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Collecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyond
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Monday, March 31, 2003
Is That All There Is?
And so the non-break in Berlin finally comes to a close, and I take stock of all those things I have achieved in my enforced stay in London. Bottles of fine red wine consumed: Nine. Not counting a couple of dodgy Australians from Sainsbury's. And not all by myself, I hasten to add. Restaurant meals: Only one, but this at Mister Kong's on Lisle Street, a shabby Chinese on three floors. I recommend it unreservedly, on one condition: only order from the Chef's Specials. Leave the set-menu to people who really do not know any better. (Oh, and try not to have to visit the loos.) Party invites received: One. To be held at the Hertfordshire home of a rather famous lady pop-star from the Eighties. Oh, exclusivity, sweeties, exclusivity! Progress made in Tasteful Interior Decoration: Zebra skin purchased. New Friendships Cemented: Unless you count a fumbled drunken snog in the Edward in Islington on Sunday night, zilch. Enemies Made: Just Alberto. And maybe Sabine. I'll let you know. Joni Mitchell CDs purchased: Nine. This is due to my discovery in Covent Garden of the only London branch of Fopp. This is an evil record store, staffed with thoroughly pleasant assistants, where a CD of your favourite vinyl usually flogs for 5GBP. As I say, it is a totally evil place, and you should never cross its threshold, at least not until I have stocked up on my Patti Smith collection. Clinique Items purchased: Three. M-Lotion. Scruffing Lotion 3½ strength. Total Turnaround. Call me a cliché and I sue. Number of bars on Old Compton Street and surrounding areas which I sneered at and described as places I wouldn't be seen dead in: Ten. Number of bars on Old Compton Street and surrounding areas which I actually visited: Nine. (Ladies and Gentlemen, we apologise for this interruption to your regular blogging updates. (Ab)Normal Service will be resumed tomorrow.) Sunday, March 30, 2003
The Italian Job
After Friday's fog-bound fiasco, I thought I had everything sorted. I'd extracted an apology from Sabine at Lufthansa. And, more importantly, a ticket back to Berlin in time for Christopher Street Day in June. In fact, I was feeling so smug with myself I was even getting on my own nerves. I'd obviously got on Alberto's nerves too. Alberto is an Italian, working for the German national airline, in its call centre in Dublin. Alberto does not like me. Alberto so much does not like me that he said Sabine had got it all wrong. Alberto said I might not even get my money back. Alberto said he was sorry. Alberto said there was nothing more he could do. Alberto and the Invisible Stranger are now officially at war. It will be a short campaign. It will be distinguished by pin-point-precision bombing by letters written in poisonous green ink. There may be casualties along the way. Sabine and Alberto for starters. But the outcome is certain. Oh, I am sooooo going to enjoy this one… Friday, March 28, 2003
What Good Is Sitting Alone In Your Room?
Tonight in Berlin: Pleasant walk along the cobbled, tree-lined streets of Schöneberg, flirting with all the pretty people, before a cheapo pizza at the good old San Marco with long-time mates. We drop off into Prinzknecht for their wacky Wild-Wild-West Party, make loads of new friends, and then have a drink in sort-of-trendy Hafen where, for once, even I am not as wasted as the bar staff. Then I put on my ever-so-butch leather jacket and go on over to the corner of Eisenacherstraße and Kleiststraße and You-Know-Where to meet You-Know-Who. We make a date. And then home. Tonight in London: Sorry-mate-but-we're-busy-but-if-we'd've-known-we'd've-put-you-on-the-guest-list-like-wouldn't'we've-but-you-know-what-it's-like. Resolve to go out tomorrow and find myself a Brand-New Set of Friends. Stumble through the streets of Camden. Buy bottle of plonk from offie. Return home to discover I haven't taped Corrie. Watch Friends instead. Cup of cocoa. And so to bed. Bitter? Moi?
