2010: The year in reviews

Oh look, it's December 30th, which means that seeing as I'm a creature of habit it must be time for my annual Year in Reviews post! Seriously, you can read me like a book. It's pretty tragic really. Anyway, let's press on, shall we?

Books!
OK, let me preface this by saying choosing my top three books of the year this year was a bit of a nightmare, not least because I read some startlingly good ones, but because, as you'll see when I post my 2010 reading list tomorrow, I read a mind-boggling number of the things. Anyway, after a fair bit of sighing and rubbing my face in exasperation, I settled on these:

03 The Madonnas of Echo Park by Brando Skyhorse
Short stories seem to get a bit of a raw deal these days (I'm looking at you, publishers who say the public don't read them), which is a bit of a shame because when they're done right, a short story can, I think, deliver more of an impact than a full length novel for the simple reason that it's so short and precise, a bit like a punch to the gut. A couple of years back I named Knockemstiff, a collection of loosely connected short stories by Donald Ray Pollock, as my favourite book of the year, and The Madonnas of Echo Park follows a similar conceptual path. In this instance, the stories that comprise this book are based around a number of people in L.A.'s Mexican community whose lives are connected to, and affected by, the shooting of a three year-old girl while she was dancing to the Madonna song 'Borderline' on a street corner. It's a bit like the movie Crash, but less Hollywood. In fact, the greatest compliment I can give to this book is that it reads a lot like a prose version of Los Bros Hernandez's Love and Rockets comic book. It's that good. And the author has an amazing name.

02. Lean on Pete by Willy Vlautin
The third novel by the frontman of the band Richmond Fontaine didn't initially appeal to me when I first read it's premise, being set, as it is, in the world of horse racing - a passion of the author. I'm not a fan of the sport, but I needn't have worried; Vlautin's story doesn't actually focus on that world, and instead uses it as a launchpad to tell an utterly heartbreaking tale of a young boy's attempt to find his aunt - the only family he has left - after stealing an ageing racehorse. It's basically a road trip story - one that is at times dark, but filled with a sense of hope. I can't praise Vlautin's sparse, poetic writing style and unique voice enough, and the ending very nearly had me in tears. Utterly beautiful, and highly recommended.

01. Youth in Revolt by C.D. Payne
For years I've told people that my favourite book was A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. It's a masterful comic novel filled with memorable characters, not least the central figure of the story, Ignatius J. Reilly. Ask me now, though, and I might just say that my favourite book is Youth in Revolt. I first became aware of Youth in Revolt when I saw the trailer for the movie version. To be honest, I wasn't terribly sold on it, and didn't bother seeing it. A few months later I found out that it was adapted from a book - a book that scored incredibly highly in Amazon's reader reviews - so I spontaneously decided to give it a whirl. After about 30 pages I'd already decided to order the sequels off Amazon, committing myself to well over 1000 pages of reading. Put simply, Youth in Revolt is quite possibly the funniest book I've ever read, as it tells the tale, via journal entries, of how 14 year-old Nick Twisp seeks to win the heart of his beloved Sheeni Saunders. In Nick, C.D. Payne has created one of the most memorable and outlandish anti-heroes I've ever had the privilege to read about. Nick's voice is so unique and well-defined, his mastery of the English language so unlike that of any other teenager but so utterly brilliant that I found myself stealing lines and using them in everyday conversation. And the situations in which he finds himself are so outlandish, so brilliantly conceived, that I literally became so involved in the storyline that I found myself wanting to shout at Nick to warn him of the pitfalls ahead, because there were plenty of them; I loved how, for example, one of his journal entries might end with something like 'things are definitely looking up for me!' and the next would inevitably begin with something like 'UNMITIGATED DISASTER!' It's just a wonderfully written, laugh out loud book, and I loved every page of it.

(Honourable mentions go to the Youth in Revolt sequels, Revolting Youth, Young and Revolting, and Revoltingly Young, which, while not quite as memorable as the first book in the series continue Nick's story in that inimitable Twispian style; Love and Rockets: New Stories Volume 3 simply for Jaime Hernandez's amazing, funny, and ultimately heart wrenching story 'Browntown'; the Scott Pilgrim graphic novels which I loved; and Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist which I found to be an exhilarating tale of love, lust, spontaneity, and what it means to be young)

Movies!
I'll be honest with you: I thought it was remarkably slim pickings at the cinema this year, although I think we can put some of that down to my changing tastes; I really am finding myself going off the vacuous summer blockbusters, and that's something I never thought I'd write.

