I write blog posts not tragedies: The Decaydance Festival at the Hammersmith Apollo

Another day, another gig! Having just gotten home, I had the option of watching tonight's Heroes, cracking open my Boston Legal Season Two boxset, or settling down in bed with my book. But what am I doing instead? I'm sharing people. Can you feel the love?

Today was the Decaydance Festival at the Hammersmith Apollo, and for those not in the know, that meant five bands:

• Cobra Starship
• The Academy is…
• Gym Class Heroes
• Panic! At the Disco
• Fall Out Boy

Right, I will say straight off that the audience was full of ungainly and awkward looking emos, most notably the rather bizarre one in the row in front of us that danced like an electrified monkey. It was also quite clear that Yaz and I were decidedly lacking in emo apparel. Neither of us were wearing strips, socks on our hands, mascara, or Converse trainers. Or t-shirts saying 'I LOVE YOU PETE WENTZ!' (mine was in the wash). And we missed the first band because Yaz had to get a couscous salad from M&S (it was either that or she'd fall over), and the queue was massive so we didn't get in until they'd finished. Hey-ho.

I'll be honest - the first two bands we saw, The Academy is… and Gym Class Heroes, didn't really do much for me; I only really wanted to go to this to see Panic! At the Disco and, to a lessor degree Fall Out Boy, and remember I'm still in the process of coming down from The Rolling Stones last night. In fact, I'm beginning to think that I should have a gig exclusion zone for about a month after seeing the Stones because it's unfair to compare anything else to them.

Anyway, on the plus side, Panic! At the Disco were bloody awesome, and they appear to be shedding some of their emo-esque tendencies, possibly in an effort to increase their appeal? I don't know. What I do know is that their show was massively toned down from the theatrics they've used before (which I've seen via the delights of youtube), but they were still very engaging to watch. They played a cover of some old song I rather like but can't remember the name of which was cool, and two new tracks which sounded very summery and uplifting, and dare I say it, rather Ben Folds-like. Who'd-a-thunk-it? Ha - and Brendon Urie made a reference to the infamous bottling incident (if you don't know what I'm on about, search youtube for 'Panic! At the Disco Reading Festival bottling') after he threw a plastic bottle into the audience: "I hope I didn't hurt anyone," he said, "I know what it's like…"

Anyway, with another band on my 'desperately want to see' list ticked off, I could've gone home a happy bunny after seeing Panic! But why go home when there was more to come?

Fall Out Boy were the last act on, and they were pretty damned good. Not upto Panic! levels if you ask me, but good nonetheless. You can't complain when they play covers of 'Beat It' and Huey Lewis' 'The Power of Love,' even if at least two thirds of the audience weren't born when the originals came out. I should probably say that I'm slightly scared by the lead singer's resemblance to the actor who plays the chief suspect in the movie Zodiac, and the whole 'This Ain't a Scene…' thing has been slightly ruined by the "I'm a little man … also into cats" video that popped up on youtube a while back.

All in all though, a good evening that probably would've been an amazing evening if I'd not seen the Stones last night, and if Panic! At the Disco had played for longer than 40 minutes.

Obligatory youtubey-ness! First up - Panic! At the Disco!




Next up - Fall Out Boy!



Off to bed now.

Start me up! The Rolling Stones at the 02 Arena

Exactly a year and a day after we last saw them at Twickenham Stadium, Sparky Ma and I hauled our way over to the 02 Arena in North Greenwich to once again worship the greatest rock 'n roll band in the world *EVAH* - The Rolling Stones.

This was my birthday present to Sparky Ma; OK, her birthday's not until next month, but I could hardly ask Mick 'n Keef to come back in September, could I? Or *could* I…? Anywaywe got up their a little bit early and had a stroll around the dome. I said it in my Prince post a few weeks back, and I'll say it again now: the dome is cool. There's actually quite a lot of it that's still empty, so it'll be cool to see what it's like in a year or so when a few more shops and restaurants are open. But in the meantime - it's got a beach! I kid yee not, people, there's a frikkin' inside beach with real sand an fake palm trees (best keep Keef away from them, I thought…).

Anyway, we went and got our seats after a little walk around. Unlike when I saw Prince, we were right up the top of the arena, but hell, you still get a cracking view, and it's at least half the size of any other venue I've seen the Stones play, so I'm not complaining.

