically acclaimed. And they made it through to the final on March 10th.

Here's their performance- the song is called "The Worrying Kind"

Don't waste those second chances!

2007-02-09T22:28:00.000Z

Is what I was thinking when I heard the news about BIG snow (yes, the papers actually called it that) due to fall in London yesterday. So I arose at 6:45am, left the house at 7:15 and was in the pretty part of London by 8:20 armed with a camera and a killer instinct. Unfortunately I was also armed with stupidity and forgot that parliament square existed. This meant no photos of Big Ben and snow together at last. But I pushed on.

The scene as I set out.

I decided instead to trek round the parks, taking in St. James' park, Green park and Hyde Park. And I ended up with too many photos and extrememly wet socks and shoes.

Missing: romantic couple.

St. James' Park was lovely, although it needed a few more romantic couples to fill its benches. It did have enough birds forraging for foods and posing for nice pictures. I would request that next year some action is taken to steady the branches so amateur photographers like me can take nice, steady pictures.

ALong the way I managed to chat to a few people, including a man in wellies with an army of dogs. But I was very disappointed not to see HRH the Queen Elizabeth Royal Mail Windsor building a snowman in her garden. She had enough people to play with- Police, guards and I'm sure some nice tourists would have helped too.

After the picture taking I met Juliette for a nice, long catch up. And a shopping expedition. And a lovely big lunch at the Japan Centre. We toured the Japanese shops, Juliette showing me the new ones, and we each bought and shared sweets and crackers. And then we went to BeardPapa's, a delicious Japanese shop selling only custard filled choux buns. And they are gorgeous. There's only the one shop in Europe, but that'll change soon I'd imagine.

Juliette's going to Japan in March. I'm not jealous. Much.

The British have a distinct sense of respect for their own history, demonstrated in no clearer way than in this picture where some caring youth (I assume) has attempted to finish off this marvellous piece of art.

I expect to see the statue fully clothed next time I come.

Demonstrating a similar sense of respect, this time for ourselves, Terese and I met up for dinner and non-alcoholic drinks. We have promised to support each other in a booze-free February and started well by having soft drinks, then an all you can eat oriental vegan buffet, and then more soft drinks. Hoorah for us.

We had an early night as I was starting work on Friday (today). Back in the city, this time in the Strand. If you took a map and marked on it the locations of the three agency jobs I've had, you'd notice a pattern. Each one moves South, but in a perfect straight line. All I need is five more job changes and I'll be in France. Vive le choux pastry!

I wonder if French cities can look as bleak as this?

More British weather...

2007-02-07T22:21:00.000Z

This winter has been a bit of a mystery. In as much as it's been a mystery where winter has actually been for the last three months. Sunny skies, warm temperatures and a severe lack of frost.

Which is why I felt the need to record this hard frost for posterity. Please note the sunny skies and washing drying on the line, neither being typical of a traditional British winter.

Biting, but not enough so to stop the washing drying.

Schlager palaver...

2007-02-05T21:58:00.000Z

Yes, on Saturday night the Swedish Melodifestivalen began. It's a huge palaver to select their Eurovision entry. There are 4 heats, each including 8 songs. Two of these songs will go directly to a final. Two more will go to a second chance round from which two more will go to the final. So 32 becomes 10 which finally becomes 1.

Unbeknown to most, Sweden is home to much of the world's great pop music. Not just Abba or Ace of Base or the Cardigans. Sweden's got it all. Presently there is an invasion of Swedish indie music in the UK (I'm From Barcelona, El Perro Del Mar, Peter, Bjorn and John, Jose Feliciano to name a few). There's also the electro pop that they excel at (The Knife, The Similou, Robyn, again naming but a few). But these aren't big names. Not household names. The biggest names are American stars. having their hits with Swedish songs. Britney, the BackStreet Boys, Kelly Clarkson. Their biggest hits were written in Sweden by Max Martin and the late Denniz Pop.

So you'd think Sweden would be a shoe-in for the Eurovision, that they'd win every year. But no. Sweden always does well, but they're always accused of entering the same song. An Abba sound-alike that thumps away with joy. What we know as the Abba style is a northern European style of music called Schlager. Indeed, Schlager took over much of the world in the late 1990s as British groups sold lots of records on the back of well crafted melodic pop.

So although they won in 1999 with a Schlager stormer (Charlotte Nilsson's "Take me to your heaven"- click here for the slightly incongruous, slightly Japanese video), this year they're taking no chances. Saturday's selection took in Country and Western, folk-pop and finally Dansband, an even older Swedish style that harks back to the 50s and 60s. And what a song. Despite being called "Samba Samero", Anna Book's song isn't particularly latin and requires no brain cells for its enjoyment. And it has a key change. This went direct to the final, while my other favourites, Uno and Irma took a pretty duet to the second chance round. Believe me, THIS ARE NEWS. 70% of Sweden was watching on Saturday. And here's Anna Book and her Dansband spectacular.

Thin on the ground.

2007-02-02T21:31:00.000Z

Frankly this last week has been boring. Terminally so. I left the house, not one, not twice, but thrice (as Janet Jackson would say). One trip was to Ilford (which rather counts as an endurance test), one to a temping agency who were rather positive about things, and the final one was today, going for a run and trying out a new watch I'd bought. This watch is amazing. It has a built in Global-Positioning-System. It plots your movements on a map, times you, records best speeds, calories used and can plan training routes, dinner dates and train timetables. Or something. But that's not the point. The week's been boring. Thank God the preceding weekend was a bit more full.

Friday was Verity's (a.k.a. Dorothy Brody) birthday, so I met up with her and her friends in a bar in London. All was going well and we were all suitably trolleyed and laughing when a man plonks a drink on the table in front of me. Now, I've seen this man before, but I said nothing. I actually laughed because I was drunk. And then 10 minutes later a tequlia was plonked in front of me without so much as a word. And the 15 minutes later a bottle of water and a bottle of wine. At which point I thought I could go for broke and sit it out for the champagne or go and talk to him.

Turned out he was the bar manager. As he handed me a beer, he asked me what I did for a living. "I am currently looking for work", I answered. "What are you looking for?", he asked. "Anything really, I have extensive life experience". "I'm not interested in your life experience", he said with a leer. "Oh," I replied, "so it's not my brains you're after..."

Well, that was that. I made my excuses and went to sit down with Dorothy and pals and laughed a lot more and got a lot more drunk. And when we left the bar I decided to go to Trash Palace, a Soho nightclub, where I danced for a few hours in between getting groped by random men. This reached it's peak when one man entered the club, walked up to the stage area where I was dancing, put his bag and coat on the floor, and put his hands all over me. I am quite sure I don't dance in a suggestive fashion. It's more a dangerous fashion, with arms flailing about me usually causing a few bruises. But then he did have the look of a doctor about him. Perhaps he was undertaking an intervention...

Saturday was much more civilised. The start of Terese's birthday celebrations with dinner at hers in the company of Mark and Therese (note the "h") and then a trip to nice pub in Mornington Crescent. Given the previous night's overindulgence I took it fairly steadily and ended up getting the last train home. This was good as it meant I could meet Terese, Therese and Mark on Sunday for more celebrating.

Terese's cold was worsening, so were planned to take it easy, but Camden's Bar Solo made sure it was a slow, slow day. Everything was delayed- menus didn't come, orders weren't taken, drinks were delayed and were then served incorrectly, food took an hour to come. What should have taken an hour and a half took 3. And then the bill came and it was horrendously wrong. And after we complained the manageress came up to apologise personally, explaining that one of her waitresses had gone home with an allergic reaction, one had called in sick and the chef was being problematic. I'm sure she understood when we didn't tip for good service.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a pub enjoying each other's company and talking about Swedish things (both Therese and Terese are Swedish). And that's what's giving me something to look forward to this weekend. Eurovision season is starting up again- the Swedish preselection events begin this weekend, and numerous other countries' qualifying heats will occur.

My life is desperate.

Where are you from?

2007-01-30T22:25:00.000Z

I'm From Barcelona were doing a mini tour of the UK last week, in as much as they were performing two dates. One of them was on wednesday night in London, so Terese and I decided to go. And it was in a small venue with capacity of only 800 people, so we knew it would be a good atmosphere. But it far exceeded our expectations. They had 2 support acts- the first was a fat person in red skinny jeans, and the second was a band called Irene. But I'm From Barcelona really got the atmosphere going by lauching balloons and bubbles into the air.

I'm From Barcelona are not from Barcelona. They are from Sweden, which is very unlike Barcelona. And their songs are not very Spanish-sounding. Listen here!

2007-01-30T22:23:00.000Z

Being Swedish, the band have an inate sense of style. However, to some it may appear that they simply borrowed their parents' old clothes. Whichever, it added to their charm. They also decided to include as many people as possible in the band. Terese counted 17 band members on stage at one point. But I can't remember if she counted while the lead singer was stage-diving during an excellent song about stamp-collecting.

