Dear JJ

So, I'm still sitting by the phone waiting for you to call about this whole 'Kirk thing,' but I've heard nothing from you. Maybe I missed your call? Maybe you've misplaced my number? If so, maybe you could get your people to get in touch with my people? Well, actually, I don't have any people, so maybe you could just, y'know, email me?

Would it help if I said I've got my own phaser?

Dude, I've got my own phaser.

Dramatic pause

A few months back my bro told me that he thought I was talking about Star Trek too much here. I replied with something like "harumph! Well, you don't have to read it!" And, er, he hasn't… Anyway, that being the case, I think it's only fair that I give you an advance warning that I'm going to talk shop right here, right now - so if you don't like Star Trek maybe give this post a skip, OK?

*waits*

OK, Everyone gone? Oh - yes, everyone has gone… Hmmm… Well, it's just you and me, sexy reflection!

Standby for nerdgasm!

-----

Well, it's an exciting time for Star Trek fans - there was a major announcement at the San Diego Comic Con about the new Star Trek film yesterday. Of course, being a huge fan in the wrong time zone, I sat up late last night checking the internet for the news as it came filtering in, and quite frankly I'm a very happy boy today.

Let's back up a bit. I've been a Star Trek fan for a long time. I can distinctly remember the first time I watched the show. It was the early eighties, and the episode was 'Operation: Annihilate!' (still, to this day my very favourite episode) – the one where the neural parasite (or "flying pizza" as I called it) flew onto Spock's back. And just a few years later Sparky Ma took me to see Star Trek III: The Search for Spock at the grand old cinema in Staines that they later tore down and replaced with a block of flats and a soulless multiplex. I think The Search for Spock is what really sold me on Star Trek; I loved the scene where Kirk and his crew stole the Enterprise, only to sacrifice it later to save their friend. And I remember the seven-year old me getting home and immediately drawing a picture of the Enterprise, only to wipe it out in an explosion of fiery orange and red felt-tip moments later - sacrificing my Enterprise just as Kirk had sacrificed his.

I was hooked. I even rescued my brother's old toy Enterprise - the one that I always joked fired polo mints from the front of the saucer section - from being thrown away in the late eighties after he'd battered and abused it and tried to turn it into the movie version by ripping off the orange plastic deflector dish.

There's been a lot of Star Trek since that time, and unlike a lot of fans I've pretty much enjoyed it all. Yeah, there's been a few duff episodes here and there, but after 700-odd hours that's bound to have happened; and anyway, I've always found something to enjoy. From Picard to Sisko, Janeway to Archer, I've followed it all. But really, for me, it's always been about the original series - Kirk and Spock (and not forgetting, of course, McCoy, Scotty, Sulu, Uhura, and Chekov).

I can't begin to describe how much I've admired the original series cast over the years. I used to hate it when a new Star Trek movie came along and all people would do was focus on their age. So what if Kirk looked older? Hell, I prefered the original cast as they aged; I thought they were cool, dignified, heroic. I remember seeing their final movie together - Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country - in early 1992, in the same cinema where I'd seen Star Trek III years earlier. And while I was enthralled by the incredible science fiction adventure unfolding on the screen before me, I also knew that I was seeing these characters for the last time. Yes, I knew they'd live on in the multitude of novels published each year, but it wasn't only Kirk and Spock I was saying goodbye to - it was Shatner and Nimoy too.

Three years later, of course, Kirk returned in Star Trek Generations, only to die as he passed the torch to The Next Generation cast. But Kirk without Spock just wasn't the same. It wasn't right. And while I relished every subsequent movie as they came out (yes, even Nemesis), I never felt like they quite captured my imagination like the adventures of the original cast.

Over the last few years I've met a fair few Star Trek actors, both for work purposes and on those rare occasions when I've decided to head to an event like Collectormania. I've had lunch with Nicole de Boer, chatted to Jonathan Frakes, LeVar Burton, Marina Sirtis, Conner Trineer, and Jolene Blalock, but on the four occasions when I've met members of the original cast (all at signings) I've *literally* fallen to pieces. The first one I met was Nichelle Nichols; I stood in front of her, probably went "umm…," and then admitted that I was completely speechless. She was very gracious and sweet, and laughed gently at me, and I just wanted to hug her. Majel Barrett (Gene Roddenberry's widow) called me "a sweetheart," and I turned to jelly.

But the big two… Shatner and Nimoy…

I met Nimoy first, at a sci-fi convention in docklands. I'd had a long journey up there, then queued to get in, and then, when I was queuing AGAIN to get Nimoy's autograph I wondered why the hell I'd bothered. All that changed when this towering figure, with a coat drapped over his shoulders like a mafia don, power-walked past me with a group of security guards scurring after him. Nimoy is *cool.* I watched him intently as he sat down, tested the pens set out for him to sign with, then started signing. When it was my turn, I walked up to him, put my chosen photograph in front of him, and just stared. He signed it, and pushed it back towards me. Then I thought, hell, just go for broke - and I stuck out my hand. By this time Nimoy was looking to his left. All of a sudden he turned back to me, grabbed my hand, and flashed a really broad grin at me.

I met Shatner later that same year. Marcosy and I went to the Collectormania fair in Milton Keynes specifically because Shatner was going to be there. We were queuing up when this abrasive woman stood at the front of the queue and shouted some orders down the line: "no more than one item per person, no photographs, no personalising of items, do not speak to Mr. Shatner…" That sort of thing. Then HE arrived. Obviously the line moved pretty quickly because of the abrasive woman's demands, but when I got towards the front I decided I was going to just go for it, and as he signed my picture I said "congratulations on your Emmy" (this was just after he'd won his first one for 'Boston Legal'). Suddenly Shatner turns to look at me, and a smile appears on his face. "Thank… you," he says, in that unforgettable Shatner way. I spent the rest of the day in a bit of a daze.

And so back up to speed. We've known for a while now that there's going to be a new Star Trek film, and it's going to be directed by JJ Abrams, and that's all great. But in the back of my mind there's always been a little doubt, because as great as Abrams' stuff is, it's been a pretty open secret that he intends to go back to the original series, to the early days of Kirk and Spock, and that's, y'know, sacred. You can't do the original series without Shatner, Nimoy and the others - and certainly not since DeForest Kelley and James Doohan passed away.

Or can you?

Yesterday at the Comic Con they announced that Zachary Quinto from 'Heroes' is going to play a younger Spock, and I think that if they ARE going to go back to the original series then this is great because by all accounts he's a pretty good actor, and he looks like a young Nimoy. But what really got me (and you can check this out for yourself HERE, around the 03:05 mark, where you can actually hear someone shout out "oh my god!") was when Abrams said:

"It it going to be an amazing honor to get to say 'action' and 'cut' to this gentlemen. He is going to put the pointed ears on one more time for Star Trek. Ladies and gentlemen Leonard Nimoy."

