Gertsamtkunstwerk

Just not cricket

Desr Sir

I am writing in disgust at the news that the Daily Telegraph 'may back Blair'. Although I am a card carrying Lefty with some damn fine credentials, I do believe that this may signify the end of civilisation as we know it. The very fabric of our society is dependent on the certainty of the Telegraph being Tory, Victoria Beckham making a spectacle of herself, and there being delays on the District Line. I strongly disapprove.

Disgusted, of Brixton.

Is it worrying that I wrote this whilst simultaneously stomping round to the gloriously percussive Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 by Elgar. Oh heck, more memories of my weird childhood - my father thought it would be jolly good to learn the words to this. About the same time that I learnt the words to Adeste Fideles, in Latin. Aged 6. Thank heavens for a weird childhood!

Meanwhile, Johnny Rotten signs up for I'm A Nonentity Get Me Out Of Here. Didn't Tom Lehrer have something to say about satire being dead?

(Oh, and note to Alex Best, being the soon-to-be-ex-wife of the greatest ever footballer does not make you a celebrity. Now, IMO, Johnny Rotten is proper celeb. Am I showing my age there?)

Possibly the first blogpost to manage to combine Victoria Beckham, Jonny Rotten and Tom Lehrer, and the the dodgy wives of two legendary Manchester United footballers...

Shattered Illusion

I'm working at home today - I've got that sort of slightly unwellness that isn't sufficient to justify sickleave but reduces the impetus to actually getoutof the house.

I have a 3-CD compilation set on. Classical Gold, full of fairly serious music, none of this "Some geezer wrote this for an ad about five years ago so we're sure you'll enjoy it" crap.

So I was slightly surprised to hear a piece that sounded distinctively Oirish fiddledee. I checked on the CD cover and it turns out it's the Gigue bit of Pachabel's Canon and Gigue. Wow! exclaimed I. Pachabel was really O'Pachabel.

Then I thought a bit more. what does "Gigue" sound like? "Jig". I had a romantic notion that the roots of the Irish jig lay in far distant celtic, pagan roots, but it may be that it was just an import from 17th Century Continental Europe.

BTW, I am sick and tired of searching for music, or books or somesuch on Google, and being directed to a wholeload to a crappy sites that actually have no connection to the product they ostensibly sell, but are just trying to sell you credit, or cheap flights, or matters unthinkable. It is vastly reducing the usability of Google.

The state of education

I'm not one of those voices of doom from the Daily Bigot bemoaning the appalling state of education and saying it's all gone downhill since the *good old days*. The Good Old Days weren't really that golden. People of my Grandad's generation sat in classes of 50 and were never expected to achieve anything academically, being destined for a life of labour in the fields. My Grandad, a highly intelligent man, never got the education his grandchildren took for granted. My fiancé didn't read until he was fourteen - it had never crossed anybody's mind to check whether all pupils were reading and, if not, to give them remedial lessons. The fact he then learnt in a couple of weeks, but simply won't read books today, is an illustration of lost opportunity.

Sparked by Karen's blogging of the The Tay Bridge Disaster I donned my rosy specs to look back fondly at my own education. As I posted the comment I thought about the extreme stimulus to our intellect we received at my fairly ordinary state primary. I say fairly ordinary - it was situated in suburban area, where the majority of people were above the poverty line and relatively aspirational, but it was by no means filled with the offspring of high achievers.

But, after I had posted it, I was struck. The only lessons I remember from Primary School were from one particular teacher, whom we were fortunate enough to be taught by in Junior 1 and Junior 3. Our Reception teacher was also very good as a Reception teacher, but I was only in that class for half a year and was academically advanced and socially backward (I hadn't been to playgroup or nursery and my mother has never been a social mixer, so I struggled to bond with my peers). The more I think about it, there were some pretty poor teachers at the school, and most were mediocre. (I'll give an hon mensh to my Infant 2 teacher, whose lessons I don't remember, but whose enthusiasm for music and her ability to teach it inspired countless hundreds).

