Bowie

I've been listening to a lot of David Bowie this last week. The reasons for this are two-fold:

1. I realised that I'd left a hell of a lot of Bowie songs off my iTunes, so I spent one night last week rectifying that. Suffice to say I now have (almost) his complete oeuvre on my iPhone, including the albums that die-hard Bowie fans, and even the great man himself, I believe, only speak of in hushed tones - Never Let Me Down and Tonight. I am enjoying them both GREATLY.

Look - apart from two episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and a little wobble where I listened to six tracks by other artists, my iTunes 'recently played' list proves that I've only listened to David Bowie over the last few days.

2. I was flicking around on the iTunes music store last Wednesday when I discovered that a David Bowie VH1 Storytellers live concert recorded in 1999 had been released at the beginning of July. I was on the verge of downloading it via the wiffys straight to my iPhone when I discovered that the physical version of the album came with a DVD of the concert, so I headed down to HMV in Hammersmith where I purchased it from an assistant who appeared to be suffering from some sort of disorder because they wouldn't look me in the eye or talk to me. Hmmm.

A quality version of Drive-in Saturday. I defy you not to laugh during the first 45 seconds where he reveals how Moot the Hoople turned this song down and in revenge he got very drunk and shaved his eyebrows off. Yes, you read that correctly.

So did I tell you I'm a really big David Bowie fan (not literally, mind)? I wasn't always, though. I used to hate his music back when I was a kid, although I had a begrudging, albeit well-hidden, respect for Modern Love. It was only sometime around the late 90s that I finally 'got' his stuff. Shortly after I got my first CD player I went on a bit of a mad spending spree buying loads of CDs, not only because they were something of a novelty, but also because - and this is going to sound very pretentious - I wanted to expand my musical horizons. And so, one day, I ended up buying The Singles Collection, one of the many David Bowie greatest hits compilations available, and one which I chose because it was dirt cheap in Kingston's now defunct Tower Records store.

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that, but the gist of it is that I suddenly developed into the Bowie uber-nerd, buying every studio album (multiple times, in those instances when special editions were released) and live album I could get my hands on in the space of just a few months. I read biographies and interviews, watched documentaries, concert films, Labyrinth, and The Man Who Fell to Earth. And in 2002, I finally got to see him play live.

It was around late september 2002 when Bowie was out and about promoting his Heathen album that it was announced he was going to play one show at the Hammersmith Apollo. Upon hearing this I went nuts (just one of many occasions over the years when my incredibly tolerant work colleagues probably began thinking about buying up some tranq darts) because not only is the Apollo one of my favourite gig venues and conveniently located close to work, it's also the place where Bowie spectacularly killed off Ziggy Stardust in 1973.

I had to go.

Getting tickets, however, was another matter. They weren't going on sale via traditional means, and so I tried entering competitions online and on the radio in an effort to get my hands on some, failing at every attempt. However, on the Friday before the gig (which was on a Wednesday), just as I was about to abandon all hope, it was announced that tickets would go on sale the very next day at 9 am - and the only way to get them was to buy them in person from the Hammersmith Apollo box office.

I was determined to get them, and so I resolved to queue over night outside the Apollo. I had never queued over night for anything before, and never have since, but I wanted these tickets more than anything. A load of us had arranged to go for a drink after work that Friday evening, and although I attended I made my excuses and left early. I was home by about quarter to eight that evening, and in bed by nine. I'd set my alarm for a little after midnight and, amusingly, as I was still living at Sparky Ma and Pa's at the time, I remember Big Bro and I passing like ships in the night as he was going to bed and I was heading out the door.

I drove to Hammersmith, and was at the Apollo around 1 am, where I tagged on to the end of the queue. At some point someone walked along the line and gave me a number - around 275, I think - that meant I could've wandered off and come back later, but I didn't want to risk losing my place. I'd taken a random Star Trek novel that I'd grabbed from the office with me, and some work, but I ended up not really touching either; instead, I got chatting to some of the people around me. Despite the fact that I was wearing a jacket and a waterproof, it was cold, and a lovely, slightly hippy-ish couple in the queue directly behind me lent me a blanket and a pillow while they retreated to the warmth of their camper van. I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me, who worked in the Ealing branch of HMV and looked remarkably like Wayne Coyne from The Flaming Lips if memory serves me correctly; he'd kind of accidently managed to buy tickets for a forthcoming Bowie gig in New York, but wasn't quite sure if he'd actually be able to afford the flights and accommodation. We talked until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the Hammersmith flyover, and as the queue finally started edging forward he mentioned that I should go see his band play at a pub in a couple of weeks. By that time we were at the doors of the Apollo and before I knew it we'd been directed to different ticket booths; I never got his name, or the name of the pub where he was playing.

What I did get, though, was two tickets to see David Bowie at the Hammersmith Apollo. Securing them safely in a zipped pocket, I walked back to my car in a bit of a daze, and was home just before 11 am that morning.

The next few days passed so slowly it was untrue, but eventually Wednesday, 2nd October arrived, and Yazzle Dazzle and I fronted up to the Apollo. Out of interest, we stopped a tout and asked how much he'd give us for our tickets; not that we would ever have given any thought to actually selling them, but let's just say we would've been properly quids in if we'd done it.

The gig was amazing; an incredibly relaxed and vibrant-looking Bowie played for almost three hours. The crowd loved it; we had seats in the circle, but everyone was on their feet throughout, including Roger Taylor from Queen, who was dressed in a tuxedo with a white scarf draped across his shoulders (funny, though, I don't recall seeing him sitting outside the Hammersmith Apollo at 2 am the previous Saturday morning). To this day that gig ranks as one of the best concerts I've ever seen.

Although these were the days before I had a camera phone, at least one person was good enough to get a snippet of the incredible Hammersmith Apollo gig.

Around this time I was also writing a lot of scripts for ideas I'd had for comic books, and I kid you not, I even started writing one about Ziggy Stardust. It struck me that there was a very strong narrative to a lot of Bowie's songs, and I thought it would be interesting to try and tie some of them together. I wrote 108 pages of script for what I envisaged would end up as something like a 300 page-long graphic novel. Comics pal Grum even did some character design sketches. I don't know quite what I thought would happen with it - would I ever be able to send the script to David Bowie himself? Probably not, but as a writing exercise it was a very valuable experience; it remains the second longest piece of fiction I've ever written after my novel. To this day I still think the plot is sound, and although five years have passed since I last looked at it, I often think that I'd like to go back and finish it one day.

The first page of my Ziggy Stardust comics script.