I'm not afraid to say that that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand-up, and generally made me a wee bit emotional. Because Leonard Nimoy turned down a part in Star Trek Generations 13 years ago, and Leonard Nimoy retired from acting, and now Leonard Nimoy is coming back to Star Trek as the older Spock. And if that's not a ringing endorsement for this new movie I don't know what is.

And all of a sudden, I feel a little bit like that seven year-old boy watching Star Trek III all those years ago. I think Star Trek is in very good hands, and I think that's just a little bit awesome…

D'oh-nut

So yesterday after work, Yaz, BSH, and I headed off to Shepherds Bush to see The Simpsons Movie - along with, it must be said, what looked like about 25,000 other people. I've never seen Shepherds Bush cinema so busy. Anything over seven people in that place and I get a bit jittery; it's so … hidden away.

Anyway, after hyperventilating into a paper bag and popping some prozac, I pulled myself together, got my ticket, and headed towards the screen. At the doors to Screen 4: The Simpsons Movie was a joyful looking man with a little cart and a paper hat.

"Doughnut?" He asked in a joyful high-pitched voice while proffering his hand towards his sweet, sweet treats.

"Ooo!" I squealed a little bit too much like Homer while wiggling my fingers in the air. "Don't mind if I do!"

I reached over and nabbed a doughnut, cradling it in my hand and aiming it towards my mouth.

"That'll be a pound." He said, his tone suddenly all serious.

"What?"

"A pound."

"What?"

"One pound. For the doughnut." He said, pointing at the doughnut in my hand as if I had several hidden about my person.

I grimaced, and seriously thought about putting it back. How rude to lure me like that. He was clearly some sort of sweet, sweet treat pimp, lulling people into a false sense of security before forcing them to pay up.

I was kind of hungry though, so I thrust my doughnut into his evil assistant's hand (keeping a watchful eye on her - she looked the sort to take a surruptitous bite, or lick the hundreds and thousands from the icing) while I fished in my wallet for a quid. Then I told him it was "cheeky," before heading in to see the film.

Yaz followed in a minute later, and I told her about being caught out by the doughnut sugar-daddy.

"Oh yes," she said, "he offered me one two. I picked one up, then he told me how much it was."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I put it back," she said, quite matter-of-factly. "I wasn't paying a quid for that."

And so, as The Simpsons Movie started, I sat in the darkness wondering just how many people had fingered my doughnut that day…

-----

As for the movie itself, well, I did enjoy The Simpsons Movie very much. I'll admit to being a little bit disappointed that I wasn't belly-laughing all the way through, but it was consistently amusing all, and at 87 minutes long you never got the feeling that it outstayed its welcome. For me, though, it peaked at the Spider-Pig joke - which I first saw in the trailer weeks ago.

Worth an 18 year wait? Maybe not - but good fun nevertheless!

Things that happened today

Sometimes things completely unexpected will happen to you; some are lovely, some not so much. Several things of relative note happened to me today; you may or may not find them interesting/mildy diverting.

First things first: A bloody massive striped monstrosity dive-bombed me in the office this morning (it was not, you'll be glad to hear, a murderous emo attached to a length of bungee rope). There I was, all zoned out in my proof-reading coma, when this massive thing just … well, it just came at me! I'm loathe to call it a bee, because it was about the size of a sparrow. I suppose it could've been one of those much-vaunted 'super-wasps' the Daily Mail is always going on about, but I saw no evidence of it trying to dissolve me with heat vision, nor was there a crashed rocket ship from a doomed planet parked up outside the office.

That being the case, I can only assume it was some kind of genetic abberation, a bit like Chunk from The Goonies or Suri Cruise.

Not having time to capture it on film, I produced a detailed autistic rendering of the creature:

Despite appearances, I did not tattoo this illustration on human flesh; it's actually on a big post-it note, but the colours went funny. But yes, what you're thinking is correct - the monster was packing heat.

-----

Met Yaz for a coffee-based lunch at, er, lunchtime, which was going swimmingly until - ugh! - an almighty hair flopped across my face. My first thought was that my hairdresser had been playing a cruel, cruel trick on me, and had purposely not been cutting one single, specific hair each time I've been recently so that it grew and grew and grew to immense and ridiculous proportions. But as I clawed at my face to pull it away, I glanced up and realised that the woman at the next table had been giving her hair the ol' 'just walked out of a salon' shake while she flirted with some guy, and the wind had blown a stray hair over (we were sitting outside). I scowled at her, and scattered the offending lock to the wind.

But blow me down if she didn't do it again a minute later. This was even worse though, because this one was frizzy and had a split end. She looked at me again, and basically shrugged her shoulders as if to say "not my problem."

I was *this* close to telling her to go get her skanky, alopecia-riddled bird's nest hair sorted.

*snaps*

-----

Everyone likes to hear how much they're loved, and a raving egomanic like me is no different. Today, though, I was particularly touched*. Some of my workmates have started an online petition to make me join Facebook. An online petition for me? Pour moi!? I was so touched by this, in fact, that the answer was still no. I did, however, invite the orchestrator of the petition to come be my MySpace friend at www.myspace.com/sparkytim (Autumn Reeser, still *ahem* pending, I note…).

I was a little upset a short time later, though, to actually look at the petition (it's open to non-Facebook members) to find that only five people have signed it, one of which I don't know, although she seems delightful and has a very exciting futuristic-sounding name. So I turned to my colleague BSH and told him that if they could reach 30 signatures I'd join up; but as he turned to his keyboard and started furiously tapping out what I can only assume was some rousing call to arms, I raised the stakes to 50. Thirty's probably within the realm of possibility, you see.

What's also annoying is the fact that someone on Facebook is calling themself 'Sparky Timmy,' which has led BSH to think that it might actually be me. Despite my protests to the contrary, BSH isn't totally convinced, and has apparently been using the Facebook 'poke' function on my unsuspecting doppleganger. Not being too clued up on the whole Facebook thing, I'm not sure if 'poking' is as overtly sexual as it sounds, but either way this dude is probably black and blue from being poked by a complete stranger.


*But not in a special, sexual, or inappropriate way**.
**More's the pity.

The eighties revival starts here

I've gotten extremely nostalgic for the 1980s over the last couple of days, and not even for reasons that I think are particularly great.