2007-01-30T22:22:00.000Z

The band clearly decided everyone should be their friend and invited a mass storming of the stage at the end. To the right of the picture is a Swedish student who spent most of the concert pushing Terese, myself and anyone else around her whilst trying to hit the balloon that were still being batted around the air. Bless her. And after the concert, the band wandered around the bar and talked to everyone.

So friendly.

Winter wonderland...

2007-01-29T21:31:00.000Z

For a few hours last week London became a Winter Wonderland. Snow fell across the country, even in London, giving us a brief reminder of what winter weather should be like.

The view from my window on wednesday morning was in no way pretty when compared to the scene outside my window in Katsuyama, but it was still nice to see the snow...

2007-01-29T21:30:00.000Z

And once again we ask ourselves, "Is there any evidence for global warming?". Spring flowers in the snow in January.

2007-01-29T21:29:00.000Z

Pretty Christmas tree. In the snow. In late January. I must change my delivery service...

2007-01-29T21:28:00.000Z

I'm not too sure how to freeze dry rosehips, but I think this is wrong.

2007-01-29T21:27:00.000Z

Roses for the lady? Well, don't get them here, they're going rotten on the tree. Still, they are blooming outside of a greenhouse. In January. D'oh.

2007-01-29T21:26:00.000Z

A stroll in the park reveals more roses in the snow. I know a song about roses in the snow. It's sung by disco trollops Baccara. It is neither about being a lady or being able to boogie. Instead, it is crap.

Bye bye now!

2007-01-21T23:42:00.000Z

Well, she finally left us. Dr Miss Vickers left for Japan on Saturday and we were there to see here off.

Terese and I started the day by going for a walk around north London, taking in a very muddy abandoned railway that leads from Finsbury Park to Highgate. The walk was lovely, lots of greenery and nice views. And the two of us looked like we'd been mud wrestling by the time we finished. Unfortunately we didn't realise this until after we'd traipsed around the very posh Highgate village looking like rogue farmers who'd overdosed on laughing gas. We wandered down to Kentish town, stopping for a drink along the way and finally made our way to Heathrow where we were to meet Cathy to say goodbye.

And then it went a bit pearshaped. I managed to tell Cathy her airline wasn't based at the terminal (it was) and managed to tell her her flight wasn't on the schedule. It was. But it was all OK in the end, and after Cathy's brother and his girlfriend went home, we all went for a quick drink to say goodbye and then in scenes reminiscent of the World Wars, we waved her through to the departure gates waving white hankies in the air. Sayonara Miss Vickers!

Views of London from Highgate Village. Lovely.

Cold wars.

2007-01-17T22:25:00.000Z

Being ill is boring. I've had a bad cold for the best part of a week and it's really, really boring. In between sleeping and not managing to concentrate on anything I've let the rigours of daytime telly wash over me. Challenging for all the wrong reasons. Cable TV really doesn't offer the entertainment value it should.

Still, last Tuesday was fun. Our last evening with Cathy was also my last afternoon with Cathy as we wandered around Covent Garden, the Strand and finally the South Bank where we pestered staff at the Globe Theatre and raced around the slides at the Tate Gallery like children with ADHD. Our evening of sophistication went a bit pear shaped. Ues, the pub we met Jo and Terese in was very nice, but the restaurant in which we ate dinner was not so. We planned on tapas. We went to a tapas restaurant and we didn't like the menu. So we went for a kebab instead. I'm not one for this kind of junk food so I was at a bit of a loss with how to eat it, but Kebab Expert Mandy gave me the necessary training. Bye bye Cathy! Again.

Ms Vickers remembers lost love by the Thames. Or perhaps it was lost earings. D'oh. I can't remember...

What's going on?

2007-01-13T19:21:00.000Z

I am sat here watching my first Harry Potter film, not really paying attention and thus not having a clue what's happening. So far, some woman grew really fat and drifted away, London Transport gave a demonstration of a typical bus ride through rush hour London and those black horses and their riders from the Lord of the Rings scared young Harriette and his/ her chums. I am unconvinced so far, particular as they keep mentioning Azerbaijan and Harriette increasingly looks like Maureen Lipman (below).

I suspect the twist at the end might be that Maureen Lipman is actually Hariette, and whilst on a peace keeping mission to Azerbaijan, her wand gets stolen and she saves the day by using traditional Jewish humour to span the gulf between the cultures.

I think what actually does happen will be a disappointment to me now...

Hey Mr DJ, put a record on

2007-01-07T17:18:00.000Z

I wanna dance with my- oh hang on. I'm the DJ...

While on the 6th of January numerous Greeks and Russians were celebrating Christmas, I was celebrating my birthday. Now for me, birthdays are always a bit of a shambles. Not bad, just a bit haphazard. I never really do much and Ma always wants to go for lunch or dinner come hell or highwater. My 21st was particularly memorable, not only because we went to dine at one of the UK's least vegetarian friendly restaurant chains, but also because I was rather ill with flu and almost passed out over the salad cart. I spent the rest of the meal slumped over our table. Last year was my 30th and was rather more successful, except for the fact that I had a three course meal for lunch with the family and then a huge dinner with friends and then indigestion for a week. So this year I was quite relieved when Megan told me her 30th birthday bash would be held on the night of my birthday.

And then she asked me to DJ.

I've never DJed before. I've organised music for parties, but have never actually used a mixer be it a CD or a record mixer. So I was rather nervous. And this will explain why I got it wrong.

I prepared a couple of hours worth of music, not thinking I'd use it all, and arrived at the venue with Megan so Matt could show me how to use the equipment. And then I got confused. And instead of starting at 9:30, I started at 8:15. And DJed for over 2 hours. I did worry I would have to stop when Cathy decided to start pressing buttons and sliding sliders on the machinery, but after a quick bit of shouting and some stern looks from Matt she was suitably chastised and left the DJ area. I don't want to DJ again though, because while I got to play lots of my favourite songs I didn't get to dance to them. Boo! And no-one else appreciates Betty Boo quite like I do.

The party itself was great. Other Megan came back from France, Cathy, Mandy, Kofi, Terese and a host of others were there, and fortunately Cathy and Mandy were well equipped with make-up to help allcomers achieve the required Moustache and/ or Lipstick look. Unfortunately for Cathy, her eyeliner pencil was Clinique, so every moustache she drew on cost her at least five pounds. Mine was worth £20 alone I suspect...

While I, South American pimp extraordinaire, look on and survey my kingdom (the bar), I clutch my support (Terese) and my young male latin lover (Mandy). Oh how a few eyeliner moustaches can make a difference. If only my lipstick was a deeper shade of red...

Starting as you mean to go on...

2007-01-05T19:31:00.000Z

It is always good to start the new year as you mean to go on, but I think I may have set myself on course for liver failure by the end of the month.

In a positive note the young gentlemen have started to pay attention. It might be my burgeoning breasticles- time for a trainer bra soon if the winter excess doesn't disperse soon. And in another good sign, the social life has been more than effective, although that candle may well be burned at both ends. On only the second of January I met up with a gentleman and went on an all night binge-drinking session which culminated in my being stopped by a Policeman at 4:30 in the morning while staggering to the train station and trying to answer a text message.

"Are you OK? Where are you going?" he enquired.
"I'm fine thank you. I'm heading to Liverpool Street station", I slurred in reply.
"Where have you been tonight?"
"Just to a couple of bars and a club with a friend for some drinks".
"So you've had a few"
"Yes" (this was clearly the most stupid question in the world- I'd either had too many drinks or a serious head injury)
"Have you taken anything else?" he asked, seemingly unconvinced as I propped myself against the wall.
"GOOD LORD, I WOULD NEVER DO SUCH A THING!" I shrieked, clearly with conviction as he apologised and let me off on my merry way. I arrived home at 6am, dreading Eugene's leaving do which was happening that evening. I couldn't possibly drink again.

So I didn't and managed to stay enough to enjoy and participate in the Ryan's seasonal singalong party.

Yesterday Cathy came to London to spend a week in preparation for her up-and-coming move to Okinawa, so we went and met her from the train, and headed straight to the pub. A couple of drinks later and we were wondering what to do next and one option arose- karaoke! So, for the first time since I came back to the UK I ended up in a karaoke salon. And while it was possibly the most ghetto karaoke salon I have ever been in, it was karaoke. And it felt good. Not as expensive as I'd expected and with more songs than I'd expected. I shall return.

Mandy strains while Cathy and Chris pray for deafness to befall them.

So what are my plans for 2006?
1. Karaoke,
2. Nights out with gentlemen,
3. Giving hysterical responses should anyone else suggest I've taken drugs.

Happy New Year!