So, really, I am judging educational standards in comparison to one exceptionally good teacher who taught me for two out of my 6-and-a-half years at Primary school, who inspired a love of reading and of history, who always pushed me and would never let me coast, and who had the imagination to use varied sources to inspire - when Matchstork Men and Matchstork Cats and Dogs was Number One, she used the song as an introduction to a whole afternoon studying a) Lowry and b) the industrial revolution. She was also a stickler for teaching grammar and spelling. Mrs Hodgkinson, of St Hugh's Primary, Timperley, I salute you.

Scary how one teacher can really make the difference between a good education and an indifferent one.

Spelling test

I got 8 out of 8, which makes me far better than the average 11-year old. No shit, Sherlock

However, I'm not arrogant. Look through this blog and you will find numerous spelling mistakes - in my defence, they are mainly typos. However, I feel I was destined for perfection on the multi-choice test to which I link. The reason: because I read so many books at a very young, and deeply impressionable, age, I have an instinct for knowing when a word looks right or just plain wrong.

Needless to say, the initial draft of this post was riddled with spellos typos

Oops update Flippin' heck, I was so flippin bothered with getting the spelling right, I forgot the link. Thanks chaps.

It only encourages them...

It's been literally aeons sonce I posted the best of my weird search requests. Of course, it only encourages them, but the temptation is irresistable...

really macho gay football type gay men pics
lunchtime topless london "lunchtime" - obviously, it has to be at lunchtime blimey, this one's been hanging round a while - I can give you a categorical reassurance that I was not topless in St James's Park today
pop idol bad audit - obviously, really audition, but it tickled me
english literature sites - anne of green cables hmm
marchers in a parade sometimes find it difficult to keep in step with the band if the band is some - you know, I kind of know what they're getting at. Perhaps.
how many continents are there in Central America about twentytwelve, I reckon
loving a married jehovah's witness guaranteed to do your head in
appraisal bollocks
my 15" penis is too big - it's funny how you never ever receive spam on how to shrink a penis. Clearly a gap in the market there
blogging causes rumour spread Nah
pictures of gay men and boys football and rugby players taking off each others kit down to the I expect the missing word is launderette
sex mature big cook obviously looking for the Swedish chef

Oh my god! Yes! Yes!

Did you know it's possible to have too many orgasms - have too many orgasms and they can have bad effects upon the body, up to and including brain tumours.

Quack Quack

Sign up for Middle England

I'm not following the Hollinger/Telegraph/Conrad Black saga too closely - Tycoons move in on Telegraph empire - but I do know how extremely important the Telegraph is as a newspaper.

I've been in the Labour Party for just short of twenty years; I have been a 'Guardian Reader' for longer. I rarely read the Telegraph. Except when I do. A couple of years ago someone suggested in the New Statesman that the Telegraph should publish a special Lefties' edition.

I think that over the years, and in general, that the standard of journalism in the Telegraph is of such a high standard that it must be preserved. I rarely agree with its editorial, but it reports news, sport and the Arts to a high standard. Peregrine Worsthorne was ont he radio this morning, stating how important it was that the Telegraph wasn't bought by Richard Desmond. Perry's main objection was Desmond's reputation a s a pornographer; personally, I think that a secondary issue compared to the rumours that when he took over the Express he got rid of most of the journalists.

Is this creeping Middle Age? Save the Daily Telegraph! Save the Daily Telegraph!

Unjustly forgotten greatness

As a student I had a real love of Deacon Blue. I have three of their albums in my collection. I always feel they never received the credit they deserved, and seemed to fall into an unjust Middle-of-the-Road category. A story from Mr D reminded me of one of Deacon Blue's most hauntingly inspiring songs - Dignity

And I'll sail her up the west coast
Through villages and towns
I'll be on my holidays
They'll be doing their rounds
They'll ask me how I got her I'll say "I saved my money"
They'll say isn't she pretty that ship called Dignity

Lower Limb Inequality

Becks in new limb sensation

Fascinating...

Exotic derivatives?