First of all, I caught some of Short Circuit 2 on telly. Now, in comparison to the first Short Circuit movie - and Ally Sheedy's sterling performance - Short Circuit 2 is not all that great. It certainly doesn't have any dialogue that compares to "your mother is a snow-blower." But it does have some good points. First of all, Johnny Five is just cool, aside from when he paints himself gold at the end, and … well, I always wanted one of the toy Johnny Five's that were being pedelled by Fisher Stevens in his role as what could now be considered an incredibly offensive stereotype. It's also got one of the guys from Spinal Tap in it - clearly not cranking his career up to 11 there…

Oh, and let's not forget the Short Circuit hands*!


Next up was another film - Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol. God, I used to love the Police Academy films - well, actually this was about the last one I loved; they totally went downhill after Steve Guttenberg sailed off toward the horizon in a hot-air balloon with Sharon Stone and her curiously bad eighties hair. It's been a long time since I saw this movie, so pretty much all the jokes seemed fresh again, and even those that I did anticipate still elicited a little giggle. And, really, what is there *not* to like about a movie starring Bobcat Goldthwaite? After only about 20 minutes my bro was goading me into reviving my Bobcat impression.


Seriously, that bit 43 seconds in where he says "hi"? I can do that to perfection.

It's actually quite shocking how quotable the Police Academy movies are; despite the fact that I say it all the time, I'd genuinely forgotten that "MOVE IT, MOVE IT, MOVE IT!" was a Captain Harris quote…

And then, of course, this afternoon I caught Airplane II. And all I'm going to say about that is that Shatner just cracks me up.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an overwhelming desire to watch Smokey and the Bandit…

-----

While we're here, and for all the naysayers among you, here's a pic of my pimpy new slippe- er, I mean trainers.

They're so awesome! I might even start wearing them outside soon!


*Kudos to comic shop Guy for reminding me about the Short Circuit hands.

Tactical withdrawal

Theoretical secretary - take a letter!

*sigh*

No, this isn't 'Countdown,' Theoretical secretary' I didn't mean a vowel or a consonent. Do you see Carol Vorderman anywhere around here? No, I didn't think so. Pick up your pen and a notepad, balance your glasses on the end of your nose so you at least look like you know what you're doing, and copy down what I say.

Dear Lond-

Wait. Could you not sit like that, Theoretical secretary? I'm having flashbacks to 'Basic Instinct' – it's very distracting. Thank you.

Right.

Dear Londinium-er,

It is with great regret that I annouce today my decision to withdraw from the race to be the next mayor of our great and fair city. My reasons for this are simple: Boris-freakin'-Johnson has entered the fray.

YES!

Holy hell people, this is going to be awesome. It'll be like putting a monkey and a goat in a boxing ring together. The monkey will be all cool and grin like an idiot, while the goat, which I might add will be wearing a gingham 'neckerchief, will just look perplexed and try to eat everything. Eventually the monkey will start prodding the goat, and the goat will go ballistic and headbutt the monkey (goats are very temperamental and unpredicatble). Soon all hell will break loose.

Good times.

For those of you who don't know, let me give you a brief biography of the two most prominent candidates.

In the red corner - goat:
Ken Livingston has been mayor of Londinium for what, eight years now? In that time he's introduced some good things (free travel for old biddies and young chavs) and some not so good things (a horrifically-flawed congestion charge that was extended this year into one of the most affluent boroughs because of a shortfall in profits, and now masquerades as an environmental benefit which allows a hybrid Lexus RX400h generating 192g of C02 per km into the zone for free, while a VW Polo generating 103g of C02 per km still has to pay eight quid purely because it's not a hybrid. Go figure). Ken is characterised by his incredibly annoying naselly voice, dodgy trips abroad at taxpayers expense, and a penchant for shoulder pads that even 'Dynasty'-era Joan Collins would shy away from.

In the blue corner - Monkey:
Boris Johnson is a national treasure, mainly because he's one of those politicians who keeps putting his foot in it by making incredibly offensive gaffs (one of his best gaffs involved replacing the word 'foot' with the word 'penis,' and 'it' with 'somebody else's wife'). Boris looks like what you'd imagine a live action version of Prince Adam from 'Masters of the Universe' would look like if played by Matt Lucas from 'Little Britain.' Sadly he does not have a battle cat, making do instead with a rather shitty-looking push bike.

So those are our two candidates. Somebody queue up the Star Trek fight music - this is going to be great!

Yours Sincerely,

Sparky

-----

I heard something very strange on the radio this afternoon:

"Die-hard Harry Potter fans are already queuing outside Waterstones in Piccadilly in anticipation of the last Harry Potter book's release…"

What?! Was this some sort of strange Harry Potter-John McClane crossover? I could already picture school children across the country waving their wands around while shouting "YIPPIE-KAY-YAY MUGGLE F**KER!"

Then I realised I'd just gotten a little bit confused.

-----

Regular readers will recall that some time ago I posted a poll regarding which pair of trainers I should buy - a camoflauge pair, or a pimpy white pair. The results were overwhelmingly underwhelming in favour of neither pair, so I flipped you all the bird and made my own choice. Based on the fact that they were marginally cheaper and ready for immediate delivery, I plumped for the pimpy white pair. Long story short, they arrived, and they are awesome. I'm still in that "ooo, new trainers, mustn't wear them outside" phase, so they're effectively just pimpy slippers at the moment, although hopefully this will pass quite quickly as the old ones are about to fall apart.

Anyway, so now I've got some pimpy white trainers, all I need now is a small business loan, some bling, and some ho's* and I can start my own prostitution ring. Good times!


*Any volunteers?

Spank my pinata

Good grief, this might turn out to be a long and intricate tale, but stick with me folks, for it contains:

• Furious exercise
• An epic romance
• A special treat
• Hot animal sex
• Incest

Bear with me.

Furious Exercise:
So Sunday afternoon, despite the fact that the weather was veering from blue skies and sunshine to thunder and torrential downpours, I decided to go out on my bike. Yes, it rained a little at first, then it cleared up, then it rained again, then I "humphed" and rolled my eyes in an almost emo-esque fashion, then it turned sunny again. Then a plague of flying ants appeared from out of nowhere and insisted on colliding into me. Ants in my cycle helmet, ants down my top, ants in my chest hair. Shit. Do you know how difficult it is to pluck f**king ants out of your chest hair? It's difficult, let me tell you. Even more so when you're doing about 25 miles per hour down Hampton High Street.

Anyway, long story short, ants aside, I actually had a pretty awesome ride. I did a slightly longer route than last week, and cut 11 minutes off my time. Haven't got a clue how that happened, but I ain't questioning it. The only downside, though, was that I was pretty freakin' knacked by the time I got home. And that's how, in a rather emotional state, I ended up watching the Jennifer Garner epic '13 Going on 30.'

