Takin' Over The Asylum

Readers with unusually keen powers of observation may have picked up on my feelings regarding David Tennant. To keep the rest of you up to speed, I am a fan. I love Blackpool; I adore Casanova; I was blown away by Recovery; I have a passionate but dysfunctional relationship with Doctor Who, but nothing that couldn't be solved by watching certain episodes with the sound switched off, or indeed pretending that those episodes never happened and just staying home with the curtains shut, the Family of Blood two-parter and a really big box of tissues (for the tears, dear readers, for the tears.) Despite all of this, I must be honest and say that Mr Tennant has appeared in his fair share of crap. Put it this way: I won't be investing in the DVD of Secret Smile any time soon.

So it was with some trepidation that I approached 'Takin Over The Asylum', the 1994 comedy drama series about a radio station in a mental hospital, in which young David (pre nose job - or pre growing into his nose) plays a manic-depressive disc jockey with a dreadful '90s floppy haircut and a taste for flappy sweatshirts. There was a lot of potential for it all to go horribly wrong.

And oh my god.......... it is brilliant. Really, really something special. The lead is not Tennant but Ken Stott, who plays an alcoholic amateur DJ with a depressing day job in a Glasgow double glazing firm. Replaced in his hospital radio stint by a very young and fleeting Ashley Jensen, he gets a new position reopening the radio station at the local asylum. At first doubtful, he begins to make friends with the patients, and even begins a tentative romance. As we learn more about the rival pulls of his unsatisfying home life and his passion for the station, we realise that the boundaries between madness and sanity are not as clear as they might seem.

Everything about this show is remarkable - the acting by all parties, the screenplay by Donna Franceschild, who imdb suggests has not done much since (I hope by choice, because the thought that she's not getting offered work is too depressing), the music (loads of incredible classics, though reperformed for the DVD as it was the only way to straighten out all the rights for the release). It's funny, it's thought-provoking, it's incredibly moving, it's intelligent, it's sensitive, and yet completely entertaining at all times.

Go, go, buy buy, or at least rent. You won't regret it, even if you are not as taken with the charms of DT as some of us.

Strictlywatch 2008: Week Two Result

Right. I love Strictly. We know that, don't we? So you know that I aint (Jodie) kidding when I say that the results show is far too long and hideously repetitive. And also on too late, points out one of my viewing companions, whose 7-year-old had to go to bed halfway through. Poor junior fan wouldn't have had to miss out on the result if it had (a) been on at a child friendly teatime, and more to the point (b) not been an *hour long* yawn-fest consisting almost entirely of padding and recap. As well as going over all of yesterday's dances and judge comments, plus the entirety of the two worst dances in the "dreaded" (TM) dance off, we were treated to the whole of the men's group dance - again. But why?? Even the special guest Jill Halfpenny was just trotting out her jive, which is fabulous, but has been seen a hundred times before. I enjoyed the professional group dance even if the Sugarbabes didn't look terribly happy to be so effortlessly upstaged, and I liked having a dance from newcomers cardboard-haired Kristina (yay!), alien-headed Brian (yay!) and boring Hayley (whatever), even though the dance itself was a bit tacky (though I did like that bit with Brian and Kristina and the legs thing which made me swear out loud in front of the children.) Basically that plus the result could have taken about ten minutes. Next week I am pre-recording it and fastforwarding through the guff.

Anyway, like the show I have babbled on for too long before getting to the result: a fair dance-off between Gillian and Jodie, Jodie really pulling it out of the bag (or hat? not sure of my idioms here) to deliver a much better performance than previously, meaning Gillian quite correctly went home.

I have been asked for my predictions for the final: current thinking is Tom, Austin and Rachel. I am ready to be proved wrong...

Strictlywatch 2008: Week Two

The lights! The music! The satin! The weird arm cuff thingy that made Tess look like she was on day release from jail! It's Strictly time again!

I was tickled during the week to hear on It Takes Two that Louisa Lytton used to throw up on herself every time she heard the Strictly music because it made her so nervous. And so welcome, with a collective retch, to the second episode of the 2008 season: it's ladies' night! And very appropriate for us all to be vomiting with such nervous vigour because I have never seen a group of people look so terrified as the women tonight. There was a lot of stomach clutching going on, a lot of pale faces under the slap. Could they have heard the online gossip that anticipated, bluntly, something akin to a hippo ballet?

They needn't have worried. There was nothing here approaching the trainwreck I had (gleefully, I admit) anticipated. Nobody was really awful, although few stood out as particularly good either.

Jessie "Jelly" Wallace (thanks Bruce) was up first, in what my Strictly companion terms her Chicago audition - the hair! The jazz hands! The jazz faces! A bit clumpy, a bit flaily, but OK. Appeared to have forgotten to wear anything on her bottom half underneath the gold lampshade, but that's a matter for wardrobe.

Next up: Christine Bleakley. (Or perhaps not. The lack of extremes in either direction of this episode mean that I can't actually remember in what order everyone danced, but I'll do my best.) A lovely foxtrot with Matthew which mainly served to remind me how much I love Matthew as he sang along with the music throughout.

Lisa Snowdon and Brendan's salsa was technically good but failed to excite me. Maybe because I find them about as appealing as two sachets of tartar sauce writhing together. Lisa's breasts drew admiration from the men in the group: dad vote ahoy. Craig commented that she has natural rhythm. I'm confused: she's not black.

Jodie Kidd and Ian did a much better foxtrot than I expected from her dreadful performances in the group dances. Partly just amazing that as a giantess she can move with any grace whatsoever. We figured out that in her heels her legs would approximately come up to fellow female viewer (4 ft 11)'s shoulders.

Bored yet? We're halfway through.