2007-01-01T13:04:00.000Z

Happy New Year!

2006 ended with the nation being lashed by winds of up to 80 miles an hour and rain, but despite all this it was still strangely warm. And busy.

I started New Year's Eve in Camden, meeting Kofi, Megan and Dhanusha for one last time before Dhanusha headed back to the US. Clearly the pressure of New Year's was affecting the bar staff as they spent 20 minutes scrabbling around on the floor looking for the keys to the till and kept requesting that we told them when we were leaving so that they could take away our table even though they were hovering constantly. So we left to enjoy our separate New Year's celebrations.

Mine was spent with Terese, lots of crazy Swedes, some lesbians and a mad publishing lady who told off anyone who said they'd recently bought a book because she could get it for them for nothing. In any language, apparently.

We drank, we saw in the new year, we hugged and kissed and we drank a bit more. And then I went home.

Have a lovely, happy 2007!

Brighton Crock

2006-12-30T10:35:00.000Z

a.k.a. Megan and Chris' Romantic Day Out In Brighton...

After the excitement of family Christmases, we went hell for leather to make the run up to New Year's at least as memorable. Terese and I had already had the idea of going to the Tate Modern to whizz down the water-free tubes on the 27th, and were pleased when Eugene and megan came along too. While we waited in the pub for our tube-sliding time slot to arrive, Megan suggested a trip to Brighton. Now, I'd never been to Brighton before and strangely became very enthusiastic. I can't think why. So, on the Friday morning we were off at the crack of 11am, armed with swimming costumes and serious attitude. And after spending about 2 hours stuck in traffic, we finally arrived.

Unfortunately the bad weather hadn't left. In the rain Brighton looked a lot like Blackpool. This is not good. We pushed through the crowds of shoppers, wandered through the Royal Pavillion (above) and finally hit the pier and the pebbly beach.

The pier was filled with the usual rickety fun-fair rides, slot machines, snack bars and arcades. Given the rain was spoiling all our fun, we had to make do here, and managed to spend about £10 pounds each catching teddies, trying to follow dance routines, shooting zombies and hammering guinea pigs back into their holes. Megan was particularly proficient at this and in the space of 60 seconds had accumulated her own slightly scared-looking fan club.

Once we'd reached our peak with the indoor entertainment, we wandered to the end of the pier and back down to the beach, Megan enjoying the sea air, and me complaining about the salty smell and wondering where the gays had gone. And we briefly considered swimming in the cold rain. We only considered it briefly as we realised it would be rather silly, after all, there was nowhere to put our bags.

After a quick wander around the nicer shops and the bits of Brighton that made it much less like Blackpool we decided all that was left to us would be to go home. Via Sainsbury's where we stocked up on chocolate and cookies and fizzy cola to help our evening go with a caffeine buzz.

The only way to end our romantic day out was to watch a beautiful, gentle, romantic comedy. So we watched a film about young lovers who follow their hearts and dreams to try and change the world for the better. Heathers is truly an inspiration...

Disgusted from London.

2006-12-28T23:48:00.000Z

Dear Daily Mail,

I was disgusted to see the further erosion of Britain's Christian heritage today when I visited London with my parents. My poor parents, who have paid taxes all their lives, came into the west end to see the Christmas lights that I had wildly described to them only to be hugely disappointed. Not only had House of Fraser switched off its Christmas barbecue-party lights display, but John Lewis had removed its illuminated Christmas trees from its shop front. And to make things worse, Debenhams had removed their "Christmas at Debenhams" logo from the shopfront. I can only imagine it is because the word offends someone. I am appalled and disgusted. And also, I am confused.

Please can you tell me whose fault this is? I don't think its the Gays' fault, as they like sparkly shiny things, and Elton John's already had his Civil Liberty so there's no-one else who would need lights in such volume. It seems too trivial to blame it on the Moslems, and what would the pro-abortion lobby want with Christmas lights? Which only leaves two options. Number 1 is, of course, the Eastern Europeans. But the EU doesn't expand until next week, so we can't blame Romanian Gypsies for stealing the lights to sell door to door, and the Bulgarians are all going to Italy anyway, so perhaps it's option 2- those raving loony Environmental protesters who think the world is going to end and that if we continue to eat all the fish and drink all the oil, and generally do the bare necessities for daily living, we'll condemn our children to a lifetime of sandier beaches and warmer temperatures (and this is a problem how?).

Please provide guidance and appropriate moral outrage,

Yours faithfully,

Disgusted from London.

Winter comes to London.

2006-12-26T22:27:00.000Z

Finally, after what seemed like weeks and weeks of saying, "ooh, it's really warm today! How unexpected!", we finally found ourselves saying, "ooh, it's really, really cold today!" What makes this even stranger is that there was a huge sigh of relief as winter finally arrived, and we could put the prospect of a horribly warm and comfortable Christmas behind us. It also brought with it a traditional London fog, which untraditionally decided to spread itself across much of the country. Well, it's Christmas, and Christmas is a time for sharing.

With the return of Dhanusha and Megan from New York and Cannes respectively, we went out for a night on the tiles. And on the paving, and in a restaurant and a bar. It was very good, but as we left to make our way home, I was rather alarmed to notice that the Centrepoint building had faded away to leave its sign lingering, alone and lost in the mist.

And given that the lights shine so lovely in the misty moonlight, it seemed like a good time to do a review of the Christmas lights. So here you are, London lights 2006...

Lights review, round 1: the streets

2006-12-26T22:25:00.002Z

1. Carnaby Street

Carnaby Street has gone for a homely look, and taken it one step further by making sure the hard of sight can enjoy their lights by plugging in oversized bulbs. Onlookers have commented on their looking like low-energy bulbs. This is good as the London lights this year have been hit by complaints that they are paid for with taxpayers money (untrue) and there have been demands that all of the lights be switched off because they are responsible for the destruction of the environment and global warming (obviously 300 fairy lights being left on overnight for two weeks will do more damage than the lights and electrics being left on in London's office blocks year round. Durr.)

2. Regent Street

Regent Street has gone further to prove the point of environmentally friendly lights by recycling last year's efforts. This is understandable as the lights are paid for by the shops lining the streets. Unfortunately these lights lose their Greenpeace award by going wholesale for corporate sponsorship- the pretty blue lights are adorned with pictures of plasticine snails and toads from some kid's film or other. And it leads the dullards who think their tax dollars are paying for the lights to think that the council's earning cash-dollar-bling hand over fist.

3. New Bond Street

Money, money, money. If you walk a block or two from Bond Street down New Bond Street, you'll find many of the really upmarket shops in London. Hence why I rarely get further than 20 yards down here. Now, people always say that rich people stay rich by taking care of their money. This could be translated as they stay rich by being tight. And New Bond Street does go some way to prove this. The lights are simple and pretty but a bit small. Although there's no sign of toads and slugs, so that's a blessing.

4. WINNER! St. Christopher's Place

St. Christopher's Place is a lovely little restaurant quarter off Bond Street. The square and its connecting streets offer al-fresco dining of Italian, Afghan, Turkish, African, Korean and numerous other cuisines from around the world. And in keeping with the intimate, European feel of this often wildly busy square, the lights are slogan free, traditional yet modern and eye-catching, and fit well with the narrow alleys and cobbled pavements. You may have guessed, but I like these ones.

5. New Molton Street

New Molton Street has possibly gotten it wrong. Blue lights, yellow stars, modern design. But upright? Upright? There is something un-Christmassy about this. Full marks for effort, but surely that lights should straddle the street is a major point in design of Christmas lights. Bah humbug? Perhaps.

Lights review, round 2: Oxford Circus department stores

2006-12-26T22:23:00.001Z

1. John Lewis

A strong opening effort from John Lewis. 3-d Christmas trees of wintry blue lights. Only spoiled by being glued to the front of an ugly building, but it does a good job of drawing your eyes from what's behind.

2. House of Fraser

Possibly overheard in Head Office in November:
"Oh shit, we forgot to commission an award winning Christmas lights display for our flagship store in London. What can we do? How can we cover this up?"
"I know! We've still got those outdoor lights from the rooftop barbecue in summer. Well just hang them down the front of the shop and if anyone asks, we'll say they resemble 'snow'".
Perhaps they resemble the snow as it falls on the Lebanon- i.e. not much.
One word: crap.

3. WINNER! Debenhams

Red as a holly berry and bearing its own calssically-styled Christmas logo, Debenhams is by far my favourite. Ugly building? You can't see it. Budget? All spent (possibly for the next ten years). Impact? Maximum. Well done Debs.

Up the lady garden path...