An Epic Romance:
God, I don't know what the hell was going on - I'm assuming-slash-hoping that it had something to do with my fraught emotional state - but I was super-drawn into this film. I also literally didn't the hell know what was going on because I missed the first 20 minutes, but I'm assuming from the title that Jennifer Garner was playing a sexy retard with the emotional age of a 13 year old. Whatever was going on, I was just hoping and praying that she was going to end up with Mark Ruffalo's character, because even coming into it late I just *knew* those two were meant to be together (incidently, one other thing: should they ever want to do a remake of Columbo, Mark Ruffalo is a complete shoe-in for the role; he's got the hair, the accent, the slightly weird eye, and the somewhat dirty look. He'd also be good for Super Mario Bros).

Fortunately they did, which was awesome because I don't think in my fragile post bike ride state I could've handled the emotional turmoil of him marrying the woman who so clearly wasn't right for him, while Jennifer Garner spent the rest of her days hitting on pre-pubescent boys. With that burning issue resolved to my heart's content, I retired to bed. REALLY. FRIGGIN'. EARLY.

A Special Treat:
Meet Yaz for coffee today, and she immediately picked up on the fact that I was clearly still slightly dazed after my Tour de West London. At least that's the only explanation as to why she kept giving me *snaps* at close range. Anyway, at some point during our lunchtime conversation I happened to mention that I'd downloaded the demo for the Xbox 360 game Viva Pinata. She was intrigued by the open-ended gameplay possibilities that it offered as you craft your garden and filled it with exotic pinatas, and convinced me that I should buy the full game, particularly as it was only 25 quid in Argos. Realising that I'd be too knacked to do anything other than collapse on the sofa when I got in, and deciding that it would make a nice change of pace from the usual games I play which generally consist of blowing things up, I agreed with her, and toddled off to Argos to pick up a copy.

(Note to self: what merry-chav-hell has Argos turned into these days? Never venture there AGAIN)

Hot animal sex:
There's a little bit more to Viva Pinata than I expected. I realised this the first time my whirls (worm-shaped pinatas) started 'romancing' one another in the privacy of the little house I'd bought them. It did not help that they looked like severed penises with comedy eyes and broad smiles. By the time my taffly had begun taking each other roughly from behind I'd come to the conclusion that the 'for ages three and above' label might not really be that appropriate…


Incest:
Yes, I had the resulting offspring from my Sparrowmint's sordid encounter shag one of its parents. Bearing in mind there's no gender-specific detailing in evidence, I'm not sure if it was a son shagging its mother, a daughter shagging its father or… oh, you get the idea.

Verdict: It's like a massive orgy. Viva Pinata could be the most pornographically awesome video game EVAH.

I want you to hit me as hard as you can

Well, not really - this isn't an invite for all and sundry to just rush up and happy-slap me. No, what it is, though, is that last week I caught a bit of Fight Club on telly. I love Fight Club, even though I know I shouldn't talk about it. It's such an awesome movie, and it takes me back to my days as a bare-knuckle fighter on the wild streets of West London. Ah, those were the days – where all that stood between me and a wedgie of epic proportions at the hands of my school-age nemeses (nemesises? Who knows? Who cares?) were my winning smile and my fists of fury.

After seeing a bit of Fight Club, then, I imagine you can understand that I got a bit nostalgic. Specifically, I was thinking about the bit where Tyler Durden asks Edward Norton which celebrity he'd fight. Norton replies "William Shatner. I'd fight William Shatner." And this got me thinking about which celebrities I'd fight. Now, first of all, let me just say that I would not fight William Shatner. I know he's in his seventies, but that dude can fight - just look at all those fight scenes in Star Trek and TJ Hooker. He's got some moves that I really don't think mortal man could evade; the Shat fights dirty. Plus, he's my idol, and I don't think I could hit my idol. It would be like asking a vicar to punch Jesus.

That being the case, and in no specific order, here are 10 celebrities I would fight:

• Orlando Bloom - I don't know what it is about Orlando Bloom that winds me up; quite possibly it has something to do with losing 10 f**kin' hours of my life to the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Geez, those were dull movies. And what was he supposed to be anyway? A transvestite Green Arrow or something? Whatever! This probably wouldn't be a fair fight, because I get the impression that Orlando would just be waving his arms around like a little girl trying to shoo a bumblebee away, and while his little girly slaps are tickling my manly torso in a barely irritating fashion, I'd just bop him on the nose. Job done.

• James Blunt - OK, so James Blunt may have been in the army, but what infantryman takes an acoustic guitar into a warzone and starts warbling "you're beautiful" to the opposing forces? A pathetic one, I'd suggest. I reckon James Blunt would have one of those heads that looks like it's a jack-in-the-box; y'know, you'd punch it, and it'd go back, then spring forward ready for another bash. And all the while he'd maintain that slightly surprised, slightly gormless look that was plastered across his face when he played the Live Earth gig, which would just make my blood boil even more so that I'd just. Keep. Hitting. Him.

• Zach Effron - I caught 20 minutes of High School Musical when it was on TV at Christmas and that was enough for me to want to launch this little bastard into orbit.

• Frankie Muniz - I really used to like Malcolm in the Middle, then I saw Frankie Muniz driving round in an open top Maserati sports car, and I realised that he's probably about 42 or something, and that he's probably got some sort of genetic abnormality that's stunted his growth. He also looks a bit special, and although I've got a general rule against hitting specials (it's like my version of the Prime Directive), I'll make an exception because of the whole Maserati thing. Fight tactics? Just keep pummeling his massive head until he falls over, I reckon. Then steal his car.

• Justin Timberlake - This is kind of a weird one, because I actually quite like JT. Approximately 47 percent of his music is good, and he's shown a self-deprecating sense of humour with the whole 'Dick in a Box' thing. But he cried and phoned his mum when Ashton Kutcher Punk'd him, and that is not cool. What is cool, though, is him crying me a river after I slam him against a wall. Who's bringing sexyback now, bee-yatch?

• Keane - Keane. What is there to say about Keane? Well, not much to be honest. Lord, I hate this band with a passion. Ugh, even the mere thought of that Mr Potato-Head they call a lead singer warbling their horrid, anemic music makes me want to hulk-out big time. I think I could easily take on all three of them at once. I mean, the drummer does bugger all, none of them have guitars they could swing at me - what's the posh one with the double-barrelled surname going to do - launch his keyboard at me? Please. I'd pick the Potato-Headed one up by his ankles and use him as a some sort of floppy, out-of-tune, top-heavy club to dispatch the other two, then … God, I really don't think I could be arsed to expend the effort. I think I'd just chuck him in a skip or something.