A Foggy Day In London Town
Passport finally found. Airplane unfortunately gone missing. Whip up a bit of fog and London City Airport grinds to a halt. So all Berlin flights cancelled. And after waiting in a queue for ninety minutes for an alternative flight, the lady-Dalek at the desk tells me the next flight I can get is Monday afternoon. Monday afternoon! Anything can happen between now and Monday afternoon, I tell her, including tonight's Wild-Wild West Party at the Prinzknecht bar on Fuggerstraße. Between now and Monday afternoon is an eternity in which a certain someone in the German capital might just have been copping off with a certain someone else. Lady-Dalek really doesn't understand, so I grab a cab and go home. Not to worry. I am a mature, responsible individual and I will not let this get to me. I will be positive. I will treat this as an unexpected opportunity to do all those things I have never gotten round to doing. I shall not let this get to me. And I shall phone Lufthansa and demand my refund in a reasoning and non-challenging way. For I shall not let this get.. And I shall take long leisurely walks on Hampstead Heath and read an improving book and go out for English meals with my dear, dear English friends. For I shall not let this… And I shall tread peacefully, serene and smiling in the English sunshine, taking advantage of these next four days of blissful non-action. For I shall not let… let.. let…. aaaaaaaaAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! Thursday, March 27, 2003
Leaving On A Jet Plane
Long weekend in Berlin, so I'll be back on Monday, unless I can find an internet café in the old Heimatstadt. Now. Get ready. Look for Passport. Count Euros. Order Mother's Day Flowers in advance. Where is Passport? Is that enough Euros? Set Alarm (why did I choose an 8.30am flight, for God's sake?). Choose clothes. Change ansaphone message. Internationalise numbers on mobile. Look, I know Passport is there somewhere. Iron clothes. Oh f**ck! Final demand for the phone bill. Hastily scribble cheque. Pack clothes. Have second thoughts. Unpack clothes. Try clothes on. Oh no, can't possibly wear that at Hafen. Chuck clothes. Where is that damn… Nononono. Not enough free VHS tape to record this weekend's Corrie. Did I cancel the milk? And the papers? Choose more clothes. Where is Passport? And the phone charger? Is the Household Contents up-to-date? Should I turn off electricity? Yes, I know it doesn't "creep". Can't be too careful, can you? What do you mean, train strike tomorrow? How do I get to the airport? Oh no, look awful in these clothes. Must E-Mail work. Phone me if you've any problems (don't even think about it, you bastards). Sod it, these jeans will have to do. WHERE IS MY PASSPORT? Bis später, my dears. Wednesday, March 26, 2003
There's No Business
The Piccadilly last night to see Ragtime, the stage adaptation of E.L. Doctorow's best-selling novel. It's a darkly intelligent, cynical - and OK, at times, self-important, vanishing-up-its-own-arse - musical take on early 20th-century American history. That history is captured in the interweaving lives of three diverse families – affluent WASPs, an emergent Harlem wannabe middle-class, and two just-off-the-boat immigrants – as they clutch and claw and cheat and crave for their own piece of the tainted American dream. Employing ragtime music and Negro spiritual, as much as traditional Broadway belters and sub-Misérables ballads, it's a brave, thought-provoking three hours, if a little too heavy on the seriousness. But there's not a dud turn among the show's 64-strong cast, with leading lady Maria Friedman positively incandescent. Can this woman sing? Or can she just turn super-nova and leave you shuddering at the emotion she can pull out of a simple combination of music and lyrics? Go get a ticket now. (PUBLIC HEALTH WARNING: There now follows yet one more luvvie rant about what-an-awful-state-London-theatre-is-in-today. Citizens with better things to do should get out of here now) Yes, get a ticket now. Because, judging by the rows of empty seats, I'll be surprised if it makes it to the end of its scheduled twelve-week run. For, by heavens, they don't all live Happily Ever After! Ragtime's main themes are not love and romance, but racism! And politics! And the capitalist exploitation of the working classes! And goodness me, non-existent Blue-Rinse Lady in the second row, that would never do, would it? Don't blame the old dear though. It's near-on fifty quid to see the performance (decent seat in the stalls, glossy programme, glass of red wine – and forget about the cab ride home). And which would Blue-Rinse Lady rather spend her dosh on? A largely unknown quantity like this? Or a cosily predictable Big Show, where you know what you're in for even before settling down in the stalls? The Big Shows might not get the brain cells working, but at