03. Inception
Expanding a bit on what I just wrote above, I find myself increasingly dissatisfied with Hollywood's summer output. In an age where CGI can bring anything and everything you imagine to life, it seems that the studios have, for the most part, rejected decent plots and good characterisation in favour of spectacular visuals, amazing set pieces, and more bangs for your buck. Thank god, then, for Christopher Nolan, who showed that you can do a summer blockbuster filled with spectacular visuals, amazing set pieces, and plenty of bangs for your buck while also having a complex plot and some decent characters. Of all the films I saw this year, Inception is the one that really made me THINK while I watched it, and that's something to be applauded. It's also a film that I think will reward subsequent viewings, and I can't wait to see it again.

02. Monsters
The complete antithesis of a big-budget Hollywood film, Monsters was filmed for something like a six figure sum, and is proof if it were needed that art thrives on restrictions. On the surface it's a film about gigantic alien life forms inhabiting a vast part of Mexico, but to label it a movie simply about aliens would be a disservice to this wonderful little film, because the monsters are little more than a background element to a story about two people growing close as they traverse the restricted zone in an attempt to get back to America. It's a beautifully shot, understated tale that remained with me long after I left the cinema.



01. Scott Pilgrim Vs The World
I noted in the honourable mentions for books that I loved the Scott Pilgrim graphic novels, and evidently I'm not the only one because director Edgar Wright transformed them into a brilliant, heartwarming, and visually-stunning movie. At its core, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World is essentially a story of boy meets girl, but the twist here is that to win the heart of the beautiful Ramona, Scott has to do battle with her seven evil exes. It was a great concept in the books, and it works well onscreen, helped by the fact that it's perfectly cast; I'm not really a big Michael Cera fan, but he keeps popping up in movies I really like, and the guy is beginning to win me over. Particular kudos also to Keiran Culkin as Scott's gay roommate Wallace Wells, who works wonders with such a small role and pretty much steals every scene he's in. Combine all that with a witty script and a great soundtrack, and Scott Pilgrim Vs The World is a pretty terrific little film.



(Honourable mentions go to Tony Scott's Unstoppable which although it was incorrectly titled - the train is, after all, obviously stoppable - proved to be a gripping thriller enhanced by brilliant performances from Denzel Washington and Chris Pine; Kick-Ass which I enjoyed greatly up until it turned into a superhero film-by-numbers in the second half; The Social Network which told the story of Facebook's birth but suffered slightly by being a chapter in a story that is still ongoing in real life; Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist which I discovered on DVD and completely fell in love with; and Youth in Revolt, which brutally truncated the book's story, but was saved by Michael Cera’s performance as Nick. See - two more Cera films there. WTF!? Also, it was a lovely to see Back to the Future on the big screen once again - a fantastic, timeless film that knocks many of today’s movies into a cocked hat - and while I only saw it yesterday, I enjoyed the hell out of Tron Legacy, even if I didn’t have a damn clue what the hell was going on most of the time. Ooo - neon!)

TV Shows!
Another category where I felt it was slim pickings this year; as a result, and as you'll see, with one exception I've fallen back on two old favourites.

03. Supernatural
God, I enjoy the hell out of this show. It's perfectly cast, utterly enjoyable, and even after five years and multiple long-running story arcs, totally accessible for new viewers. The fifth season, which I blitzed over the course of a week on DVD, put the Winchester boys in the line of sight of Satan himself as the apocalypse was finally unleashed on the world, and while I wouldn't say it was my favourite year of the show, it was still great fun. What I love about Supernatural is the ease with which it can go from serious, end of the world stories (‘The End’) to laugh out loud funny (‘Changing Channels’) all while remaining true to the over-arcing plot, consistent with its established universe, and without ever feeling forced; it's a trick few series can accomplish. Supernatural is a wicked little show, and long may it continue.