I so misread this chap's job title - City trader's £30m record bonus

Jack Straw's favourite joke

Just one out of the 10 things we didn't know this time last week

I worked with someone whose favourite joke this also was.

And you know, it doesn't get funnier with time...

Arse

Well, I am glad I didn't fork out six quid on the pay-per-view to watch my United lose to the Premiership's bottom club.

Nick Barlow, feel free to gloat.

On the walkman

Stuck in my hotel room, with lots of work to do, I decided to enjoy myself by listening to a selection of CDs I had brought with me. Listening on a Walkman often makes the music more personal and direct. (Having an earphone makes my right ear slightly hurty as well, but c'est la vie).

I listened to this 5-CD set I picked up for a snip. It's kind of weird, combining the instantly recognisable with a few obscure pieces, and almost without exception, by obscure orchestras and soloists. A bit hit-and-miss, such as when Elgar's Pomp and Circumstance is played by the 'Marine Concert Band' and you just know that most of them are AWOL ( I have a different version where the organ comes in at full throttle and with total splendour).

Nevertheless, I took the opportunity to make a note of a few more pieces to be considered for my All-Time Favourite list.

Mendelssohn's Overture, The Hebrides (Fingal's Cave);
Mozart's Overture, Marriage of Figaro
Handel's Ombra Mai Fu (the Largo from Serse/Xerxes. All I have to decide is which version in my collection I like the most - various instrumental versions, or one of the versions with singing by Kathleen Ferrier, Plácido Domingo or Bryn Terfel.
Waltz of the Flowers - Tchaikovsky
Mendelssohn's Symphony No 4 (Italian) - 1st movement
Brahms's Lullaby. Probably the first tune I ever learnt, thanks to the wonderful cot mobile sent to me when I was born by my Auntie Imelda, then in New York, now in Florida.

Currently on repeat play on the CD player Queireme Mucho, a Chrimbo pressie from my sister. Favourite tracks (at the moment) - Cocula, Frio frio and Flor De Azalea/No Me Quieras Tanto/Piel Canela.

The role of charm?

I was brought up to be polite. Ps and Qs rather then expecting and demanding. At some stage I was probably too polite. It amuses me to see others, and myself, being unnecessarily polite - a distinctly British trait, I think. "I'm terribly sorry and I hope you don't, mind, please, if I buy this little thing from your shop, thank you, if it's all right with you." Still, it is far preferable to what I see everyday in my local newsagent: "Give me a bus pass!"

In my mid-twenties I had the pleasure of being line-managed by two different people. One was just a few years older, blue-eyed boy, on a trajectory to glory, Harry. The other, Mark, was 'old-school', twenty years older, and with only the far distant prospect of early-retirement to look forward to.

Harry used to smarm round senior management, but he spoke abruptly to our long-in-the-tooth admin guy; directed him, and the trainees like me, to do his photocopying without a please or thank you. He was rude to messengers, the junior library staff, the catering staff. And he was loathed. The number of people who said "I can't believe that that lovely Sue is married to that rude Harry." (Long-in-the-tooth admin guy sent me a Xmas card a couple of years ago gleefully announcing that Harry and Sue had split with just a parenthesis to say 'wasn't it sad for the children?')

Observing Mark in action was entirely different. He was business-like, just short of cold, with senior management. The way he spoke to messengers, admin staff and catering staff was a revelation. Courteous, warm, charming. It was impossible not to warm to him. Ten years ago but I still remember the two weeks I spent on audit with him. Definition of a gentleman.

I resolved to ensure that I was like Mark. It didn't require a change of personality; I already got on well with messengers, catering staff and the library.

Yesterday I was travelling back to London on the half four train. I have the privilege of travelling First Class. Normally, I use the time to work, but half four on a Friday, please...I thought what would my manager do, and I ordered two large gins. I was also on constant refills from the tea pot. The young chap yielding the teapot commented that I was drinking a lot of tea. I explained that it balanced out the gin. I didn't explain that it was an extension of a habit my friend developed when doing Voluntary Service Overseas in Malawi, where black tea is customarily drunk as an accompaniment to wine, and a habit I have spread amongst a myriad of friends.