Despite having seen posters that said the support act were going to be Jet, they'd either changed or I'd misread it, and we got The Kooks instead. Now, loooooooong time readers might recall that I bought The Kooks album just after I'd started blogging, and wrote a post saying how I thought it was OK. Well, after about two weeks I promptly went off them, and to be honest I can't say I was massively impressed by them live. The reasons for this are two-fold:

1. I don't really like their songs anymore, and I don't think they actually played that well.
2. The lead singer didn't make any attempt to engage with the crowd, and at one point said something that seemed a bit dismissive of the audience. And when they finished, he dropped his guitar on the stage and just walked off. Rude little shit.

Here's a clip of them anyway - you can make up your own mind. But whatever you think, they were a bit rubbish.


After The Kooks we sat there with expectation building for the main event. I’m always excited at gigs, but the Stones are something altogether different. Then all of a sudden the lights went down, and they exploded on to the stage; seriously, they don’t amble on – they literally explode out in front of you (well, maybe not *literally*, but you know what I mean). They started, appropriately enough with ‘Start Me Up,’ and awesomeness ensued.

This was The Rolling Stones like I’ve never seen them before; the stage set was stripped back – there were no massive constructions like there were at Twickenham last year, just a big video screen and four rock gods. And they proved, as if there could be any doubt, that they don’t need elaborate theatrics to put on a stunning show. Jagger was all over the stage, shaking his hips and waving his arms like a crazy man, while Keef just played out phat (yes, that’s with a ‘PH’) riffs and smiled. Ronnie was bounding around like a toddler after too many Capri Suns, and Charlie… Well Charlie was just like he always is: sitting behind his drums looking like he’d rather be at home watching Corrie, but a vital part of this rock ‘n roll circus nevertheless.

A moment of hilarity occurred just two songs in when, during ‘Rocks Off,’ Mick obviously thought he was finishing the song but the band kept playing. After a moment of what looked to be brief indignation, Jagger threw himself back into it, and when it really did finish he turned to the audience and said “how does that song finish anyway?”

I love the way that Jagger works the crowd; from running from one side of the stage to the other, to his exaggerated dance moves that would look, quite frankly, rather ridiculous if anyone else tried to pull them off, and inviting us all to Ronnie Wood’s party on Friday (seriously, can I go?), there’s no doubt in my mind that he is the most engaging and talented frontman ever to step onto a stage.

Then there was Keef and Ronnie violating the new smoking ban; Keef took a looooong drag on a ciggie, then knowingly said “that tastes gooood…” as he threw it to the stage. I mean, really, who the hell is going to tell Keith Richards to put his cigarette out?

And things only got better. When they wheeled the stage out into the centre of the arena to play three songs in the round I could literally see their eyes, could see the impish glee in Jagger’s face when he took a swig of water then drop-kicked the bottle into the audience. And they JUST. KEPT. GOING. We had an amazing rendition of ‘Paint it Black,’ and the audience were whipped into a frenzy of “WOO-WOOS!” during ‘Sympathy for the Devil.’ Finally, just before 11pm they came out one more time for ‘Brown Sugar’ (how could they not play that?), before taking their bows (in Jagger’s case, such elaborate and over the top bows that they made Sparky Ma laugh and call him a “prima-donna”) and leaving the stage.

AMAZING. I said it last year, and I’ll say it again: if you get the chance to see the Stones, TAKE IT. Now, should I go see them again on Sunday…?

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OK chaps, my photos turned out a bit crappy, mainly because the lighting in the arena made it look like I spent the evening watching a supernova explode, but, y’know, here they are anyway.






And here's my video clips!

WOO-WOO! You can just about make out a tiny tiny Mick Jagger bounding onto stage at the end of this one!

Easing myself in gently

Three days into my break from work and things haven't exactly been going swimmingly. I developed a headache on Saturday which ended up making me feel slightly nauseous, though I managed to hold it back and did not redecorate the interior of Marcosy's car during our failed trip to buy multiple iMacs/steal some random's iPhone.

On Sunday I woke up to find that the headache was still lurking; it was thus probably not the best thing in the world evah, then, to sit in front of the telly all day playing Xbox. By the evening I felt just a little bit horrific.

Today I was rudely awoken by the groundskeepers tending to the lawns. I was rather tempted to stride on to the veranda and ask them to keep it down*.

On the plus side, the headache's gone.

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So with my first proper day of holiday ahead of me, what the hell did I do? Well I'll tell you: I went to Sainsbury's.