2006-12-22T11:57:00.000Z

Yesterday morning saw a potentially embarrassing situation as my Ma embarked on a rather risque course of conversation at 9:45am. We were watching 'Less Than Perfect' on ABC1 when the adverts came on. Amongst the adverts was the one for LaCoste pour homme (where someone whispers "style on skin" repeatedly and a rather dishy man wanders, naked, around his flat. I think it was the first time my Ma had seen this advert.

"Did you see that? A naked man on tv at this time of the morning! They showed his bottom!", she exclaimed.
"I would choose that moment to look at the newspaper", I replied, pretending to never have seen said advert and dishy man's bottom before. And then Ma displayed a rare moment of feminist anger: "well, they'll only show a man's bottom but they'll happily show a lady's front bits".
"There's not really much to see"
"I don't think that's true."

This caused me a problem. How to express my point without being vulgar.
"Well, Ma, a woman's Lady Garden is often obscured by dense foliage."

End of conversation.

Strange anniversary.

2006-12-19T10:35:00.000Z

It was 5 years ago, December 19th 2001, that I quit nursing. At university I gained a Bachelor of Nursing degree having studied to become a qualified mental health nurse and a qualified community psychiatric nurse. The last year of the four year degree was a year of community nursing, holding a caseload of patients. It was varied, it was challenging, and above all it was rewarding. By 1999 I was working on an acute psychiatric ward with 22 patients, some detained under the mental health act, and working with 2 other staff each shift. In 2000 I moved to a locked ward (I spent much of my training in a similar environment) of only 6 beds where the patients were at the height of their illness, either suicidal at the peak of depression, or continuing to attempt to leave the hospital, refusing treatment, or being a danger to themselves or others. The patients lives were often in ruins. Their illness had lost them friendships, frustrated their families and in many cases left their lives in a static state or worse, in a downward spiral. Due to their illnesses, many patients were more vulnerable than ever, behaving sexually or aggressively, or often living their lives in fear of the delusions and voices that haunted their every waking moment. As a nurse it is your duty to protect these people. To protect them from exploitation and promote their own dignity. Often you are protecting them from behaviours brought on by their illnesses, and frequently you have to work in a team of nurses to stop one patient's aggression affecting others' recovery in hospital.

To do this you need the support of management. You need adequate staffing and you need appropriate training in techniques to safely restrain and manage violent and aggressive behaviour. You need the best tools available to try and give the patient the best care possible, to try and help them through the acute phase of their illness without them having to face aggression, intimidation and fear. You need a team of staff who feel empowered to work as a team to bring the best to the patients.

This is why I left nursing. I worked alongside some brilliant staff, particularly in my last year. Mismanagement from above the ward level continually undermined what we were doing and it often felt like we were being bullied and harrassed. For large periods of my time there, a demoralised staff felt unable to offer patients the best possible care. In the end, I had enough. I went on holiday in November 2001. On the train from the airport I thought long and hard. I wasn't happy. I'd felt harrassed by management for close to two years (I took one sick day in 18 months and they told me they wanted me to move to the community as I they thought I wasn't happy) and having been assaulted by patients in September and October, I decided it was time to leave that hospital. And then, on the 13th December, in my last week there, I was in charge of the ward when three patients became aroused, distressed and two of them quickly became aggressive. Despite our setting off the unit-wide alarm system, only three staff came from other wards to help, of whom only 2 were trained to manage aggression and violence. The result was that I and another staff nurse were assaulted (I was dragged backwards down a hallway, punched repeatedly and kicked when I eventually fell to the floor) and I was powerless to make the ward safe for the patients or the staff. This could have been avoided. The outcome should have been better for the patient and the staff. I had personally spent two years voicing my concerns to the management. And so on the 13th December I decided to leave nursing. On the 19th December it was over.

I think about returning frequently. It wi a rewarding job where you can really help people out in times when they can least help themselves. But to do that you need the system to help you. And with Mental Health Care being mismanaged so badly it frequently doesn't help anyone.

Naughty naughty!

2006-12-18T21:12:00.000Z

Oops. I've been naughty. I've forgotten to update my blog for a couple of weeks. And it's nearly Christmas. There's my excuse of course- it's nearly Christmas! The past few weeks have been extremely busy and also extremely quiet, so here's a brief round up. With pictures of course.



This collage of bizarreness gives no clue to what was actually going on here, but this was kids playing with neon lightsabres in a park in Farnborough. We were in Farnborough the last weekend of November for the switching on of the Christmas lights. The lights, it transpired, were remarkably unspectacular. But then the real reason we went to the place was because Justin and his mate Chris were playing at the switching on ceremony.

Here they are in action. Fortunately they were good, so we didn't have to be polite when we praised them afterwards. And even more fortunately they drew a bigger crowd than the children's magician who'd preceded them.



katie discovered the joy of mulled wine and proceeded to drink as much of it as she could (all proceeds to some old ladies with an urn) and Megan watched in envy as she was driving. Matt and I instead enjoyed the 'snow' (soap foams- cleansing and fun).

As I tend to do these days, I wandered around through the backstreets of London while on my way home. And found some more sculpture. I would have gotten a good picture of the cast iron farmer and his herd, but a security guard was heading towards me (as they seem want to do recently), so I packed up my camera and wandered off nonchalantly.

The following week was a bit frenzied, with nights out including a booze fest with Dorothy Brody, and an unintended all-nighter with Terese. We met in London on the Friday for drinks, headed to Trash Palace, danced for hours until the place closed (3am?) and then I took the nightbus home. The nightbus offered it's usual menu of unexpected changes and, ahem, 'interesting' people (including one nice man who seemed slightly unfamiliar with reality as he sat on the wrong bus, told me in jest that he was going to bully me and then asked me for cash and cigs and told me his romantic problems- him: "I wan't a girlfriend, but I can't find a girl", me: "Where are you looking?"

Then on Saturday it was down to business as Tiger and Youko arrived form Japan. Saturday night I met them and Tim and Keiko in Soho and we ate Indian in Covent Garden bfore drinking in Holborn. On Sunday I met them in Kings Cross to make sure they got the correct train to Edinburgh. On Tuesday we met in Holborn to eat Italian in Oxford Street and on Wednesday we took in Camden Market, Carnaby Street, Oxford Street, Soho, Covent Garden and Neal St., Leicester Square, drank in Brewer Street and ate Turkish off St Christopher's Place. It was a major shopping and sightseeing trip, and I think they'll be needing a good rest. Evidence? here's Tiger and Youko in Carnaby Street:



And here they are in Covent Garden:

Since they've gone I've become Mr Scrooge and have grudgingly been plodding about this business that is Christmas. The last week was almost event free, bar a lovely dinner at Tim and Keiko's last weekend, numerous abortive Christmas shopping trips and a trip to Lyn's this weekend. The coming week promises to be busier as Dhanusha, Megan and Eugene return from overseas and shopping must finally be done. And there's still the Christmas cards to write (insert expletive here).

So that's it for now. Except that I finish work this week and will thus be looking for something other than running, painting and waffling to fill my time. If any of the three people who read this have any work going, I'm available at cheap rates...

Times when it's good to speak Japanese (Part 1):

2006-12-04T22:37:00.000Z

At Kings Cross station, seeing Tiger and Youko onto an Edinburgh-bound train.

Some very fat women wander up behind us. Tiger starts taking pictures, seemingly of the roof of the station.

Me to Youko: 「太い人の写真を撮っていますか」or,
"Is he taking pictures of fat people?"

Youko: Ha ha!

But then there's the payback, when a fat person decided to sit between me and another fat person on the train. I spent the journey sitting precariously on the edge of my seat worrying that any sudden jerk or bump would send me toppling into the aisle...

1:07:54

2006-12-04T14:56:00.000Z

is the time it just took me to run 8.5 miles in my lunch hour. I am rather pleased.

I am also walking like a cowboy and aware that I had slightly more than a lunch hour. Oops...

Get this party started.

2006-11-29T02:55:00.000Z

Indeed.

Marks and Spencers is one of Britain's most loved shops with a long history of quality clothing, delicious foods and dodgy menswear. It has long been a staple of tradition, refusing to open on Sundays until long after everyone else did, refusing to accept credit cards becuse it would increase the prices of their products (again they eventually had to give in) and until recently all of their clothes were made in the UK (which meant production costs were high and profits were low). This changed in the last few years so that M&S could compete with other clothing stores such as H&M, Gap and TopShop.

In the last few years, M&S has been struggling as sales have dropped and its image has suffered badly. But this is no more, largely due to a brilliant autumn advertising campaign which has peaked with a hugely talked about advert. The advert is hugely British, featuring London landmark Tower Bridge, 60's supermodel Twiggy and the crowning glory of it all, Dame Shirley Bassey. Singing a Pink song. Only people familiar with Shirley will recognise the madness and genious of this, but here it is for you all to enjoy.

The only downside in the whole thing is that the song is not being released commercially as a single. It would most certainly have been a big Christmas hit.
But well done M&S!