least they come ready-made with a guaranteed, high-calorie, syrupy Happy Ending. Self-crippled by ridiculous ticket prices, as well as insulting booking fees (and yes, Ticketmaster, I am talking about your own money-grabbing, cynical, corporate, cancerous, petty little enterprise), London's West End has become its own worst enemy. An arid wasteland if you're looking for fresh talent or stuff which dares to be a tad different. An artistic desert where you only Hit It Big if you Play It Safe. Sole survivors are shows with advance receipts guaranteed by big-name support (Bombay Dreams - Lloyd-Webber; The Lion King – the Disney Corporation); revivals like My Fair Lady; or shows cobbling together a string of familiar hits and calling it a plot (Queen's We Will Rock You, Madness' Our House, or, God help us, Cliff, a celebration of the bachelor boy's life and now playing, no doubt to packed houses of Blue-Rinses, at the Prince of Wales). So, a word to West End producers. Follow the example of Nick Hynter at the National Theatre. Cut the prices of those top seats to 25GBP max. Slash those insulting booking fees. Stop making going to the theatre a predictable and elitist pastime. Only then will you get more bums on the seats and more thinking shows like Ragtime. Otherwise, our West End theatres will be soon be playing nothing more than endless quick fixes of Mamma-bloody-Mia. And when that trend fizzles out, what will you do then, Mr Producer? Shame you didn't encourage those original talents in the first place, isn't it? (ALL-CLEAR. OK. Calm down. Mop sweating brow. End of Rant. All of you non-luvvies can come back in now.) Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Dancin' In The City
Last year, I hung up the Dancin' Shoes, and declared my late-night to early-afternoon clubbing days well and truly over. I'd emerged, teary-eyed and aching, from the sort-of-last-ever Trade, and it just seemed an appropriate time to stop. I think it's called Growing-Up. I wasn't getting any younger, and it wasn't as though I'd missed out at what clubland had to offer me in the past. Within weeks of arrival in early 80s HiNRG London, I'd wangled my place on the Heaven guest list. I'd gone on the pull at the notorious Subway in Leicester Square. I'd been a Smiths-loving indie-kid at the Bell, an Armani-clad tosser at the Kensington Roof Gardens, and a waste of space at both of them. Asylum, Troll, Queer Nation, Ciao Baby, Daisy Chain, DTPM, Love Muscle. Even G.A.Y when I thought no-one was watching. I’d done them all, marked each one off on my queer dance card, before finally staking out a mammoth seven-year Class-A-fuelled residency on the dance floor at Turnmills (top right-hand corner, just past the bridge, can't fail to spot me). So far I haven't really missed it. In fact, Sundays have now become a revelation to me. Reading the broadsheets with a clear head over freshly-brewed coffee and warm croissants. Going out for Sunday lunch with friends at the gastro-pub round the corner. Taking in an exhibition, or an early-evening concert. Or just a nice Boozy Sunday down the pub with a bunch of mates. I've no great desire to restart regular, or even every-now-and-again, clubbing. Besides, with all the best places currently South of the River, it's all far too much trouble for a North London boy like me. Witches can't cross running water. Neither can I. Which is the whole point of this post. Kind of. Trade honcho, Laurence Malice, is slowly releasing details of the launch of his brand-new super-club, Egg. If it was in Brixton, or Vauxhall, or even London Bridge, I'd be able to resist its late-night scrambled charms. Simple. No problemo, matey. Piece of (disco) cake. But oh no, it is seven-and-a-half minutes' walk from my front door. I know. I timed every single one of 'em. So I fear my clubbing days may not yet quite be over. My (local) disco needs me, you see. So, if you spot a gurning, grinning, gyrating geriatric making a tit of himself out there on the dancefloor, smile kindly and say hello to me. And no, you are not all coming back to mine afterwards. Monday, March 24, 2003
Atomic
I have just arrived home, and I hate the world. For a start, there were far too many Muscle Marys hogging the pec deck at the gym. All of them way prettier than me. So, of course, a Hissy Fit was called for. It was duly delivered. I Flounced Out. Off then to calm down at my local Islington poofeteria. There was a five-minute wait to get served. When I enquired who I'd have to f**k to get a drink, I was told exactly who. Not even I am that desperate for a pint of Stella. So Flounce numero deux. This time to Sainsbury's for a bottle of red, as they still haven't got any bottled water. Five-hour wait in queue for someone paying with money-off tokens you get in magazines. I hate queues at the best of times. This not the best of times. As I leave the supermarket, a Child gets in my way. Thereby causing me to miss the 274 bus. Consider tossing said Child in direction of on-coming traffic. Content myself with growling menacingly at it. Unfortunately, Child not taken in for one second. Child hurls not only abuse but her Bounty bar at me. I will be my pleasant, thoughtful, kind and caring self tomorrow. Tonight you really do not want to know me. Sunday, March 23, 2003