Now this might not really sound like something that would generally induce a round of fresh pants, but it was just a little bit more exciting than usual because they've refurbished my store! It was like a food-based adventure, though starting off was a bit tricky because they'd replaced the fruit and veg bit with ladies clothes. Not that I usually hang around in fruit and veg too long - it's generally just the bit that guides me towards puddings.

Anyway, bypassing ladies clothes and fruit and veg, I managed to find the normal food bits, and proceeded to fill my trolley with all manner of delights. The Covent Garden Soup Company's honey porridge (comes in a carton, not too sure whether it's one serving or two), new limited-edition orange Coke (tastes like flat tango), and Stony's chocolate yoghurt (tastes awesome, and helps save the planet - everyone's a winner!). There was some other stuff too, but I shan't bore you by typing out my receipt.

What was mildly perplexing though, was the fact that as I was rolling my trolley towards the back of the store, I noticed that it felt heavier. My initial thought was that they'd initiated a dense gravity field the further into the store you went, and at some point, possibly around the bakery, it might collapse into a black hole. But no, parking my trolley by the milk I realised that there was actually a gradual incline the further into the store you went. Weird, I thought, before noticing that sweets and cakes are located at the back of the shop; this is obviously a cunning ploy by Sainsbury's to tackle Britain's obesity timebomb.

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OK, I finally caved people: I joined Facebook. So far it's been one completely confusing mess; I've been poked several times by a variety of people, and Lee took my wall virginity, which was surprisingly painless. On the plus side, I've been befriended by several awesome people I have worked with/currently work with/met via blogging/am in danger of being stalked by, so all's just ducky.

I don't quite understand why it's supposedly better than Myspace (which in my opinion so far is a lot more user friendly), but it's only died on me twice today, so it seems infinitely more reliable than Myspace.

Lord knows how the hell you link to it, so if you want to friend me, or face me, or book me, or whatever the hell it's called, just search for me by my real name. Shouldn't be too difficult…


*And by that I mean: today I was rudely awoken by some nutters with lawn mowers butchering the communial grounds in my road. I was rather tempted to lean out of my window while rocking crazy-man hair and shout "keep it down, you f**king f**kers!"

Failure to buy

So I met up with Marcosy yesterday for what was supposed to be the shopping spree to end all shopping sprees. I literally expected to see money burn.

We started off by heading to Sweatshop in Teddington because Marcosy wanted to buy a Nike+ running top despite the fact that he doesn't own an iPod Nano or a Nike+ running kit, and he doesn't run outside in the real world. Sadly for him, they didn't have any, or maybe they saw him coming and hid them? Who knows. What they did have, though, was a black Nike running top with blue shoulders - which looked exactly like the uniforms from Star Trek: Voyager. Despite constant badgering from me, Marcosy did not buy one, I suspect because he doesn't want to look like Voyager's Emergency Medical Hologram.

On to Kingston we went, where we met up with Yaz. As I mentioned yesterday, all three of us want new iMacs, but unfortunately I can't buy one until we upgrade our clockwork software at work. But Yaz and Marcosy have no such problems! So, after a delightful coffee in the market square where we were rained on a little and harrassed by starlings, we wandered up to the Apple Store where I hoped to see credit cards igniting before my very eyes. There we were perving over the 24 inch iMacs, when some Apple dude (or should that be iDude?) came up to offer us advice. He was called Dave, and Yaz became rather besotted with him.

Apparently he had twinkly eyes.

Anyway, they stood there for a while chatting away, maybe exchanging phone numbers, so I walked off around the store. And lo, what did I discover? An iPhone.

Yes, I said: an iPhone.

It was owned by a customer, and bizarrely for me (I'm always constantly aware of stranger danger) I actually started talking to the bloke about his iPhone. He'd bought it off eBay for 400 quid, but it wasn't unlocked so he actually couldn't use it to make calls. It was effectively the most expensive 8GB MP3 player in the world. Anyway, he wanted to buy a speaker dock and an Apple remote so he could control it from across his living room. At one point he put his iPhone in an iPod hi-fi, and stepped back about five metres. I'm ashamed to say for the first time in my life I actually had a vision of me stealing something; I pictured myself dashing forward, nabbing it, and running off, never to be seen again.

Thankfully I restrained my thieving urges. And anyway, he had some really crappy music on it.

When iPhone guy left I turned back to Marcosy and Yaz, who for a variety of dismal and pathetic reasons had decided "not to buy today." I scowled, because of all of us I had ended up spending the most money and I'd only bought one sheet of wrapping paper and a 45p tag, and told Yaz that Dave would be disappointed in her.