02. Blue Mountain State
This was an unexpected little gem: a series I bought off iTunes with little knowledge about what its premise was other than it dealt with an American university football team, and it was supposed to be funny. And it was. Very. The whole American football thing actually plays little part in the series, and instead it dwells mostly on the team's frat-house partying, of which there is much; think Animal House/Van Wilder and you wouldn't be far wrong. It works well as a half-hour comedy, with wonderful performances from Darin Brooks as the likeable Alex Moran whose only reason to be on the team is to get drunk and hook-up with as many girls as he can, and Alan Ritchson (Aquaman on Smallville, if you’re interested) as the somewhat ridiculous jock Thad Castle who captains the team. The 13 episodes that made up Blue Mountain State's first season went by too quickly, and I can't wait for the second.



01. Smallville
Yes, I know I named it my number one show in 2009, but Smallville returned to win me over with it's ninth season again this year. While I wouldn't rate this season as highly as the eighth (seriously, over a year after I watched season eight's Doomsday storyline I'm still raving about it), Smallville once again fashioned a riveting 22 episode story arc dealing with the arrival of the Kandorians - cloned versions of Kryptonian soldiers led by a young Major Zod. The season also saw Chloe take on a new role as Watchtower, overseeing the actions of the show's ever-expanding lineup of heroes, a feature-length episode that introduced classic characters from the Justice Society, and, of course, Clark's continuing growth and acceptance of his role as, Earth's greatest champion. Lord knows how they managed to fit all that coherently into one season, but they did - and it was brilliant. I'm constantly amazed that Smallville has managed to remain so consistently entertaining after so long, but it has. The question now is: can the 10th and final season maintain this incredible momentum while also wrapping up the show's many dangling storylines...?



(Honourable mentions go to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, which I continue to love even as Danny DeVito’s performance as Frank gets increasingly more vile by the episode; Family Guy, which still makes me giggle like a speshul; One Tree Hill, which I was close to abandoning after a dire first half of the season, but which then picked up dramatically, concluding with one of the most joyous and shocking season finales I've seen in a long time; and, I'm pleased to report, Doctor Who, which began its fifth season with a new head writer (Steven Moffat) and a charming and charismatic new doctor in the form of Matt Smith, and wisely dropped the over the top performances and reliance on pointless running everywhere that had come to characterise previous seasons; ‘The Time of Angels’ was without doubt one of the best things I watched on telly all year.)

Albums!
Despite having listened to a fair bit of really good music this year, picking my top three albums was a relatively easy task. Thank god, because I don’t think I could cope with having to deal with another category like books again.

03. Avi Buffalo by Avi Buffalo
I can’t remember how I came across this band - I think it was either a free single of the week on iTunes or I heard them on 6Music - but I was pretty quickly won over. Amazingly, Avi Buffalo is made up of a bunch of talented folk the oldest of whom is just 21, but you wouldn’t know that by listening to this sublime little album; it’s a dreamy, wistful, ageless collection of remarkable and beautiful songs (even if some of them have titles such as ‘Five Little Sluts’ and ‘Summer Cum’) that would make the perfect soundtrack to a hot lazy summer. This lot are pretty high up on my list of bands I want to see live in 2011.



02. The Age of Adz by Sufjan Stevens
As I mentioned in my Mix CD post, Sufjan Stevens’ latest album marked a somewhat startling change of direction for an artist previously best know for quiet acoustic offerings. Gone were the banjos and pianos of previous albums, replaced by drum beats and synthesizers; only Sufjan’s unique voice remained to provide a link to what had come before. What made the transformation even more surprising was that just a month or so before The Age of Adz hit shelves, Sufjan released an EP (although it was the length of an album) that WAS traditional Sufjan. In hindsight, you could say that it felt like he was saying something along the lines of “this is what you expect of me - and it will cushion the blow when the new album drops.” I don’t know if that was his intention, but it sure felt like it, especially as the first track on The Age of Adz, ‘Futile Devices,’ segues from the old-skool Sufjan sound to the new over the course of its 2:11 runtime. And from there on, The Age of Adz is just brilliantly mad, psychedelically bonkers and completely brilliant; ‘Too Much’ and ‘I Walked’ are classics in the making, while the title track is a dark and ominous epic that ends with an uplifting sense of hope - like the musical equivalent of driving through the heart of a fierce storm and emerging unscathed on the other side. There’s not a duff track here, which is something I don’t usually say about albums that feature a 25 minute-long finale.



