Flight of the Conchords: Foux de Fa Fa

And last and not least tenuous, it's the Conchord Boys...



If all goes according to plan I should be flying home tomorrow. God, that was quick. I hope it's stopped raining.

Scott Walker: Song of Jacky

OK. This is getting tenuous: it's an English language cover version of a Belgian song, but even so...

Serge Gainsbourg: Le Poinconneur de Lilas

This one is atypical of the Serge Gainsbourg oeuvre - it's from 1958 - but I chose it because my (French) mother likes to sing it, and so I love it.

Charles Trenet: Boum!

Going back in time, and back into French, with this one...

Vanessa Paradis: Be My Baby

This one's in English as well. I love Vanessa in her Lenny Kravitz phase.

Soko: I Will Never Love You More

Just love this track. It is helpfully in English. But she is French.

Goodbye Rain Hello France

It rained so much yesterday that even with a towel under my front door my doormat is still soaked through. ENOUGH. It is JULY. I am going to France. It had better not rain in France.

In order to celebrate me being in France, I am leaving you with a series of French-themed songs for every day until I get back. Yes. I am nice like that.

Here's the first: Brigitte Bardot with Tu Veux, Tu Veux Pas. Note the umbrella-furling at the start. Also the great 1960s interpretive dancing.

The Great Crush Gallery: And The Gents

Rather more competition for the title of best male first crush, beginning with my own nomination, pre-trailed here - Adam Ant. Let's just get another look at him.



Oh, Adam. Ridicule is nothing to be scared of.

Up next is Lisa Gee's first love, who is a drawing. A drawing of a musketeer, but nevertheless a drawing. Bonjour, d'Artagnan!



Time is our enemy, so let's crash on. Baroness Black was a young admirer of Aha, and Jessica of Morten Harket, and I'm hoping the Baroness will allow Morten to stand in for his bandmates for the purposes of this scientific study:



You know, this poll is putting me in a really good mood.

Annabel Gaskell's heart beat only for David Cassidy:



Who looks, and this will not go down well in certain sectors, like a cross between my brother and one of my sisters.

Whereas Jane Henry was torn between David McCullum:



Okaaaaay... and Bob Geldof:



That's a very generous choice of image for Mr Geldof and it took me some time to find. But he does spend so much time and effort helping the poor kiddies of Africa.

Calistro was also a fickle mistress, vacillating between Buck Rogers -



and Shakin' Stevens, the Elvis of Wales:



Interesting. Bar the outfits, they are basically identical.

Staying in the popzone, how about Jaywalker's beloved Mark Shaw, then of Then Jerico?



Or even Justin Hayward of the Moody Blues, who captured Raye S's heart?



That's... an interesting choice, Raye.

Quick, to Miss B's object of adoration, Jared Leto as he appeared in My So Called Life:



Is anybody noticing a certain big eyes, long hair type theme going on here? They all look like baby fauns. I think we need some leather, TCJM:



Thank heavens for that. This manly specimen is Avon from Blakes 7, portrayed by Paul Darrow.

Charles Lambert prefered the charms of Dave Clark of the Dave Clark Five:



While Laura, as a toddler, could not get enough of Rick Astley:



(Evil Pixie liked Rick too, but ONLY his voice. She is VERY clear about this.)

A more grown-up Laura, at the lofty age of 10, graduated to an obsession with Robbie Williams. Now, it was very important to me to pick an image of Take That era Robbie Williams, otherwise it Would Not Have Been Fair. So here you are (Robbie, helpfully, is circled):



Mmmm. Sexy.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is our lot. So if you would be kind enough to cast your votes:

poll by twiigs.com

poll by twiigs.com

The Great Crush Gallery: Ladies First

And so, the Rogues Gallery of first crushes of YOU, the reading public. Please excuse use of very small pictures here, I am merely thinking of my poor sister in Mozambique whose computer will crash if I make them any bigger. You can probably click on them to enlarge, should you want a closer look. I think some of you might well want a closer look at certain of these ladies, but let's not anticipate.

First up, nominated by both Scott and Johnny Nexus: East German gymnast Maxi Gnauck.



She is the one who is having her tits stared at, not the one who is staring at the tits.

Next, the first of our Doctor Who nominations, Wendy Padbury aka Zoe, championed by Brian Clegg:



Doctor Who is a popular source, also providing MediumRob's offering of Nicola Bryant, who played Peri:



Nope. Can't see what would appeal to a young boy there.