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On our way back to the car park I tried on a jacket that I'd seen and really liked. Unusually for me, it's a rather smart jacket, and it does kind of remind me a little bit of the maroon uniforms from Star Treks II-VI, which I probably shouldn't admit to. I really liked it, but I wasn't sure I wanted to spend 150 quid on it. Still, Sparky Ma and I are heading to Kingston on Friday for one of our traditional marathon shopping sessions, so I have time to think about it and decide if I should buy it then. If anyone's interested in what it looks like, click here. It's called the Battle Denim Blazer, and I think it would make me look quite dapper during the winter months.

Done and dusted

So, after a furious week of non-stop work and looming deadlines, everything is finished, wrapped up nicely with a pretty little bow on top - and I am on holiday!

HOO-YAR!

I have 10 days to do with as I please, oh yeeeeah. So whatever shall I do? Well, I started well last night by popping along to my old haunt - the Irish pub, or the 'oyrish,' as it should probably be called - in Putney to help the lovely Nikki celebrate her *quitely mumbles* somethingsomething birthday, which was great because it gave me the chance to catch up with some old friends I worked with long ago and hadn't seen for ages. Good times!

Today I've woken up with crazy-man hair, which must mean I slept a much-needed sleep of the gods last night. When I've flattened it down, I'll be popping out with Marcosy in an attempt to make him spend thousands of pounds on a new iMac.

Did I just say new iMac? I just said new iMac.

*insert mental image of Tim drooling like Homer Simpson*

I so badly want one, but because the software we use at work is so old it's incompatible with them. *makes note to self to push for software upgrade upon return* That being the case, I'm going to live vicariously through Marcosy. I could also knee-cap him and steal it. Hmmm…

So what else is on the agenda for the coming week? Well, let me tell you people, excitement and imagination await at the final frontier!

• Tuesday will see Sparky Ma and I bear witness to the greatest rock 'n roll spectacle on Earth!
• Wednesday will see my transformation into an emo become complete!
• Other days are still to be determined!
• But I do have an appointment at the bank scheduled!
• And a haircut!

Wow. I think I need a lie down. The excitment has gotten to me already.

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While I plan world domination, has anyone else noticed the similarity between the new Foo Fighters song 'The Pretender' and the classic Sesame Street 'One of these things is not like the other'?

The Foos:


And now Sesame Street (although I'm using an advert for the new Mini Clubman 'cos it's funny):


Can't you just tell Dave Grohl's got a kid now?

I'm a guru!

And to prove it, I've got my very own protége!

Last night I played badminton with Sweatband. We've been meaning to play for ages, but she kept wimping out with excuses like "oh, I've go too much work," or "oh, I've not played in years, I'll be all spackerish." After endlessly harrassment, however, she finally caved in and I booked up a court.

Truth be told though, work's been a bit mental this week, and we both admitted that if I hadn't booked it a week ago, we could've done with the time to carry on with our respective day jobs. Still, it was a nice, and probably much-needed diversion from our computer screens, so, er, hurrah!

Sweatband was still complaining as we wandered onto the court. "It's been five years since I last played, blah blah blah," so to shut her up I made a concerted effort to whack her with the shuttlecock. I think I got her left thigh and this seemed to have the desired effect of forcing her to make more of an effort and stop complaining. Sweatband is the last person I expect to show a lack of enthusiasm for sport, y'see; earlier this year she ran the London Marathon, and she kept reminding me of this as we knocked the shuttle around, almost as if I'd suddenly say "shit - you're hardcore," and concede the match. At one point in her badminton-fuelled delirium she actually shouted out "I won the London Marathon," which was pushing it a little bit too far.

Anyway, aside from reintroducing Sweatband to the joys of badminton, it also gave me the opportunity to put my long-dormant teaching skills to use - can you believe I actually qualified as a badminton instructor about 12 years ago? I shit you not, kids. Never used it aside from helping mates improve their skills, but it looks good on the CV. So yeah, there I was telling Sweatband what to do, and she was actually doing it. How cool is that? She was like my little jedi padawan, the Saavik to my Spock! She called me her badminton guru!!

And bless her, she did the most hilarious little dance when she scored her first point. If I'd had my phone on me, I promise you now that thing would've been straight up on youtube.

That was the weekend that was

Yet again I've done nothing of immense interest over the last couple of days. I say: why change the habit of a lifetime? Others might just say: shut up.

Others might just be right.