Heather Small did an energetic salsa with new boy, alien-headed Brian. I have been callous and cruel with my off-blog comments about alien-headed Brian, mainly because he has a head like an alien, but also because he has a particularly irritating American accent, a chest waxed so shiny that you could pluck your eyebrows in its reflection, and he is new, so I hadn't had a chance to grow to like him yet. I say "hadn't" because he really pulled it out of the bag tonight with a top routine. So now I officially like him. It is not his fault he has an alien head, blame the green dude who abducted his mum. (Might explain the shiny chest as well.) I would love to dance with alien-headed Brian, sadly I have fewer thoughts about Heather Small.

Gillian Taylforth let us all down but not being nearly as bad a dancer as one might have hoped, producing a perfectly creditable foxtrot with Anton "Tony Beak" du Becq, and being mainly of note for her unspeakably bad dress (always a bad sign when the giant cherries turn out to be flowers). All the way through her scores, Brendan was grimacing behind her, and none of us could figure out whether it was indigestion, dismay that she was actually halfway decent, or if he had really hoped they were cherries as well.

Rachel Stevens signed up for her designated position as "the one who will be favourite all the way through but go out third or maybe fourth because nobody really likes her" (cf Emma Bunton) by doing a very complicated salsa with Vincent, which I would probably enjoy a lot more if I didn't have to watch Vincent smear her with erotic ectoplasm every time they're on camera. Shudddddddddder.

And last up Cherie Lunghi, who did a really stunning foxtrot with James, definitely the best of the night (though as ever undeserving of a 9!! from Len). And she was gorgeous. Classy dad vote ahoy. Only slightly hampered by being forced to wear the kind of thing you might expect to wrap a beached whale in overnight to keep it warm and stop boats from crashing into it. Sort of dayglo green and shiny. Grim.

Very hard to anticipate who will be in the bottom two, but I'd say Jessie's a cert, perhaps with Lisa or Jodie. Jessie to go.

And before you leave us! The men's group marengue was a step up from group dances so far. Austin is looking hard to beat, Tom also good. Mark makes me want to head into a coma which is quite some feat with that torso.

Lastly, because there is nowhere else to fit it in with ease: who on earth thought it was a good idea to have Bruce make a joke, re Cherie's appearance in Oliver!, about not needing another Nancy on the show? Not funny. Properly offensive. Totally unnecessary. New writers, please.

Strictlywatch 2008: Brucie Bonus 1

The Brucie Bonuses are extra moments less devoted Strictlywatchers (or, say, those with jobs and lives) might have missed. So, for example:

In today's Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two, Craig described Heather Small - the only other black contestant - as having "natural rhythm". [Puts head in hands and weeps.]

I'm not writing much at the moment

so there might be a knock-on effect here. I did post a bit about it but have decided against going into details, instead, to entertain you, have a look at the excellent blogs just there -->

Strictlywatch 2008: Week One Results

Don and Phil to be bottom two, tight as a witch's whatsit as to who will actually go.

Hey hey hey I know my Strictly. The right man went I think (Phil - boring and pained - rather than Don - frightened and inept.) And Gary stays to dance another day!

Other thoughts, in no particular order, as they say: Bette Midler must surely be made entirely out of botox. The group dance confirms all my worst fears / greatest hopes about the girls being a bunch of heffalumps. I am falling in love with John's partner, the new professional Kristina, with her deferential manner and cardboard hair. I miss Alesha. If I was Rachel Stevens I would sue Vincent for sexual harassment. And someone needs to get Jessie Wallace a (better?) wig.

That is all. Keeeeeeep dancing!

Strictlywatch 2008: Week One

At first, it seemed to be a bland start to the series. Tess's clothes have improved markedly since the war-on-two-fashion-fronts of last year's fringe and belt combo, so while her plum gown and wavy hairdo were much easier on the eye, they were also sadly less blogworthy. Bruce's patter meanwhile has lost even more of its sheen with age, and keeping up with the autocue has become a visible strain for him. So far, so meh.

And the initial dances did little to lift proceedings. OK, so my lustometer gave a hearty ding dong when Tom Chambers and Camilla took to the stage: Tom's bum is a phenomenon, and I look forward to see more of its wiggling as the series progresses. But why does Camilla always get the sexy men while the other girls are dealt dud after dud? Flavia was surely being punished for last year's indiscretions with Matt by having to dance with Phil Daniels this year, whose dance was so unremarkable I can't even remember if it was a waltz or a cha cha cha. And what did poor Lilia do to deserve not only Don Warrington but that retina-scarring dress? Don was so out of time that I turned to my Strictly Companion and said that surely this time none of the judges could accuse him of having natural rhythm as they do with every other black contestant. But sure enough that was almost the first thing out of Craig's mouth. Those black folk come out of the birth canal clapping in time with the heart monitor, you know. Next up was Austin Healey and Erin, with a waltz which, while creditable enough, in no way deserved Len's hysterical 9 - he is going to have to go all X Factor and start scoring in zillions and trillions after that. This couple are defintely one to watch though, as talent + sportsman competitiveness + Erin will prove hard to beat. Then Mark Foster, despite his astonishing chest, proved all my worst fears about his watery personality by dancing the dullest of all possible waltzes with equally uninteresting new girl Hayley. His promise to dance in his swimwear if he gets to the final smacked of (a) desperation and (b) the assurance that it will never actually come to that.

At this point I was yawning a bit and wondering whether Strictly had always been this average. And then came a final trio of such outstanding entertainingness that I wanted to kiss the television with joy and relief.