01. Of the Blue Color of the Sky by OK Go
So the story here is that when OK Go first burst onto the scene I was a big fan, but then I slowly, not so much fell out of love with them as just … stopped paying attention. Yeah, I still sat up and watched when they released a new video, because who the hell didn’t after the treadmill one, but they didn’t really register terribly highly on my radar as the years passed. I subsequently ignored the release of their third album, Of the Blue Color of the Sky, not least because, well, I wasn’t paying too much attention, but because when I did bother to look at the Amazon listing, there were some pretty scathing reviews citing a change in musical direction. Big mistake, because when I did finally get the album after randomly ordering a USB stick from their website that contained two entire live gigs, a handful of videos, and Of the Color of the Sky all for just 15 quid or so, I discovered that OK Go’s latest effort was nothing less than an astonishingly awesome album. Admittedly, it did take me a couple of listens to really ‘get it,’ but I was rewarded with an album packed with joyous songs such as ‘This too Shall Pass,’ ‘All is Not Lost,’ and ‘Needing/Getting,’ and that's before we even get to the amazing ‘White Knuckles.’ Seriously, if any of those tunes come on the stereo while I’m driving you better hope to hell you’re not a passenger because I will sing along VERY LOUDLY. And as if it couldn’t get any more awesome, the band have released a new ‘Extra Nice Edition’ packed with demos and alternative versions; I’m totally going to get my grubby little mits on that, and I highly recommend you do too.



On a side note, one thing I discovered from the live gigs on the USB stick is that OK Go are an incredibly engaging band live; the between song banter at those gigs was just HILARIOUS, and I hope I get the opportunity to witness it firsthand if they tour the UK next year.

(Honourable mentions go to Flight of the Conchords who I saw up close - like, literally five rows from the stage close - in concert and were fantastic, Freelance Whales whose Weathervanes album was a lovely treat, David Bowie’s A Reality Tour which beautifully showcased a concert from the Thin White Duke’s last world tour, Screen Archives Entertainment’s wonderful expanded edition of James Horner’s score for Star Trek III, and The Californian, whose Sea of Love EP contained four utterly perfect songs that bode well for the group’s forthcoming full-length album)

Other Stuff!
Let’s see … well, joining Twitter for one. On the advice of the lovely Marsha and Lee, I finally caved and decided to give it a whirl - and since then I’ve been nothing less than addicted. I love the instantaneous nature of it, and how witty and creative people can be in just 140 characters, and even now, almost a year after joining, I still get excited by people tweeting and retweeting me. Bikram yoga continued to be a big part of my life this year, resulting in me throwing myself into a 30 day challenge, which quite frankly seemed like a crazy thing to do, but ended up being one of the most rewarding things I’ve done in a long time; plus it made me feel great and I dropped a belt-hole after just two weeks - RESULT. Other than that, buying an iPad proved an undisputed win; I had no idea what I was really going to use it for before it actually arrived, but since then it’s become a vital part of my life and has led to less hours spent sitting in front of my desktop computer (the bulk of this post was written on my iPad in Starbucks in Uxbridge, in fact). I think the writer India Knight, who I follow on Twitter, summed it up best when she said something along the lines of “computer: work, phone: convenience, iPad: JOY.” She ain’t wrong.

And the losers…
A couple of notable cinematic fails: Iron Man 2 was a noisy and charmless follow-up to one of the best superhero films of recent years, while I appear to be the only person on the planet that thought Avatar was a load of old toss; the characters were caricatures, and the aspect of it I was most interested in - Sam Worthington’s integration into the Na’vi culture a la Dances With Wolves - was glossed over in favour of a series of difficult to follow, although admittedly spectacular fight sequences. Coming from the man who brought us such stellar action films as Aliens, Terminator 2, and The Abyss, this felt, to me at least, like it was James Cameron’s Phantom Menace. While not a fail as such, I was also a smidgeon disappointed with Toy Story 3; yes it was an enjoyable movie, but after such a long gap between this and Toy Story 2 I just didn’t really feel like I really needed to revisit these characters. While we’re at it, 3D films in general? Jesus, give it a rest Hollywood; once I’ve seen one random object hurled out of the screen at me, I’ve pretty much seen them all. Please divert the money into actually paying some decent writers next year, yes? What else? Oh, yes, I kind of let running slide a bit in the wake of my 30 day yoga challenge; to be honest I felt like I’d lost my enthusiasm for it a bit and was forcing myself to do it, so it made sense to take a break and yoga suitably filled that gap. I’ll get back to it in the new year, I’m sure.