Anyway, there has been the odd burst of excitement and drama since I last posted an- Actually, I'm just going to pause there. Glancing through the comments on my last post, I've come to the admittedly fairly obvious conclusion that you lot are a bunch of perverts and deviants. Never have I seen the word 'penis' used so freely and easily. Lord knows what sort of weirdos Google will direct my way now. That said, I still like you.

Now, where was I? Oh yes…

Friday:
At around eight o'clock in the evening I decided I'd wash my car; it was either that or go for a run, and quite frankly I couldn't be arsed to do that. That and the fact that my car was looking really dirty, and recently someone else has moved into my road and he also owns a red 'n white Mini but his is clean. And I'm really not happy about someone having a cleaner Mini than me. So out I went, and washed the little bugger down. It looks much better now, and - sticks two-fingers up at new bloke - my wheels are cleaner than his. *snaps*

Saturday:
On Saturd- God. What the hell did I do on Saturday? I remember watching the Thunderbirds movie on telly, followed by Tomb Raider II: The Cradle of Life, which I inexplicably confused with a Disney show tune and renamed Tomb Raider II: The Circle of Life. But beyond that, well, the daytime is just a blur. Whoosh. Oh, I had an awesome time in the evening, though. I ended up playing Project Gotham Racing 3 on my Xbox against some dude from Sweden. He was very drunk and confided in me (and the six other people that we were playing against, though I don't think he was particularly aware of them) that the northern areas of Sweden are now devoid of women (they've all moved to the warmer climes of the south apparently), and he's had to resort to killing and f**king polar bears (in that order, I believe). This spurred a Mexican chap on to add that the only animals in his country are chickens and pinatas, but he didn't divulge whether he enjoyed them on any sort of meaningful or sexual level.

Best evening of Xbox I've had in a long time.

Sunday:
Sunday was noticeable for me doing some work (bleeugh) and going to Mr. Chunt's surprise Birthday gathering in Barnes. A good time was had by all, even, I believe, by Mr. Chunt, who rarely shows emotion; I swear, the man is a Vulcan.

Anyway, next door to the pub was an American car specialist, which deals in all the huge muscle cars we're deprived of on this small island. I spent a couple of minutes perving over two Ford Mustangs, which were apparently "fully-loaded" and yet cost a very reasonable £21,000 apiece. But then I noticed this mad bastard of a car:

This, my friends, is a Roush-tuned Mustang, which makes me feel really quite horny. Roush add a supercharger to the bog-standard V8, giving it 427 bhp and I expect a 0-60 time somewhere in the realm of the Starship Enterprise. All this for the bargain price of £46,000; yes, that's right, you could have two ordinary Mustangs for the price of this one. But god, look at it. I'd love to know what the C02 output of this mutha is; I keep having visions of it cruising down a road with everything behind it either dead or dying. Isn't it awesome?

I almost left a little deposit on it, but fortunately I managed to wipe it off with my hanky.

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Favourite news bylines of the day:

The always excellent trekweb with their headline 'George Takei on Zachery Quinto and Leonard Nimoy' conjured all sorts of weird mental imagery, while the free Chiswick magazine 'Westside' caught my attention with the strapline 'Tempting tarts in Chiswick.' Sadly, it was just an article about a bakery.

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The last word goes to Marcosy, and ties back in with something I mentioned earlier in this post. I popped into the Apple Store in Kingston over the weekend, and spent a few minutes checking out the new iMacs. Gorgeous machines - I want one. And Marcosy does too, so this morning I sent him an email that said:

"Guess what I was playing with over the weekend?"

Knowing him, I really shouldn't have been surprised when I got the following response:

"Was it your penis? Everyone on your blog says it was your penis."

You people are on the verge of being obsessed. Restraining orders will be forthcoming.

Choose your own adventure: The return

So, regular readers might recall that back in October last year we played a little game that I liked to call 'choose your own adventure.' The idea at the time was to make it a regular thing (or "thang" if I'm talking in a Southern twang; occasionally I like talking in a Southern twang), but for some reason or another it fell by the wayside. But fear not, you kerrrrazy kids: IT'S BACK!

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The rules:
Below is an outline of my day, with 20 words omitted and replaced by a sexy number. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to fill in the blanks to make my day sound as super-sexily-exciting or mildly demented as possible. Post your answers as a comment, either by listing the numbers and the words that replace them, or by pasting the entire thang (thing) into a comment with your words in place.

Get it? Got it? Good!