MediumRob also suggests Soolin of Blakes 7, another show which has done sterling work providing subjects for crushes for the impressionable children of the UK:



Believe me, it was not possible to get a picture of Soolin not looking gormless. Not possible.

Last up from MediumRob is Hadyn Gwynne. I couldn't find any pictures from Drop the Dead Donkey, honest, so I went with -



What a feeling.

Providing stiff competition to the ladies above is Oliver's nomination, Megan Follows from Anne of Green Gables:



Hmm.

And finally, and this picture has been specially chosen because it's the exact poster which was the last thing little Ben Johncock saw before he fell asleep at night, and the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning, Rebekah Elmaloglou, aka Sophie from Home and Away:



So, to the polls!

poll by twiigs.com

poll by twiigs.com

Animal Magic

Taking some time out from the first crushes - we will go back to them.

Meanwhile, there's no way around it, this is a blog post about animals masturbating.

It's a response to this (scholarly, and safe for work) piece on the Slate website, which, I promise you, raises interesting questions above and beyond the fantastic line: "some moose can ejaculate simply by rubbing their antlers on bits of vegetation".

Putting aside the prurience and the comedy factor, the premise of the article is intriguing because of the large amount of time that it spends looking at the evolutionary advantages of sperm competition theory, and the almost no time at all it spends considering whether and why animals might have an urge to pleasure themselves in general. I realise that's the point of the piece - that masturbation is not just for fun, but also conveys an evolutionary advantage - and it is very interesting. But it fails to consider that the ability to have fun itself conveys an evolutionary advantage.

I would interpret the data about animal masturbation as follows: it is evidence of the widespread capacity of pleasure in animals, and of how animals will use fairly sophisticated means to seek it out. So the piece says that "both male and female porcupines manipulate their genitals with inanimate objects"; this is tool use, and tool use is the kind of thing that evolutionary biologists wet themselves over because of it being a marker of intelligence and sophistication. If a monkey uses a stick to get itself something to eat, that's front page news. So sexual pleasure is hugely important: porcupines using dildos is a big deal and not just because it's funny; animals don't bother with tools unless it's for something that matters. But because masturbation is about sexual pleasure, the work on it can be reductionist: sexual pleasure must be about sex. I think it's broader than that: orgasm is a visible marker of enjoyment. Similarly, you can explain domestic cats eating themselves into obesity by saying "they evolved as wild animals who didn't know where their next meal was coming from so they eat as much as they can when they can" or by saying "cats enjoy eating". Animals do things they enjoy. (Eating too much and wanking. Sound familiar?) It's all about the joy.

So if we accept that both the purpose and driving force of evolution is survival, we can look at the evolution of pleasure as a mechanism to help us to survive. We know what we need to do to survive because it is pleasant: food, sex, warmth, loving our offspring etc. We know what to avoid because it is unpleasant: hunger, pain, cold, loneliness. The story of evolution is thus the story of pleasure. Pleasure is how we learn what is right for us. A joyful animal is a successful animal. A miserable animal is two steps off freezing to death, starving, or dying without offspring.

Masturbation isn't just about healthy sperm, it's the direct result of evolution working, it's the embodiment of the message that evolution has created: do what feels good. The piece is perplexed on what advantage female masturbation might have, given that females don't have sperm, as if the author can't imagine why it might be to a female animal's advantage to experience pleasure. This may be symptomatic of the writer's inability to link sexual pleasure with any other kind of pleasure. Female animals masturbate because it is important in evolutionary terms to do the things that feel good, because if you don't, you'll die. A clever animal will seek pleasure and practice pleasure, because the appreciation of pleasure conveys an evolutionary advantage in itself. So masturbating reminds you that you enjoy sex and it might be an idea to have sex more often. But not only that, masturbation is a marker of an animal's ability to seek out pleasure for itself, and this is a useful thing to be able to do.

Or to put it another way, masturbation is the meaning of life and a sign of highly sophisticated intelligence.

Enjoy!

First Crush Update

I am considering a rogue's gallery and a poll. Any more first crush confessions? We are particularly short on admissions from men.

Prince Charming

It's all coming back to me now. My first crush wasn't David Bowie. It was Adam Ant. The 'Prince Charming' album came out in 1981, a full five years before 'Labyrinth'. I was five. I thought Adam Ant was straight out of a fairy tale. Isn't he beautiful?



