Plastic Jesus

The Mail on Sunday reports on the fact that Nigella* Lawson’s husband, Charles Saatchi has lost weight by eating 9 eggs a day.

The story, which of course features a massive picture of Nigella and two much smaller, before and after pictures of her husband, who is course described as an “advertising tycoon”**.

Bizarrely, by complete coincidence, I had eggs for dinner today. 3 in fact, which is now going to be known as “1/3 Saatchi”.

Or 3/50 Newmans.

(Andrew Collins bought this news story to my attention)

* If you’re going to name your child after you, it’s probably best to check they’re the same gender.

** A word only used in tabloids. Like boffin.

If The Buddy System Can Fail, I Don’t Know What To Believe In

Like those Polish twins who were President and Prime Minister at the same time; the German brothers who own the entire discount supermarket erm… market; like Dames James and Rendell* who write crime novels and sit opposite each other in the House of Lords; like growing a goatee beard to play your own evil twin and all the dualistic cosmology that that implies everyone needs a counterpart – evil or not.

Who is yours?

* someone has vandalised her wikipedia entry to read “Ruth Barbara Rendell, is masively huge in proportion to her vagina and doesnt like the fact her anal youth organistaion proceeds to bellend me in the swift amazon brake water.” whatever that means.

Tomorrow Belongs To Me

The Guardian, in an attempt to do something other than wallcharts, has started giving away a series of booklets with tutorials advising you how to write.

Saturday’s featured Robert Harris with a guide to writing novels.

Having read this guide thoroughly, I decide to give it a go. But it was not enough to merely read the words of Robert Harris, I had to become him.

This was not an easy task, it involved hanging around in Melton Mowbray, Cambridge and eventually Berkshire; studying in depth Bernard Ingham, the Hitler Diaries, the Falklands and other news topics relating to the 1980s.

Having done this, I then came up with the idea of a novel, taking as its premise that Germany had won the Second World War and the story took place in the 1960s, where a high-ranking Nazi had been murdered. The story would feature an investigation into this by a cynical detective, and many shocking revelations would be forthcoming at the end.

I sat down and wrote the first chapter of the novel. Imagine my surprise when I realised I had written word for word, without reference to the original, Robert Harris’ 1992 novel, Fatherland.

I do intend to keep writing, hoping I may be able to recreate the novel. Doing this correctly would prove my research was entirely accurate.

(with apologies to Jorge Luis Borges)

I Really Should Get Out More

On Saturday I briefly attended a fundraising event for former toilet now entertaining nightclub, Ginglik, which if the sinister minions of Hammersmith Council have their way will be filled in with concrete.

I had only done this in the hope of reminding Lilly Allen I’d seen her brother’s penis and admitting to Richard Herring I’d stolen his joke about the pizza from Pizza Express that saves Venice I returned home and ending up accidentally watching Saturday evening TV. To make up for my guilt and self-interest I have sent the suggested emails to the council requesting that they reconsider their decision.

I mean it’s bad enough once this big new exciting shopping centre opens and affords reams of shopping experience, while accidentally putting everyone else out of business, without losing a late night venue into the bargain.

Anyway so I turned on the TV and to my horror a show called Hole in The Wall, which has nothing to do with cash machines, but is best described as “human Tetris”. I’d already read Charlie Brooker’s preview of it in the Guardian, in which he said:

If you’ve ever wanted to see former Blue Peter presenter Zoe Salmon lying on her back and hoisting her hips in the air, here’s your chance – although be warned: in a bid to ward off potential masturbators, Anton Du Beke’s standing in the background wearing a costume so tight his nuts are spread halfway across his pelvis, as though they’ve been buttered into position with an enormous pallet knife.

Yes, as all the contestants were wearing stupidly tight costumes their genitals were clearly visible and so I spent the times trying not to look at their crotches and failing with a mixture of horror and fascination.

It was the most sexually confusing moment of my life since my alarming crush on Hilary Swank in Boys Don’t Cry.

Or David Bowie in Labyrinth.

I Want To Break Free

I’ve long been confused with the concept of the “jukebox musical”. The original is of course that Abba thing, but here in London the Queen musical We Will Rock You has been rocking since fuck knows when.

I’ve been just reading the plot summary on wikipedia, for want of something to do and one thing about it bothers me.

Ben Elton sets his superficial shoehorning of Queen songs, sorry, musical in a dystopian future where individuality is shunned when evil, computer-generated music has taken over or something and everyone is the same.

Through the medium of Queen songs, some people break free and all is well. So far, so predictable. But here’s the odd bid, the baddies sing Queen songs as well. Most confusing.