Yee-haaaaar!

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I woke up pretty early this morning, but decided that I would spend just a little more time in [1], eventually leaving at around 7:50. I was halfway to work by the time I realised that I'd forgotten to put on any [2], which worried me a bit because it was a hot day. Things didn't improve by the time I got to the office because [3] was waiting outside. Despite this, I made a [4], and got lots done over the course of the morning, which was good. At lunchtime I met Yaz and we went to [5] where I had an awesome [6]. The [7] were quizzing me about my [8], but I didn't give them much information.

Things went well in the afternoon too; I managed to get a load of stuff done for [9], and even sorted out some [10]. The most exciting thing, though, was that I declared [11] on [12]. To be honest, I think I'll win purely because there's more of us [13], and it was just [14] and two [15] upstairs. Maybe I should just plant my [16] in their [17]?

I left work at around five, jumped in the [18], and drove home, where I had a [19] and chips for dinner. Now I think I might go wash my [20]; lord knows, I haven't done it in ages and it looks filthy.

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Over to you, peep-holes!

As dictated by his lordship

I knew it was coming, but the inevitable email from Marcosy still came as something of a shock when it exploded into my inbox this morning:

"Where's your latest blog post? I'm getting impatient!"

So, Marcosy, this one's for you.

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I went out on my bike in the glorious sunshine at the weekend. Ah-ha! I thought, maybe even thrusting my pointed finger into the air while a cartoon light bulb appeared above my head - here's a perfect opportunity to sort out those blasted tanlines! An earlier bike ride, y'see, left me with some pretty severe lines at around the arm level of a short-sleeve t-shirt - the kind of thing that leaves you looking like you're wearing a pasty, flesh coloured t-shirt when you pull your top off.

My stroke of genius here, then, was that it was so hot I decided to go out in just my shorts; of course, I say 'just my shorts,' but then you have to figure in my camelbak - a rucksack with a water-filled bladder I can suckle from while cycling. What my stroke of genius failed to take into consideration was that my camelbak has straps; thus, the result is that while I'm rid of the original tanlines (they've now been incorporated into some sort of weird tan-based gradient), I now possess some stunning new ones that make me look like I'm wearing a pasty, flesh coloured wife-beater. But only on my back.

Sometimes I *just* can't win.

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My hair looks awesome today.

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I arrived home to something of a surprise last night: a huge wheelie bin parked outside my house. And then I noticed there was a huge wheelie bin parked outside everyone's house. It was like a really cheap episode of Doctor Who. Being laden-down with shopping after a trip to Sainsbury's, I pretty much gave my wheelie bin an ironic look, and walked straight on past it. Ten minutes later, though, I was back out to have a look at it, and pretty much just stood there looking like a spacker checking out a wheelie bin. About all I was able to glean from it was that, yep, it was a wheelie bin. So I wheeled it round to the side of my house. Then I figured I'd put some rubbish in it. I mean, why the hell not?

A few hours later, I was doing some work (did I mention I'm really busy at the moment? I'm rushed off my tanned titties, people), when a letter popped through my letter box - it was from my resident's association, and was all about the exciting new bin situation. Being a little bit eager to get the full skinny on what was going down, and being even more eager to not do any work for a couple of minutes, I went outside to talk to the dear old lady in charge of such matters.

To cut a long story short, it seems like we'll be getting another exciting wheelie bin for recycling soon, giving each little house two ma-hoo-sive wheelie bins. Now, in the grand scheme of things this is a super idea, but it's going to make my little road look like a bit like a retirement home for wheelie bins. And I'm pretty sure some drunken chav will, at some point, take utter delight in upending the whole lot and leaving us to pick up the pieces.

*shakes fist at chavs*

Anyway, I was talking to this little old lady for about 10 minutes, when all of a sudden she abruptly turned the conversation on its head and started trying to sell me on the prospect of becoming a director of the resident's association. Oh blimey, I thought, desperately trying to extricate myself from the conversation; sadly, my excuse that I simply *had* to press on with a four-page gatefold on the asteroid ship Yonada (as featured in episode 65, 'For the World is Hollow and I have Touched the Sky') fell on deaf ears. It was at that moment that I briefly considered picking the dear thing up and popping her in my new wheelie bin. And I really would have, if I could've been bothered to wrestle an old lady at nine-thirty at night.

I'm blaming her if this issue goes late.