I had forgotten that this particular train company offers complementary wine. Despite my two large gins, I decided to go for a glass. I certainly didn't refuse the second one! During this time, I said my pleases and thank-yous, smiled graciously at the staff, exchanged a few words of small talk, and used my eyes intelligently to express approval. Many passengers who travel first class find it necessary to demonstrate their innate superiority, their master/mistress-of-the-universe status by being brusque, direct, sometimes rude, to the train staff. I don't feel that need. I am confident enough about myself that I don't feel the need to show-off to those around me.

Leaving Leicester, the young man on wine duty passed me a couple of small bottles of wine with a nod and a wink 'don't tell anybody'.

I never use charm and good manners in a cynical way to get preferential treatment. I do know, having worked as bar staff, how awful it is to be treated as a serf, or to be treated coldly, or to be patronised because of the lowly nature of one's job. I know that establishing a warm relationship with the catering staff at the start of the journey improves my journey, and, hopefully, makes their shift more pleasant. If I also get material benefit - like sneaky gratis wine, all the better.

Admittedly, it did make my progress down the platform at St Pancras rather diagonal - a disconcerting experience when you get precariously close to the edge.

And it did make up for Thursday evening. I decided to eat in my hotel room, and with my dinner ordered a bottle of wine. I was most disappointed that the 'bottle' turned out to be 18.75 cl. I didn't bother arguing, but that's only a glass and a half. I was in the mood to drink an entire bottle.

Early start

On Tuesday, I had to get to Gatwick by 7 am. Factoring in the possibility of delays etc, I ordered a cab for 5am. On the dot of 5am the cab firm phoned to tell me that the cab was outside. I went outside, but there was no sign of the cab. I phoned the firm, which said it was on 'X' road. I pointed out that I don't live on 'X' road. I was asked where my house is - on the A-Z, I said. Parallel to 'X' road. The controller said he would send the car round. After more than five minutes it still hadn't materialised, so I was back onto the firm. I explained that standing around on the street in a 'red light' area at 5 am in the morning made me feel very vulnerable and I found this unacceptable. The controller understood.

Then the car came. The driver said, "It's dreadful round here. I only just stopped on 'X' road, and there were prostitutes banging on the door."

"I know," I said. "I felt very vulnerable hanging around on the road in the dark."

"Oh, you're not....?" he asked.

"No, I have a business meeting at 7 am," I said fiercely.

Blinkered patriotism

By mere accident of birth I happen to be British. I'm fiercely patritotic in the weird ways and totally unpatriotic in the predictable ways of the scoundrel.

Isn't the British attitude to alcohol and drunkenness so ace as to be worthy of celebration as a national trait?

(or do I mean English? I get so terribly confused).

May he rot in hell

I have an absolute and strong opposition to capital punishment but I let out a celebratory "Yes!" when I read Harold Shipman found dead in cell.

I followed the trial with some interest, largely because a key player was someone my family knew. Afterwards I read a newspaper comment that the trial didn't get sufficient media coverage - a view somewhat underlined by the blanket coverage of Soham - because his victims all appeared to be elderly women, and elderly women are simply not 'sexy' enough for mass media coverage.

During the trial I had my doubts as to whether a guilty verdict would be passed, and was pleased when it was. Then the case made the headlines, and it slowly began to dawn on the media that this was absolute dynamite. Suddenly, the women weren't so elderly, helpless and unsexy.

Killing people is awful. Full stop. Killing people just because you can is even more awful. To do such a thing, and in such mind-boggling numbers, when in a position of absolute trust hits at the very core of what we hold dear. Cynical about our media, I think this case would have had far more publicity in Britain if it had occurred in the USA. The fact that it occurred in an anonymous sleepy town in the North (although one with previous form in notorious serial killing) made it almost a non-story. Subsequently, I have become aware of how many acquaintances are affected by this story. I'm not sure there will be dancing on the streets of Hyde this evening, but I am sure that few will mourn his passing.