First up, Gary Rhodes and Karen Hardy. Dear god in heaven, I thought Gaby was competitive last year. Gary Rhodes, possibly the world's least charming man, combines unspeakably bad dancing with a rabid need to win, a freakishly high opinion of his abilities, and an appalling inability to take criticism - his rictus grin as the judges laid into him will surely be one of the highlights of the series. Karen, whose naked competitiveness was only partially shielded by a tinfoil toga, had helped by devising a cha cha cha for him which could not have been more ghastly (was that a bongos moment or a cooking mime on her back?), and he proceeded to screw up almost every moment of it. Craig channeled my exact feelings by awarding it a 1. Gary was so repulsive in every way that I immediately had to call up and vote to keep him in.

Next up was John Sargeant, and new Russian dancer Anna Nicole Smithova (may not actually be her name). John already had me on side before he hit the dancefloor by being sweet, funny and endearingly modest in the training interviews, and then he won me over completely by dancing what turned out to be a really lovely waltz. He became my instant favourite and I hope he stays in long enough to show us his jive. And his salsa. And, oh, everything.

And then bringing up the rear in more ways than one were Andrew Castle and Ola. O la la, if I may be so hackneyed. Of Andrew Castle I can say little. He seemed a bit stiff, and hardly surprising. Ola took to the stage in a low cut (back and front) skin tight catsuit and proceeded to writhe all over the place, mesmerising this heterosexual woman with her huge, pert breasts and gorgeous round bum to such an extent I couldn't tear my eyes away for even one second to look at what her dancing partner was doing. What male / lesbian viewers were going through I can barely imagine. The judges all gave average comments and marks - I doubt they could see Mr Castle either.

In conclusion, Tom, Gary, John and Andrew must stay in for all possible versions of entertainment value. Austin should stay for dancing talent. Mark for his body and no other reason. Don and Phil to be bottom two, tight as a witch's whatsit as to who will actually go.

And then!!! As if that were not enough, we got a sneak preview of the girls' "talents" by watching them perform a group dance. And my goodness, they must be the least able group of women Strictly has ever produced. They were ALL dreadful. All of them. Although if I had to pick a particular worst it would have to be Gillian Taylforth, partnered with - hurrah! - Anton Du Bec (aka Tony Beak), who has taken on so many lemons he could open a greengrocer's. Meanwhile Vincent's 'take that, Flavia!' sleazing over Rachel Stevens is already bringing me close to vomiting. I can barely contain myself til next week.

All dances can be watched on the Strictly Come Dancing homepage. I did embed Karen and Gary's for your viewing "pleasure" but had to remove it because the BBC embed system plays the dances automatically, and believe me you do not want that every time you come to my page.

The Family

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50 Things Every British Girl Should Have

UPDATE: Reading over this again, I feel I haven't made myself sufficiently clear. This is the most ghastly, ludicrous, godawful list of non-essential "essentials" I have ever seen. But anyway, as you were.

According to the Sunday Times Style Section by way of Belgian Waffle.

You know the drill by now. Copy and paste into your own blog, bold anything you actually own, take the piss mercilessly in italics everything else, wonder how one earth you qualify as British when you only score five out of fifty. NB I have left their own comments in normal font. Alons-y, Alonzo!

1 GOLD HOOP EARRINGS For days when you wanna look J.Lo glam. These shouldn’t be so big as to look like you haven’t got over the gypsy trend, nor so small as to make you look like a three-year-old on a council estate.
Nope. I look like a fortune teller in hoops.

2 A BERET For bad-hair days. It will take you straight to Kim Basinger in Batman. Just don’t obsess about the angle: they should be worn with nonchalance.
When my hair is lookng awful, I do not wish to compound it by wearing a *beret*. Even a nonchalant beret. Perhaps it is supposed to distract from the bad hair?

3 A VINTAGE OSSIE CLARK DRESS Separates the women from the girls. Fabulously flattering at any age, from 18 to 80.
I am not sure if wearing Ossie Clark makes you a woman or a girl, but either way I am the other one.

4 EXPENSIVE BLACK LACE LINGERIE At least one set. For obvious reasons.
Obvious reasons like I'm single and the last person who saw me in my knickers was an unexpected and very surprised Jehovah's Witness? However, I have half-bolded this. "For obvious reasons".

5 A PAIR OF THERMAL SHORTS For when you want to wear a skirt without tights, but it’s a bit parky outside.
I do own thermal long johns but inexplicably they are not on this list. Should I be wearing the thermal shorts over the expensive black lace lingerie?

6 SILK STOCKINGS A rite of passage for every woman — and, subsequently, for her man. In slightly unusual shades — such as petrol or burgundy — they make an outfit. And in this country they can be worn for three-quarters of the year.
and subsequently, for the ragged edge on the chair which makes a massive hole in them the first time she wears them, leaving her severely out of pocket. I'll stick to nylons, thanks.

7 A DECENT TRENCH COAT Some people are scared of trenches because they look fussy — they’re not. Everyone from Burberry to M&S does them, so there’s no excuse.
Hurrah! Hurrah! I am a woman after all!

8 A LEATHER JACKET It should be cropped and fitted nicely around your waist. Takes you from a gig to the supermarket via your mum’s and a first date. Enough said.
A gig followed by the supermarket via my mum's and a first date - just one of my typical evenings.

9 A GOOD WALLET Because if a bag matters, so does your purse — and people see it all the time. Jimmy Choo’s, we feel, are particularly well thought-out.
I thought I was going to be able to bold this one until I saw their measure of good being "Jimmy Choo".

10 A PAIR OF FALSIES (eyelashes, that is). Instant divadom.
I have no pairs of false anything, not even teeth

11 A VINTAGE DRESS One that’s seen much better days — for being very trashy in.
Technically yes. I have a second hand dress that I sometimes wear for taking out the trash.