Contaminated?

2006-11-27T13:39:00.000Z

Big news in Britain now is the case of the Russian ex-spy who has died after being poisoned with pollonium, a radiactive element, at a sushi bar in London. "Gosh!", I thought. "Sushi!", I thought. "Yum", I thought. And then realised. "oh!" I thought. And then I didn't think again. Until today when I ate sushi from Itsu having had to calm my boss's nerves before we tucked in (not only were we eating at Itsu which is clearly death-defying, but we were also risking life and limb by trakking to Canary Wharf, the home of many a paranoids' terrorist attack nightmares). Not that sushi really has anything to do with anything, but this morning I woke up shattered, having had a horrendously active dream which left me wondering if I too had been in someway contaminated.

And, Lord!, this dream was a belter.

I was on holiday in South America (which looked rather like Tokyo) in a swish hotel (radioactivity-free may I add). I was walking down the street with 2 friends I've not seen in 10 years, when I spot a group of troublesome sorts behind us. So I quickly dump my wallet and keys on a drinks stall outside a convenience store (this would be safe in Japan) and then the group kidnaps me but kindly lets my 2 friends come along. As they dump me in a disused pool (billiards) room, I tell Graham (school friend) to call Sanchez (??) to pick up my wallet and keys, and, as he leaves, the gang starts boasting about how much money they've stolen from my 4 (??) bank accounts using my debit cards, and I laugh, "yeah, right!", in the knowledge that Sanchez (who? anyone?) is taking care of them. So I escape and run back to the plush hotel which now seems to be possessed by evil things. And my parents are there too, but fortunately we're in separate rooms. It's very fortunate, because in the next moment in my dream I am experiencing night paralysis, and a Japanese samurai is on top of me, attempting to molest me and I am protesting (yes, I was surprised too), but it finishes after a small tussle (no change there then). Straight away I'm on the phone to reception to report that I'd been kidnapped and subsequently had an attempt made on my modesty by a ghost (??) but reception aren't answering, so I sunter down to reception (which happens to be full of business people and rich folk having meetings) and make a show of myself by berating the staff for not answering my phone when I was making a cry for help. And all the posh folk and business people start exclaiming that they've noticed funny things going on and within seconds have grabbed their belongings and evacuated the hotel leaving papers scattered and things broken in their wake. Even the staff go. Only I'm left. And my parents. So I go to their room, the atmosphere around me becoming increasingly menacing and strange, and bang on the double doors to their room. Noises come from the room at the other end of the corridor, so I bang some more. My very relaxed parents open the doors. I hurriedly explain to them the need to leave, and they start to pack their bags at which point there is a whoosh and a bang on the doors. White goo starts to ooze in through the gaps at the top and the bottom of the doors. "Hurry!", I tell them, but the goo pushes in. So I must take action. Direct action. I step backwards. Further back. Then run at the door. Fast. Faster. Shoulder forward. BANG! The double doors swing open and the white things lands on the floor. What is this thing attacking me and my family?

Is it the troublesome sorts from earlier back to finish the job?

Is it the randy samurai ghost?

No.

It's a five foot tall, star shaped brie cheese (of course!??). And it's angry. It lunges at me, grabs me (it has arms, hands and a face of course) and we wrestle, until I manage to flip it out of the window. Of the fourth floor. And I watch it fly through the air and splat on the street below, the life draining out of it's piggy cheesey eyes, the soft centre squelching out from within it's crusty exterior.

And shortly afterwards I wake up with the urge to go vegan again.
What does it all mean? (Part 3,982).

Autumn in the city...

2006-11-23T20:50:00.000Z

It seems we've officially had the warmest autumn since the 17th Century (possibly the warmest since 1731) but by the time you leave work at 5pm the night sky is well and truly settled in. And that lends itself well to socialising, so Wednesday saw an abortiive attempt at dinner with Silvana. Thursday was a night in the pub with Megan, Mandy and Terese and Friday was a quiz and karaoke (or rather, Singstar) night at Roland and Katrina's. Finally on Saturday I carted my Japanese food stuffs to Lyn's to cook dinner for four which went rather well. So after all the activity, I spent a relaxing Sunday wandering around London's Hyde Park. And taking pictures.



Momiji is of course huge in Japan. As in popular, not meaning that the leaves are large. And in the UK we don't really have the Autumn festivals to celebrate the changing of the leaves. So this is my own private appreciation. I spent much of the time telling my camera how much I love it because it always takes such purdy pictures.





Alright ladies, line up for your photo. That's it get ready, *click*

Hang on... WHERE THE HELL IS NUMBER 4?

2006-11-23T20:38:00.000Z

Now girls, that's more like it...



My new boyfriend is very shy and rather fearful that his belongings will be stolen. So he carries them everywhere in a suitcase and a bin liner. Gosh, we miss Japan's coin lockers...

What happened once I got off that bloody train...

2006-11-20T09:34:00.000Z

Well, having spent all that time wondering if livestock were going to continue throwing themselves at trains, if the heat would dehydrate us all tot he point of death and if we'd ever leave Wigan station, I finally made it to Lancaster. And spent the weekend with Suzanne, my old flatmate from Manchester.

We spent what was left of the evening catching up on gossip and news and discussing old uni friends and work colleagues, and then on Saturday morning had a wander around the town. This is Lancaster castle. And it's still in use, as a tourist site, a prison and a court. Lancaster coucil knows how to makes its tax dollars work...

2006-11-20T09:33:00.000Z

Suzanne was very patient as I took pictures of the autumn leaves and the old stone buildings.

2006-11-20T09:32:00.000Z

This is Lancaster Priory. It's not Catholic. But it is rather nice. It sits on a hill looking a bit drab and unloved, and then you go inside.

2006-11-20T09:30:00.000Z

Other than Christmas I don't make it to church very often these days (i.e. I don't go), but this is the second one I've been in as a tourist since I left Japan. As you can see, it's lovely.

After our stroll we headed back to Suzanne's to wait for Helen, her baby daughter Erin and Claire to arrive before heading out to lunch in the Burroughs, a rather swish restaurant where we sampled vegetarian black pudding for the first time. As real black pudding is made from pig's blood and oats (or something), it was always going to be interesting to see what they would put in a veggie version. It stopped being interesting when it tasted like shake'n'vac.

Maxine joined us, and after lunch, with Helen and Erin heading home, we relocated to a pub to celebrate Maxine's birthday. We had a few drinks and ended up spending the night in chatting, laughing and generally having a good time.

In case a cow had escaped from suicide watch I decided I should head home early-ish, but not before catching up with Suzanne's Mum and Dad which is always good fun- I don't know anyone who travels as much as they do.

The train ride home was not, of course, without incident, as most of the toilets were broken, and I pressed the automatic door-open button only for a rather embarrassed young lady knickers round her ankles, to wonder aloud why the lock hadn't worked. And Virgin trains managed to surprise me again. The train arrived in London 10 minutes early...

Another trip...

2006-11-12T14:44:00.001Z

another Virgin Trains experience.

I board the train and, after a rather manner-free interruption from a man who claims I'm sat at sit at his allocated seat (I was- the seat reservations signs were switched off and a young lady was sat in my spot), sit at my seat, and soon am aware of how hot I am. "Has my cold gotten worse?", I wonder, thinking that it's only me that's rather more than toasty. And then there's an announcement over the tannoy- the train in front has broken down and is being inspected, and we'll be held in position until the problem's been rectified and the train has moved on. This is really no cause for anguish or concern. It happens so often it should be accounted for in timetables. So we're 25 minutes behind schedule. And then the ticket inspector comes along. He alone was the saving grace of this journey- if he'd given us any more information we'd have been privy to his inside leg measurement, favourite underwear and childhood trauma. He tells us that the computer systems are broken in this and the next carriage, so the heating is running wild and the reservations system has decided to have a rest. And we all let out a collectively knowing laugh of "here-we-go-again" without realising that there's more to come.

It seems Virgin trains is working in partnership with an un-named agency to make it's customers have an even more memorable experience. Thirty minutes later and we're at a stand-still again, and the tannoy system is beeping again. Poised for a rundown of the Ticket-inspector's daily dietary intake and plans for Christmas, we are infact told there has been an incident a few trains ahead in Leyland, just before Preston. A bull has decided to play chicken at the wrong moment. Any ideas of an impromptu Virgin staff railside barbecue are put to rest as it as announced that the bull is still walking and a vet has been called. And possibly also a scrap metal dealer as it seems bulls are stronger than Virgin trains.

After a further half-hour stop at Wigan we are finally back on the move, albeit slowly so that we just shunt any more suicidal livestock of the tracks and finally arrive a mere 1 hour and 20 minutes late into Lancaster. This journey will remain in my memory for a long time, alongside the 12 hour journey to Manchester when the signals froze, the heating broke down, and the shop ran out of water for hot drinks an hour after our December 27th deparure (it was well into December 28th before we arrived). Virgin really do strive to make it a night to remember.