Out of Office Experience

Curse this rule about not blogging about the substance of work. I have had a really amazing day as part of my 'Out of Office Experience', the scheme whereby back-office staff are expected to spend a day on the frontline, either in the Department or in a funded organisation. I would so wish to blog about the details of my day, which I spent in a well known airport deep in the Sussex countryside. I want to tell you about the job, and how I nearly met a semi-famous Formula 1 driver, but didn't, and all the super experiences I experienced. But I can't, so I shall have to confine it to my personal journal.

My shift started at 7 and I have just got home. Did you know they are building another pier at North Terminal, and as part of it they are building a bridge that has to be wide enough to span the taxi way and tall enough for a 707 to pass under? They're building it ex situ and are then going to move it into place in one piece? I want to tell you about all the really nice Americans and Zimbabweans I met. But I can't.

The perfect diary entry

This year, I want to read the entire oeuvre of my diary, but I promise you I won't reproduce paragraphs and paragraphs of it here.

2/1/1981 I was almost thirteen, and my parents had given me this rather sweet notebook in which to write my diary.

Bear in mind this was the school holidays, and when you're not quite thirteen there's not a lot to do except, it seems, revise Latin, read the dictionary and play with your little brother's Scalextrix. And watch TV...

I watched Play School, Mighty Mouse, Jackanory, Johnny Ball Games, Grange Hill (Tucker has joined the action group), Ivor the Engine, and later, The Tales of Hoffman, starring Plácido Domingo, who's really gorgeous and brill.

Potentially lethal dangerous website

Don't even think of going to Telly Years, there is a real risk that you may never get those hours of your life back.

I had quite forgotten that, in the days before Channel 4, and thus S4C, Pobol Y Cwm was on BBC1 - Radio Times - December 1979

Premonition of doom

From time to time I get this really awful premonitions. My worst one was the night before the Lockerbie disaster when I actually dreamed about an aeroplane crashing out of the sky onto a residential area although I located it wrongly.

All day today, when I haven't been in meetings I have been obsessively flicking onto the BBC news site convinced that something awful is going to happen to some celebrity whom I admire (I said to a colleague, if only I knew who, I would warn them).

I've just opened my browser, which defaults onto the BBC news front page. The scrolling ticker is saying Queen Mary 2, the largest cruise liner ever built, sets sail on its maiden voyage.

A ghost walked over my grave and I feel quite ill.

The sea will never stop holding a fascination for me. At times so beautiful, other times so unforgiving. Romantic and frightening. Tales from the high seas have always held a special mysticism. Hearing the waves lap on a beach is perfection.

Although I am a landlubber, I have just remembered that one of my favourite poems is John Masefield's Sea Fever:

'Sea Fever'

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face
and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again
to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over.

-- John Masefield

Incidentally, if you're a bit like me, and know that you like poetry but aren't sure what you like, you really should click over to The Clock, a poetry blog from our dear friend Uborka Karen. An eclectic mix of the obscure and the famous, and beautifully presented, too.

:Update Oh fuck, this wacky site is predicting it too, although for Jan 9th so it's way off beam.

Shoplifting

... is not something that appears on my CV.

Contains potentially disturbing subject matter

It's common amongst teenagers, most of whom go on to live lives as model citizens. It's a very female crime, often perpetrated by women who are otherwise non-criminal, and often have no economic need to do so.

In the past five years, it's something I have become increasingly interested in. I occasionally have dreams about shoplifting, all of which are pleasurable. I sometimes walk into shops and contemplate carrying out an act. My desire to do so is akin to a sexual urge.

Marks and Spencer, Friday. Upstairs, trying on a suit, I again got that familiar urge. A desire to shoplift. Indisputedly, a sexual-type urge. I wanted to, but at the back of my mind lurked some common sense - how do I explain such a conviction at work, especially where I work. And it's not the sort of conviction an accountant can carry lightly.

Downstirs I selected five tops and took them to the changing room. "Four" said the assistant. "Five" I corrected her.