In November 2003 I got the chance to see Bowie play live again as part of his A Reality Tour. This time he was playing at Wembley Arena, a venue not known for being particularly warm and intimate. On this occasion, though, that vast arena was transformed. I have never been to such a large concert where the entire crowd - and I mean literally *everyone* - is on their feet singing along from the very first song. That song was Life on Mars, and I distinctly remember us giving a visibly humbled Bowie several full minutes of applause before he got a chance to move on to the next song.

Not actually from the Wembley show, but you get the gist of it.

Like the Hammersmith gig, the Reality Tour show remains one of the best concerts I've ever been to. I remember coming out of the arena that night and giving serious thought to trying to get tickets for the second Wembley show the very next day - something I regret not doing now. Bowie had to abandon the tour due to ill-health the following summer, and hasn't toured since. After producing such an incredible musical legacy over the years I guess he's perfectly entitled not to head out on the road again, but for purely selfish reasons I'd love to see him play just once more (if only for Big Bro's sake - he's never seen Bowie play live, and after seeing the Reality Tour DVD deeply regretted not taking me up on my offer of getting him a ticket). Until that time, should it ever happen, I'll just have to make do with listening to all those songs I just put on my iTunes - even the ones off Never Let Me Down.

In homage, Part V

Drawn 26/10/95 - 27/10/95. I was always slightly fascinated by the idea of how Starfleet would recover the Enterprise's saucer section from the surface of Veridian III (because in 1995 I had *nothing* else to occupy my thoughts), and loved the idea of some greasy wideboy turning up with his grotty old pick-up truck to tow it away. I'm still rather pleased with how the truck turned out. On the other hand, I'm slightly disturbed by Captain Picard's rather prominent, um, 'package'…

Drawn 26/10/95. As an original series fan, I couldn't face life with the knowledge that Captain Kirk was dead, so I did what any nerd would do and came up with a plausible way in which the old boy could live on. My answer? As a game show host. Yeeeeeeeees… (for anyone who's not familiar with the UK game show The Generation Game, click HERE. That should get you up to speed with what's going on here…).

Any-hoo, this is the denouement of my little stroll down memory lane. Back in the day, I'd actually planned on drawing some more ridiculous illustrations for each of the Star Trek movies that followed Generations, but in the end I simply couldn't be bothered.

Wait - was that a collective sigh of relief I heard? RUDE!

In homage, Part IV

Drawn 21/10/95 - 22/10/95. Counselor Troi is breathalysed as part of the investigation into the destruction of the Enterprise. I don't know why I made Troi's head so massively out of scale here; I've met Marina Sirtis and she has a perfectly normal, rather lovely shaped head. On the plus side I did give her awesomely perky tits and a stunning hourglass figure, so I think it all evens out in the end. Rather less forgiveable, though, is the shocking lack of a correct sense of scale; that registration number should be waaaaaaaaay bigger than it is here. I hang my head in shame.

Drawn 22/10/95 - 23/10/95. A couple of months before I drew this it was announced that Worf was joining the cast of Deep Space Nine, so I decided to fill in a gap in the continuity. I'd always thought of Riker as something of a jock, so I adjusted his costume here to resemble an American Football uniform, and had him chucking a ball at the departing, overly emotional Worf (another blatant disregard of Star Trek lore on my part - *everyone* knows Klingons don't have tear ducts). None of this explains why Captain Picard appears to be groping his own arse, though, but if it keeps him happy, so be it - make it so, you pervert!

Next: An epic finale!

In homage, Part III

Drawn 10/10/95 - 14/10/95. So this drawing was influenced by two factors, the first being that there were all these stories that William Shatner and Patrick Stewart hated each other (not true), and the second being the Star Trek fans' ultimate wet dream that the two Enterprise crews should end up in battle against each other to decide once and for all which was the best. A ridiculous idea, I think you'll agree.

Kirk would kick Picard's ass every time.

Drawn 1/10/95. I think this speaks for itself. Note the addition of two Klingon weapons - a bat'leth and a d'k tahg knife. I'm nothing if not thoroughly nerdy.

Next: the aftermath of the Enterprise crash!

In homage, Part II

Drawn 17-10-95 - 21/10/95. The moment every Star Trek fan had been having impure thoughts about waiting for: Captains Kirk and Picard meet! And they rode horses. Hmmm. Anyway, the horse that Kirk is riding here has a rather mischievous look on its face, and I can't remember why. Also, I'm not totally sure, but Picard might be in silhouette in the background because I was still trying to get the hang of drawing a fairly decent Patrick Stewart and it was just easier to colour him in.

Drawn 22/10/95. Ha ha ha - it's a joke about lady drivers! Because those *never* go out of fashion…

Next: An epic confrontation!

In homage, Part I

Over the weekend, for reasons so long and complex I shan't bother to go into them here, I spent rather a lot of time thinking about the past. This ultimately led to me sitting on the floor on Sunday afternoon, routing through a load of old folders when I would've actually preferred to be doing something more productive like reading a book or taking a nap; I'm right into taking naps at the weekend these days. Anyway, so there I was, searching through some dusty old folders. I was actually looking for something specific, and after a while I found it: an old pink cardboard folder containing a series of photocopied pages.

Fourteen years ago, when I was in Sixth Form college, I decided to create a very personal gift as an 18th birthday present for a friend of mine. At the time we were both into Star Trek (yes, I know, I never grew *out* of Star Trek); this was, of course, around the time when DS9 and Voyager were both on the telly, and the same year in which Star Trek Generations had hit UK cinema screens. I was also doing my A-Level graphical communication project on the topic of starship design evolution in Star Trek, much to the chagrin of my teachers who would shake their heads at me as if to say I was taking leave of my senses until, of course, I claimed the school's very first A grade in the subject - but that's another story.

Any-hoo, as part of my friend's birthday gift, I decided to draw her a series of comedic illustrations (this was also around the time I still harboured a desire to be a cartoonist) based on Star Trek Generations, and the folder I was looking for at the weekend contained the last surviving photocopies of those original drawings (for all I know the originals don't exist anymore). And I thought "who could I inflict these upon for shits and giggles?"

That's where you come in, dear reader.

So here you have it - the first installment of my childlike scribblings from 1995!

(BTW, if you're not too familiar with Star Trek Generations you might want to watch the film to help you get the most out of what's coming your way over the course of the next few days; alternatively, I will be captioning each illustration in a wry, possibly somewhat derogatory fashion. Of course, if you don't care, which is more than likely, that's fine too!)

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This is the title page. It explains what this nonsense is all about. Note the UK spelling of 'generalizations.' If I used that I'd work I'd probably be fired.