• Tobey Maguire - OK, so Tobey Maguire is Spider-Man, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't be easy to beat. First of all, 95 percent of those movies are CGI - he really can't fly through the air and do back flips like that. Second of all, I know he beefs up for the Spidey films, but I've seen pics of him with a muffin-top gut and unflattering moobs that suggests he kinda lets himself go between sequels. That being the case, I'd target Maguire in a three-month window post-filming. I'd probably walk up to him, point over his shoulder, and say something like "oh my god, they're taking Seabiscuit to the glue factory," then when he turned round to look I'd just whack him one. I think he'd go down pretty quickly, because he generally looks a bit wimpy, and he's a vegan. Experience suggests that vegans are pretty weak, and even if he did try to fight back I'd just threaten to punch a cow or something.

• Jude Law - Ahhh, Jude Law. One of Britain's most talented actors. So gifted, so suave, so handsome. *BAM!* Well, two out of three's not bad. I'd probably not put much effort into going all Fight Club on Jude Law, because I don't think he could really take a beating. So I'd just leave him there after a couple of man-slaps. No doubt the nanny would come along and finish him off…

• Elijah Wood - This probably ties in with the whole Orlando Bloom/Lord of the Rings trilogy thing as well, but of more pressing concern is his eyes. What the hell is it with those massive eyes? He's like Hypno-toad from Futurama. There's only one explanation: I'm convinced Elijah Wood is some sort of vanguard for an alien invasion, his dastardly plan to hypnotise us into submission before the alien fleet arrives. Well not anymore, Wood! BANG! There's one black eye! BANG! There's another black eye - try hypnotising me now, bitch. Just remember, I'm not doing this because I want to - I'm doing it for all mankind.

• Robbie Williams - Do you know how much I hate this man? Well let me tell you: a lot. And I just know that while I'm punching away at him he'd still be gurning like he does on stage, which would mean that I'd just keep hitting him and he'd keep gurning, and we'd be stuck in this cycle until the end of time, which I could kind of get behind because he's like the ultimate stress toy. And Earth would probably be like Utopia without his 'music.' Just imagine the distant future, when people would come to see me still punching Robbie Williams after all these years. Little children would turn to their mummies, and say "who are those men?" and the mummies would put a comforting hand on their kids' shoulders and say something like "that brave man has been fighting that evil devil since time began," and the kids would cheer me and I'd turn to them while throwing a mean right hook, and I'd shout out "let ME entertain you" all without missing a punch.

Right, that's me then. Who the hell would you fight?

Join the resistance! ***Now with sweaty update***

Right, that's it: I'm making a stand. Do you know how many people have told me to join f**kin' Facebook in the last couple of days? No, me neither - because I'm starting to loose count. It's getting silly, so I've decided to start the inevitable rebellion against Facebook before it officially becomes an unfashionable website. Hey, it's bound to happen - last week MySpace was the darling of the online networking sites, this week it's Facebook. I'm just bypassing the actual 'using-of-it' and going straight into "Facebook? Oh, *so* last week." At which point I'll also roll my eyes, tut, then sip from my antique 18th century teacup while extending my pinkie.

My reasons for actual honest-to-god hatred of Facebook are thus:

• I really can't be bothered to set up *another* tinternet page that I feel compelled to check each and every day. When it comes down to it, this blog is my main online focus, and everything else is relatively unimportant and extraneous in the grand scheme of things*.

• My MySpace page has pretty much just become a place I use to find out more about the bands I like. It serves additional functions as a repository for reposting blog entries when I can be bothered, and, alarmingly, somewhere where sexy strangers can let me know about their webcam shenanigans - so long as I'm over 18 (which they'd know if they bothered to look at my profile! Tut!)

• I don't like this whole Facebook thing of not being able to look at a page without first being a member. It makes it sound like online Scientology or something - all exciting spaceships and mysterious planets on the face of it, but the brutal reality is wacky Tom Cruise and an increasingly cadaverous John Travolta.

• I really don't think I want some people I used to know tracking me down and wanting to be my Facebook pal.

So, anyway, I'm not, repeat NOT, joining Facebook, despite at least two people telling me it's like a Mac to MySpace's PC. And that's exactly what I told Glittering Lee when he emailed me earlier. His reply? Why, he said MySpace was only for "emo fags."

I've tollerated being called many things in my life, but "emo" is way out of line.

-----

Just seen the most ludicrous comment on the cooking instructions for the new potatoes I had for dinner: 'When cooked, serve.'

What!?

'When cooked, serve?!'

Well - what the hell else am I going to do with them? Roll them across the floor for shits and giggles? Put them on display in the Tate Modern!? "Oh darling, you really must see 'Potatoes in Situ' - it's a marvellous piece."

Stupid! And do you know what the worst thing was? They tasted nasty anyway.

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Right - I'm off to Badminton in a bit. It's the last one for a couple of weeks or so, and I want to see if I can batter Karate Kid and his dad (who looks remarkably like Ed Begley Jr) into submission.

***SWEATY UPDATE***

They were a no-show! Ha! Can you believe that?! Obviously they were scared off by my on-court flair for the dramatic and fluid, elegant moves. No cock jokes required here - I'm a winner.

Hell - we're all winners.


*Which kind of makes it sound like I have a well-thought-out Machiavellian plot devised for this whole online thing, hmmm?

Elvis Perkins at the Borderline (no relation to Dorothy)

Yaz and I have been to a lot of gigs recently. A LOT. Of gigs. We've totally become gig whores (Yaz especially - I'll get to that), but that's OK because at least we're not wandering the streets happy-slapping old people and hobos (save that for the weekend). Anyway, last night we toddled off to see Elvis Perkins play at the Borderline in London.

Now, regular readers (I know there's one of you) will recall that we've actually already seen Elvis (Perkins, not Presley - let's get that one done straight away) this year - back in May when he supported Willy Mason. Yaz was quite smitten by his rockabilly ways, while I was slightly less enamoured. But seeing as I drag Yaz to every gig I want to go to, I figured it was only fair I go to this one with her (aren't I nice?). Plus, it was only a tenner: bonus.

The evening did not start well - we failed to secure our regular seats: OK, we've actually only been to the Borderline once before (to see Josh Pyke), but we're creatures of habit, and we wanted those seats. That and the fact that there are only, like, five seats in the Borderline anyway. That being the case, we lurked threateningly behind the ladies who had gotten there before us; our threat rating diminshed, however, when Yaz got chatting to them (obviously never learnt the wisdom of stranger danger).