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And now an apology:
Dear Channel 5 weather girl Lara Lewington - please accept my humblest, most sincere apologies. Recently, I put a video of one of you weather reports up on youtube, where, it seems, you have attracted the lascivious attentions of a number of youtube users. It was not my intention to put you forward as an object of sexual desire for tinternet users, and I regret that this is the case.

On the plus side, you may like to know that you've been rated five out of five, and at least one user would "totally knob" you.

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Bunny watch:
Regular readers will recall that I went for a midweek bike ride last week. And I enjoyed it so much I've just done it again! Obviously what with it being the evening and the Met Office issuing a severe weather warning there was little opportunity for me to try and correct the aforementioned tanline issue, but it did provide me with another chance to check out the little bunnies on the towpath by Hampton Court. Aaaah, they were there again, and still looking sweet and adorable. Although I am thinking that I may have to stop doing this route, because the law of averages suggests that one day I'm going to have a bunny-related incident, and I really don't want to have to either swap insurance details with a rabbit, or have to put one out of its misery after it gets caught up in my chain. Hmmm… I suppose I could alway lob it in the river…

Anyway, I was going to take a little video of the bunnies milling around for you all to see, but when I arrived at a place with sufficient lighting I glanced over and saw this rough-looking beast of a bunny sitting on his haunches glaring at me, totally at odds with all the other cheerful looking bunnies. It was like a bunny godfather. If bunnies could speak, this one would've said "No picture! No paparazzi!" in a threatening east-european accent. That being the case, I just kept pedalling.

I really didn't want that disease ridden, grizzled old bastard launching itself at me on a Tuesday evening.

Gett Off (the tube at North Greenwich and turn right): Prince at the O2

Right, let's get the only disappointment of the evening out of the way first: he didn't play 'Batdance.'

-----

I went 2 c Prince per4rm at th- Oh, wait, I can't keep this Prince-speak up all the time. I'm reverting to regular speak.

I went to see Prince perform at the O2 last night. Now, I've not been to the O2, or the Venue Formerly Known As The Millennium Dome before, so this was something of an adventure in itself. And I've got to say - what a wicked place! The tube station is super-close, and there's a nice open plaza in front of the dome, sorry, the O2, which has meridian lines and stuff (well, it is in Greenwich); yes, like Hiro from 'Heroes' I was able to straddle time (still working on the space bit).


The O2 itself is quite deceptive. Up close it actually looks really small, but when you get inside it's like a little town, with bars and restaurants and a little street. It's very cool. As a gig venue though… well, the O2 arena just became one of my very favourite places. It's deceptive in that while it has a large capacity, it actually feels rather small. It also has comfy seats and cup holders. And as Prince was playing in the round we were actually quite close to the stage. Good times!

There was one slightly annoying thing though - a message that flashed up 'Prince has requested that you do not take photos or videos of tonight's performance. This show is for your memories.'

This was followed by: 'Anyone caught taking photographs will be ejected from the arena.' Which made me look under my chair in case there was an elaborate ejection seat system hidden away. There wasn't, and using a technical loophole I snapped a pic of the funky stage before the show started (clever, eh?).


There was no support act, and Prince kicked off a little after 20:30. Oh. My. God. I really don't know what to say. This was one of the best gigs I've been to in a looooooong time. He had an awesome band, complete with legendary saxophonist Maceo Parker, a woman who looked like 1960s Diana Ross in a gold-sequinned dress and the biggest false eyelashes EVAH on drums, and some sassy woman in what looked like a cape workin' the crowd (she was about as close to 'Batdance' as we got). And Prince appeared through a hatch in the middle of the stage; in fact, he appeared and disappeared through the hatch several times, which makes me think he quite likes his hatch, even though I think it's technically a health and safety accident waiting to happen.

Anyway, to the music - over the course of a couple of hours he pretty much did everything I hoped he would, from 'Controversy,' to 'U Got the Look,' 'Purple Rain,' 'Guitar,' and 'Let's Go Crazy,' which was awesome because he teased us with the first line, "dearly beloved…", then left the mike to wander around the stage while whipping the crowd into a frenzy. That man had all of us in the palm of his tiny, tiny hand. He even invited some randoms from the audience onto the stage at one point where they danced in a slightly awkward fashion to 'Play that Funky Music,' which he stopped playing briefly to tell one bloke he was clapping in the wrong place.

All in all, then, a gig of EPIC proportions. And with Prince's promise that every night will be different, I'm thinking I might have to go back later in the run to see him again…

I'm gonna give the last word to my bro, who summed up the show best when, during one of Prince's virtuoso guitar solos, he lent across to me and said "Hendrix isn't dead."