Step Inside, Luv
Mojo magazine has issued a list of the top hundred 45s any self-respecting vinyl junkie should own. I've got just seven of these. I haven't even heard thirty-two of them. So bang goes my pop-music credibility. I may as well just sidle shamefully off to a soundproof booth with my collection of Mary Hopkin records and die. The first three singles I ever owned indicated my life was to be one of terminal un-hipdom. One was Cinderella Rockefella, a novelty Number One by Israeli folk duo Esther and Abi Ofarim. (All together now: "Yo de layd-ee/ Yo de layd-ee/ Dat I lurrve/ (I'm de layd-ee/ De layd-ee who)") After this slice of embarrassing piffle, they vanished from the charts without trace, for which release much thanks. The second was Me, The Peaceful Heart, a rarely-heard and perfectly pleasant piece of throwaway pap-pop by a pre-Boom-Bang-A-Bang-Bang Lulu. We love you, hen, but, apart from Shout and that thing with Bowie, you never did make great records, did you? And then there's Cilla. Face the facts: there's-always-been-bloody-Cilla. For the past twenty years she's acted the woeful caricature of a cheeky Scottie-Road fish-wife. And, of course, Tellyland luvs 'er for it. And I can't stand the bleedin' cow. Along the prime-time way, we - and probably the big C herself - have forgotten she used to have one of British pop's best-ever voices. Listen to Step Inside, Love, the third of my first three singles, penned especially for Cilla in the 60s by bessie mate, Paul McCartney. It's a breathy, wonderfully over-dramatic two-minutes of perfect adenoidal pop. Then try You're My World, or ballads like Alfie and Anyone Who Had A Heart, where she wrenches as much emotion out of the Bacharach/ David songs as Dionne Warwick never did. You can hear them all on this CD, worth thirteen quid of anyone's money. Cilla's ditching Blind Date. There's talk of her recording a new album. Even rumours she might be playing G.A.Y sometime in the future. Hey, 'ang on, wait a minute… You know what, chucks? You lot were way out-of-step all the time. It's me who's always been hip. Saturday, March 22, 2003
309 Days
There was a period of my life when I taped off the telly, or from friends' no-questions-asked copies of BBC Archive material, just about anything which looked even remotely interesting. Most of the usual suspects are there: quite a lot of "classic" kids' telly; a fair smattering of TV sci-fi (well, all right, Doctor Who); a complete run of Carry Ons; black-and-white weepies for smoochy Sundays; practically all the movies which usually end up in someone's top one-hundred list somewhere. There are some gems here too: every episode of Soap; a 1969 Blue Peter with Valerie Singleton ("Goodness me, it's hard work doing shopping with a lion"); all the BBC live newscasts from 9 November 1989 and the breach of the Berlin Wall; and a 1990 three-hour review of 80s chart hits which makes me want to both dig out my old pixie-boots and shoot myself in equal measure. Faced with so much choice, I end up watching the tried-and-trusted favourites. Which means that out of five-hundred-odd videos on the shelves, at least two-thirds are unwatched. They’re staring accusingly at me now, demanding to be dusted down and enjoyed. Allowing for the fact I do have a job, and require some sleep, to do that would take me into next year. January 25th to be precise. But I'll try, truly I will. So. Which should it be? It’s A Wonderful Life, which, I am reliably assured, will make me glow with well-being all over? An unseen Inspector Morse? Maybe I should sample this stylish Italian or even him. And, as probably the only male on Old Compton Street never yet to have seen it, I really ought to check these boyz out . The choice is endless; I am really a very, very fortunate person to own such an amazing and eclectic range of videos. OK. Carry On Cleo it is then. Update on the Water Shortage Shelves still disturbingly empty. Supplies of ciabatta reaching danger levels. Sun-dried tomatoes all gone. Request vodka. Whoops! (Apocalypse?) Unfortunate remark made during BBC's studio coverage of the attacks on Iraq: "Well, here’s a blown-up map of Baghdad." Friday, March 21, 2003
Home Alone