There were two support acts. The first was a lady called Farah Naz, who was apparently doing the gig at a moments notice but was nevertheless quite cool, and was pretty good. I'll remember her performance for another reason entirely though; between songs she made a remark about the crappy weather we're having, and some loudmouth behind me shouted something, admittedly not offense, back at her. She then turned to me and basically asked me a question about the weather – to which I just stared at her for a bit, then shrugged my shoulders and screwed my face up like I was suffering from spontaneous constipation or something. Fortunately, she swiftly moved onto another song. Anyway, she's playing the Bush Hall (stop laughing at the back) in a couple of weeks so I might go check her out again if I've got nothing better to do.

Next up was a band called The Wallbirds. Oh. My. God. Absolute REVELATION, people. This band was AWESOME. Really, really, funkin' good. They were brilliant to watch, played superbly, and had some fantastic songs. So good, in fact, that I bought one of their CDs; it was three quid, and was clearly burned off their computer pre-gig because it's a bog-standard recordable CD onto which they've handwritten their name and drawn their little logo. I don't care, though, because I think this band are going to be HUGE, and I've got a souvenir of when they weren't. I absolutely want to see them again VERY SOON. Note how I'm using CAPS to EMPHASIZE how much I LIKED THEM.

(Oh yes - Yaz as a slut. Right, well I asked her to pick me up the CD on her way back from the loo, which she did - but it took about 15 minutes. I was beginning to think she'd gone home. But no, she 'bumped' into The Wallbirds and ended up 'chatting' to them. They're 'lovely,' apparently. Slut)

And then we got to Elvis Perkins. It was a throughly enjoyable set, but after The Wallbirds - and I'll be brutally honest here - it didn't really do too much for me. Isn't that rude? I'm basically saying that Elvis was outdone by his support. Gosh. Anyway, he is very good, and I think you should check him out (I'm listening to his myspace as I type, and am quite enjoying it), but I probably wouldn't rush out to see him play live again. Plus he had a safety pin holding his flies shut; the spotlights kept shining off it and drawing my attention to it, which was disturbing. Anyway here's an obligatory youtube vid (stupid me didn't get one of The Wallbirds!):


Also, check this out - Yaz popped outside for a ciggie, and they stamped her arm.

They branded her a freakin' sample!

Whupass. Can of. Opened.

I'm feeling a bit weary at the moment. Well, that's the polite way of putting it that preserves a bit of my dignity. 'Sore' is the other way.

I went to Badminton on Friday evening (just because I couldn't face another Friday post-work trip to the cinema after the train-wreck that was Shrek the Turd), and was kind of expecting a reasonably nice, somewhat sedate evening of genteel play and witty banter. But no, because in my absence of about six weeks the others only went and assimilated another club, and now we've got shitloads of new people whose weaknesses I don't know. After a little "humphing" and rolling of eyes (in a decidedly emo-esque fashion) I played a match and soundly whupped the opposing team. This might not be so bad, I thought. But then:

Oh sweet lord of all that is good and honest - we appear to have been infiltrated by two freaking pros! A father and son tag-team, no less. I knew we were in trouble when they started assuming scary looking pre-arranged postures as they prepared to receive serve (it was like something out of Karate Kid), and then literally smashed *every* shot while I smacked myself in the leg with my racquet (I have a scab to prove it) and made various witty comments; at least they couldn't fight back on that front – ha, losers!

As the evening wore on I did start to figure out their strengths and weaknesses, which bodes well for this Friday (crazy foo' that I am, I promised to go again), and I almost whacked the shuttle into the son's head, so that was a well-aimed bonus that sadly didn't win me the game.

Saturday, then, I felt *really* worn out, but in that nice way where you feel like you've done some exercise but it kind of hurts a bit when you, well, try to move in any way, shape, or form. That being the case, you'd think I would've learnt my lesson. Sadly not.

Sunday afternoon I decided to go out for a bike ride. A usual bike ride for me takes about an hour and a half. I went out for well over two hours. Lord almighty I felt it when I got home; seriously, I went all radio-controlled and zombie-like. I got a text from Yaz about five minutes after I got back that said something like "hey how's your weekend?" and my reply was something like "yeah, blue." I was completely out of it. And to make matters worse, I had a sneezing fit as I was getting in the shower and I was all "Ow! my aching abs!"

I'm still feeling it a bit now, but I'm totally going out for a run in a while.

Fool!

-----

I saw something amazing at lunchtime. It was a family of chavs. Well, I say family - it was actually just the male members; a shaven-headed middle-aged bloke, a shaven-headed teenager, and a shaven-headed little kid. They were like chav versions of those Russian dolls - and I don't mean Communist Barbie and Perestroika Ken - y'know, those ones that go inside each other - Matryoshka dolls! I would've asked if I could've taken a photo, but chances are they would've kneed me in the groin and taken my phone.

Live Earth

Has anyone been watching the Live Earth gigs taking place around the world? I've been catching bits of the London show from about 5pm onward, and I've got to admit that I'm a little underwhelmed. First of all, I'm not terribly impressed by the line-up, and secondly I can't help feeling that multiple huge concerts taking place across the planet sort of gives out mixed messages about conserving energy and doing our bit to prevent climate change.

Let's address the second point first. Climate change is, for want of a better phrase, obviously something of a hot topic at the moment. This might come as a surprise to you, but I'm not a leading scientist or world leader, so I don't want to go into whether it is happening or not, or poke a finger of blame in the eyes of those who may or may not be responsible, but let's take it as a given that something's happening to the planet. Recently here in London there was an event called 'Lights out London' in which major landmarks throughout the city turned off all their lights for an hour or so. Apparently it saved a shitload of energy which in turn cut the city's C02 output, if only for a short time. So today, how did we encourage awareness of climate change? By putting on nine massive gigs, each of which would've required considerable amounts of energy, as well as generating rather a lot of C02 in order to transport many of the acts to the venues by, in many cases I'd guess, plane. I'd be fascinated to know if, or how much of that, will be offset by the organisers.

Don't get me wrong - I'm all for raising awareness because I hope that the theoretical children I one day hope to have will inherit a planet that's in a better condition than how this generation inherited it. But I can't help thinking that encouraging people to TURN OFF their televisions for six or seven hours rather than SITTING DOWN in front of their televisions for six or seven hours might've been a better way of getting the message across.