Love for...

2006-11-09T15:44:00.000Z

Nao chan! I received a parcel yesterday and it contained lots of new winter chocolates from Japan, as well as lots of favourites. Thank you Nao chan!

2006-11-09T15:43:00.000Z

I had the day off work, but went up London anyway to take pictures and to meet Megan for dinner(yum, yum- Japanese food at Yoshino's). And within minutes I was getting it wrong and getting into trouble.

It seems you're not allowed to take photos here. So I shan't say where it is or that it's next to a certain ice-rink containing exchange out the back of Liverpool Street Station. Fortunately by the time I was told off I'd taken the pictures of the statues and trees that I wanted...

2006-11-09T15:41:00.000Z

Centrepoint is one of the few tall buildings in the west end of London, and you can see it from accross the city. But no-one really knows much about it. Most people think it's got something to do with homeless charity. Apparently this is not the case. Recently it was rumoured that the top two floors were going to be turned into a luxury night-club for stars such as Sir Elton, but I really don't think so. And finally it was included in a newspaper report about a pop-idol style show where viewers choose their favourite eyesore to be demolished. Now I don't think Centrepoint's particularly ugly, but levelling it would finally mean the grotty end of Oxford Street could be rezoned and the traffic finally sorted out. But it would also mean the end of the lovely bar at the bottom. But then again, they have irritating toilet attendents. I don't want to pay £1 for a spash of CK One and a paper towel thank you. Leave me alone or I'll set Cheryl Tweedy on you.

2006-11-09T15:35:00.000Z

In the back of this picture is a tower- the British Telecom Tower. It is rather non-attractive, but I have been mildly fascinated in it for years largely dur to the fact that it features in the climax of a film I've since at least 30 times- the 60's comedy "Smashing Time". In the film it is given groovy names like, "London's heaven threatener" and "the scene with the built in trip", in reference to it's stature as London's then-tallest building and to the revolving restaurant that sits atop, hance it's name, "The Top Of The Tower". Said restaurant has remained shut since 1971 when the IRA decided to blow up the men's loo (?!) but rumour was that it was to reopen this year. I must find out...

2006-11-09T15:30:00.000Z

Ah, Christmas. Last Sunday was Guy Fawkes night, so there really is nothing left until Christmas. 46 shopping days or some such nonsense. And proving that Christmas is becoming even more secular (i.e. just a shopping, drinking and eating extravaganza), Regent Street is rolling out the same lights it used last year, making them different by changing the symbols of corporate sponsorship- the lights carry pictures of characters from a different Disney or Pixar (or whoever) film than they did last year. Only I'd rather promote the use of public transport, so there's a bendy bus in the foreground and a glimpse of the lights in the back. Happy Hanukah too!

2006-11-09T15:17:00.000Z

What a way to end the night. As Megan looks at folk CDs, All Saints wobble in front of my camera at Piccadilly's Virgin Records.

Scotch on the rocks

2006-11-05T07:13:00.000Z

Last Thursday I headed up to Scotland for reunions, a 30th birthday bash and a spot of culture. I meant to write about it sooner, but I'm still recovering. I should have realised that it was not going to be a quiet trip when, an hour and a half after arriving in Edinburgh, having had only a chocolate orange for lunch, Cathy and I were meeting Joe and Barry in the pub. Needless to say a chocolate orange isn't a suitable meal before going drinking, so pretty soon I was feeling the effects. So Xathy and I went home, talked about her upcoming move to Okinawa (Jealous? Me? Muchly so) and watched a crap Japanese horror film ("Pulse") and then "Hostel" which was hilarious despite being rather horrible. And then on Friday I headed over to Glasgow.

Now, I've never been to Glasgow before and had heard that Edinburgh is much more beautiful, but I'm not sure. The picture iabove shows what much of Glasgow city centre is like. Gorgeous old buildings that are well maintained. I didn't go for my free spinal check though.

The reason I went to Glasgow was to see Jess and Dan, friends from Japan who are doing PGCE courses. Jess and I had a quick wander around the town and discussed having a quiet night as she was full of a cold and wasn't wanting a big one. I agreed, thinking the party in Edinburgh the next night would be a big one. And then we met Dan in the pub. Dan was not alone. He was with... Mr Harper.



Mr Harper is dangerous. He is very good fun, likes to have a good time and likes his drink. He is DANGEROUS. But in a good way of course. He likes his drink, and he likes other people to drink too. So by 8 eight o'clock we had each consumed comething stupid like 6 pints of Fosters and 8 Jagermeister and Red Bulls. At which point Mr Harper went home leaving the three of us flailing about like loons (or perhaps that was just me). We headed to Jess and Dan's flat befgore carrying on drinking and I broke their kitchen. Elephant's can't fly you know, but it seems microwaves can. Dan led me into their lovely kitchen, and in my drunken state I decided to jump on their breakfast bar. The breakfast bar was clearly not prepared for this and flipped up under my weight launching the microwave into the air. Oops...
The rest of the night is a bit of a blur, but involved more drinking, Mars bars, secret bars with members' keys, sandwiches, pies and curry. I must go back to Glasgow soon...

So, Saturday came and after only about 4 hours' sleep it was bound to be messy, but after waiting for other visitors to park their bags at Cathy's and watching X-factor, we headed off to Joe's 30th. A very drunken evening ensued with lots of new people to talk to (or should I say babble at, as the drink was doing it's job) and some suitably lewd dancing. The party was in a nice bar somewhere in the centre of the city, but was followed by an after-party at Joe and Barry's flat where Cathy became toast queen and everyone marvelled at how massive the flat was.

Sunday, the actual day of Joe's birthdau was another marathon, where Cathy and I made a late entrance to a breakfast and drinking session that had apparently started at 10. Breaking our drinking run for a spot of shopping, I managed to make an idiot of myself in Topman by paying for jeans on my storecard and then paying off a random amount on the card straight away. And Cathy hugged a tree. Cathy and I finished drinking early, she at 6:30 and me at 8, not before time. The others battled on until 3am. Brave soldiers they were.



On Monday morning I had somne time to kill before my train and wandered around Edinburgh trying to figure out what foodstuffs would counting three days of drink and chocolate consumption (approximately 23 bars). ANd I also took some pictures. This is a view of the buildings on the Royal Mile from Princes Street. Very pretty.

More pretty buildings on the Royal Mile where I searched unsuccessfully for sticks of rock.



Some funny rooves with interesting tile work. Lord I was feeling rough at this point.



This was the view from the train on the way home. Lots of the journey is on the coast, so you see just beach. The best bits are between Edinburgh and Newcastle. I relaxed on the journey, reading, gorging myself on fishy sandwiches from Sainsbury's (you can bet the man sat next to me wasn't too impressed) and gulping down healthy smoothies. And despite my best efforts I seem to have a heavy cold now. Good job this weekend's been quiet.

A trouser-rippingly good yarn...

2006-10-25T12:03:00.000Z

Once upon a time there was a poor little gay boy (PLGB). Aged 30 and getting not-so-little due to a diet of chocolate and city smog he continued his life of drudgery and dourness, in turn scaring off potential suitors from promised meetings and spending far too much time alone in Starbucks. He trotted through the weeks, glimmers of hope coming in moments of humour with work colleaguesaand going running in hidden oases of beauty in one of London's more drab quarters.

But then came the weekend.

Last Friday was a good start as PLGB met his friend Adam, and they wandered the streets of London, eventually stopping for sustenance at PLGB's favourite Turkish restaurant before going onto to watch the innovative film, "Marie Antoinette" (the world's first coffee-table film). Mesmerised by the prettiness and beauty of everything in sight, and confused by the lack of dialogue, both were distracted from the lack of anything happening and the general not-very-good-ness of the film. So much so that, at the end, both felt unable to declare whether or not it was good.

And on Saturday, PGLB was off to Lizzy's 30th birthday bash, accompanied by Miss Megan. The path was treacherous as, in their finest finery, PLGB and Miss Megan walked the dangerous roads of Camberwell, ignoring the screaming harpies, the clawed ladies and the clumps of weave in the air and on the pavement.

The party was rather marvellous, and PLGB and Miss Megan drank all they set their eyes on, much to the amusement of Mr Kofi and numerous other friends. Lizzy had only beautiful friends it seems, unless of course she forgot to invite the ugly ones. And then, just past midnight, tragedy struck!