12 A PAIR OF MAD SUNGLASSES They should be too mad to go on a date in, but just mad enough to feel liberated.
Too mad to go on a date in? Are we talking Timmy Mallett (pictured, non-British readers)? Er, No.

13 A SHORT, BLACK BOB WIG Check out of you-ness and be Louise Brooks for the day.
EVERY woman in Britain needs a black bob wig. EVERY woman.

14 A STRING OF REAL PEARLS OR REAL PEARL EARRINGS Great for the complexion, as they diffuse light across your face.
So does chip fat.

15 A T-SHIRT DRESS One you’ve had since you were 22. Just throw it on and go.
Nothing says chic like a giant T-shirt I have owned for ten years.

16 A PAIR OF MEN’S BROGUES For looking playfully serious.
To wear, or for juggling with?

17 SOMETHING DELICATE AND ANCIENT It must be kept in acid-free tissue paper — anything made of Victorian lace, for example.
Well, there's my grandmother, but I don't keep her in acid-free tissue paper.

18 DEREK ROSE FLANNEL PYJAMAS For spending Sundays and sickies in.
I do have flannel PJs but I fell at the Derek Rose (who?) hurdle.

19 WHITE CORDS Less flash than white denim, more elegant than jeans. Wear with a navy pea coat, and you are Jackie O.
I am not Jackie O.

20 A KHAKI PARKA Just like the one Kate Moss wore with those Westwood boots in 2000. Never goes out of style, always looks cool — whatever anyone says.
Not since Reading Festival 199cough.

21 GREEK SANDALS Ones that age beautifully and last for ever.
I should really have got some when my book came out, but... no.

22 BOLD STATEMENT HEELS Six inches? Toe cleavage? Huge platform? Orange PVC? Perfect. Shoes that get people talking. And never stop.
Six inches? Toe cleavage? Huge platform? Orange PVC? Run! Head for the hills! Except, of course, you can't. Next!

23 A BLACK CASHMERE ROLLNECK If you must wear basics, console yourself with luxury. Audrey Hepburnesque and great with jeans and minis.
Yes! Yes! I have one! I am Audrey Hepburn! I am the definition of style! Also, it was half price at Uniqlo.

24 HAIRSPRAY (ELNETT) AND KIRBY GRIPS For dramatic evening up-dos.
Owned, yes. Used, never.

25 A CAMEO BROOCH These are practical, but always remarkable, and their colours don’t clash with outfits — unlike jewelled brooches.
Well thank you for clarifying that. Still no.

26 BOAT NECKS If you have a strong collarbone, show off this alternative erogenous zone.
Hurrah! Another one! I am so alternatively erotic.

27 A WATCH Needn’t be expensive, but should either have a small face and a fabric or leather strap; or be chunky and sporty — aka the “boyfriend watch”.
I bought it at an airport and it doesn't work, but technically I haven't thrown it away yet, so...

28 JAPANESE DARK DENIM JEANS Very simple, narrow, but not skinny, wide or bootcut. Never, ever wash them.
*Never wash them*? Doesn't matter, I don't have any.

29 A SLIGHTLY-TOO-SHORT LCD (little coloured dress). Black is okay, but purple (see Michelle Obama), red or jade are better.
Moving on.

30 A COLOSSAL COCKTAIL RING For when you need instant cheer.
Or to punch someome in the face, the editor of the Sunday Times Style section, for example.

31 DECENT WELLINGTON BOOTS Le Chameau, Argyll and Hunter all pass muster. Never be caught in a shiny novelty pair — you will be outed as a novice in an instant.
Shiny novelty pair, check. Am novice.

32 LEATHER DRIVING GLOVES. For looking murderously chic. Get them from the high street — no point spending a fortune, as gloves are so easily lost.
Perfect for commiting murder! Another no.

33 A BRETON TOP Insouciant, witty, timeless, French, sexy.
Yes! I am nothing if not insouciant, witty, timeless, French and sexy. Except maybe not timeless. See above: I own a watch.

34 CASHMERE SOCKS It’s not a style thing, it’s a love thing: a love-yourself thing.
I love me. So does my mother, she was the one who bought me the socks.

35 A SILK SQUARE It can serve as a belt, a neckscarf, a duster — and as a headscarf, is just perfect for autumn bike rides.
Also a picnic blanket, a hanky, a veil, a flag, and a noose. But still no.

36 A HIDDEN TATTOO The element of surprise is essential.
Surprise! I have Bart Simpson on my arse! Um, no.

37 RUBY SLIPPERS Just the one pair?
Just the no pairs.

38 A GREY HOODIE Otherwise you’ll look like you were never a teenager.
Yes! Are you noticing I have all the most stylish things on this list?

39 A FAMILY HEIRLOOM Bracelet, brooch or diamond-set watch — to ignite conversation.
Does my aunt's old piano count?

40 A SHAG-ME BRA To be seen peeking out from your top.
See my bra. Now shag me. Works nevery time (nevery is a world I just made up. It means never.)

41 A PAIR OF GOLD LAME LEGGINGS Because you never know when you might be called upon to go dancing, and it’s hard to keep up with what the kids wear in clubs these days.
This might be my favourite one. Yes, the kids in the club will think you are SO COOL, Sunday Times Style section reader, when you turn up in your gold lame leggings. Here's a thought: jeans. Maybe the Japanese ones you never wash.

42 A TINY DECADENT EVENING BAG It should only have space for a note and a credit card.
I have some small bags, but I don't think anything counts as decadent if it comes from Accessorise.