Drawn 1/10/95. This is based on a sequence that was cut from the final film where Soran tortures Geordi with a probe that stops his heart. I thought it would be funnier if he showed him some holiday photos. Hmmm. On the plus side, I think you'll agree I totally nailed the look of Malcolm McDowell. I also seem to recall feeling distinctly uncomfortable drawing Geordi's massive nipples and moobs.

Drawn 14/10/95. The comedy here is that, in the series, I always thought Dr. Crusher had ridiculously massive shoulder pads, and paid far too much attention to her tricorder when her patients might be violently bleeding out on the biobed. Nice womanly hips on Geordi.

Next: Two captains meet!

Book rant

I've not had a good rant here for a while, and seeing as Marcosy has once again been harassing me for not having written anything for a few days (I swear he's not happy unless there's a new post at least once a day), I thought I'd go with this (also because it's been swirling around in my brain for a while so I think it's probably wise to get it out before my head explodes).

A few weeks back Sparky Ma and I decided to head out on one of our infamous shopping expeditions to Kingston. I didn't actually need to buy anything, but I know it makes Sparky Ma happy when I do spend unnecessarily, so I thought I'd put together a list of a few books I liked the sound of. I didn't particularly need any new books, because my book stack was already pretty big, and I'm reading a rather epic novel as it is, but I like buying books, so I figured rather than buy them as and when I needed them from Amazon (where they're cheaper, I might add), I'd buy them in a shop and get a nice carrier bag to keep Sparky Ma happy.

From a rather large list, I whittled it down to three books I wanted to buy:

• King Dork by Frank Portman

• Tomas by James Palumbo

• A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers

And so, bright and early one Saturday morning, off we trotted. Well, actually, we drove - but you get the gist.

There are two dedicated bookshops in Kingston: Waterstones and Borders. I hit-up Waterstones first. Neither King Dork nor A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius were anywhere to be found, but as both are two years old I didn't necessarily find this terribly surprising; disappointing, yes, surprising, no. I was trained from a very young age to be prepared for disappointment while shopping; not once did I burst into tears when the toy shop didn't have the Thunder Punch He-Man figure I so desperately wanted.

Where was I? Ah yes - two down, one to go. I soon found myself looking on the alphabetically-arranged shelves for a copy of Tomas, and after hunting high and low (like A-Ha) I found it. I grabbed it and looked down at it … only to find that someone had spilt blue ink all across the cover at some point before it was put on the shelf. I looked back at the shelf thinking I'd just grab a different copy, only to discover that this was the sole copy of Tomas in the shop.

So let's get this straight: this was the one and only copy in this shop of a very recently released, critically-acclaimed novel … and it was covered in ink.

This is the point where you'd think I should've rushed up to a member of staff and asked for some money off, but I don't do that with books. Books are something I cherish. I always look for the most perfect copy of a book before buying it. Of course, it's then totally my decision if I want to break the spine, sneeze in it, or hurl ink across the cover, but at the moment of purchase it has to be *perfect.*

I put the book back on the shelf and stormed off, thinking I'd just get it in Borders. If a member of Waterstones' staff had been nearby and I'd just happened to be wearing a cape I would've been tempted to swoosh it dramatically across my shoulder before shouting theatrically "I SHALL TAKE MY CUSTOM ELSEWHERE!" while also noting with something approaching disgust that it's just plain weird that Waterstones, the book-selling division of the HMV chain, now sells Nintendo DS consoles and the top 10 DVDs.

Cut to Borders.

In Borders I headed straight for the 'E's. That's the alphabetical listing of the bookshelves, I should add, and not any illegal uppers that might have been on offer. After locating 'Eggers, Dave' I clapped my hands together like a special when I saw there were three copies of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius on the shelf. Sparky Ma always taught me to choose a copy from the back, so I slid the first two books forward and reached for the one at the rear. Holding it in my hands, though, I noticed that all the corners were a bit mashed up, so I popped it back and took the next one. This one looked like it'd been chewed by a dog, so I put that one down as well, ultimately violating Sparky Ma's golden rule of not taking the first one on the shelf by taking the first one on the shelf. That one had a torn back cover and dirt on it. WTF?!

I put that one back and decided that I'd just go find Tomas instead (King Dork wasn't available here, either). Unfortunately, the only thing awaiting me at the 'P's was crushing disappointing: there was not one copy of Tomas on the shelf. Outrageous. I decided to console myself by looking at the graphic novels; Borders in Kingston has one of the best graphic novel sections I know.

The graphic novel section, however, appeared to have been hit by a bomb. Books were lying everywhere like little wounded paper soldiers. Some were on the floor, others, shoved haphazardly on the shelves with no apparent consideration for a) the condition of the book, or b) any sense of order. I looked around in desperate hope that I might see one of those annoying children you find every now and again in book shops - you know, the ones that decide they're going to pull all the books off the shelf and then put them back in a prettier fashion using the colour of the spine to make a rainbow pattern or something. That sort of thing usually winds me up something chronic, but here that kid could be a hero!

There were no children available, however, so instead I just stormed out. Again. Oh, but not before using Borders' free wi-fi to order both Tomas and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius from Amazon using my iPhone. Both books turned up in pristine condition a couple of days later, and I saved myself £5.59 in the process.

So this is what's erking me. I was really well up for spending more than I needed to buy these books, purely because I wanted the experience of buying them in a real bookshop. But no. It seems the only thing you can buy in a book shop these days that doesn't look like it's been trashed by a wild animal is a DVD of Twilight or the latest Katie Price 'opus.' Ugh. Yes, yes, I know we're in the midst of a recession and the shops probably don't want to hold too much older stock (i.e. anything that the ink has actually had time to dry on, aside from Waterstones' sole copy of Tomas) and they're facing increased competition from online sellers like Amazon, but the impression I get these days is that they just want to make some excuses before rolling over and dying.

I love buying books in shops - I've discovered so many books and authors I love simply by browsing the shelfs - but if bookshops aren't going to offer the choice or justify their higher prices with a decent, passionate service then quite frankly they deserve to go the way of the dinosaurs, the dodo, and Woolworths.

I discovered recently that Borders are closing about five of their UK stores including their flagship Oxford Street branch. And while I'll miss that towering edifice of books in central London, to be quite honest the last time I went in there it looked like a shanty town. Thank god the Kingston branch isn't closing because I love that shop. Of course, I loved it more when it stayed open late and I could stroll in around eight o'clock, buy a book, then start reading it over a coffee in the in-store Starbucks (hint hint); it closes at seven now, meaning that by the time I get there after work I'm just about in time to see them locking the doors.