Sigh... I had good taste, when I was five.

Pop stars today don't wear enough outfits, and they are peculiarly obsessed with not looking like girls. Male pop stars, anyway.

'Prince Charming' was my sister's favourite because she liked doing the dance. She was eight. But the video that won my heart was 'Stand and Deliver'. I wanted a dandy highwayman to hold me up. I wasn't wrong.



Who was your first crush?

'Moon' + Q&A, Screen on the Green 19.07.09

Now this is going to be tricky, because I want you to go and see this film, but I also don't want to tell you anything about it, because the less you know, the more you'll enjoy it.

The film in question is 'Moon'. I went spontaneously yesterday afternoon, because I was walking past the Screen on the Green and noticed that they were having a Q&A after the movie with the director, Duncan Jones, and there is very little I enjoy more than a Q&A with a director. But one of the things I enjoy at least as much as a Q&A with a director is a good sci fi movie, and I didn't have anything else planned for Sunday afternoon, so all in all this was a bit of a result.

Here is as much of the story as I am willing to tell you, and I would urge you not to find out more before you go. It is the future. Sam Bell (Sam Rockwell) is nearing the end of his three year contract, working alone on a mining station on the dark side of the moon. All he's had for company over this time is a friendly robot (voiced by Kevin Spacey) and occasional video messages from his wife and daughter. He watches old sitcoms, he is whittling a model village as his hobby, he plays ping pong against the wall, and every so often he goes onto the surface to deal with breakdowns in the otherwise automated mining equipment. And he is fed up. You'd be fed up too if you'd been woken up every morning for three years by a musical alarm clock playing 'The One and Only' by Chesney Hawkes. He's only got two weeks left on base, and things have just started to get weird...

Anyway, it's a terrific, intelligent, scary, funny film, made on a shoestring budget (£2.5 million, which is nothing for a sci-fi movie), heavy on character and light on explosions. Much of the success of the film is down to Rockwell, who puts in a great performance as Sam Bell, and it was only after the film ended that I looked back and realised how good his performance had been. He makes it look easy and natural when it's anything but. Meanwhile, in part because the film is so low budget, the special effects are done the old-fashioned way, using models and camera trickery instead of CGI, and it's all the more atmospheric for it. A film like this stands or falls on its believability, and the simplicity and tangibility of the models and sets really helps with this. Equally, when the film takes on a more violent edge, the pain looks seriously painful. The film's physicality is so brutal that I kept flinching in my seat. But it's never over the top either, so you can't dismiss it. It has a fantastically understated aesthetic which packs a bigger punch than films with far more money to throw at spectacular effects - everything that needs to be real is so real that it's easy to buy the unreal elements. It's exactly the way sci fi should be.

Afterwards, Duncan Jones was brought on to answer questions. I was nervous. He's the son of one of the world's most famous stars (David Bowie*) and he's a film director: two very high risk indicators for being a self-obsessed arrogant cocktard. Or at the very least having terrible hair. But he's lovely, and his hair is completely normal. He answered all the questions with modesty and a fair amount of nervous laughter, and as it turned out it was one of the most interesting Q&As I've been to (and I have been to a lot), because when you're talking about the art of making films, little is more interesting than how to put together a convincing film, set in space, when all you've got to spend is the paperclip budget for the pre-production of Angels and Demons. Though again, I can't give any concrete examples as it would ruin the surprises in the film.

You could feel the audience warm to him very quickly, so much so that there was an audible rise in tension when a pedant in the audience got him into the following exchange:

Pedant: I think you'll find that there's no atmosphere on the moon, and so you wouldn't actually have been able to hear the trucks driving around.
[collective eye-rolling from audience]
Jones: Yes, I know. We tried it without sound and with no stars in the sky, but because it was so cheap it really did look like someone pulling a toy cart across a cardboard moon.
Pedant: Kubrick managed it in 2001: A Space Odyssey.
[Loud muttering throughout auditorium.]
Jones: I promise you, I tried it and it didn't work. But you can always watch it on DVD and turn the sound down.
[Applause]

So, fab film and charming director. I urge you to go and see Moon, and / or get the DVD (volume controls of your choice) as the commentary is bound to be fascinating. Also, it would be a personal favour to me, as Jones will use profits as funding for his next project, a Bladerunner homage based in Berlin, and that's a film I really want to see.