But then again, blank screens don't make for a good way of getting a message across, do they - because surely people would just turn over to another channel or stick a DVD on? Damned if you do, damned if you don't I suppose…

-----

As for the line-up, well, as I said, I was a bit underwhelmed. When I started watching the Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing. Hmmm, pretty good - I'm not a massive fan, but they sure can play. Things kind of went downhill from there for me, at least for a while; if I never see or hear Keane ever again it might still be too soon. I simply don't get that band, and there were a fair few bum notes throughout their set, at least to my ears. The Pussy Cat dolls were weird too; by all accounts there was a rapturous response to their performance, but I couldn't help agreeing with my bro' when he said that it looked like Al Gore had simpy rounded up seven L.A. prostitutes and plonked them on stage to gyrate sluttily at their leisure.

I was also perplexed by the addition of some acts that I simply didn't think could fill the space in that vast new Wembley Stadium. Corrine Bailey Rae? An absolutely gorgeous voice, but she wouldn't be my first choice to play such a gig*. She kind of looked a bit lost up there on that massive stage - a bit like a four year old performing in a school play who you're pretty sure is on the verge of wetting herself due to nerves.

There were some highlights, though; Spinal Tap really did crank it up to 11, although bitch-slaps beckon for whichever BBC producer decided to cut away from their set to show us some dodgy woman miming to eurotrash pop while busticating out bizarre dance moves in Brazil; this happened on several occasions, and it was VERY. ANNOYING. Ooo, the Beastie Boys rocked too; intergalactic planetary, planetary intergalactic, if ya knows what I mean!

The highlight of the evening for me, though, was the Foo Fighters. Yes, yes, I know that I'm a fan of theirs anyway, but they were the only act that actually made it look like they got all 60,000 people in that stadium singing and dancing along. 'My Hero' and 'Everlong' have surely entered the pantheon of greatest stadium rock songs evah. Oh, and the sight of Dave Grohl's little daughter watching from the wings while wearing massive ear defenders was possibly the cutest thing I've seen in ages.

Sadly, the Foos were followed by someone's grandma playing guitar badly and masquerading as Madonna (who is, incidently a hypocrite who has invested heavily in some of the most polluting companies in the world). Whoever she was, though, what's with her hands?! Are they subject to rapid aging or were they transplanted from a corpse? It was like that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where Captain Picard's hands age after he dips them into another time zone.

Incidently, 'Madonna' was introduced by Terence Stamp who lectured us on climate change and totally missed the opportunity to shout "KNEEL BEFORE ZOD" to a worldwide audience. Seriously, if General Zod tells me to cut my carbon emissions, I'm going to cut my carbon emission, no two ways about it.

To sum it up, regardless of what I thought of who was playing, I can only think that Live Earth was an intrinsically flawed, but well-intentioned event. It would be interesting to know how many of the 60,000 people at Wembley were there to support the cause, and how many were there simply because they wanted to see an aged crone sing 'Ray of Light.'

Sadly, I suppose the only way we'll find out is if the polar ice caps are still in existence in 100 years times…


*Sorry Corrine, I'm just citing you as an example because you're being repeated on BBCi as I write this. There were others who shared your fate, but I can't think who they were off the top of my head. Oh, James Blunt. But that's also because I actually kinda hate him. Well, there's no 'kinda' about it: I HATE HIM.

A season for peaches

I received a postcard from Starbucks yesterday. My first thought was that it was nice of them to send me a postcard from wherever it is that coffee shops holiday, then I realised that this obviously means I'm spending far too much time and money in there. Then - duh! – I realised it was actually an invitation to try a free cup of their exciting new summer beverage - the peach and pomegranate frappuccino!

This was quite exciting for several reasons, the first of which is that free stuff is great. The second reason is that I was sooooo pleased they'd actually sent me the voucher. A few years back, y'see, Starbucks emailed me a voucher for a free frappuccino. I dutifully printed it out on the black and white printer in the office, and took it along at lunchtime - whereupon I had a shouting argument with the manager because she said I should've printed it in colour, at which point I said "not everyone has a colour printer." OK, admittedly we do have one in the office, but I was totally standing up for the little guy who doesn't. So she refused to serve me. Fortunately, another barista took pity on the hot young guy who apparently only had access to a black and white printer and slipped me my free frappuccino. That didn't, however, stop me from complaining to Starbucks, and getting muchos loadsa vouchers in return.

Anyway, I digress.

So, I wandered down to Starbucks at lunchtime and had my regular grande misto while reading through the pages of my unfinished book (yes, surprise surprise - I've sorta started work on it again). Then, as I was leaving, I handed my postcard/voucher over to the barista at the till. She looked at it a little curiously, read out my name (which was printed on it), then read out "wish you were here" which was printed on the front.

Then she looked at me and smiled a little sheepishly. I returned the smile, all the while thinking that I'd kind of like it if she just hurried up and gave me my free frappuccino.

She looked at the postcard again, then smiled at me some more.

"That's… nice." She finally said.

Oh goddammit, I thought, she thinks I'm coming on to her by giving her a freakin' postcard. This would've not only been really stupid and a bit like slipping a girl a note that says "I like you" with a little heart instead of the dot over the 'i' in 'like,' but totally inappropriate bearing in mind someone's track record in dating people who work in Starbucks. I rolled my eyes a little (in my head, not across the counter), and just said "it's for a free frappuccino. Look." And pointed a bit. Then her manager walked up and said "it's for a free frappuccino." The barista sorta said "aaaaah…" then looked at me and smiled. I made sure my face was a mask, a mask that just said "give me my free drink."

A minute later I had my free drink.

Now, after all that I should probably tell you that the idea of a peach and pomegranate frappuccino actually sounded rather vile to me; I really don't like peaches, and pomegranates always sound like one of those all-singing, all-dancing miracle fruits that taste like poopy but are supposed to spring-clean your bowels and add sparkle to your spleen in one foul swoop. But, of course, as I mentioned earlier, free stuff is good. We like free stuff. Altogether now: FREE STUFF IS GOOD!

If worst came to worst I figured I could always give it to that jabbering crazy woman who *always* asks me for cigarettes in Lyric Square.

So I was not expecting great things of the peach and pomegranate frappuccino, and was thus quite shocked to find that it was, in fact, rather nice. Admittedly a little tart, but who among us doesn't like a little tart every now and then, hmmm?

Would I have another one? Yeah, I think I would. Especially if it was free.

Here's the peach and pomegranate frappuccino being carried through the dangerous back streets of Hammersmith. It might look poopy-coloured here, but it was actually a rather vibrant shade of purple. That's PURPLE, not POOPY.

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The inspiration for this post's title comes from, where else, The OC! During the fourth season, Taylor Townsend's french husband, Henri-Michel, writes a book about her called A Season for Peaches, peaches being what he calls her fabulous boobies. Fnar, fnar.

So here, in celebration, is a picture of Peaches! I mean Taylor!