43 SOMETHING FROM CHANEL Anything at all.
Anything! Anything! Anything! No. I had a Chanel lipstick once.

44 A PAIR OF FAKE SPECTACLES For last-minute librarian chic.
Or my actual non-fake glasses, for last-minute eyesight impairment chic. Unless I am meant to wear contacts and fake glasses on top?

45 A FUR STOLE Fake works fine. Guaranteed to elicit attention when worn flung over shoulders with red lipstick.
I often get attention by flinging lipstick over my shoulder, but...

46 A BROWN LEATHER TOTE These look better the more battered and bruised they get.
Just like men. I jest of course.

47 A BIG, PATTERNED, WOOLLEN SCARF Something hippie-ish you can swathe yourself in come rain or shine. The best are bought on holiday and have bright and pretty colours. Will take a T-shirt and jeans to stylish and original levels.
Apparently Doctor Who is Every British Girl.

48 A TEA DRESS The greatest thing to come out of the 1940s — utterly wearable and endlessly flattering. Vintage numbers are always best.
I own dresses. I own tea.

49 A 100% SILK SLIP Like the one Rachel from Friends wore on her date with Joshua. Every girl needs one for night-time. A pain to wash, but totally worth it.
So now I can feel unfashionable even as I sleep.

50 SPANX Because, sigh, we all have days when we need them.
Sigh. And because I don't need hideous stomach cramps, I'm afraid the world will have to put up with my real, actual belly.

Including all the half points I gave myself: 12! 12 out of 50! I made double figures!

I am SO stylish. And only half British anyway.

Marie, yes, Marie...

Having, while by no means a strange name, nevertheless a relatively uncommon one, I am always struck when it turns up in a book I am reading. And I think I have just found my all-time favourite use of my name in a novel, or at least one that is going to prove very hard to beat in the 50ish years of reading that I hope are yet to come. From Meg Wolitzer's 'The Position':

"Marie, yes, Marie..." Long once said thoughtfully, stroking the edges of his moustache, after Paul had mentioned a former girlfriend. "Forgive me, Paul. Was she the one who gagged uncontrollably when she attempted to orally gratify you, or the one whose mother had Lupus?"

And while I'm on Youtube

That Tina Fey Sarah Palin impersonation in full. Enjoy.

Things you didn't know. (Probably).

Kenny Loggins, who wrote and performed the song Footloose, also wrote the songs for The Tigger Movie.





I can see the similarity.

Books Etc

I was feeling a bit grumpy this afternoon so I went bookshopping as retail therapy. It's the best kind: relatively cheap, totally virtuous, and yet also utterly self-indulgent. Anyway, as I can never resist doing, I peeked at GBB in the shelf, and was tickled to find it had a staff recommends band on it. Usually the staff recommends bands have lots of close-written words enthusing earnestly about the joys of the book within. This one, on the other hand, was written in scrappy capitals and just said: BORED GODS MESS AROUND IN NORTH LONDON, RATHER LIKE THE MANAGEMENT TEAM AT BORDERS ISLINGTON. I think I am in love with the management team at Borders Islington now. Or possibly the sarcastic staff who hate them - hard to say. In any case I bought three books as a mark of gratitude as well as greed:

- Ridley Walker by Russell Hoban. I have a real thing for post-apocalyptic novels, a taste which is probably best not closely examined.
- The Position by Meg Wolitzer. Meg Wolitzer is the female [insert great contemporary male American novelist here] [oh OK then - John Updike] apparently, and this one is about a group of siblings who find out their parents have written - and, ahem, illustrated - a Joy of Sex style book.
- The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing by Melissa Bank - because we purveyors of intelligent-but-light fiction have to stick together.

I'll let you know how I get on. Just finished Paula Spencer this afternoon - Roddy Doyle writing in the first person as an alcoholic woman, so convincingly you'd swear you were reading her mind.

I've been enjoying reading a lot more lately, which might be a surprising statement given that you might imagine writers love reading all the time. But for a long time I got into a really bad habit of 3-for-2 table-surfing, and basically impulse buying a lot of heavily-marketed contemporary fiction which I didn't really want to read that much and therefore, unsurprisingly, often didn't enjoy. Then when I worked in bookshops it got even worse because I'd mainly read proofs and damaged books that we couldn't sell, and so I wasn't even choosing my reads half the time. And then I became a published author, and wasted way too much time on books I'd be sent to give quotes for. You can tell how often I enjoyed those by how many quotes I've given. I have given two quotes. (I am taking a gamble here that the people whose books I've been sent not knowing I've been sent them. If I've been sent your book and you;re reading this, and it makes you feel any better, only one of the quotes I gave - for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society - was ever used, so my other quote might have been for your book.)

These days I bypass the 3-for-2s and I only read past the first few pages of the proofs if they really grab me, and instead I go straight to the backlist fiction shelves and browse them intensely, thinking about books I've been wanting to read for a while - old classics, modern classics, prizewinners I missed at the time they won because I was waiting for the paperback and then forgot, books by authors I like, books recommended by friends, books I've read good reviews of, books that get referenced a lot when I'm reading about other authors and other books. And each time I find a big pile that I'd like, and narrow it down to take a few home with me. And my strike rate is much, much higher.

So now I have three cracking reads waiting for me. And to add to my good mood, while I was there, I noticed a few novels that looks similar to the book I'm writing at the moment, so I had a snoop. (No - no clues - sorry!) Anyway, one of them - which was hugely successful when it came out - looked a lot better than my book. But the other two looked a lot worse. I can live with those odds.

I left Borders Islington with a smile on my face, even if the management team are still bored and busy smiting mortals. I love bookshops. You don't get all this from an e-reader.

Strictly Come Exciting!

Oooh! Ooooh! Ooooooooooh!