And with that, I think I’m about done for another year. Current swoon Erica Durance (Lois in Smallville, as IF you didn’t know) is handing out prizes to the winners, hopefully while wearing this little star-spangled number, while Lady Gaga is out the back fashioning something out of rancid meat for the losers. YUM!

Santa, baby

If this isn't the face of festive fun, I don't know what is.

And if that's not £1.99 well spent in Pound Crazy in Shepherds Bush, I don't know what is. What a sec - £1.99 in a pound shop? What's that all about?!

Temporary Thor

Well, London has ground to an icy halt thanks to what I am now calling 'bastard snow.' Seriously, I had to push my car into my parking space yesterday because there was so much of it. PUSH! I ask you.

Anyway, there's a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Good ol' Skip emailed me not too long ago to say he'd heard a rumour there might be a temporary thaw on Tuesday. I, of course, completely misunderstood what he was talking about and, well…

Mix CD 2010!

Um, really? It doesn't seem like five minutes ago that I popped 2009's mix CD together as a freebie Christmas gift/way of imposing my musical tastes on others. And yet here we are again, so let's not procrastinate and just get on with it, yes?

01. Do I Love You (Indeed I Do) by Frank Wilson
Motown tracks have always had this instantly identifiable sound to them, and it's one I've long been a fan of. Which makes it all the more surprising that it was only this year that I got around to actually buying a Motown album (and what a doozy - 61 songs for £7.99 off iTunes). It was obviously quite a difficult task to choose just one song to represent Motown here because quite frankly a significant proportionate number of their songs were insanely awesome. I eventually settled on this 1966 track because from the word GO it embodies everything I love about Motown; it's upbeat, instantly recognisable, utterly memorable. It's two minutes 22 seconds of utter joy in which to loose yourself.

02. I Would Die 4 U by Mariachi El Bronx

One of the regular recipients of my mix CDs is Best Mate Jo, who this year is slacking of a bit in the best mate department by buggering off to Mexico for Christmas. So, in honour of her festive trip, and because I absolutely love this band, track two is Mariachi El Bronx's cover of Prince's I Would Die 4 U. Now, if you're not familiar with this band, let me refresh your memory: they're a rock band who, for their fourth album took a complete left-turn and put together an album of mariachi music. And the whole thing is utterly brilliant. This track is actually a B-side to one of their singles (but is available from iTunes) and one of the best cover versions I've ever heard. Dare I say it, I prefer it to the original.

03. Don't Let's Start by They Might Be Giants

In all honesty, I am familiar with They Might Be Giants for two reasons: their song Birdhouse In Your Soul, which I love, and the fact that they did the theme tune to the TV show Malcolm in the Middle. But earlier this year I heard this track on the radio and instantly loved it. It's bright and breezy, and if I hear it playing I'm singing along to it in an instant. I love the way the song kind of falters after he sings "don't let's start," and the fact that once you actually listen to the lyrics it's actually prettty damn dark – I mean "no one in the world ever get's what they want, and that's beautiful; everybody dies frustrated and sad, and that's beautiful"? And yet you can still dance around to it.

04. You Make My Dreams by Hall and Oates

Blame my Dad for making me like Hall and Oates; he used to play them in the car incessantly when I was a kid, and there's only so many times an impressionable youngster can hear Out Of Touch and Kiss On My List before he succumbs to their charms. Anyway, I actually wasn't familiar with this song until I saw the movie (500) Days of Summer last year, but now I've apparently listened to it 80 times according to my iTunes library, and I'm yet to tire of it. I'm of the opinion that Hall and Oates make everything better, and I can't help but wish that everyday life was a little bit more like this:

05. Take Me To The River by Al Green

LOVE Al Green, LOVE this song. Timeless, brilliant, awesome stuff. The guy's a dude. 'Nuff said.

