Friday, May 31, 2002

Of which, more much later, apparently. Am beginning to despair at current lack of any spare time whatsoever, resulting in inability to blog anything until several eons after the event. Really must find new job which allows for a little more breathing space. Except, guess what? I haven't got time.

So, just a quickie for now - this afternoon brings the company sports day (potentially hideous team-building nightmare), tomorrow brings Purple In The Park, and on Sunday: (Woo!) We're going to Ibiza!

On the subject of which, I promise a full report. Sometime around November, at this rate...

Tuesday, May 28, 2002

Saturday night continued at the new, improved Crash (now with an extra railway arch in which to comprehensively lose the plot) and then - the highlight of the weekend, on Sunday night, Miss Kylie Minogue, at Wembley Arena. Of which, more later...

Alrighty then. Two words sum up last week: Work Hell (tautology if ever I heard it). So let's skip straight to the weekend, the good times, the happy, smiling, fun-in-a-bun bits. And where better to start than...

Which I hadn't expected to see, clashing as it did with Kirsty and Claire's barbecue to celebrate moving into their new exclusive Clapham man-trap. It transpired to be an afternoon affair though, and much fun: I did my bit by 'chargrilling' (read: incinerating) a variety of meat products and helping to shift copious quantities of sparkling alcoholic concoctions (well, you've got to help out at these things, haven't you?).

From there it was a stumble on to the Northern Line, and up to the King William IV in Hampstead along with Greg, Phil, Rick and Jonathan, for the big event, on the big screen. Other pubs will no doubt be getting these in for the World Cup, with the King William it's Eurovision. Hmm, spot the gay pub.

Arrived too late for our entry, which I still haven't heard in full and probably never will, but the place was packed, and great to watch the show as part of a big crowd (almost as good as watching at home with the lyrics amusingly translated into English on teletext subtitles - try it if you ever get chance...). Ah, the cheesy presenters, the glitz, the glamour, the incomprehensible videos between each song - all present and correct. Big cheers went up for the Slovenian 'sisters' (okay, the song sucked but they deserved points for sheer, erm, balls), big cheers for Israel from the sizeable Jewish contingent of NW3, and as usual, big bewilderment at the utterly baffling voting. Latvia? Eh? One would almost suspect there's a conspiracy afoot to systematically bankrupt the Baltic nations by means of forced Eurovision-hosting. Well, it nearly worked on Ireland...

For the real Eurovision dirt though, go visit Chig and Mike, who were, like, there. And roll on, erm (rapidly flicking through atlas...) Riga!

Monday, May 20, 2002

And hello to Guy who I met in The Yard on Friday and at last night's RVT extravanganza. (y'see? remembered!)

I think I'm missing the gay shopping gene. Braving the West End on a Saturday maybe isn't the greatest of ideas (especially when you have somewhat over-indulged on the Friday night) but I thought I'd be ok.

The long and leisurely breakfast in Compton St was easy. And I survived Soho with relatively little difficulty, garnering a surprising number of purchases (for me, this means any number more than zero). By the time we reached Oxford St though, the bright lights and trying to take in everything at once were starting to do my eyes in, until I finally came over all funny in H&M and had to go home and lie down.

Is this normal?

It's time to leave the country
A glance at HMV's new releases page reveals no fewer than eight football-themed singles released next week, and one more the week after, including such stellar talents as, erm, DJ Otzi.

This cannot be good.

Can't get you out of my head...
It just won't budge. Liberty X's surprisingly marvellous 'Just A Little' has been going round and around in my head for days, and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Ditto for quite a few people it seems, as it gets a well-deserved No.1 this week.

And if their next single - a cover of one of THE all-time great dance records (a hit in 1990 and still sounding fantastic), doesn't follow in its footsteps, I'll eat my proverbial.

Perhaps it'll make up for beating off thousands of Popstars hopefuls (which might sound like a scenario for a porn film, but isn't) only to be constantly referred to as the 'losers' and 'rejects'.

Yes, sirree, a good tune. Now somebody please make it stop.

Friday, May 17, 2002

Whoa, where did the last 14 days go? There I was, just minding my own business, and along came what I can only describe as a whirlwind of partying, clubbing, workin' like a dawg, and er, DIY - all of which pretty much negated any quality bloggin' time.

So, by way of an update, it's time for the Top Ten Facts I Have Learned In The Last Fourteen Days:

1. When friends say to you, on a Friday afternoon: 'Let's just go to The Yard for a couple of drinks after work' they are lying. This is especially true if it is a Bank Holiday weekend and reasonably sunny. The 'couple' will rapidly turn into about sixteen, and you will later find yourself staggering from your table in Balans, having taken approximately an hour to finish your steak, and being completely unable to face the fourth bottle of red wine that you don't even remember ordering. It will, however, be fun.