What I'm getting at, then, is that I want to see these shops working harder for my money, particularly at this time. It's kind of like training a dog, I suppose; if they work harder, I'll reward them by giving them a chocolate drop my money. If they don't, I'll quite happily give it to the Amazonians.

Rant over. Now, if you'll excuse me I have a large stack of books I need to get through.

Well I'd watch it…

G.I. Joe: Rise of … WTF?!

I've just gotten back from seeing the movie G.I. Joe: Rise of the Cobra and I feel compelled to write this while it's still fresh in my mind.

Because lord knows I shall be doing anything and everything to erase it from my brain as soon as I hit 'Publish Post,' including bashing my face against the wall until I break through into next door's living room and get to greet my delightful lady neighbour with a bloodied face and a jaunty wink before passing out.

I can't say I was terribly enthusiastic about seeing this film, but as I had fond memories of owning the toys when I was a kid (known over here in Britland as Action Force, because we were obviously ill-equipped to deal with having to give our action figures American accents) I thought I'd give it a whirl. I subsequently roped in an unsuspecting Willowc to accompany me because, well, she made me see The Spirit so quite frankly she was asking for it.

So I won't beat around the bush: it genuinely was like a live-action version of Team America, only with all the songs, naughty language, and humour sucked out of it. It was really po-faced. I mean *really.* It took itself so seriously it wasn't funny. Literally. Which is a bit of a shame, because if it had some songs monosyllabic star Channing Tatum could've shown off his wicked dance steps; I've seen the trailer for Step-Up, I know he's got some killer moves. So yes, anyway, it was very serious. Even the most ridiculous lines were delivered with earnest conviction by the cast – with the exception of anything that spilled out of dear ol' Channing's mouth, of course; he simply mumbled, frowned, and went a bit cross-eyed with all the effort he was putting in. Bless. Give him a gold star, a pat on the head and send him on his way.

At least he looks like the freakin' doll.

As if the tone wasn't bad enough, the acting was universally horrific. Everyone - and I mean everyone - involved should be utterly ashamed of themselves. I've seen more convincing performances when I recite Star Trek lines to myself in the bathroom mirror in kindergarten nativity plays.

I shan't dwell on Channing Tatum's performance, because unless there was a dance number halfway through the film I wasn't really expecting too much from him. Sienna Miller, on the other hand…

Oh, Sienna - why? You've been forging such an interesting career for yourself and your perky breasts with such diverse roles in … that film … and the … other one … but here! Here, any vestige of talent just flew, FLEW out the window as you concentrated so hard on talking with a crappy American accent. At least I think it was supposed to be American … And what was up with the way you walked? It looked like you had either a club foot or crapped yourself. Or maybe it was trapped wind. May I suggest pavanamuktasana (that's wind-removing pose to you and me)?

I do hope she didn't follow through. That outfit is rather snug.

On the plus side, a scene in which she was in a car that exploded did give me the opportunity to utter the phrase 'burnt Sienna' to Willowc. HI-larity ensued, let me tell you.

Despite the appalling accent and lack of any discernable talent, the producers appear to have spent all their money on Sienna and some truly dreadful visual effects, and thus the rest of the cast was comprised of whoever they could get for what little money they had left.

Channing, of course, is like the poor man's Josh Hartnett, which I'm sure will please Josh Hartnett until I say that Josh Hartnett is also a poor man's Josh Hartnett. As I already mentioned, without an opportunity to break into dance, or any meaningful dialogue to advance whatever seemed to pass as a plot, Channing was left to mumble his way through the script somewhat incoherently. I don't know, maybe his mum wasn't around to help him with the big words. I'm pretty sure the only line he uttered that I understood was "WOO-HOO!" but maybe it was the visual aspect rather than the aural one that led me to understand that; I suppose they could've put him on a rollercoaster and green-screened a different background in later while his eyes lit up like a special on a day trip to the seaside.

Elsewhere, the head of G.I. Joe was played by Dennis Quaid, who I've always thought of as the poor man's Harrison Ford. Here he managed to wear a beret and still deliver lines of dialogue despite the fact that in some scenes I began to suspect that he might be in the midst of having a stroke or something.

Overheard on set: "What the hell did you sign me up for? I'm dressed like one of the Village People, and I can't feel the right-hand side of my body." TRUFAX.

Other than that, there was one of the Wayan brothers (I'm too depressed to go onto the IMDB to find out exactly which one) whose sole direction in the film appears to have been to "do it like Eddie Murphy would do it." Why they didn't just put him in a fat suit and pop a dress on him I don't know. And in the 'REALLY SHOULD KNOW BETTER' category we have Christopher Ecclescake, who after gurning his way through a season of Doctor Who put on possibly the worst Scottish accident I've ever heard for his role as … oh, I don't know, some pantomime villain or something here, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, to whom I'd just like to say: Jesus Christ, man, you were in Third Rock From the Sun for crying out loud - have some f**king sense!

And don't get me started on Jonathan Pryce. Tut. I'm disappointed in you, Sir.

About the only person I felt sorry for was Ray Park as Snake Eyes (I had that action figure!). Poor Ray Park; every movie he's in he has his face covered by extensive makeup or costume. He must be developing something of a complex. Surely he knows they only want him because he can bust some serious judo-chop moves? He doesn't even get to talk in this movie. Does he realise he's effectively just one step up from a prop?

And so we come to the architect of this tragic affair - James Tiberius Ki- Oh, wait, I was reciting Star Trek dialogue again there, wasn't I? Oops. Right, so Stephen Sommers - WHY?! I really want to like your films. Deep Rising was fun. The Mummy was fun too. The Mummy Returns sucked, quite frankly, and Van Helsing was a mess saved only by Hugh Jackman's laughably ridiculous hat and Kate Beckinsale's heaving bosum. But I just don't understand why Hollywood keeps giving you millions of dollars to go off and make ridiculous, vacuous movies.

Quite frankly, I'm pretty sure I could make a reasonable film if someone gave me a bag of cash - even one, like G.I. Joe, that focuses on a beloved plastic figure.

Hollywood: I'm awaiting your call.

Photo-blogging

Three photos for you to marvel at and make insightful comments about!

Photo the first: Super Lucky Cat!
Super Lucky Cat was in a trampy all you can eat Chinese buffet in Shepherds Bush, and was freakin' massive. It made me smile. I want it.

Photo the second: A massive chopper!
It's not often you see a helicopter being wheeled through the streets of Hammersmith, so today was clearly my luck day. Maybe Super Lucky Cat had something to do with it?