*UPDATE: Filled with terror that I have inadvertently slagged off David Bowie, my first ever crush. I would cheerfully eat my dinner off his feet. However, being a child of anyone famous can do odd things to a person, like growing a potato in a shoebox. Also, Bowie does sometimes have quite odd hair.

WWTTM Benign Book Dictatorship: Asylum.

First, an announcement. As previously mentioned, from next month Scott Pack and I will be running a monthly literary event in Windsor, the Firestation Bookswap. Tickets for the August 20th event are now on sale for a measly £5. We'll be dragging some sofas out of the props cupboard, brewing up a pot of tea, and discussing all manner of topics, including but not remotely limited to books, with guests including the new queen of blockbuster fiction Jessica Ruston and associate editor of the Observer, biographer, memoirist and novelist Robert McCrum. Information on how to get to the venue can be found on this highly informative page. I can confirm that it is very easy to get to from London. Less easy, perhaps, from some of the other places readers of this blog come from: Canada; Australia; Mozambique... Which is why I have decided to run a monthly Virtual Firestation on this blog, instead of the book club. I know, very sad. But think of it as a new, advanced book club! A month in advance I'll post up the names of our guests, so that those who are interested can investigate, and even read, their work. Before the event, anybody who has any questions or comments for our guests can post them here. Then afterwards, I'll do a post writing up the event, and open it out to discussion in the comments box.

Meanwhile, this month's book club book was Asylum by Patrick McGrath. Like an eejit, I have come down to Dorset without my copy. Fortunately it is a memorable read. In 1959, a young woman, Stella, is brought by her husband to live within the grounds of the hospital for the criminally insane where he is deputy superintendent. While there, she falls under the spell of a highly charismatic but dangerous murderer, Edgar. They have a passionate affair, and escape the hospital together. Edgar's sanity begins to crack; Stella begins to suspect she may be in danger at his hands; and the law and her family are on her trail. What transpires is a tragic indictment of love that can neither be lived nor denied.

What I remember finding most disturbing about the book was its vision of love as an obsessive, destructive force, bringing not joy and redemption, but the intense desire for the possession of, and even a murderous consumption of, the other. It reminded me very much of Wuthering Heights in its wilderness setting and its portrayal of the addictive, unshakable qualities of passionate love. Also in its seemingly cool narrator, reminiscent of Nellie Dean, but who by the end turns out to be just as twisted and implicated in the destructive force of passion as his patients. I am brought back to the question I posed when I suggested this book a month ago: is love itself a form of insanity?

Over to you.

Perchance to Dream

I am in Dorset at the moment, where I've come for a few days of calm and quiet in order to get some serious writing done on my book. In fact it hasn't turned out quite like that; I haven't written a huge amount more than I would in London (although not less, so the trip isn't a waste of time). Instead I have been walking, swimming, reading, eating and doing a lot of sleeping. I am slightly surprised by the amount of sleep I can get done; the total silence and darkness outside at night is probably helping with that.

Sleeping, inevitably, means dreams, and while I know it is odious and dull beyond measure to talk about one's dreams, bear with me on this one - I promise not to go into detail. Last night I had my most recent recurring dream, a dream I am having with alarming frequency. I have always been one for recurring dreams; I have lots involving various forms of transport going out of control (plane crash / boat sinking / I have forgotten how to drive); dreams about needing to pee but having nowhere to go, quite often combined with my other recurring dream that I have gone back to school and am being forced to do my A Levels again, so the dream takes place in a school toilet full of cubicles, none of which are suitable for some reason - this one I have so often that I got quite freaked out when I was in an actual school toilet recently; and my favourite recurring dream, that I am in New York and it's amazing. I've been having this one less recently, ever since I did go to New York and it really was amazing. It's like my subconscious can't be bothered with it any more.

My new recurring dream is that I'm pregnant. It's always slightly surprising, I never know who the father is, and my family are always there to offer support / interfere, depending on the tenor of the dream. It's not an anxiety dream, I am never particularly worried about being pregnant, nor is it an especially happy dream. It's just me with a massive bump, idly wondering what having a baby will be like. Last night I was mainly concerned about whether I should get my hair cut first.