In the cubicle I cursed the anorak-auditor in me. She was all set to enter '4' on the computer. I already knew from upstairs, and from the previous visits, they don't check your tag on exit. I already had a M&S plastic bag. I had my rucksack. Tops - not one of them had a securtiy tag. How simple would it be to slip one into a bag and saunter out with the other four, appearing to the world as a model citizen, but in reality, harbouring a dreadful secret.

As I type this, I realise, it would not have been enough. I would have been disappointed. The ultimate low risk shoplifting experience. Like all sexual deviance, it would not have satisfied at that low level. I would have felt tempted to go on and try something more risky - perhaps a trivial item of stationery from Woolworths, an object of desire from John Lewis, a book from Books Etc. Perhaps my general clumsiness would have helped. Cause confusion by rooting in bag for Palm to consult shopping list. Make imaginary phonecall.

I know it's morally wrong, I know that as a consumer I pay the cost of 'slippage' from shops. I have heard that places like Sainsburys tolerate slippage of up to 20% because it's cheaper than employing staff or security tagging everything. I know from the amount of knock-off gear that is touted in the pubs how much happens.

But I'm not sure that I'm comfortable either with my motives or the consequences of being caught.

What I did last night

Stayed in and watched TV.

Logistically perfect planning. During the afternoon, Ernani was taped, to be watched at some unspecified later date.

Next up - after eating, an important consideration - was 28 Days Later. I'm not a fan of horror films, on the whole, but I did find this worthwhile. I'm loath to say enjoyable, because it was gruesome in places, but I would say the plot hung together, the dialogue was not too cliched, and there was just about enough characterisation. Not the greatest film of all time, but one I would definitely give a thumbs up to.

After that we definitely needed Britian's Best SitCom. The programme showed clips from the Top 50, here is a list of 11-100. Of the 'bottom' 50, Desmonds and Black Books, in my opinion, are sorely under-rated. Jimmy was convinced Desmonds would be Top Ten. The actual Top Ten is here. I would expect that Only Fools and Horses is odds-on favourite, but I actually can't stand Fools and Horses, so I am currently debating between casting my vote for Blackadder or Yes Minister/Yes Prime Minister. The latter because of the tremendous insight it gave into the British Civil Service, which I subsequently discovered to be accurate. The former for Baldrick, and if for no other reason, as pointed out on the programme, that amazingly pathos of that closing scene in Blackadder Goes Forth

Instead of having Blackadder succeed in his quest, had him and his men forced to join the advance and fulfil their fears by going 'over the top' to their deaths. This grim image, the frame frozen and then dissolving into one depicting the same field full of poppies, memorably ended the series on a note of dark satire and was a fitting conclusion to a comedy premise that had always sported an underlying intelligence beneath its farcical surface.

which is almost certainly the only time I have wept at a comedy programme.

Throughout the three hour showcase, I realised that I laughed most at the slapstick-type clips. I've heard that laughing at slapstick is an unusually British character-trait. An hon mensh should go to Frank Spencer, of course.

Jimmy commented that people have compared him and his Dad to Steptoe and Son. In measured, neutral tones I replied that I couldn't imagine why.

I have very personal reasons for hating The Vicar of Dibley

Of course, like its precursors, the 100 Great Britains, and the Great Read, this exercise is guaranteed to piss off a substantial amount of people. I am almost certain that anyone reading this will experience strong disagreement with at least something I have said. I am prepared to give this exercise more time than the previous two, because the previous two were about far more serious subjects, and the results said something - something slightly uncomfortable - about this nation. However, with sitcoms, it's such a tiny part of the cultural tapestry, although terribly important on one level, so I will be prepared to accept the results, and even acknowledge Delboy to be a great cultural icon, and the famous falling through the bar flap scene as being one of the great moments of comedy.

What's your favourite sitcom?

Paris-Dakar

Slowly seeping into my imagination is the Paris-Dakar Rally. Not that I'm turning into a petrol head or anything (heaven forfend...) but it's intrepid and romantic.

Update: This weekend's stages in Mali have been cancelled due to security reasons, which is a crying shame. Huh, just as I'm getting into it.