Friday, and another working week splutters to a close. Stretched out before me now lies the Weekend. Obliging - even daring - me to go out and taste all the treats she has to offer in this, the most cosmopolitan and cutting-edge of all cities, where chucking-out time's at eleven, and you'd better hurry, mate, or you'll miss that last tube home and, yer know, there ain't another one for five hours. C'mon, darlin',she breathes seductively to me, you know you really, really wanna piece of me, doncha? Well, as a matter of fact, no, I don't, you deluded old tart. For a start, I'm saving myself for next Wochenende in Berlin, where the bars don't even open till eleven. Besides, there are times when no amount of third-rate cabaret, second-rate music, or even top-rate totty, can beat an Hawaiian Tropicana with extra pepperoni, a bottle of Merlot, and a stack of campy videos. And this, my old, smart-ass dear of a capital city, is just One Of Those Nights. Thursday, March 20, 2003
And Not A Drop To Drink
Shopping in the Islington Sainsbury's, I note they've sold out of bottled water. Twenty-five shelves' worth of it, in fact. Evian, Spa (my favourite), Perrier, Volvic, Danone, Badoit, Buxton, their own Caledonian Spring brand, even that cack which tastes like cat's pee but you buy it because of the fancy opaque-blue bottles. My only guess is the good folk of N1 have taken to heart HMG's advice and stocked up on essential supplies in the event of terrorist attacks provoked by our Come a biological attack on Central London, it’s not a bottle of H20 I'll be reaching for. Wednesday, March 19, 2003
That's The Way The Money Goes
Each year the Office of National Statistics publishes its Retail Price Index. It's a year-by-year comparison of the going rates for a selection of 650 items considered to be a staple part of your and my shopping basket. This year, the big-sellers-we-simply-cannot-live-without appear to be caffe lattes, dental insurance, car CDs, and slimming-club fees. The lattes aside, none of this is going to be of much interest to your average Soho queen. So, for inclusion on next year's list, I'd like to suggest some of the products and prices which really do matter on Old Compton Street, in ascending financial order. Packet of Condoms and Lube Cost: Free, from most of the capital's gay bars. Otherwise priceless. Do not leave home without them. Use them every single f**king time. Otherwise you're a total dickhead. One beer at the Rupert Street Bar Cost: 3.30GBP One beer-served-with-a-Smile at the Rupert Street Bar. (We regret to inform you that this service is currently unavailable.) Bottle of TNT "room odouriser" Cost: 6GBP and a blinding headache. Several white pills. Hey-trust-me-these-are-the-farkin'-business-mate-I-mean-like-I-wouldn't-do-you-no-wrong-now-would-I-these-mothers-well-I-ask-yet-you-wouldna-credit-it-shiiiiit-I-mean-look-like-remember-them-Doves-in-the-nineties-yeah-well-like-these-are-like-massively-more... blahblahbloodyblaaaah. They look like aspirin, they taste like aspirin and - hey, guess what? - they are aspirin! Cost: 4 – 8 GBP each (depending on who you know/ how gullible you are) Pair of 2(x)ist knickers which guarantee you an instant six-pack, bubble-butt and stupendous package. See the picture on the box? That'll be me when I put these on. Honest. Cost: 25GBP Minicab ride from the centre of town to Zone Six with someone who, in the cruel unforgiving light of a come-down dawn looks like… oh, sod it, you're too trashed to care, and you really don't give a toss. In fact, neither of you will be capable of giving a toss. Cost: 30GBP T-shirt from American Retro, several sizes too small, created expressly to point you out as a Sad Old Queen trying to keep up with "the youngsters" Cost: 45GBP and whatever remained of your self-esteem Approximately one hour in the company of Shane whose winsome good looks you will undoubtedly find within the QXTRA section of this esteemed periodical. Cost: 80 - 120GBP and a nasty itch three days later. Leather "Heavy Duty" Suspension Harness from Expectations. ("Buckle Fastening, Large D-Rings On The Shoulders, Waist And Back. Enables wearer to be suspended either vertically or horizontally. Available in one size only and is fully adjustable.") Cost: 135GBP Membership of Shadow Lounge a terribly swish and stylish club in the heart of London's Soho. Cost: 300GBP and a crashing sense of disappointment. Alternatively, you could just go out and get a life instead. Or another caffe latte. Tuesday, March 18, 2003
Pretty in Pink – Adventures in Interior Decoration Part 2
Still something missing within those small four walls of my fur-lined bathroom. Yesterday's addition of a family of plastic Ducks didn't really improve matters, with the Flamingos fearing for their place in the pecking order, and glaring viciously down at Mamma Duck and brood. Until, that was, I finally found a use for all those free CDs that come with magazines. They now proudly adorn part of one wall, their spiral tracks of music and data morphing and distorting my reflection as I shave in the morning. It'll get even groovier when I install the glitter ball. Wisely, I have now declared the bathroom an hallucinogenic-free zone. There's enough screwed-up people out there already without me being added to their number. Monday, March 17, 2003