Was anybody else watching the launch show? Sure, it doesn't really count as an episode of Strictly because there's no actual dancing in it, but it's a key step in the formation of totally snap judgements on who I LOVE, who I HATE, and who I am DESPERATE TO HAVE DINNER WITH... FOLLOWED BY BREAKFAST.

Who I LOVE is Lilia, obviously, (how could I get her name wrong in previous post? Moment of madness), so it is depressing to see that she has been paired with potential lemon Don Warrington. As she had to dance with obnoxious "my dance was flawless" lemon Dominic last year this seems crushingly unfair and you do wonder whether the person who makes these decisions really doesn't like Lilia. But surely everyone loves Lilia, so that can't be right. (Actually, boringly, I think they mostly match them on height. But anyway.)

Who I HATE is Gary The Ego Rhodes, although depressingly it loks like he might be a bit of a mover, so I reckon we will have to stick with him for a while, unless he is subjected to an undiginified Gaby-style exit, but even then we will have to endure weekly reminders that he shouldn't have gone out - sigh - maybe he will be less smooth than he looked in the preview.

Who I am DESPERATE TO HAVE DINNER WITH... FOLLOWED BY BREAKFAST is a bit of a surprise, as I had my eye on Mark Foster and his eye-popping bod, but in fact he seems to have a bit of a wet fish personality, so my official crush of the series (subject to change without notice) is that chap from Holby City, Tom Thingummy. Hello. Please stop talking about how you are getting married mid-season.

Other than that, my favourite moment was Vincent Simone promising that his choreography with Rachel Stevens was going to be "so hot it's traumatic". Ha ha, it's Vincent v. Flavia: the rematch! May the bitch-fighting begin!

Meanwhile, from the tiny moments of rehearsal we got to witness, the one to watch may be Heather Smalls, she had a convincing wiggle, although handicapped by a new, irritating professional dancer, some cheesy American who may or may not be called Brad.

More news as it breaks!

Here's one I ate earlier: an update

I hope that my mother won't object to me quoting her e-mail verbatim:

"Epoisses is the cheese that we once brought back from skiing. We had to drive with the windows open, apologise to the customs officer for the smell in the car, put it on the window ledge outside when we got home and finally throw it away as the smell overpowered us all. And I had asked the cheese monger for a 'cheese that did not smell too much as we were traveling'. We have eaten it since, but never have had such problems with the smell of it. It was obviously a particularly powerful variety."

Believe me I remember it well, the smelliest cheese I have ever encountered, and I was only ten years old. It was a phenomenon. As Sartre, I believe, once said, "L'enfer, c'est L'Epoisses", or it is in a confined space anyway. Thanks for the clarification, Maman.

Home And A Rape

Long-term readers of this blog will know that I am bit obsessed with Home and Away. I don't blog about it much because I assume that the rest of you have jobs and lives or are Canadian or both, and so aren't familiar with it. I however watch it every day without fail, and let me tell you something. It is really starting to piss me off.

Now, to pick up on the sexual politics of a daytime teen-oriented soap may seem a little hysterical to some, but bear with me, OK? By my count, Home and Away is now on its THIRD misunderstood rapist with a heart of gold. Very, very long-term readers of this blog and its predecessor may remember Kane, the original misunderstood rapist. To summarise, Kane raped Dani, and then married her sister Kirtsy. Dani's objections to this were largely felt to be really quite unnecessarily grudge-holding by the rest of the Summer Bay residents, and eventually she got over it. After all, it was a date rape, so that hardly even counts.

Next up was Henk, or maybe Hank, I am a bit confused by Aussie accents sometimes. Henk / Hank raped Rachel, but quite a long time ago now, so really it's OK when he gets together with Cassie (whose previous boyfriend used to beat her up.) I mean, you can understand why Rachel doesn't approve, but it's love, right? OK, to be fair, Henk / Hank gets AIDS and gives it to Cassie and then she dumps him and takes off travelling with their unborn child, BUT on the whole you are supposed to feel quite sorry for Hank / Henk, whose rape / underage girl habit is portayed as a character flaw on a par with, say, listening to loud music late at night.

And now we have Axel, who tried to rape Melody and failed, and has been shown to feel a bit guilty about it (he confessed to the police), and thus rehabilitated is perfectly ready to start dating new arrival Ruby, who insightfully pointed out that "if I had done something like that, I would feel worse about myself than anybody could feel about me." Anybody, aside from loyal Home and Away viewer Marie Phillips, who is getting sick and tired of date rape being portrayed as som kind of rite of passage for mixed up young kids, like drinking til you puke or spraying graffiti. I hate to come over all Mary Whitehouse about this, but seriously: what kind of message is this sending out to impressionable young viewers?

Next time, if you can stand it: the Whore's Trail of Home and Away's sexually predatory older women, starring Angie, Amanda, and Jazz.

UPDATE: How could I possibly have forgotten Jonah, who raped Martha's best friend, but while (of course) brainwashed, so (of course) it doesn't count, and therefore we shouldn't be at all surprised when he comes back to the Bay (of course) a reformed man, changes his name to Michael and starts (of course) dating Martha.

DOUBLE UPDATE: Turns out I was wrong about Axel. He died. Ah well.

Here's one I ate earlier

From Behind The Laptop...

The Omnivore's Hundred

1) Copy this list into your blog or journal, including these instructions.


2) Bold all the items you’ve eaten.


3) Cross out any items that you would never consider eating.


4) Optional extra: Post a comment here at www.verygoodtaste.co.uk linking to your results.


NB They don't have formatting options for the very useful "I can't remember" or "what the fuck is that" so I will have to annotate as we go.