While dancing up a storm PLGB felt something give. And it was something bad. Something that to a normal person could only cause embarrassment. PLGB's jeans ripped right down the seam of his bottom. Oh dear. What could he do? Why, have a drink, show a few people and dance until the party ends of course. And what a messy end as people staggered onto the street, into cabs and buses, and for Miss Megan, Lizzy, Emma and PLGB it was into the chippy. Then the newsagents down the road. Then a bus and a bar and some walking and finally at Lizzy and Matt's, by which time PLGB's jeans were ripped to the knee. More drinking and dancing was in order, and by 4:30am the party was over.

Emma, Miss Megan and PLGB left at 9 the next morning to make their way home. Except for PLGB it went a bit wrong. On changing from the train to the Underground he wandered into a throng of people at the opening of the UK's centre for Scientology, and upon hearing the man behind him shout something to his friend he turned around to see a camcorder pointed directly at the ripped jean area. PLGB will no doubt be soon making a European debut on candid camera. Well, with things going that wrong PLGB gave up and wandered the streets of London to his connecting train before finally arriving home. For him, the week since has been quiet- work, more sushi and running. But tomorrow he goes north of the border to meet old friends and adversaries. What could happen?


Lizzy, the best host in Camberwell, Herne Hill and probably Brixton too.


Spot the arse. PLGB exposes things no-one should see.


3 go wild at the chippy.


Scientologists crowd to see PLGB's bumcheek.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah! etc...

2006-10-21T07:42:00.000Z

At last! Gobou! Burdock! Having stumbled across actual real-life, growing burdock by the canal in Mile End while on a lunchtime run, now I find it frozen and ready prepared in the Japan Centre. For this alone, Wednesday was a marvellous day.

And on Saturday I was cooking up a storm in the kitchen- kinpira gobou (burdock and carrot with mirin, sake, soy sauce and sugar) and hijiki (hijiki seaweed with carrot, soya beans, soy sauce, mirin and sake). Yum. Happiness is mine.

Some pictures from Manchester.

2006-10-21T05:23:00.000Z

Sunny weather greeted me in Manchester and made the grimey canal look pretty, reflecting one of the few remaining non-renovated warehouses in the city centre.

The town hall really is a gem, only blighted by the council tax office being inside. Boo hiss etc...

The first signs of autumn come to St. Peter's Square.

The oldest pub in the city which survived 2 World Wars and the IRA stands next to the Cathedral shop, facing the modernity of Selfridges' glassy exterior.

Pacman and his adversaries make random appearances on streetsigns in Manchester. I imagine a few late night clubbers have swallowed one or two yellow pills and been alarmed at these signs...

Fuschia in St Anne's Square oversaw the last day of the Manchester Food Festival.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Phoenix club.

2006-10-17T20:16:00.000Z

If I was a 7 year old with exemplary spelling, this is how I would write about last weekend:

On thursday I left work. I walked to the train station. At the station I saw Toyah Battersby off Coronation Street. She's pretty. I went to Manchester to see my friends. When I got off the train I went to Charlotte's house. We talked and ate food and went to bed. On Friday I walked round town and went to Sara's house and Emma's house and Lisa's house. We did talking and watching telly and eating. It was good. On saturday me and Sara went to the War Museum. It woz brilliant. Just chillin'. And then we went to the pub. I drank a lot. A woman with fat legs sang songs and talked dirty. It was funny. On Sunday I went to a art museum and then I did go home. The end.

But that would only tell you half the story. Charlotte and I had a marvellous time catching up and discussing whether it would be worth getting drunk and running over particular shared enemies before the government enforces sentences of longer than 4 weeks for drink-driving killers. Charlotte wasn't as keen as I. We drank wine and ate toffee cake and discussed the joys of working for the NHS as mental health nurses (conversation lasted approximately 2 seconds- Charlotte: "wasn't it great?", me: "no." Charlotte: "Yeah, you're right").

Friday's traipse around town revealed to me how much a city can change in 9 months as Manchester's tallest building had been completed (it is UUUUUGLY!) and how certain no-go areas had become places where couples went for walks. And the Arndale centre has grown a beautiful new back.

Scheduling problems meant I couldn't see Susan and Lindsay, instead spending a lovely evening with Sara, Lisa and Emma, and seeing Emma's giant 2-year old, a starlingly blonde and cute boy.

Saturday held many delights, one of which was the Imperial War Museum of the North, an extremely well thought out museum, filled with activities, interactive displays and a huge amount of realia. Sara and I left at about 3pm after which came the day's only disappointment. Someone had obviously medicated the feral women who made my last trip to Salford Precinct so memorable. The brief trip passed unremarkably, though we did buy cheese and onion pasties on the way out- my first for many years. Mmm...

The evening was rather surreal. One of Sara's cousins was heading back to Australia having come back for a holiday, so lots of friends and family were meeting in a local pub before heading into town for a last night out. Now, Salford has quite a reputation for being a bit rough, and lots of local pubs had closed down due to trouble, but at this one the doors were kept locked to keep out troublemakers and the atmosphere inside was great. The customers ranged from young to very, very old and everyone was having a good time. Although until it filled up it did seem a bit like the Phoenix Club with tables of pensioners staring over their pints into space. This changed when the entertainment came on. A man was cased in on stage by 3 keyboards and some MDF and a woman (I say a woman, when the legs are that thick I automatically look for an Adam's apple) who appeared to have glued the tails of three horses to her head started belting out a random mix of tunes. After a couple of numbers she started dragging up the punters to sing. The singers, all actually fantastic singers and in their best showman's outfits, appeared to be knocking on heaven's door. All except for the sole young lad who had a great voice but looked like he didn't know which door to knock on. Through all this we were all getting a little bit more trolleyed (except for a pregnant Sara), and I enjoyed singing along to the entertainment with Janice's mate Lynne and meeting Sara's hilarious Uncle Albert...

On Sunday we had a slow morning and Sara drove me into town where I finally made it to the art gallery on Moseley street (I've been meaning to go there since, ooh, October 1995), enjoyed sushi at the Manchester food festival and then took the train home. Edinburgh will have to work hard to compete in eight days time!

When work conversations go wrong...

2006-10-17T10:20:00.000Z

One minute you're talking about the perils of living in Golders Green and the next minute the topic of a near-missed road accident becomes far more traumatising when the words "Vanessa Feltz" and "gash" become associated in the most unfortunate of ways.

Dilemma!

2006-10-11T23:03:00.000Z

Don't worry, I am not getting all moony eyed over some guy in a baseball cap with a plaster on his cheek and Patti LaBelle is not going to turn up anywhere on this weblog. My dilemmas are my own, and they are many: where does it all go from here? What does the future hold? What should I devote my life to?

These are all clearly important, but there is one more important question looming.

Should I change the name of this weblog?

Clearly I am no longer in Japan, but I do intend to return. But I don't have any idea when or how. So I'm not in Japan. But I still get it wrong quite often. So what to do?

Answers in a comment box below please!

A social whirl

2006-10-08T20:47:00.000Z

Is not how I'd describe life right about now. I seem to have withdrawn into a bizarro-world where I am obsessed with Japanese vegetables, searching for (but never finding) suitable presents for people, chocolate and running. Actually I'm trying to replace the chocolate obsession with a running obsession, but presently I'm managing to run 2 or 3 times a week and eat far too much of the brown stuff. Oh well...

Lyn suggested we do something different, and after failing to find a wheelchair accessible karaoke salon we had a better idea. Lyn found nurlesque listings in Time Out, and after going through the options the only one that really appealed was the trannies. And after 2 and half bottles of wine they had even more appeal. It certainly made an impact on me, partly due to the social commentary that ran through each performance. The key themes were: body dysmorphia (clearly everyone was anorexic as they had no boobs); unfit mothers (a pregnant Britney-alike comes on stage munching McDonalds and drinking Coke before "giving birth" to four dolls- complete with sack of amniotic fluid- who she then smashes to smithereens over a school desk); and racial tolerance (a blonde Greek lady threw paper plates and invited the audience- i.e. me- to dance on stage to Zorba's dance). On second thoughts, perhaps it was just a load of blokes in women's outfits doing hilarious performances.

2006-10-08T20:37:00.000Z

This is Stratford bus station. I was only brave enough to whip my camera out here because it was 2am. And I was extremely drunk.

2006-10-08T12:30:00.000Z

I finally started work on Monday, which in itself was good, but it had the knock-on effect of killing my burgeoning social-life. Instead I spent time wandering the streets to find presents to post to Japan. And admiring the AirFrance signpost in Piccadilly. At least I think it's for AirFrance. I hope so...

2006-10-08T12:28:00.000Z

Friday was the start of my weekend, although thanks to the torrential rain I spent the morning wishing I'd gone to work. With my Japanese-food finding plans in ruins I decided to drag the parents up London for a meal and a wander. Turkish food was followed by a trip to a Ukrainian church, the Queen's tea shop, Marble arch (to see a pigeon-crazed loon seemingly feeding 500 loaves to the pigeons), Marks and Spencer's and then a coffee at Starbucks. This gave us enough energy to have horribly know-all discussions about our surroundings as we sat on a bus to Liverpool street station- "well, this building blah, blah blah..."