06. Ramona by Beck

Scott Pilgrim Vs The World was one of my favourite movies of the year, and not only that but it was accompanied by an incredible soundtrack album full of some classic tracks and newly-created material by the likes of Beck and Broken Social Scene. I've always thought I should like Beck more than I actually do, and I can't quite nail why I'm ever so slightly ambivalent about him. Regardless of that, the tracks he created for Scott Pilgrim were universally awesome - so much so that I actually had difficulty working out which one I wanted to put on the mix CD. I ultimately went for Ramona because it's such an utterly heartfelt, beautiful little song. It's the sort of track that makes everything seem like it's going in slow motion where everyone looks at each other with unending, wistful looks. It makes me want a girlfriend called Ramona so it can be OUR SONG.

07. Going Down To Liverpool by The Bangles

I know - a Bangles song that's not Walk Like An Egyptian! Who knew? Anyway, like Don't Let's Start this is another song that I heard on the radio that I adored from the word go, and swiftly picked up from iTunes to enjoy at my leisure (a scary amount of times, thanks for reminding me iTunes library…). There's something about Going Down To Liverpool that reminds me of that brilliant period in the late 80s-early 90s where everyone had big hair and life seemed so easy and brilliant and chilled out. I like the harmonies and the slightly-too-electric-sounding electric guitar; they're somewhat - but brilliantly - dated, and I can't help loving everything about this song.

Oh, and not only that, but LEONARD NIMOY is in the video: AMAZING.

08. White Knuckles by OK Go

Back when they first burst on to the scene with the song Get Over It I was nutty for OK Go. When their second album came out a few years later I bought it, enjoyed it, but didn't quite rave about it as much. And when their third album came out about a year ago I pretty much ignored it based on some reviews that said it was different to what they'd done before. But, as we all know, different can be good and you shouldn't always pay attention to reviews, because when I eventually did pick up their album Of The Blue Color Of The Sky I found it to be without a doubt my favourite of their three releases so far - and this song, White Knuckles, is the standout track. It's a breezy, punchy disco track that's almost impossible not to jig along to. It also has, as I discovered during my 30 day yoga challenge, an uncanny ability to pump you up before class too.

And being OK GO, it's also accompanied by an awesome video:

09. Spin Round by The Californian

Longtime readers might remember that I discovered - and subsequently raved about - The Californian last year. Sometime around the middle of this year The Californian unleashed a four track EP of new material on the interwebs, and it not only built on the promise of the eponymous demos album, but far surpassed it. The four songs you get for a measly $4 (that's just a smidgeon over £2.50-odd) are all brilliant - which made the task of picking which one to pop on the mix CD all the more difficult. I eventually plumped for Spin Round because … well, because I got to the point where I had to pick one to be honest. But that's not the point because this song is JOY; it is wonderful, carefree, brilliant end-of-the-movie music, and I cannot recommend this band's stuff highly enough. Do yourself a favour and pop on over to The Californian's website where you can pick yourself up a download of the EP or just listen to it streaming. It will make your life immeasurably better.

10. All The Young Dudes by David Bowie

And not just any version of this classic track, I'll have you know, but a live version taken from The Thin White Duke's 2003 A Reality Tour. Listening to the A Reality Tour CD brought back so many memories of seeing Bowie perform at Wembley Arena seven years ago, and this song in particular is a highlight for me. I remember standing on the flimsy plastic chair halfway back in the arena, swaying and singing along with several thousand other people as the tiny figure of David Bowie waved his arms in the air in the distance. It was a magical moment, and you get at least a suggestion of that electric atmosphere in this recording. And if, as I fear, that tour was the last time we'll ever see Bowie headline a show again, what a way to go out.

11. Age of Adz by Sufjan Stevens

A pleasant surprise this year was the return of Sufjan Stevens, first with a new EP, which was followed little more than a month or so later by a new album. I expect I'll witter on a bit more in-depth about this in my Year in Reviews post, but the EP was basically old-skool Sufjan while the album was … well, basically it was bat-shit crazy. But I mean that in a good way, because it was so different and brilliant and yet somehow still managed to retain everything I love about Sufjan's music. Age of Adz is the title track; it's loud and bombastic, by turns sweet and sneeringly sinister. It has an epic, heavily-layered feel to it, which is aided by Sufjan's new-found use of electrics, yet it draws to a close in the most beautiful and humble way - the perfect way to end this year's mix CD. Genius.

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So that's your lot for this year's mix CD. But I'm never done discovering new music, and would you believe it, I've found a new band to obsess over in just the last couple of days - so here's a sneak preview, because this is DEFINITELY going on the 2011 CD.