No Regrets
Off to the Drill Hall yesterday with the Lecturer and the Architect to see Portraits in Song, Elizabeth Mansfield's one-woman celebration of the lives of Edith Piaf, and of Bertolt Brecht. Accompanied by a lone pianist, Mansfield walks onto a bare stage as Piaf. We know all the songs: they’re as much a Parisian cliché as stroppy waiters and romantic affairs in grubby pensions. We're less familiar with the English lyrics, that very unfamiliarity throwing brand-new perspectives onto old favourites of love found, love lost, love sold, and love that'll never be. Technically, it's a flawless if a little soul-less performance, with Mansfield belting out (and spitting, if you were unlucky enough to be in the front row) a dusky, defiant delivery. But the real Piaf she ain't. Apparently, half the fascination of watching that broken, tortured stick-insect of a woman perform, was rooting for her not to drop dead right there on-stage. Well, not until she'd sung Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien, at least. The Piaf at the Drill Hall intimidated me so much, I'd jump in the Seine just to avoid her. The strident delivery is better suited to Brecht's uncompromising, in-yer-face political words set to Kurt Weill's crashing, discordant music. They provide a neat commentary on both Brecht's life and the recent history of Germany. Vamping it up as an oddly seductive Mack the Knife, ready to slit your throat from ear to ear for just a couple of Reichsmarks. Barking the Ballad of Marie Sanders, the Jew's whore, as the Nazis rise to power. Frantically searching for both the next whisky bar and the next little (Yankee) dollar in a Hollywood-crazed Alabama Song. It was great stuff, and I could have done without the Piaf for more of the Brecht. But then I'm just an old and battered cynic at heart. Saturday, March 15, 2003
Pretty In Pink
Slinking round Soho last weekend, I passed one of my favourite shops. (No. Not that sort of shop.) Borovicks is a supplier of fabrics, feathers and fripperies to the theatrical and film worlds. It's been around for seventy-odd years, staffed by a bunch of cheeky-chappies whose patter rivals that of the Berwick Street market-boys outside. Among other things, Borovicks does a nice line in camp. Fake zebra skin. Lamé and satin. Fluffy boas. Stuff so loud it makes a Bollywood wedding resemble a vicar's tea-party. You name it, they have it. You name it, I buy it. Which is why the bathroom is now covered floor-to-ceiling in swathes of faux fur, so shocking-pink in its day-glo brightness that sunglasses are required just to take a pee. God knows what it'll be like when I stumble in there with a hangover. I have been informed that, with its fur-covered walls, collection of five framed Trade flyers, four Barbies, three Kens, two Flamingos, and the entire Clinique men's range, my bathroom is "a bit of a give-away", but I haven't a clue what people are talking about. Thursday, March 13, 2003
The Name of the Game
1. I shall aim to post at least every other day. Hangovers will not constitute a get-out clause. 2. While most things are Fair Game, what goes on under the duvet stays under the duvet. Unless, of course, it is simply too juicy for words. Then we'll talk. 3. If I can't find something nice to say about someone, I will shut up. Usually. 4. Habitual use of the words, "actually", "you-know", and " puh-leeeeze", and contractions like "IMHO" or "LOL", are heinous crimes against the English language. They will be treated as such. So, if I find myself banged up in a East Croydon tower block, with a sex-starved, homicidal ninety-year-old and only five cans of Special Brew for company, then I will have only myself to blame. 5. Inevitably there will be opportunities to muse about Music and Art and Other Worthy Things. I will try not to take myself too seriously. 6. I shall never delete. 7. Techno-twaddle on HTML source code, moans about Blogger functionality, or reviews of the latest hi-tech, whizz-bang, in-yer-palm, does-everything-but-mix-the-Martinis, and-hey-I've-got-one-and-you-haven't, wowtastic Whatevers are the domain of creatures I really do not want to share my Smoked Salmon Fishcakes and Chips with. I shall avoid them. 8. Political rants often offend. More importantly, they reveal me to be a Proper Little Prat. I will remember this while trying to set the world to rights. 9. I shall ignore all of the above rules for the sake of a witty riposte, a cheap laugh, another drink, or a halfway-decent shag. 10. I shall try to be good. And now? Let's play. . . Saturday, March 08, 2003
I'm A Stranger Here Myself
Oops. Just blogged. Again.
Now go away for a few days and do something much more interesting while I get the hang of this page-design lark. |