A tribute to blogging

Inadvertently, I have spent the last few weeks looking at the fucking flowers. I'd like to say everything's coming up roses, but that would be premature.

I love this time of year - the way there are little green shoots pushing their way through the decomposing mussel shells in our bizarrely organic flower bed. And every day the sun sets just a little later. Today, 1611, before long, it will be ten o'clock at night.

Ever the optimist, the glass is half full, I know it's time to make a new start. The delights of having a birthday in early February is the transitional period from New Year when there is time for a reappraisal or reflection on life.

This is beginning to sound like a valedictory speech. Hold that sigh of relief, it isn't...!

I have been blogging just short of two years. It has been one of the most positive experiences in my life. For very many reasons. The second most important reason is you. You have made it what it is. Look at my blogroll - it's impressively large. And generally, it's read - every post. Not always all of them in detail, but definitely read.

The single most important thing that blogging has done for me is about me. I'm sorry that Meg dropped Not So Soft, especially for the tagline "Life unfolding". I won't presume to guess what Meg intended by that, but for a while I interpreted it as a contemporary commentary on life.

Then I began to realise that for me that blogging was a way of making life unfold. In my early days, I was inspired by Hg to get out and do things. You see the things as photographs, for me it's about becoming more rounded as a person. Time went by, and I found more of you, and you inspired to do more things. Some of you, amongst you some of my very earliest reads, have also inspired me to understand it's okay to be different and be proud of my uniqueness. (Each of us is unique, I'm not claiming to be special...).

Karen's discovery of her teenage diaries sent me on a journey. I thought it was only to the cupboard in my bedroom where my own teenage diaries are lovingly filed, but it became a longer journey into the essence of who I am. It sparked off remembrance of whom I wanted to be when I grew up when I was fifteen.

More prosaically, I have a hectic week ahead, which involves some time in a 'trendy luxury hotel', which is cheaper than the usual bog-standard-but-full-hotel. January holds other time away, and for the first time in years the television pulls me in.

Earlier this year I was struggling. Normally I walk around with half-formed blog posts in my head. I kept thinking - I could blog about that, no. What shall I blog? And suddenly, of course, you get this urge and you have to write something, and you can't understand why twenty four hours earlier you were struggling for inspiration.

This is a very long ramble of self-indulgent navel gazing and mea culpa mea culpa mea maxima culpa to exculpate my guilt at being nearly incapable of paying you the courtesy of reading your - no doubt - fine words. I can't see much chance of me doing much for most of January.

So, I want each and everyone of you to leave with me at least one link to a post of yours that you want me to read. I will read that, I promise. I would hope for one a week for the remainder of January, but these rules are not prescriptive. I've asked for this before but in your modesty you have declined. I am serious this time.

Friday

You know me, I have pretensions to snobbery. Which, really, is worse, in some respects, than actually being a snob. (Although Warren at work did call me a snob today, in fact he was horrible to me all day, until I started moaning, then he started on Yim, who only joined us this week so I said - look, see what I said, Warren's a really horrible person* - he called me a snob because I said I was in Argos to buy a Sony DVD player, not Elizabeth Duke jewellery. He'd already said that he was surprised that I lowered myself to Argos).

For years I absolutely refused to get satellite telly. Four-and-a-half channels is good enough for me, I said. Who needs all the rubbish that's pumped out to the unthinking masses in the name of entertainment but really so that Rupert Murdoch can control their minds. (I still have a ring binder dating from the Wapping Dispute with stickers on saying 'Boycott Murdoch'.)

It hurt, it really hurt, to get satellite. A dish (think Lady Bracknell, think handbag) on my twee Victorian cottage - ooh, my neighbour got listed yesterday, I live next to a listed building (how swanky is that!). But the things we do for love, heh! I did it for Jimmy. I made it absolutely clear to the mockers and scorners at work, that I would only watch the intellectual channels - and Manchester United Live, of course.