It confused William Blake as well, who said.

The reason Ben Elton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels & Scaramouche, and at liberty when of the Killer Queen is because he was a true Poet, and of the Devil’s party without knowing it.

I see his point, though I suspect Ben does know.

Deal Or No Deal

The Times reports that legendarily tidy-bearded Noel Edmonds has stopped paying his tv license. He says:

I am not going to have the BBC or any other organisation threatening me. I’ve cancelled my TV licence and they haven’t found me. Nobody’s coming knocking on my door. There are too many organisations that seem to think it is OK to badger, hector and threaten people.

So far, so normal. In fact I’m not surprised to see the usual comments accussing the BBC of trying to turn our children into insufficiently patrotic homosexual communists or something. What’s oddest is this bit at the end of the article.

In another interview at the weekend he said that he was followed around by two “orbs” – “little bundles of positive energy” that he believed represented his deceased parents. Although invisible to the naked eye, he said they appeared in digital photographs.

Sounds like something from a less evil version of The Omen doesn’t it? Anyway, the only possible explanation for putting this bit in is to destroy Edmonds’ reputation by highlighting his odd ideas about orbs and cosmic ordering and the like.

Which means that the Times must also be part of the sinister BBC stealth taxation conspiracy. Which surprises me, as the Times is owned by Rupert Murdoch, a man not known for his pro-BBC views. But it’s always the most unlikely conspiracies that turn out to be true.

Which this is. Obviously.

Sorry about all tinfoil hat stuff, I’ve been reading Foucault’s Pendulum, and I think it’s affected me.

Where’s Your Child?

Ever since I was very young, all I’ve been hearing is anti-acid propaganda,

For a start, it was a well known fact that falling into a load of acid wouldn’t kill you, but turn you into a psychotic super-criminal. In a related situation and a prime example of cartoon physics, even a small amount of acid can eat through any substance: walls, clothes etc.

Plus there was increasing sulphur dioxide and nitrogen oxide in the atmosphere had lead to increased amounts of acid rain, not a good thing.

Then there the popular pheonemon known as “acid jams” where people listened to things like this (top tine by the way) and, I assume took drugs leading to all kinds of moral panics in the media.

I was a bit young to be involved in acid jams, but in my teenage years someone told me that taking acid more than seven times made you legally insane.

It doesn’t.

I’m surprised the anti-acid conspiracies weren’t responsible for lutefisk, possibly the most alkaline food I can think of; a Scandinavian fish dish made using lye (also known as caustic soda) you know the stuff you use to unblock your sink.

Yum.

I don’t think.

The Ten Sexiest Things Anyone Has Ever Said To Me

I originally mistyped the title there as “ten sexist things”, That might have been more interesting.

1. You’ve run out of drink.
2. Why do you think I’m wearing these fucking stupid knickers?
3. Love your nails.
4. I can get you a lift home.
5. Oh I know who you are.
6. You remind me of _______, in that book.
7. Oh you’re leaving now as well.
8. This is an example of the work of Henry Fuseli.
9. It’s underground.

Yes, I know there’s nine. That’s kind of the point, whatever that may be. None of these are made up but they are severely decontextualised.

Lovely! Milky, Milky!

Remember this?

Well I seem to have started a meme.

For more read here.

The Most Important Thing About Any Blog Post I Write Is The Title

I’ve long been of the impression that I write my blog posts upside-down.

I always start with the title for one thing, which I’m sure isn’t the usual way to go about things. It’s like writing a book starting with the author’s biography:

Actor, singer, model, pianist, radio presenter, TV presenter; there are few things that Billy has not put his mind to. Now, after his long awaited speaking appearance at the Travellers’ Club, comes his long awaited debut novel, He Has Left Us Alone but Shafts of Light Sometimes Grace the Corner of Our Rooms…

Nevertheless, this is what I do.

Another annoying quirk that I seem to have developed is writing the entire title in title case, regardless of what parts of speech it is. This is an attempt to convey the impression that the title is said in an excitable way, much as all caps implies shouting.

All I like doing titles that are as long and unwieldy as possible although I’ve never managed anything quite as good as The Black Hawk War, or, How to Demolish an Entire Civilization and Still Feel Good About Yourself in the Morning, or, We Apologize for the Inconvenience but You’re Going to Have to Leave Now, or, ‘I Have Fought the Big Knives and Will Continue to Fight Them Until They Are Off Our Lands!

I’m not sure that wordpress would allow a blog title as long as that.

I then write the post based on title.

Like I’m doing now.

Oh yes.