Things to do in the dark

I'm not usually one for Christmas parties - mainly because I'm a slightly miserable, somewhat antisocial old bugger - and as a result I've done a sterling job of avoiding the work one for about the last five years. This year will be number six; I'm hoping if I hit 10 they'll give me a watch, although the sack is more likely.

Any-hoo, when I found out that my yoga studio was having a party I immediately thought 'yes, I'll go to that,' mainly because in contrast to several other ones I get invited to I actually like everyone at yoga. Another bonus was that I thought it would be nice to actually talk to some of my fellow yogi, rather than just grimace at them in a brief moment of shared pain during class.

So on Saturday night I toddled back to the studio clutching a bottle of wine (for them) and a bottle of Pepsi (for me) – and it was awesome. They had loads of food and drink in reception, and the studio itself was transformed into a dancehall with one of the guys who works there DJ-ing, and a live singer, who was perplexingly half-naked and wrapped in what looked like a net curtain, although he was very good so I shan't question that too much. Excitingly, I also got to check out the girl's changing room without being whacked around the face.

To top it off, they'd installed UV lights around the studio, and we'd all been told to wear white so we'd look like complete glowing loons while dancing the night away. Tragically, I actually don't have any white clothes, and plans to pop to Westfield to buy something special were scuppered by bastard snow. I had actually seen a dirt-cheap pair of white jeans online, but was put off by the fact that I wasn't sure if they meant COMPLETELY WHITE clothes or just one item. And Yazzle Dazzle said they looked like leggings, which isn't exactly the sort of thing you want to hear. Anyway, I rocked up in a gingham shirt; the white squares performed admirably well.

I needn't have worried too much, though, because the lovely lady who owns the studio was wandering around the heaving masses with a pot of UV body paint, and she made a beeline for the blank canvas that was my skin almost immediately after I entered the room. I think at first she wanted to paint something on my face, but I was a bit resistant to that so she ended up daubing a heart on my arm, which was lovely. I was tempted to get her to draw a Superman 'S' on my chest because the sight of that glowing away would've been pretty damn awesome, but she'd already complained about the hair on my arms so she would probably have had a fit at the sight of my man-chest. I doubt Picasso had to put up with a hairy canvas.

My painted UV heart, sadly not glowing. By this point, towards the end of the evening, it had actually gone a bit powdery and looked a bit like a bad case of eczema; thank god I didn't have any on my face.

Anyway, as she was applying the heart I turned into the 13 year-old boy I desperately try not to be while out in public, and said "I'm going to watch you as the evening goes on."

She stopped painting for a minute and looked me in the eye.

"Why?"

"Because you're walking around with a pot of UV paint and if it was me I'd probably start drawing cocks on people after a while."

She giggled and walked off.

So as the evening wore on I got chatting to a lovely fellow yogi who was brilliant and fun and quite possibly a bit mental (in a nice way), and, more importantly, a bit drunk. And at some point she managed to get hold of the pot of UV paint, and sober old me did that thing I do where I implant an idea in someone's head and then back away from taking any responsibility for it whatsoever.

A few minutes later this young chap comes wobbling out of the UV-lit studio, looks me straight in the eyes, and says "I've got a cock on my face, haven't I?"

And I looked at him, at the massive testicles that, even in the non-UV light of reception were clearly painted on his chin, and the proud penis emblazoned straight up his face to his forehead, and I replied "why yes, yes you do."

Suits you

So, in a stunningly spontaneous turn of events last week, I bought a suit.

Now, I don't actually need a suit - everyone at work starts gossiping conspiratorially when I turn up in a shirt instead of a t-shirt with a smutty picture on it; they'd probably explode if I rocked up in a suit – but a weird thing happened while I was browsing around Topman and 10 minutes later I'd bought a classy suit.

Please excuse the MySpace-esque self portrait. And yes: OMG, the labels are still on…

I didn't mean to - honest. I'm going to blame dear old Skip; a few weeks earlier I'd gone shopping with him to help him buy a fancy new coat (I'd watched a few episodes of How To Look Good Naked and felt like channeling my inner Gok Wan), and while in Topman this suit jacket caught my eye and he made me try it on. After a minute or so posing Grattan Catalogue-stylee in the mirror, I shrugged it off, muttered something like "we're shopping for you, not me" and hung it back on the rail. I didn't want or need to spend money on it, and they didn't have my size anyway (story of my life).