The VGT Omnivore’s Hundred:

1. Venison


2. Nettle tea
 - I can't remember. Already.

3. Huevos rancheros
 - Also. And we're only three in. This is going badly. Can everyone else remember every unremarkable thing they ever ate?

4. Steak tartare


5. Crocodile


6. Black pudding
 - I'm sure it's delicious but the concept grosses me out.

7. Cheese fondue


8. Carp - as I recall, a bit of a waste of time. Lots of little bones.


9. Borscht


10. Baba ghanoush


11. Calamari
 - Rubbery. Yuk. What is all the fuss about?

12. Pho

13. PB&J sandwich - Americans: boy are you ever wrong about these.


14. Aloo gobi


15. Hot dog from a street cart
 - I have definitely eaten hotdogs. But from a street cart? I think I need to do one of those things where they open your brain and poke it to see if your memory works.

16. Epoisses
 - qu'es ce que c'est? [Googles] Oh, it's a cheese! In that case,almost certainly, as I've never met a cheese I didn't like, but I can't bold for certain because I just don't know.

17. Black truffle

18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
 - Not a clue. Would I even notice?

19. Steamed pork buns


20. Pistachio ice cream


21. Heirloom tomatoes
 - I dunno. I have eaten tomatoes. I am starting to realise I might be failing as a foodie.

22. Fresh wild berries


23. Foie gras but never again, after watchig that play about force-feeding sufragettes.


24. Rice and beans


25. Brawn, or head cheese
 - No but I was once laughed at for mistranslating some German term as Head Cheese when I was 14, and I have never got over it, and I will balme head cheese forever and no morsel of it will pass these lips.

26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
 - are you insane?

27. Dulce de leche
 - would screw with my lactose issues

28. Oysters
 - would rather swallow snot: cheaper, and basically the same

29. Baklava


30. Bagna cauda
 - some Italian dip, apparently

31. Wasabi peas
 - never again! I loathe Wasabi

32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
 and I don't eat clams, but I have had an edible bowl before and it's a world of fun.

33. Salted lassi
 Lactose, lactose... And yes I can eat cheese and yes it is confusing.

34. Sauerkraut


35. Root beer float
 - why drink Root Beer when you could just eat toothpaste?

36. Cognac with a fat cigar


37. Clotted cream tea


38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O


39. Gumbo


40. Oxtail


41. Curried goat


42. Whole insects
 - I had fried grasshoppers. They taste like crisps (ie of salt and fat) but the legs get stuck between your teeth.

43. Phaal


44. Goat’s milk


45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more
 - I had about three sips and was nearly unconscious it was so strong. Good unconscious, though.

46. Fugu
 - the exploding japanese death fish thingy? Um, no thanks.

47. Chicken tikka masala


48. Eel


49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut


50. Sea urchin
 - you peel it, I'll eat it

51. Prickly pear


52. Umeboshi
 - Probably have, it's some sour Japanese plum apparently

53. Abalone
 - I have only eaten land snails, and not enjoyed them either.

54. Paneer


55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal - Just chips and dip for me please


56. Spaetzle
 - you wouldn't belivee how many of these I'm having to look up. Some kind of German dumpling thing, apparently.

57. Dirty gin martini
 - olives, yuk. And in your drink?

58. Beer above 8% ABV
 - I can't drink beer, but I do drink the homebrew cider at the Sqaure and Compass in Worth Matravers and half a pint is enough to knock out a wrestler.

59. Poutine
 - cheese curd, chips and gravy. I haven't, but I so would.

60. Carob chips Carob is the chocolate they serve you in Hell

61. S’mores


62. Sweetbreads
 - Not sweet. Not bread. Rename, please.

63. Kaolin
 - "Kaolin is an absorbent medicine used to treat diarrhoea". Yum.

64. Currywurst


65. Durian
 - it's fruit. It smells. I'm unexcited.

66. Frogs’ legs
 - tastes like chicken

67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake


68. Haggis - Sorry, Scotland


69. Fried plantain


70. Chitterlings, or andouillette
 - SOunds like the kind of thing I wouldn't eat (tripe sausage) but I wouldn't be surprised if it has caught me unawares in a restaurant somewhere in France

71. Gazpacho


72. Caviar and blini


73. Louche absinthe
 - or perhaps I have drunk loads of it, explaining the memory loss evident throughout this meme

74. Gjetost, or brunost - it's cheese, I'll eat it


75. Roadkill - depends what type. Venison yes, badger no.

76. Baijiu
 - hardcore scary Chinese booze apparently

77. Hostess Fruit Pie

78. Snail


79. Lapsang souchong


80. Bellini


81. Tom yum


82. Eggs Benedict


83. Pocky - aka Mikado in Europe, apparently.

84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant
 - No, but if anyone's offering...

85. Kobe beef


86. Hare

87. Goulash


88. Flowers
 - if courgette flowers count

89. Horse
 - I am a commited carnivore but I just can't. Too many memories of pony riding as a child. Having said that, I have chomped through plenty of our donkey friends in the form of Italian dried sausages.

90. Criollo chocolate


91. Spam
 and I have never quite got over it.

92. Soft shell crab


93. Rose harissa


94. Catfish
 - another one of those memory lapses. Why on earth would I remember catfish?

95. Mole poblano


96. Bagel and lox


97. Lobster Thermidor
 - I am distinctly meh on the subject of lobster. I know, I know.

98. Polenta


99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
 - can't drink coffee

100. Snake - does this include the pink variety?

Robert Lepage: Lipsynch

So, fresh from two days in bed, on Saturday I headed off to the Barbican centre to see Robert Lepage's new play, Lipsynch. For those who are not in the know, as I was certainly not in the know, Robert Lepage is one of the world's leading dramatists, and a new play by him is a very big deal indeed. A very big deal in the sense that the entire audience was full of salivating thesps. And a very big deal in the sense that Lipsynch is nine hours long.