Photo the third: My third nipple!
OK, so it's not actually a third nipple - it's a freakish-looking insect bite I appear to have suffered during the Wedding Day 7k on Friday. But it's massive, and looks a bit nipplish. I'm half expecting a kitten or some other infantile creature to try suckling on it at some point. That'll be an interesting experience.

Epic WIN: The Wedding Day 7k

In all honesty my running has taken a bit of a funny turn this year; I started the year pretty darn well, and was doing about three 10k runs per week up until early April. Then I got in that car accident and was all ouchy and miserable for a couple of months - and then I signed up for sweaty yoga and have since dedicated a lot of the time I used to dedicate to running to getting almost nekkid and putting myself in bizarre positions. Despite my lack of running over the last few months, I'm nothing if not a stickler for tradition; having done the Dysart Dash for the past few years, for example, I couldn't imagine not doing it this year - and even ended up with a new personal best time. Similarly, there's the Wedding Day 7k.

I was talked into doing this last year by my erstwhile running pal, Sweatband, and a good time was had by all. Despite the fact Sweatband has moved away, we made plans to enter again this year, both for the run and as an excuse to meet up and catch up. Unfortunately, things didn't quite go according to plan, though…

Earlier this week I got a text from Sweatband telling me that she'd twisted her ankle and wasn't going to be able to take part. This saddened me a bit, because every single organised run I've taken part in I've done with Sweatband. OK, we don't exactly run together (I'm much faster then her these days, heh heh), but the pre- and post-race banter and mutual congratulatory back-slapping are every bit as important to me as the actual run itself. And on top of that, I realised that I'd not received my race number and timing chip.

With this in mind, I kind of thought about not bothering. I fired off a half-hearted email to the organisers asking what I should do if my number didn't arrive in time, and when I didn't receive a response I sort of started thinking about alternative ways of occupying my Friday night.

Because the Wedding Day 7k starts at 19:30, though, if I'm doing it I feel compelled to take a half-day's holiday from work simply so I don't have to rush home, sort dinner out, then have to run on a full stomach. And when I found myself leaving work at lunchtime today I knew that I was going to do it. Like the Dysart Dash and the Richmond to Windsor bike ride (which I did on my own for the first time last year), the Wedding Day 7k has become one of those events that is firmly fixed in my iCal; I knew I couldn't just sit at home while the race was going on just a few miles away.

And so, an hour before the race was due to start, I got myself ready, hopped in Clubbie, and headed for Bushy Park. It's lucky I set out so early because the roads around Hampton were jammed, and I actually ended up parking about half a mile from the park. Still, this gave me the opportunity for a little warm-up jog as I headed for race HQ, where I presented myself to a jovial looking lady and informed her that my number and chip seemed to have gone astray in our increasingly crappy postal system. She didn't say anything, nor respond to my slightly flirtrageous demeanour, but she did give me a new race number and timing chip. Good times.

With about 10 minutes to spare I headed to the start line, where I bumped into a few people from the running club that I attended for a few months last year, one of whom was a lady mooted as a possible Sweatband replacement at last year's Wedding Day run; we shall call her Sweatband 2.0 here.

So I caught up a bit with Sweatband 2.0 for a while as we waited for the countdown to begin, and like Sweatband Classic she was very modest about her expectations for the run. I took everything she said with a pinch of salt, though, because we were in the same group at running club last year and she was really rather fast. And then, after a moments silence for a runner who tragically passed away this week (which, with so many fellow runners in attendance I thought was a lovely gesture to honour his memory), we were off.

I hate starting runs. Not because I dread what's ahead of me, but rather because I have the irrational fear that my iPod might crash, thus corrupting my Nike+ data and impacting on my overall time while I stand around waiting for it to reboot, and because it's always such a crush as the entire pack surges forward. Immediately Sweatband 2.0 was in front of me while I got stuck behind a bunch of … well, slow people.

Fortunately, as everyone spread out I was able to put on a better burst of speed and wind my way through the pack like Luke Skywalker piloting his X-Wing down that trench on the exterior of the Death Star at the end of Star Wars. I also overtook Sweatband 2.0, and wondered if maybe she wasn't being modest after all…?

Anyway, I was really pleased with how things went; I wasn't attacked by any deer, nor did I step in any of their poo, and unlike last year I didn't peak too early and was a lot more consistent overall. I put a lot of this down to my breathing, which is a lot more controlled these days thanks to, I suspect, the pranayama breathing we do at sweaty yoga. This has the added benefit of meaning that I don't gasp for breath through an open mouth like a cow having an asthma attack, which in turn proved useful as Bushy Park was full of massive flying ants, and I really didn't want to swallow any of them. I think the only problem I did encounter was some bloke who kept swerving in front of me as I tried to pass him; he was from a club called the Sheen Shufflers, which to my mind sounds more like a saucy massage parlour than a running club. Fortunately I got past him eventually.

I felt so good, in fact, that I had sufficient energy to shout a complement at one of the marshalls; she had massive florescent gloves on, which I thought were awesome.

With 2k to go though, I glanced to my right and who should I see smiling back at me? Sweatband 2.0, that's who. This freaked me out a little bit because she'd said that she planned on taking it easy and didn't think she'd get a good time, and yet here she was level-pegging it with me. At least when Sweatband Classic says she'll be lagging behind she actually has the decency to lag behind. As a result I summoned a spurt of energy and shot ahead a bit.

As we neared the finish line, though, Sweatband 2.0 made another push for victory, and with about 300 metres to go SHE. OVERTOOK. ME.

RUDE.

And so, with every fibre of my being I brought to bear what Sweatband Classic used to refer to in our Richmond running days as my miracle sprint finish - or what I refer to as my 'oh-god-let-it-be-over-I-feel-like-I'm-about-to-die-sheer-effing-desperation-sprint-finish.'

Punch it, Chewie.

Within seconds I was back alongside Sweatband 2.0. She noticed this, and kicked it up a notch also. By this time we were both sprinting, weaving around people who were gently slowing down as they neared the finish, neither of us giving an inch to the other. We kept glancing across at one another, wondering who would fall first.

With less than 100 metres to go and genuinely feeling like I might fall over at any moment, I finally powered past Sweatband 2.0 and reached forward for the line. I'd done it - and in a time of 34:22, a new personal best that shaved a massive two minutes and two seconds off my time from last year. I was exhausted and extremely happy.