2006-10-08T12:22:00.000Z

There are some places in London where you feel you could be in one of numerous places around the world. Usually these places are road-crossing subways. This is another- Canary Wharf as seen from Limehouse. Even though it was a Saturday evening the lights were on and it brought to mind Manhattan, Tokyo and Sydney. If I'd been to any other huge cities it would no doubt have brought them to mind too. It was only whilst running in my lunch hour on Wednesday that I was introduced to this view (which is also stunning in the daytime), and having become obsessed with taking photos I decided to take a few before meeting Megan to watch "Children Of Men". Lord, was that a depressing film.

Bilingual? Me? Mochirun!

2006-09-29T02:23:00.000Z

One little detail I forgot to add yesterday. While at the Japanese-staffed Japanese restaurant with Paul, Kasumi, Juliette and Ashley on wednesday, conversation naturally turned to Japan and Kasumi and I exchanged a very few words in Japanese. And then it came to pay the bill and someone asked what it was in Japanese. Juliette said, "okanjo onegaishimasu" and Paul asked if you could just cross your arms in an x-sign to ask for it. This actually means, "dame!" which is "no!", so I demonstrated the correct finger-x sign for the bill and then called the waiter over with a hearty, "sumimasen". And when the waiter came over what did I do?

Say, "Okanjo onegaishimasu?"
Make the finger-x and say "onegaishimasu?"

No.

I said, "sumimasen, bill please."

D'oh.

Slowdown.

2006-09-28T08:11:00.000Z

The last few weeks have been a bit slow. The week before last saw everyone in the house get ill- Dad was in a bad way for two days, then he got better and Ma got ill. For two days. And when she got better, I became ill. Still, I managed to go shopping and buy running shoes. When something essential needs doing, not even illness will stop me. Unless that something essential doesn't involve shopping, but you knew that, right?

Anyway, I bought my shoes in Victoria, home of Westminster cathedral, a huge Catholic church. After lots of pictures of Japanese temples, it's only fair I redress the balance. It's a lovely place and has a 300ft high tower from which you can see all the major landmarks across London.

Whilst there I was going to sing a song I learned about Jesus while I was in Japan, but I am not sure people would have appreciated it. Here it is:

2006-09-28T08:07:00.001Z

I spent Sunday looking around one of the local parks. Having taken in the hundreds of squirrels and noticed the state of the diseased Chestnut trees I came to the best tree in the park. It's massive and looks a bit mental and had a familiar wooden stake in front of it. I remember that stake! I saw it in Japan! In June! It's a Peace Pole! On further inspection it seemed to have no Japanese on it. The Japanese for peace is "heiwa" (like "hey ya", but a 'w') and is written 平和. I was confused when I found this written back to front, and thought my local council was possibly very stupid. It turns out that this is Chinese. Thus I am a bit stupid.

2006-09-28T08:07:00.000Z

Tower bridge. In London. In the dark. I spent Friday night wandering around looking at things and enjoying my own company. Who shouted "Loser"?

2006-09-28T08:03:00.000Z

On Saturday I met up with Adam. He left Okayama in July and has now relocated to London. We spent the day walking around and taking in the sights, as well as sneering at paintings in the National Portrait gallery (well, that might have just been me...) and eating breadless-sandwiches from Pret-a-Manger.0 In case you're wandering what a breadless sandwich is, it's not a slice of tomato on top of some cheese smeared with margarine, it is in fact a salad that could never ever actually be made into a sandwich even if you had three loaves of bread.

2006-09-28T07:59:00.000Z

As the autumn weather brings out the autumn crocusses (crocii? Crocarse?), the last bees of the year drag themselves along irritably, awaiting certain doom. Nature in St. James' park.

2006-09-28T07:56:00.000Z

A series of photos by Hiroji Kubota are currently on display on London's South Bank. Each photo shows a scene from Japan- on the left are young participants in an Osaka festival, and on the right are the Tori gates in Tsuwano town, Shimane. And in the back? Tower bridge. No, not London bridge. TOWER BRIDGE. If anyone bumps into Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas, can they please let her know?

2006-09-28T07:53:00.000Z

I became rather confused while looking at a picture of elementary school kids in Kurashiki's Bikan chiku (the traditional area) while standing on London's south bank.

2006-09-28T07:45:00.000Z

People often complain about cities not being very green. Someone clearly didn't understand.

2006-09-28T07:32:00.000Z

Yaki saba teshokku setto hitotsu kudasai! The taste of Joyfull at London prices. Unfortunately Gretchen-Maria wasn't there to organise drinks selections, and I didn't get to ask the waitress if she'd a haircut or shout obscene words while the manager was standing next to me. Not quite old times, but with Paul and Kasumi, and Juliette and Ashley, a good time was had at Yoshino's sushi restaurant. And afterwards I got to regale Kusami with tales of how my supervisor used to sit opposite me in the Board of Education and pluck his armhairs with a tweezers and have a discussion about which is better for men: shaving or waxing eyebrows? Clearly not doing either is wrong...

Gobou: Miracle plant

2006-09-26T15:08:00.000Z

While googling burdock root (gobou) to find places that sold it in London, I came across numerous facts about this delicious and marvellous root.

Not only does it promote healing of skin and scalp conditions, promote hair re-growth, regulate blood sugars and help with pre-diabetic conditions, IT WAS ALSO THE INSPIRATION FOR VELCRO.

Yes, VELCRO. So, if it wasn't for gobou, fat-footed pensioners around the world would still be struggling into lace up shoes instead of comfy expandable slippers and little kids wouldn't have those cool trainers with the three straps across. In fact the world would suffer a great loss of straps. Which would no doubt make bras more valuable.

I need a job.

I need a job.

2006-09-12T23:46:00.000Z

This morning at 10:00 am I was running around the garden in my underwear chasing an evil cat with a big piece of wood in order to protect a squirrel and some collared doves. Unaware that my neighbour was watching. I was very aware once she said, "Good morning Christopher", and while we exchanged as much chit-chat as you could when one person's wearing no trousers, one thought ran through my head:

I need a job.

Great Britain? England? How strange...

2006-09-12T12:33:00.000Z

Urban decay in London. It's the small things that make the difference. In Okayama this would have been an abandoned shack covered in moss and weeds in the mountains. In London it's a single abandoned shoe that has succumbed to moss in the middle of the Popham estate, Islington.

I arrived back on Sunday, AUgust 27th and have been living a comparatively quiet life ever since. The Monday was spent with family- the brother, his wife and their gorgeous baby daughter- in a slight daze, getting confused over the small details.

2006-09-12T12:31:00.000Z

Oh look. I've been back in England for 2 days and I find myself at Kaiten Sushi. Paying an extortionate amount for salmon and tuna and mackerel.

On Tuesday I headed up London to meet Megan, and we spent the afternoon wandering around Japanese shops, CD shops and ending up in pubs. I became very confused because it was still daylight at 7pm and there were no vending machines, no recycling bins and no Lawsons/ Family Mart/ 7-11.

2006-09-12T12:29:00.000Z

Wednesday's lunch was soumen noodles, and an attempt to get my family to try something traditionally Japanese. OK, so soumen season is O.V.A.H. over, but it's tasty and nice and I wanted to eat it. And the folks liked it. Next week it'll be oden...

2006-09-12T12:27:00.000Z

I like wandering around, so I went into London a bit early on Wednesday and on the way to Lyn's place I stumbled across the Bunhill field burial grounds which I've never noticed before. Lots of very, very old graves. Very peaceful. And it was a great evening catching up with Lyn and hearing about her cruise and travels in Australia.

2006-09-12T12:19:00.000Z

Friday was spent in the company of Juliette, a friend from Japanese class in London. We spent the day wandering around Chinatown, Japanese shops and West End stores, stopping to have lunch in a lovely Japanese restaurant. We ate desert in Cavendish square- coffee from Starbucks, kashiwa mochi and Look A La Mode. I AM STILL IN JAPAN! REALLY!

2006-09-12T12:17:00.000Z

Not all of London is glamour and money. This is Wentworth Street, home to part of the famous Petticoat Lane market. It is not very pretty and has a large ugly council estate behind it. And beyond this lays the financial district- you can see the Gherkin (a.k.a. the Erotic Gherkin, a.k.a. the Swiss RE tower) in the background. It was monday morning and I was about to start hunting for Japanese food products.

2006-09-12T12:13:00.000Z

Japanese food shopping again invariably means going to central London, and what a lovely day it was. The picture shows the view from Long Acre down St Martin's lane with its lovely buildings. It was Monday afternoon and I was wandering towards another bomb scare wondering what I should do for lunch...