I know, I know. Who in their right mind would go and see a nine hour long play? But I'm not in my right mind, and I have been getting more and more into theatre recently, and I quite fancied the idea of myself as the kind of cool, in the know, theatre-going person who would go to see a nine-hour-long play at the Barbican by a hip dramatist. And I had the feeling that either it would be absolutely marvelous or it would be horrendously awful but one way or another it would be interesting and noteworthy and I'd have loads to say about it.

It wasn't. It wasn't absolutely marvelous, horrendously awful, interesting, or noteworthy. It was fine. As it turns out, being nine hours long was the most remarkable thing about it.

The structure of the play was in nine parts, like interlinked short stories, each following one of a number of overlapping characters. Overall, thematically, the stories investigated questions of voice, music, family relationships, sexual exploitation, and so on in ways that were diverting but unenlightening. So apparently prostitution exploits the vulnerable, and family love can be stifling but ultimately conquers all, and some things can't be expressed in conversation but only through music, and so on. Feeling intrigued yet? No? Me neither.

The performances were a bit erratic (some cast members surely chosen for singing ability rather than acting chops), the set was so impossibly complex each scene change took several minutes and bits kept falling off so crew members had to run on mid-scene and fix it, the dialogue was in a number of languages but the surtitles didn't always work - so much of it was shambolic that in the end I felt like I had seen a brave school play.

On the other hand it was rarely dull, though the truly good moments were pretty sporadic. I was genuinely moved once (in nine hours!) in a segment where a voice-over artist recovering from a brain tumour struggles to remember the precise sound of her father's voice. Another segment featured a hilarious slapstick funeral complete with farting coffin. A brilliant sequence focused on a man in drag as an old lady lipsynching perfectly to a long anecdote in her voice. And the set - when functioning - could at times be so good that it upstaged the actors. But all of this really wasn't enough.

Ultimately the play was a disappointment. Even though it sucessfully passed nine hours of my life without too much discomfort or boredom, I really didn't feel I had got anything more edifying than I would have in nine hours of watching TV. I would almost have prefered something awful because it would have suggested a few risks being taken. At one moment in the play, one of the characters says of a home video "But it's so banal!" to which another replies, "Well, that's life", which neatly sums up my feelings about the whole thing.

A banal three stars out of five...

First day back

after two weeks off writing, and I was all primed and ready to go and actually quite excited about a nice run of months to finish my new book in. Until I woke up this morning, ill. Not a cold. Not a stomach bug. Another kind of ill! Who gets other kinds of ill? That doesn't even make sense. But anyway, me and my aching, hideously dizzy head can't sit up for very long, so there will be no blogging (or book writing) until it's better. (Tomorrow, please!) Bear with me...

Public Information Announcement

Cost of tickets for the London Eye from huge, heavily-signposted "Fast Track" booth directly opposite London Eye: £25.
Cost of tickets for the London Eye from official yet barely signposted at all counter within deceptively non-ticket-selling-looking building not quite opposite London Eye and next door to huge, heavily-signposted "Fast Track" booth: £15.50.

Welcome to London, tourists! A blank cheque will do nicely, thanks.

[On the other hand, to get your tickets from said building, you do have to walk past the least convincing waxwork I've ever seen, allegedly of Pierce Brosnan (I just think they fiddled with the nose on the Timothy Dalton one a bit. Sorry, Daniel who? Up to date? London's premier tourist attraction? But - why?) You may consider avoiding that horror worth paying the additional £9.50. I don't (quite).]

Strictly Necessary

"Now," writes Jaywalker. "Marie. Should I allow myself to get sucked in? Have only just regained the luxury of British tv and seem to already spend most evenings in slack jawed stupor in front of Simon Cowell."

Yes, Jaywalker, yes, you must get sucked in! For a start, this blog (and by extension, my life) only really comes alive for 26 weeks of the year: 13 weeks of Doctor Who and 13 weeks of Strictly Come Dancing. The rest is just desperately treading water. (Though has anybody else been following Maestro? I am completely obsessed. I've been catching up on the ones I missed while on holiday, so am still lagging behind, but from now on I only want to go to concerts where I can sit in the choir seats - as you do can in the Royal Festival Hall, say - and see the face of the conductor. And Sue Perkins is a genius. And I have started playing my piano again as a direct result. But anyway.) The happiest readers of this blog are fans of both Who and Strictly, and are just waiting for that announcement that must surely come one day: "And now, dancing the Tango to the theme from Doctor Who, is David Tennant and his partner Lydia Kopylova."

But Jaywalker, Jaywalker. The outfits. The rugby players trying to do the rhumba. The gossip. The bitching. The off-stage romances that threaten to engulf all onstage. Tess Daly's belts. Bruce Forsythe's jokes. The barely-veiled sexism and racism of the judges. The amount of times any woman will be described as "a beautiful girl" if they are in fact overweight and / or old and everybody is too scared to mention it. The "journeys". The band, mutilating everything in their path. The outfits, for crying out loud. SEQUINS. There are simply not enough sequins on X Factor, though I will admit that Cheryl's hair does make up for that oversight this season.

And the dancing, the dancing, the dancing, the dancing, the dancing! Every year I start watching Strictly for the kitsch, and every year it's the dancing that keeps me watching. Some of these celebrities get so good - I'm thinking Alesha Dixon, I'm thinking Mark Ramprakash. And aside from that there's the professionals dancing together who are really quite incredible. Let's remind ourselves shall we?



Oh yes indeedy. Jaywalker, you will not regret it.

Bring on the dancing girls! (and boys...)