My Nike+ graph for the Wedding Day 7k 2009. I don't know why fancy new Nike+ Beta makes it look like I was constantly slowing down, because I wasn't, and old Nike+ agrees with me. Note the symbols under where it says '22 sec'; those mean that I felt 'awesome,' that the weather was 'cloudy,' and that I was running on a 'trail.' That's the bonus of new Nike+ for you.

After finishing I headed straight for the water stand and grabbed a cup for me and one for Sweatband 2.0. She deserved it, having put up a valiant effort and proved herself to be both a worthy opponent and substitute Sweatband. Shortly afterward, I queued up, handed in my timing chip, and collected my congratulatory Wedding Day 7k t-shirt.

This picture does not do justice to the seriously vile colour of this t-shirt.

To be honest, I'd kind of prefer a medal like they hand out at the end of the Dysart Dash, because people are impressed by medals, but on the other hand, this t-shirt actually fits pretty well so unlike last year's I might not consign it to the back of the wardrobe, and may actually wear it now and again.

Anyway, having collected the t-shirt and after a lady drew a big red cross on my chest (I thought it was because she hearted me, but it turns out it's so I didn't try to snaffle another tee) I headed out of the park and back to Clubbie. There's a big barbeque-party thingy after the run which I hung around for and had a great time at last year, but this time I was proper knacked, so, exhausted and elated I decided to head home to put my feet up.

That and the fact I've got sweaty yoga at nine in the morning!

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And for anyone who's interested, here's my 2009 Wedding Day 7k stats:

• 7.09k

• 34:22

• Average pace 4:50 min per km

• 488 calories

BAM!

An old con

I've been sitting here over the last few days (not literally, mind; I have been peeling myself out of my chair for toilet breaks and snacks) reading all the exciting news coming out of the San Diego Comic Con as it hits the interwebs. There's some awesome looking things on the horizon (Clark wearing a Superman costume in Smallville? Where The Wild Things Are?? And I'm inexplicably intrigued by Tron Legacy…), and I think I'd like to go to the Comic Con sometime. Which is strange, because aside from the Collectormania thingies that used to take place in the middle of Milton Keynes' shopping centre (so you could handily escape wander off to do some shopping in Topman or HMV if you got bored of leering at Katee Sachoff) I've avoided them like the plague for the last nine years.

Y'see, I've only ever been to conventions - proper conventions, I mean, not ones in shopping centres - about three times, and on all three occasions work paid for me to go. Bless them. Now, I'm not dissing the whole convention thing; I think it's a grand idea in theory, but the general execution - at least of the ones I've been to - has been sadly lacking to say the least. I mean, you look at pictures of Comic Con and it looks exciting and awesome and what you'd imagine geek heaven would look like, but with smaller conventions, at least in my experience, the reality is that you spend hours stuck in some godforsaken hotel, wandering aimlessly between the bar and the merchandise room where some bored looking fellow is hawking ill-fitting Star Trek uniforms and overpriced models of the Enterprise-E which only have one working illuminating warp nacelle*, all the while glancing at your watch because Robert Picardo is doing a talk in four hours, and Robert Picardo genuinely is a funny guy.

Possibly my favourite convention memory is when I found myself sitting alongside Stargate SG-1 star Amanda Tapping in an autograph room before the crowds were allowed in. She was utterly delightful and we chatted away like old friends. What made this moment even more memorable, though, was another television actor - who I won't name - who was sitting at another table and downing double scotches like his life depended on it. As the doors opened and the fans swooped in he knocked back the last of his drink and glanced over at me with a 'please kill me now' look on his face. It was priceless.

And this leads me onto my worst convention memory.

About 10 years ago, shortly after I'd joined the company I'm with now, I hatched an idea for a new magazine with a colleague of mine. We were rather excited at the prospect of it, and generated a whole load of page mock-ups as proof of concept. As they say, though, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and we decided we needed to find out what real people in the real world thought of it. There were two ways we could do this: the first was to arrange a focus group of people recruited off the street, and the second was to take our idea directly to our target market and go to a convention.

We decided on the latter, for a variety of reasons, one of which was that it was actually more cost effective to send a couple of us away for the weekend than it was to drag some people in off the streets and ask them some questions for the best part of two hours.

And so we booked two tickets for a weekend-long science-fiction convention in Torquay in mid-October, and arranged to do a presentation of our work.

Now, I was rather looking forward to this because a) I love science-fiction, and b) it was very exciting because it was my first business trip, which meant that it had the added bonus of the fact that c) everything was being paid for by the company. Good times.

Anyway, the convention started on the Friday, but while my colleague headed of at midday on the Friday (quite possibly to get out of doing an afternoon's work), I didn't set out until the following morning. I arrived in Torquay at around two in the afternoon, amazed that my little white Fiesta had completed the journey without exploding, and that I'd manage to follow Sparky Pa's directions without ending up in Glasgow (these were the days before sat-nav, after all). The hotel where the convention was being held wasn't actually in Torquay, however, and was in fact a fair few miles away from the city centre, nestled atop a hill, and only accessible by very narrow, windy country lanes.

When I eventually found it I pulled into the car park, parked up, and got out to stretch my legs and take a good look at where I would be staying.

No word of a lie, it looked like Fawlty Towers.

Laughing at the resemblance, I turned back to my car only to notice that I'd parked about half a metre away from a sheer drop that was neither marked by a sign, nor fenced off. I gulped, retrieved my bag from the boot, and prayed that my handbrake would hold over night.

A couple of minutes later I got my key from reception, and found the room in which both myself and my colleague were staying (OK, so the company were paying for everything but they weren't springing for two rooms). A bit tired from the drive, I plopped myself down on the single bed/cot that had been designated as mine (in addition to getting out of an afternoon's work, I think my colleague set out on the Friday specifically to snag the double), and flicked on the telly. The reception wasn't great because we were in the middle of nowhere, but I started watching the 1993 movie The Adventures of Hucklebrry Finn anyway. It was actually quite good, despite the fact that the static made it look like Huck was in the midst of a blizzard.

About half an hour later my colleague returned to the room. For some reason she needed to use something like a hairdryer, but as it turned out the room only had one plug, so I had to turn the telly off. To this day I have never seen the end of that Huckleberry Finn movie, and still don't know if Huck escaped that blizzard. After she was done, she offered to show me around the convention.

Let's sum it up in a few words: it was rubbish.

There were lots of 'viewing rooms' set up to show classic science-fiction series, but they were actually just small rooms with a portable TV set up on a table and a VHS player off to one side. There was no merchandise room. The stars of the convention were, I believe, someone off Blake's 7 and a British television presenter who had a background in comedy, and I'll be quite frank, a rather rowdy body odour issue. There was someone there who was dressed like Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, from the blond hair to the long leather coat, who remained in costume THE ENTIRE WEEKEND.