And you know what, the intellectual channels are proving to be just wonderful. I haven't actually watched Discovery, or the History Channel yet. Who needs them? I'm addicted to Performance and Artsworld. (And yes, they are in rivalry with each other - why else would both of them show the Nutcracker, with the Bolshoi, at the same time the Wednesday before Christmas? Why, if Artsworld is doing a Verdi Chronology in January and February, are Performance showing Otello next Monday and Un Ballo in Maschera the Monday after?)

I was surfing through the Radio Times at work at lunchtime, and, as I announced to the world, the only *good* thing on telly tonight is Victoria Wood on Diets. As those who have met me will know, I don't do diets. Then I corrected myself and pointed out that Jim Davidson's commercial breakdown was on. Someone mentioned hanging, then someone else mentioned a gas chamber. (For those of you outside the UK who don't know who Jim Davidson is - he's a racist, sexist, obnoxious, right-wing, unfunny, twunt who passes himself off as a comic and always goes to entertain 'Our Boys' in a warzone poor sods think yourself lucky.)

So I declared that I would go shopping this evening. But you know me, I reject shopping-as-a-hobby as the work of Satan, so it was into Markles and Sparkles, find black suit, try on, pay for, whilst glaring childishly at the model on the leaflet for the new M&S card. Then quick dash round downstairs, pick up some tops, ostensibly for work, but probably unsuitable with those necklines, and home within two hours of leaving the office. (I'm told I shop like a man!)

Er, nothing on telly, what shall I do. Switch telly on. ooh, look, there's a concert on Performance. So I watched it. Well, I can quite honestly say that it's the first time I have seen in a concert, televised or live, a conductor walk off the podium halfway through a piece, with a microphone in hand, and go and stand with the audience, singing.

And now, I've just remembered I need to eat, so I shall bid you goodnight. Once I've checked my commas, of course. And my html tags. Which are truly evil things - BTW wasn't it cool that Tim Berners-Lee got his K, finally. I've been saying for years that he should. My next tip is Dame Delia Smith. Don't forget you read it here first.

This post has been brought to you with more deviations than a Ronnie Corbett monologue.

You know, this blog used to have rants on it...

* he's not really

Children, the fightback has begun

Spotted outside St James's Park Tube

Any bicycle's found attached to these railings will be immediately removed

Any notice showing lack of use of punctuation should be removed too!

(I, personally, would have put a comma between 'removed' and 'too'.)

Currently reading...

...tittering over and highly recommending: Eats, Shoots and Leaves.

On the comma, an American actor interpreting a scene from Hamlet "Go get him, surgeons". Not quite the same as "Go, get him surgeons".

Or from the bible, which didn't have commas:

Verily, I say unto thee, This day thou shalt be with me in Paradise

or

Verily I say unto thee this day, Thou shalt be with me in Paradise

The first version is Protestant, the second Catholic and the placing of commas makes all the difference between whether or not one believes in Purgatory.

But the most exciting thing is: did you know that the semi-colon was invented in the same place and the same year as double-entry bookkeeping? I have to say, I nearly wet myself when I read that.

Music on the TV

A few highlights of this week's viewing. My god, I'm turning into a telly addict.

Nabucco, the highlights being an evil but beautiful Abigaile by Ghena Dimitrova, and the evocative Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves - actually this looks like a nice little Naxos compilation for a fiver.

Ravel's Bolero and Strauss II's Radetsky March in this exuberant concert. Those of us above a certain age will know Bolero from 10, or from Ice Dancing's supreme perfect moment from 1984.

However, neither of these interpretations do justice to an amazingly erotic and intelligent piece of music which enables all sections of the orchestra to show off, but especially the percussion. I never got to play side drum in this...

Radetsky March is another great percussionist's piece. Second only, perhaps, to Donner und Blitzen for its cymbal part - it was almost a disappointment to be promoted to timpani for this one. Deep meaning - none, it's just a pile of fun. (Actually, that's not quite true it was written to commemorate a military victory of historical importance for Austrians).

You know, this blog used to be political...

Tennis shock

I see that Canada's leading tennis player has failed drugs test

Well, no one can accuse him of taking performance-enhancing drugs.

Ker boooooom tish