I suppose the pregnancy dream is normal for a woman of 33. These are my worrying about having babies years. Thing is I am not remotely worried about having babies (posts about pain relief notwithstanding.) I know I am supposed to have strong feelings about having a baby, maybe be beginning to panic as my biological clock ticks increasingly loudly, or otherwise have a militant position that there will be no baby for me. In fact I feel about babies about the same way I feel about dogs. I like dogs. I play with other people's dogs. I feel no desire to have a dog of my own. However, if I were married to someone who desperately wanted a dog, I would probably get one.

Because I know that wanting to have a baby is a normal, natural thing, every so often I check in with myself to see if that wanting is there. No. Nothing. I guess I must be abnormal / unnatural. I wonder what wanting a baby is like. I wonder what people want about a baby. Is it the baby itself, is it having a child to play with, is it the anticipation of adult children? What? I once caused huge consternation by saying to a group of female friends that I supposed people wanted children to keep them company. I was shouted down. Apparently this would be an incredibly selfish reason to want a child. And anyway, your child might not want to spend time with you. Meanwhile I literally could not think of another reason to want to have a child except to spend time with it. But apparently there is something else. Something unselfish. You want the child, but the beneficiary of this wanting is the child, not you. This must be what is called the gift of life, and it's a gift I have never felt the urge to give. Generally I only give people things I'm pretty sure they will like. I am not confident enough to say that about life. I'm not even entirely sure that I like it yet. Sure, it has its moments, but it's really hard work. (The other theory, I suppose, is that your child is your gift to the world. But that is so unbelievably arrogant that I can't believe anybody thinks this way. Can they? Do they? Really?)

So I don't want to have a baby. Or rather, I don't *want* to have a baby; there doesn't seem to be the right vocabulary for saying that I don't actively want one but I don't not want one either. I've spoken to the not-wanters as well. They have such strong feelings about what it will do to them, to their lives. But I think if I were to have a baby I would probably like it. But I could say that about all kinds of things I'm unlikely ever to do - move to a new country, start a new career, cut my hair short. I might like any of them, I just don't want them badly enough to find out. So on the subject of babies, the biggest decision I am ever likely to make, I am neutral. (Although, in a way, neutral is the same as not wanting something, because if I am neutral on the subject of having an ice cream, I don't have an ice cream.) Neutral! It's pathetic. I sort of feel that I have failed the human race. Or run in it, not even come last, but just got indifferent halfway through over whether to bother crossing the finish line.

Of course, I am reproducing in book form, so maybe that has killed the desire in me. There are tens of thousands of my offspring crowding out bookshops and bookshelves all over the world, worming their way into the minds of readers, living their lives in your memories. I am reproducing as a meme; a parasite. Basically, I am bacteria. Who needs pregnancy?

But then what are the dreams all about?

Sexist Come Birthing

Sorry, it's another feminist one. Just coincidence that it's two in a row.

Dr Denis Walsh, one of the country's most senior midwives, has published a paper saying that fewer women ought to have epidurals. Here's the piece about it in the Observer. I am not a doctor or a midwife, and I have never given birth (although I am somewhat more likely to do so than Doctor Walsh), and so I will not comment on what he writes about risk factors such as lengthening the labour process, the positioning of the baby's head, increased need for interventions etc. No doubt he is right about those. Indeed the risks are well-known and several of my friends have chosen not to have pain relief during their labour because of those risks. I entirely support them in that choice. But note: "chosen". "Choice".

No, what I want to take up with Dr Walsh is the following:

"A large number of women want to avoid pain. Some just don't fancy the pain. More women should be prepared to withstand pain... Pain in labour is a purposeful, useful thing, which has quite a number of benefits, such as preparing a mother for the responsibility of nurturing a newborn baby.

"Over recent decades there has been a loss of 'rites of passage' meaning to childbirth, so that pain and stress are viewed negatively." Patients should be told that labour pain is a timeless component of the "rites of passage" transition to motherhood... Pain prepares women for the demands of motherhood.

This is guff. The reason childbirth huts so much has got nothing to do with rites of passage and priming women for motherhood. Labour pain is biological, it's like any other pain. If you look at the evolution of apes into hominids (and I have studied this at degree level), one of the key differences is that humans are bipedal (walk upright) and apes walk in a knuckle-drag stance. This is made possible by the unique positioning of our hips - in line with our torsoes, not out to the sides. Because of this, human labour is much more complex, painful and difficult than ape labour. In fact studies show that in you examine monkey and ape gestation, for a human baby to be born at equivalent development, size and alertness, it should have a gestational period of one year. However, the size of the baby would make it impossible for it to come out of the human birth canal without killing the mother. On the other hand, if a baby is born too small, it will have all the complications of prematurity, leading to a huge increase in infant mortality. A human baby, gestated for nine months, is as large as it can be without killing the mother: it's an evolutionary compromise.