Dinner was served only between six and seven, and it was a set menu of some foul-smelling stew that resembled something a cat with dysentery might produce. I took one look at it and decided I was going to find something else to eat even if it meant gnawing on the chipboard cabinet beside my bed. Fortunately, someone informed me there was a McDonalds a few miles down the road.

Around this time, however, the south-west of England had begun to be battered by a storm of rather biblical proportions. The winds had picked up, and rain was lashing down. I can clearly recall very carefully engaging reverse gear as I set out, conscious of the fact that there was that sheer drop just a gnat's crotchet in front of me, and the car park was slippery from mud and rain.

Half an hour later I'd found McDonalds, and duly spent the next couple of hours sitting in there like a complete tramp surrounded by the remnants of a meal I'd wolfed down in about 42 seconds.

I returned to the hotel at about 10pm, parked up very carefully (I hadn't seen the drop in the daylight, let alone at night), and headed back to the room. My colleague was there looking a bit worse for wear. Turns out the stew was having a reaction somewhat akin to a warp core breach at both ends. We turned in for the night, ready for our presentation in the morning.

I awoke on Sunday at about 8:30 as my colleague was returning to our room. She'd gotten up feeling a little bit better after the previous night's stew incident, and headed down to the dining room for some breakfast with Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Apparently stew wasn't the only thing the kitchen staff weren't very good at preparing, though, and her breakfast had thus consisted of two slices of toast so black that they looked like they'd been through some sort of thermonuclear war. She'd somehow eaten them anyway, and within two minutes of returning to our room was once more praying at the porcelain altar.

When she came out of the bathroom, looking a bit green and wiping the vomit from her chin with the back of her hand, my colleague informed me that we might need to rethink our presentation strategy based on her current predicament. The original idea, y'see, was that she, being the more senior and experienced of the two of us, would give the presentation while I stood to one side looking pretty and gesturing at mocked-up page layouts on display boards like I was some sort of cheap gameshow totty. Now, though, I was being asked to step-up and do the lion's share of the work in case she felt like she was about to go all Linda Blair over the crowd. I nodded once, certain I could do it.

Our presentation was set for 10:30, and by 10:15 we'd set up our display in a reasonably large room with seating for about 30-odd people. By 10:40 we found ourselves looking back at a crowd of about eight people, at least two of which were there because the VHS in the room showing 'Genesis of the Daleks' had broken and they had nothing better to do. My colleague was still looking rough, but she turned to me, looked at her watch, and said "I s'pose we better begin." I nodded again, turned to the, um, crowd, and said "welc-"

And that's pretty much all I said throughout the 45 minute presentation, because somehow my colleague had weaved some sort of mad-spell that completely reenergised her. You would seriously not have believed that just an hour or so earlier she'd been painting the bathroom in technicolour hues. There was one point where I tried to interject to add something, but she paused, glared at me a bit like Zuul from Ghostbusters until I shut up, and then carried on as if nothing had happened.

Three-quarters of an hour later, and with a reasonably positive response to our idea, the, um, crowd dispersed, and my colleague let out a deep sigh before promptly turning green again. I subsequently packed up the display boards and retrieved some mocked-up page layouts showing a fembot from the Austin Powers movies from a large man who tried to make off with them while she went off in search of the nearest toilet.

Fifteen minutes later we'd packed our stuff in our cars, checked out, and were ready to hit the road. Unfortunately, the other thing hitting the road at that time was massive hailstones; the storm was in full-force and the driving conditions were absolutely treacherous. We left just before midday, and I finally got home at eight o'clock that evening (at least twice as long as the journey should've taken). I'd actually given serious thought to pulling over around the halfway point and booking into a travel lodge for the night.

Anyway, to top it off we never went ahead with the bastard magazine either.

*If anyone would like to buy/have a model of the Enterprise-E with only one working illuminating warp nacelle, please drop me an email. And yes, it's boxed.

Joseph Arthur was awesome **UPDATED**

The last few weeks have been crazy mad-busy for me, primarily because I've been trying to squeeze in yoga sessions whenever there's been the slightest gap in my schedule. But five successive days in which I did yoga, yoga, badminton, a 9.5k run, and another yoga, was probably pushing it just a little too much. I was pretty much pooped by the time I got to that last yoga. So pooped, in fact, that I couldn't quite lift my arms up sufficiently during full locust pose (that's Poorna* Salabhasan to those in the know) and ended up accidently, albeit rather tenderly, caressing the vulumptuous arse of the young lady next to me.

And, of course, being typically British, neither of us acknowledged this in the slightest. Good times.

Anyway, after so much exercise, I definitely needed a few days off to recuperate, so it was just as well that I was heading off to the delightful Bush Hall on Thursday to see a gig. After my previous visit to Bush Hall to see Priscilla Ahn, Marcosy had said that he'd like to go there - not necessarily to see anyone in particular, but rather to wallow in the glory of its ornate chandeliers and Edwardian splendor. As a result, I kept my eyes on the gig listings in the hope that something awesome might appear.

Something awesome appeared.

Back when The OC was on telly I bought all the soundtrack CDs, and, through them discovered lots of rather wonderful singers and bands who I'd not previously heard of; Sufjan Stevens, Modest Mouse, and Imogen Heap being just a few examples. Also on that list was Joseph Arthur, whose song 'Honey and the Moon' featured on The OC: Mix 1. A few years after that another of his songs, 'Even Tho,' got a bit of airplay on the radio over here and I bought it on iTunes. I loved both tracks, but strangely never bought any of his albums.

Any-hoo, on one of the Bush Hall gig listing emails I got a few months back I noticed that Joseph Arthur was playing there on Thursady July 23rd, and I thought that would be the perfect way to a) introduce Marcosy to the delights of Bush Hall, and b) have a damn fine evening. So I emailed Marcosy and Yazzle Dazzle; Marcosy got back to me in about 15 seconds with an affirmative. Yazzle Dazzle took slightly longer, but after about two weeks she said that, yes, she'd like to come too. That's how she rolls.

So, Thursday came around, and we all met up in Shepherds Bush. Before heading down to Bush Hall Marcosy and I decided we needed to grab some food, and plumped for a KFC because it was nearby, cheap, and tastes like a close approximation of chicken. After an initial problem where Marcosy's relatively simple request for a Zinger burger was answered with a bag of boned chicken (two words which quite possibly should never be linked together due to the horrific images it brings to mind), we ended up on Shepherds Bush Green munching our fries and close approximation of chicken.