Rawr!

(Am I making the sexy clawed-hand 'rawr!' motion as I say that? You know I totally am!)

A solution to all our problems

Modern life can be terribly vexing, can't it? People shouting and swearing at each other, people dawdling in the streets, people just being generally annoying. It's this latter point that's been of particular interest to me recently.

You may remember that I was wittering on about an annoying person the other day. I wittered to Yaz about it too, and she was sure I was on the verge of some kind of psychotic episode that would see me dispense with said annoying person in a maniacal fashion somewhat akin to how the Hooded Claw often tried to dispense of Penelope Pitstop* but with rather more success. She also thought I could probably use my past good form to plead mercy to the court, and suggest that the said episode was actually aggravated, thus I would not have to serve too much time in prison.

Fortunately, I've managed to quell the rising … urge … to … kill, predominently through lunchtime coffee-based therapy sessions with the aforementioned Yaz**. Today, though, I've come up with a – I think you'll agree – totally awesome method to deal with annoying people.

It's a spade.

Yes, I'm advocating carrying around a large garden implement. And if anyone annoys you, you bash them on the head with it. It has many other uses in today's society too. Chavs? Bash to the head! Road rage? Bash to the windscreen! Kiddie-fiddlers? Uses the sharp digging end - chop to the pee-pee! Heck - it can even be used in the garden! Versatile or what!?

Problem solved. It's like a slightly more painful version of Mallet's Mallet, with the possibility of concusion in extreme cases.

I was talking about my plan to Guy in the comic shop this evening, and he initially suggested that a brick would be a good thing to use against potential annoyances. Bricks are good, but a spade, to my mind, would be more effective, and infinitely more versatile (unless you were building a house). But what if… what if you COMBINED THEM!? Duct-tape the two together to create a spade-brick combo! Imagine it like Ripley's pulse rifle/flame-thrower combo from Aliens - all the advantages of both the spade and the brick in an easy to handle form!

Mark my words - the spade-brick combo will be the latest home protection device in no time at all. Say 'ello to my lil' friend!


*Have I ever told you that it was, and to be honest still is, one of my lifelong dreams to put together a live-action Penelope Pitstop movie starring Michelle Pffeifer as, well, Penelope Pitstop, and Star Trek's own Brent Spiner as the Hooded Claw? I'm not too sure about the Ant Hill Mob, but I think probably Bob Hoskins would be a good fit. Hollywood - call me?

**Did I mention it was Yaz's birthday yesterday? It was, and I was the the Most. Evil. Friend. Ever. I totally pretended that I'd forgotten, even going so far as to send her an email saying "are we meeting for coffee today? I'm not too bothered if the weather's still crappy," rather than my usual "coffee today?" I caved upon meeting up with her though, and made up for it by giving her some awesome presents.

The day after tomorrow

Holy freakin' hell. I thought it was supposed to be summer?

This was the view in Hammersmith as I got back to my car at 5pm today.

Very biblical, huh? Five minutes after taking that picture I was driving home in a torrential downpour complete with thunderbolts and lightning (very, very frightening things), which were swiftly followed by hail stones. Hail-freakin'-stones! The last time we had crazy-ass weather like this the office got struck by lightning. It knocked out our internet connection, which meant we actually had to do some work.

Anyway, this crazy weather is doing my head in a bit. Not because I don't like thunder and lightning but purely because I just don't know what to wear; went out at lunchtime in a zipped-up jacket because it was overcast and windy, came back in bright, warm sunshine sweating - sorry, perspiring - profusely. I *just* can't win. If only we still had some emergency ponchos in the office… Oh wait, they make you look like a twat - I'd rather get soaked.

One good aspect of the bad weather, though, is Channel 5's lovely weather girl, Lara Lewington. Now, she drives Sparky Ma up the wall, but I've grown rather fond of Lara, particularly of the way she says "hi" like she's going to give us the forecast for the impending apocalypse. I also think it's great that you can pretty much judge the forecast by how low-cut her top is; high-neck - brrrrr, chilly; boobs out - ooo, warm!

Here's a crappy video I took of Lara in action (note sensible top with respectable boob coverage - i.e. overcast and rainy).


And excuse me for being maybe a little bit more laddish than I'd normally be, but I bet this was a particularly warm day…

Weather be damned though! I'm totally going out for a run tonight. Bizarrely, I discovered the other day that I actually run better in the rain, so no doubt I'll be more Linford Christie than Agatha Christie tonight. Hell, I might even jump in some puddles.

Good times at Marsha's mailer party

I've just gotten back from a wicked afternoon/evening at The Luminaire in Kilburn, where Xfm DJ extraordinaire Marsha put on an awesome party for those of us who've signed up to her weekly music mailer.

There were three announced acts playing, and two secret acts. And they were…

Jay Jay Pistolet was up first, armed only with an acoustic guitar and a voice that reminded me a little bit of Will Young (whose MySpace page I will not be linking to), but in a good way, because I know Will Young can sing, it's just that I don't like his sort of music that much. Anyway, Jay Jay was great, and a cracking start to the party.

Next up was secret act the first: Get Cape. Wear Cape. Fly. Now, I'll be truthful, I've not really been a fan of the stuff that I've heard on the radio, but in the setting of a tiny, tiny venue, playing acoustically with occasional backing from a laptop, I was completely won over. Really, really good. REALLY.

The third act was Luke Leighfield, who I thought was particularly brilliant. A dude, a keyboard, and some cracking songs, that's all I need to say. I mean, seriously, anyone who bills himself 'a second rate Ben Folds' is automatically pretty damn awesome in my book.

Fourth on were secret act the second: Scouting for Girls, who were celebrating their first top 40 hit (in at number 31, pop-pickers), and the fact that they were on Popworld. They were also really good, and very, very funny, which is always a quality trait at a small gig. And Yaz and I even got to chat to them while Yaz was on a ciggie break outside; for some reason Yaz decided that she wanted to stroke the bass player's long hair, and I just encouraged him to get more drunk than he already was. Good times!

The last act on was Sam Isaac. We missed, like, the first minute or so of his set because we were hob-nobbing with Scouting for Girls, but fortunately it was only a minute, because he was also pretty damned good.

What's funny, is that Luke Leighfield and his keyboard apart, it was all acoustic guitar stuff, but every act sounded so very different. And they were all brilliant. It's really put me in a rather nice, chilled out vibe, so much so that I'm going to swap out all the rock CDs from my car and pop in some lovely indie stuff, like Sufjan Stevens and Death Cab for Cutie. And I think I'll certainly be making a number of purchases based on today's experience.

Good times indeed.