So back to this crap about preparing women for the responsibility of childbirth: that is not what labour pain is "for". Labour pain isn't "for" anything. It's just pain. Do people really think that if women have pain relief they are more likely to mistreat their children? Think about the people you know who've had epidurals: is this remotely true? And how should we prepare men for the awesome responsibility of having a baby? Knee them repeatedly in the nuts over several hours? Or do we think they are capable of being responsible and loving parents without undergoing extensive pain? The latter, obviously.

In short, giving birth hurts because you are pushing something out of your vagina which is the exact largest it can be without tearing you in half. Make your decisions about pain relief in accordance with advice over medical risk, but please, do not allow yourself to be bullied into a natural birth because of this misguided emotional blackmail.

Sexist Come Dancing

It's a bit early in the year to be discussing Strictly Come Dancing, a show that's essentially one long sequined advent calender for Christmas, but I could not resist discussing news that Alesha Dixon is to take over from Arlene Phillips on the judging panel.

You can read an entire article about it here.

The essence of the story is that Arlene Phillips (66, professional choreographer, wrinkly, much given to making comments about male dancers' hip movements) has been sacked from Strictly and replaced by Alesha Dixon (30, singer, the winner from a couple of years ago, flawlessly beautiful, no real knowledge of dancing at all) in order to "refresh the brand". The "brand" took a nasty knock last season when John Sergeant walked out mid-series, a decision which may or may not have been related to the judging panel's bullying comments, many but by no means all of which were ascribed to Arlene. Alesha is likely to be a nicer presence than Arlene. But lots of people could be a nicer presence than Arlene, and there are things Arlene brought to the table that Alesha can't provide, the most obvious one of which is having any proper understanding of ballroom dance technique.

It doesn't take the most paranoid of feminists to ask questions about an older, opinionated woman being knocked out of the panel in favour of a younger, more agreeable one, particularly when that panel is already weighted 3 to 1 male to female. Last season, Strictly fell behind in the ratings against X Factor, who had "refreshed" their brand by replacing older, opinionated Sharon Osborne with younger, more agreeable Cheryl Cole. The obvious difference is that Cheryl Cole, no matter what you might think of her, is a working professional singer, whereas Alesha Dixon, charming as she is, is just someone who once won a reality dance show, with a lot of help from her professional dance partner.

Ah yes, the professional dance partner. If they really did want to appeal to the Cheryl Cole demographic, why not move one of the professional dancers across, who is young and sympathetic but who can also provide informed commentary to the audience and advice for the contestants?

But Jay Hunt, the controller of BBC1, batted away accusations of ageism by saying "the average age of the BBC1 viewer is 52, so why would I take older women off the channel?" (although what exactly is the average age of the Strictly viewer - and what age would they like it to be?) - so it must just be coincidence that the new judge is so young and gorgeous. If Alesha Dixon has not been chosen because she's young and beautiful, what has she been chosen for? Hunt says: "Alesha has lived through it, we've still got all the experts who understand the technicalities of the Argentinian tango."

In other words, she's been on the show herself, so she understands what it's like, and she hasn't been chosen for her expertise but for her empathy. Which means she's there to be the most sympathetic, likeable and uncritical of judges.

But having the only woman on the panel be the one who is there to be sympathetic, likeable and uncritical is just as bad as having one there for eye candy. It's 2009. Are we still so frightened of a woman with an opinion?

London's weather forecast for tonight is rain...

...so how better to spend the evening than listening to me give a talk about How To Write A Novel? I have totally written the talk on index cards and everything. I am a bit nervous about it because I'm not sure that I'm going to be very interesting, but I am wearing a red top to compensate.

More info here. Looking forward to hordes of blog readers turning up because you can't live another moment without knowing what my voice sounds like. (Although, in a word: posh.)

Better start packing...

I took the UK Citizenship test and failed. Got a pathetically unpatriotic 54%. The pass mark is 75%. Next stop deportation.

How about you?

The least said, the better.