Now, for those who've never visited Shepherds Bush Green, let me tell you that it has the potential to be a really lovely part of West London. Unfortunately, in order to help it fulfill its potential the vast number of winos who congregate there on a daily basis to down two litre bottles of White Lightning and lurch alarmingly at passersby would need to be encouraged to move somewhere else. Were I on the local council I'd maybe suggest a tag-and-release scheme whereby they were tranq-darted and relocated to a new habitat.

Anyway, we're sitting in one of the few wino-free areas of the green when I notice that Yazzle Dazzle is staring off into the distance, like she's in the midst of some sort of Scrubs-style fantasy. She was in fact, being incredibly conscientious and fretting about someone who was curled up and, she thought, possibly dead in the middle of the green.

It was about this time that I wanted to walk down to Bush Hall so we could start queuing, but Yazzle Dazzle was really quite concerned about this corpse chap and was looking around for a policeman she could alert. Unfortunately, like buses, none were about when you needed one. I insisted that it was just an old drunk passed out from too much booze, but she argued that even if that was the case he could choke on his own vomit if he was unconscious. I countered by noting that he'd rather intelligently passed out in the recovery position (possibly as a result of a previous experience) and we really should be making a move. She was undeterred, however.

That being the case, to ease her concerns I huffed a bit and said if it would make her hurry up I'd walk over with her so she could poke him with a stick or something. Marcosy giggled and continued eating his Zinger burger on the bench while I stomped over to the centre of the green with the concerned Yazzle Dazzle. When we got within about five metres of the wino I stopped and refused to go any further because a) I didn't want to go anywhere near a dead person, if he was in fact dead, and b) didn't want to get too close incase he was still with us and decided to hurl himself at us like a startled raccoon as we loomed over him. Yazzle Dazzle looked at me in a somewhat disgruntled fashion and tentatively stepped closer.

After about 30 seconds of scrunching up her nose and peering down at him she scurried back to me. "He's snoring," she said. I rolled my eyes, gestured towards a couple of kids sprawled out on a bench, and asked if she wanted to go check them for a pulse too, or could we please just get to the venue? She shouted "RUDE!" at me, and after collecting Marcosy we headed off to Bush Hall.

So, Joseph Arthur - there's a musician with no pretenses. He and his band, The Lonely Astronauts, strolled genially past us while we were queuing rather than jump out of a car and scurry in without acknowledging us civilians, and then about half an hour after we'd gotten inside - and with no support act - he ambled out onto the stage alone and just started playing his guitar. And it. Was. Awesome. He did that cool thing where he played something, recorded it, then looped it back (I think it's officially referred to as 'that cool loopy thing') so by the time the song was reaching its end it sounded like he had a full band up there with him.

Here's Joseph Arthur doing the weird-but-awesome loopy thing.

After about five or six songs playing solo The Lonely Astronauts joined him on stage, and the gig was kicked up a notch. Seriously, I actually couldn't quite believe how much noise four people could make - and by 'noise' I mean 'really fantastic music.'

Marcosy disagreed, but I thought the bass player, Sibyl Buck, looked a bit like Angelina Jolie dancing the robot. She was very cool.

About halfway through the gig they off-handedly mentioned that they were recording the gig and we could buy it on CD when it finished (according to wiki Joseph Arthur does this at every show). I decided I was definitely going to buy one, but we had about two or three encores to go before the show was over, so I kicked back and enjoyed it.

When the show did finish, I headed out to the merchandise table. Note the word 'table' there rather than 'stand' - it gives an indication of exactly how small Bush Hall is. I would use the word intimate, but seeing as the initial reasoning behind going to this gig was so Marcosy could check out the building I think it might infer a level of inappropriateness. Anyway, as I was hanging out there the bass player, Sibyl Buck walked past me and stood behind the table. Then, before I knew it, Joseph Arthur appeared with a guitar, took up a position beside her, and started playing some more songs while the gig CDs were being burnt. It was a really rather wonderful and (OK, I'm going to use it here) intimate moment.

Here's Joseph Arthur playing some tunes at the merchandise table. Yazzle Dazzle is the pixilated figure on the stairs; she was most surprised to come down from a brief sojourn to the balcony to find this going on. I've pixilated her to protect her identity as a botherer of unconscious alcoholics.

I think he played about three songs, and while he was doing so batches of the gig CDs started filtering down. I bought mine off Sibyl. It was a simple affair - two CDRs in a white CD envelope - but a fitting reminder off a fantastic evening. Oh, and did I mention that Joseph Arthur personalised it for me with his autograph and a sketch?

Cool huh? I scanned it in to use as the cover art in my iTunes library! Unfortunately, at the moment no tracklisting is available for the gig, so apart from 'Honey and the Moon,' which I know, all the songs are merely listed in my iTunes as Track 01, Track 02, etc. Let me tell you, though, Track 07 is bloody amazing; I've had it on repeat since Friday morning and it makes me well-up a bit. Just a bit, though, because I'm well 'ard.

Of course Yazzle Dazzle had to go one better by getting all of the band to sign hers. RUDE. I think she was flirting with the drummer as well. Actually, Joseph Arthur was doing a lot of personalising; posters, CDs, people's arms … he clearly has a lot of time for his fans. And he can count me as one of them now: I went into Bush Hall knowing two of his songs and came out wanting to buy his entire back catalogue and wondering when he would be playing London again.

I recommend you catch him if you can.

**UPDATE**

Some enterprising person has uploaded one of the merch table songs to youtube. I was standing just to the right of this mysterious stranger and I think that's my hand you can see waving a £10 note at Sibyl around the 1:16 mark. I salute you, mysterious stranger - nice video!

*Porno!? WTF!!!

Ha ha ha

I'm inordinately proud of my new Facebook profile pic.

Although why is it Heath Ledger looked dangerously cool as the Joker, and I just look like I should be fronting My Chemical Romance or something?

Being Bret

I found myself wondering around Westfield again the other day, and came to the conclusion that someone in Topman's purchasing department *must* be a fan of Flight of the Conchords.

Here's Bret in an episode of Flight of the Conchords' second season.

And here's a sweatshirt I spotted in Topman on Wesdnesday.


How awesome is that? I would've bought it, but while I do think I could probably get away with a hot pink jumper, I seriously don't think I have the cahones for this wondrous item of clothing.

(For those with sufficient cahones, you can buy yours here)

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Ladies of West London! Having some … downstairs issues? Well why don't you visit…


And let's not forget the gentlemen! If you're having problems, why don't you call…


I'd guess they do house calls by the looks of things!