-----

So, yeah, that no photo thing… yeah, that means no pics, and no youtube videos, which is a bit of a shame because I'd loved to have shown you at least a tiny glimpse of the man in action.

…

…

Oh, you know I had to take at least a couple of pics - in a totally Secret Squirrel fashion of course!

Of rabbits and robots

I know it's only been three days since I last posted, but I've gotten rather anxious about not writing something new. I think it's Marcosy's fault; he gets awfully vexed if I don't post regularly, and I've been fearfully awaiting an irate email from him telling me to get my arse in gear.

So: aye, aye - clutch is down, and gear is engaged!

To be honest I've had good reason for my brief absence - for the simple fact that I've been (gasp) busy. Or as they say in Star Trek episode 60, 'And the Children Shall Lead,' "bizzy."

Monday
Post the 'Dear JJ' post (still waiting, JJ, incidently) I cracked on with some work. I'd promised to write an article for the Japanese version of the Fact Files, and while I'd gotten the bulk of it done over the weekend, there were some loose ends and fact-checking I wanted to get done. So I got it done, and everything is groovy.

Tuesday
Tuesday was a beautiful day, wasn't it? Well, actually, I don't know what it was like in your area (snigger!), but in mine it was awesome. I even convinced the lovely Janice, Queen of the Office, Provider of Stationary to finance some company ice creams out of petty cash, which makes us both awesome because I suggested it and she agreed to it. Anyway, it was such a nice day that I decided spur of the moment to dispense with my planned evening run and ventured instead into uncharted territory with an evening cycle.

(Cue collective "ooo," a bit like those three-eyed green aliens in 'Toy Story,' if you would be so kind)

Now I haven't been out for an evening bike ride since I was about 13, and even then it was only over Terminal Four Hill by the airport, which was about 10 minutes from home at the time (Terminal Four Hill is, incidently, right by Heathrow's Terminal Four. Which maybe explains why Terminal Four is called Terminal Four; I like it when things are named after local landmarks), so this was all rather exciting. I decided that I'd only do a short-ish ride, maybe about an hour in length, because after all the evening does tend to lead into the night, and I haven't got any lights on my bike. So off I set in glorious sunshine for my cycling adventure at exactly 19:17.

My plan was to cycle along the Thames to Hampton Court, down the towpath to Kingston, up into Richmond Park, through the park to Richmond Gate, then zoom down Richmond Hill, rejoin the river, and retrace my steps home. Easy. Turns out, though, that that journey takes rather more than an hour. It actually takes about two hours, and by the latter stage I was furiously peddling in an effort to chase the last rays of sunlight all the way home. Which was a bit difficult coming back along by Hampton Court because the towpath was overrun by freakin' bunnies. They were *everywhere*. Seriously. There were *masses* of them, and they were *fearless*. They just would not get out of my way and I had to serve around them, which can be a bit difficult when they're moving. Maybe I should've rung my little bell? Anyway, I was going to take a photo of one; I got right up close to it, and it just sat there wiping its ears with its little paws, but then I realised that by the time I got my phone out of my bag, and took aim the little shit would've moved. Oh, and you probably wouldn't have been able to see it anyway because, did I mention, it was getting FREAKIN' DARK BY THEN.

To sum up, then, here's what I learned on Tuesday night:
• Evening bike rides are great.
• I should probably buy some bike lights.
• Bunnies are *fearless*.

Wednesday
Big plans on Wednesday evening: Nandos with Yaz and El Deanio, followed by Transformers at the cinema with my aforementioned accomplaces and BSH. Due to a bit of a balls up, El Deanio missed out on the Nandos, but Yaz and I did indulge in some chickeny-goodness which was good, and 100 percent chickeny.

Now, Transformers was an intriguing prospect, because like many others of my generation, I had a pretty big fear that it would just shat on one of my golden childhood memories, despite the apparent winning combination of BIG ROBOTS+SENSELESS ACTIONxZERO PLOT=BEST FILM EVAH.

Imagine how pleasantly surprised I was, then, to discover that Transformers was one of the best blockbuster movies I've seen in a long time. Yes it had the aforementioned BIG ROBOTS and SENSELESS ACTION, but it actually did have a plot, and it was genuinely funny; I actually think I laughed more during this film than I did during The Simpsons Movie. Maybe there is hope for Michael Bay after all?

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.

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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.

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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?