That was the most boring tennis match in history. I actually thought I was going to die before it ended. Nevertheless, I watched it for the full four hours and forever minutes. I started off supporting the ROD for the perfectly rational reason that the FED's clothes make him look like an arch-tit mockery monkey, but by halfway through the final set I was desperate for someone, ANYONE to win, just PLEASE GOD MAKE IT SOON. And yet I didn't switch off. Sport moves in mysterious ways.

So Farewell Then, Andy Murray.

Your tenure as blog mascot was brief, yet brief. As a representative of all fair-weather tennis fans, I vow to completely forget that you exist unless you win a grand slam between now and this time next year, and then get all over-excited about your freckly chops and surly ways again for exactly one fortnight next June (less if excised early).

Now it's all about the ROD versus the FED. (Oh, and the WILLIAMS versus the WILLIAMS, but deja yawn.) I want to support the FED but I have serious trouble seeing past his monograms. Every time I want to get excited about his tennis I catch sight of a little RF on a sock / cufflink / gold-plated snot cap for his nostril, and it's really hard to focus on sport when you're trying to catch your own vomit in your hands. (Someone else's, no problem.) But then there's the ROD's cap. I know there are good reasons for wearing a hat out of doors, protecting your head bla sun in eyes bla bla nudge to All American fanbase bla, but it's such an unsexy garment, because not only is it horribly unflattering (on everybody, readers note), but also, all I can think of is the sweaty hair ridge when you take it off. *Shudder*. The FED would never risk a sweaty hair ridge. Not unless he could get his own head monogrammed in sweat.

Boringly, therefore, I will have to choose my allegiance based on the quality of play on the day. What kind of a way to follow sport is that?

Remorse

Andy Murray is so lovely on Twitter. I mean mainly it's just ice baths and physio, but... bless:

"before i forget, thanks a lot to pizza express wimby village for firing up their ovens after they shut last night just for me. really kind."

He is totally my favourite English tennis player.

That, too, is a joke.

Lady Meets Gent: A True Story, In One Act

SCENE: INTERIOR, BASEMENT CORRIDOR OF A BAR IN HOXTON SQUARE. NIGHT.

It is a short corridor with unmarked doors at each end, and the entrances to the Ladies' and Gents' toilets next to each other in one of the walls.

MARIE PHILLIPS emerges from the Ladies' toilet. She is a 33-year-old novelist of very minor renown. She pauses in confusion: unequipped with any kind of sense of direction, she does not know which of the two unmarked doors leads to the bar.

A MAN comes out of the Gents'. MARIE turns to him in some relief.

MARIE: It's this door isn't it?

Midway through this sentence, MARIE realises that the MAN is in fact DOMINIC WEST, internationally acclaimed 39-year-old star of THE WIRE. DOMINIC WEST is far taller, better looking and less sweaty than his character JIMMY MCNULTY appears on screen, and is wearing a particularly fetching tweed jacket.

DOMINIC WEST: (slightly surprised to have been addressed) Yes, I think so.

MARIE opens the door which does indeed lead to the staircase up to the bar.

MARIE: They really should mark these doors.

DOMINIC WEST: Nonsense.

[Long pause]

DOMINIC WEST: Then we wouldn't have had this exchange.

MARIE and DOMINIC WEST walk side by side up the stairs.

MARIE: This brilliant exchange.

They both laugh.

[Very long pause]

MARIE: It's not one of my better ones.

MARIE and DOMINIC WEST return to their respective tables.

CUT

In the continuing saga of things that are broken in my life...

... computer monitor, phone, heart, mind, body etc, we have a new arrival! A seemingly very important piece of my kitchen table, the bit that holds the top onto the frame, has just fallen off. Can't for the life of me figure out what it was attached to, but I can now rotate table top as if at Chinese restaurant. I wonder how long that will stay fun for - say, until it collapses one day, showering guests with food? Nope. That still sounds fun.

Another Boring Announcement

My phone is working again now. Presumably the intervention of Captain Yawno of Bore (another tennis player, not AM, but I am thinking that I might do better if I disguise everyone's identities. Sure, you won't know who I'm talking about, but I will. I am also filled with disdain towards Smoothio, but I miss Dogtanian and wish he was in this year's contest.)

A boring announcement

My mobile phone has joined my computer monitor in the land of Michael Jackson. Soon I will be living in a cave with only a lump of tallow for light. Friends: landline and e-mail for the time being only.

Needless to say, I blame Andy Murray.

That's a joke.