2. Love Muscle always rises to special occasions rather well. The Bank Holiday bash was a huge improvement on the previous month's somewhat dismal outing (largely down to the slightly altered DJ line-up), much to the relief of many.

Related facts: you would swear the resident strippers get, well, bigger every time. So does hostess Yvette. Yvette's frocks however, do not. The combination of these last two is not pretty.

3. The LA3 (or 'la-trois' as the D.E.Experience would have it) when held at the Electrowerks in Islington on a Bank Holiday weekend, is quite possibly the best fucking club in the entire known universe. I haven't stopped boring people since with tales of the wonderfully labyrinthine venue, fantastic music, deliciously dark'n'dodgy decor that made it seem for all the world like a spontaneous illegal rave (not that I would have any idea what those are like - no, really, before my time...), and utterly electrifying atmosphere. Okay, yes, everyone's favourite second vowel may have been affecting my judgement - I recall running into Rob a number of times whilst barely able to remember my own name - but really, this was damn good. Being a new and unexplored venue (to me, at least) added to the whole thing and in short, I can't remember the last time clubbing was this downright exciting. Absolute shit-hole mind you, but when did that ever stop somewhere being a whole lot of fun? (see also: Royal Vauxhall Tavern).

4. Kandi Kane is not the Dame Edna Experience. She is, however, a more than worthy stand-in; her show at the RVT on Bank Holiday Monday was a treat, and very funny, despite having seen much of the material on her last appearance. Anyone whose theme song is Odyssey's gloriously kitschy 'Native New Yorker' is just fine by me.

5. Four days of perpetual indulgence appears to leave you with a small, but consistent throbbing in your forehead. Like the veins are just too damn big or something. A definite throbbing. Or maybe more of a pulsing.

Either way, it will be like being in Babylon 5 or one of those many other sci-fi things where they seem to have decided that space aliens and super-intelligent beings of the future would opt to look exactly like humans, but with oddly-shaped bits of plastic moulded into their foreheads. Because, of course, they would.

6. Four days' partying = four days' hangover. The equation is apparently that simple. Suffice to say last week was a complete, fully comprehensive, write-off.

7. Don't go believing that, just because you have washed a dark green item of clothing several times before, it has lost its ability to find the white underwear you accidentally put in with it, and turn it a shade of green normally seen only in doctors' waiting rooms, and on Kermit the Frog.

8. Replacing your would-be-ok-if-it-wasn't-beige bathroom carpet with vaguely realistic 'wood effect' flooring is actually cheaper and easier than you might think - and it really will transform your bathroom. Yes, last weekend Kelvin, Greg and I came over all Carol Smillie (let's not conjure with that image, okay?...) and set about transforming our cosy but well-worn residence. A lick of paint, a big plant (Coco Palm, £5, Ikea), aforementioned flooring and a Playstation and voila! - it's a sleek, chic and stylish bachelor pad. You could almost be in Clerkenwell. Sort of.

9. Homebase, the DIY 'superstore', is evil and wrong.

10. I want to be an estate agent. No, really. Weirdness.

Friday, May 03, 2002

Favourite spam of the week:

Date : Thu, 02 May 2002 01:59:13 -0400 (EDT)

Well, I guess you'd burn off a fair few calories in eight hours, but 50 lbs? Where would it go? And wouldn't you be concerned if your partner suddenly lost the best part of four stone overnight? It'd be like going to bed with Russell Grant and waking up with Russell Crowe. Okay, bad example.

I suspect this is a new trend in spam though. Having found that just one life-changing, too-good-to-be-true proposition isn't enough, now they're going for two. Pursuing this to its logical conclusion, it's only a matter of time before:

'Fuck for 8 hours straight! Whilst losing 50 lbs, getting Big, Ripped and Strong, Solving all your Debt problems in one go, getting a University Diploma and Tracing Your Family Tree!'

Now that one, I might just open.

I'm clearly moving in the wrong circles.

Kelvin has spent the last two nights at The Ivy and the Groucho Club (or at least, would have done were it not rendered inaccessible by the crowds of dog-on-string people protesting about May Day or something - 'Bring it back to the 1st of May! Where are the Maypoles? We want Morris Dancing and we want it now!').

I, on the other hand, have been at my local Asda supermarket, the Springfield Park Tavern (my nearest pub) and Southgate Municipal Swimming Pool.

Must do something about this.