And then I went back last week and it caught my eye again, and they had my size in both the jacket and the trousers and I thought 'oh, I'll just try it on' and … well, I'm weak, OK?

Anyway, I don't know what it is about buying a suit that brings out the chatty Kathy in the till monkeys - maybe they've been told to be super-nice to suit buyers because they are clearly PEOPLE OF GOOD TASTE WITH LOTS OF MONEY (wrong on both counts in my case) - but the guy on the till was talking away to me like we were best buds, in contrast to the previous week when I'd bought a shirt and he barely said two words to me. On the plus side, at least it wasn't like the last time I bought a suit, when the jaunty lady at the till asked me why I was buying it and I replied "because I'm going to a funeral," which led to something of an awkward silence, and certainly put a downer on her attempt to coerce me into getting a Debenhams store card.

So there we are chatting away, him asking if there's any particular reason I'm buying a suit and me shrugging my shoulders and replying "um, no … I don't actually know why I'm buying it, I think it's just because I like it" or something similarly inane, and then he says "oh, it should come with a suit bag, but we don't have any suit bags." And I'm like "what?" Turns out that Topman should give you a free suit bag with every suit (because you're a classy and valued shopper, obviously), but they'd run out. So, bless him, he scrawled on my receipt that I hadn't got one and told me to pop back a few days later and they'd just give me one (a suit bag, you filthy-minded heathen).

At the time of writing I've popped back and they still don't have any. I'm beginning to think they're mythical, like unicorns and Paris Hilton's dignity.

Anyway, although I haven't worn the suit properly, I'm very much looking forward to giving it an airing at the first available opportunity. I'm thinking Christmas Day, because I do like to make an effort for the fat man and baby Jeebus, and to be honest it's more of a casual dressy suit rather than a funeral/interview jobby, which quite frankly is a roundabout way of saying that Sparky Pa will probably take one look at it, frown, and say something like "well, it's not what I would've bought…"

To top it off, I was chatting to Best Mate Jo the other day, and I told her I'd bought it. She was well excited at this incredible sartorial development (obviously she can tell I'm just a rough diamond waiting to be polished), and was even more excited when I showed her the above picture, although she did ask if it was made of leather (it's not - it has a slight sheen to it and that picture is rubbish; professional Topman image HERE, though obviously it looks better on me). She then confessed that she'd bought a posh frock recently, and we immediately decided that we should debut our glamourous new selves during a night on the town at some unspecified future date.

Unfortunately, the first restaurant to spring forth from both our minds was, terrifyingly, KFC. We are nothing if not class personified.

I hate you so much right now

I haven't written a particularly ranty post in a while, and I know we all like a good moan, so in an attempt to let off some steam please allow me to share with you the stories of four people that have massively pissed me off within the space of 24 hours recently.

Number 1: The Scrabble wench

As you might know, I do love a good game of Scrabble on Facebook. Well, I say 'good,' but my winning percentage of just 25% suggests I'm not particularly good per se. Moving swiftly on… So anyway, as a few of my regular players (I am resisting saying "word up, playa" in a high-pitched voice here) were taking their sweet time taking their turns, I thought I'd throw it down and take my chances with a random. I started a game, and was soon joined by a lady called … let's call her Clare. Because her name was Clare. So there we are, playing away quite merrily and, I'm pleased to report, I was beating her quite comfortably. All was well.

Until she, evidently being something of a bad loser and with nothing better to do than sit poised at her computer for 10 hours waiting for the clock to tick down, FORCE FORFEITED ME.

Don't believe me? Here's the game board.

All together now: WENCH.

Infuriated, I started another game with her just so I could leave an irate message berating her and her pitiful Scrabble skills. Needless to say, she did not rise to the challenge.

Number 2: Car bitch

Despite there being a tube strike in London yesterday, I breezed into work miraculously easily. Until I got to a roundabout a few minutes away from the office, where a woman in a silver VW Golf - with THREE CHILDREN in the car - zoomed straight out in front of me when it was my right of way, forcing me to slam my brakes on. I, of course, applied my hand to the centre of the steering wheel for a prolonged bit of horn action, but sadly, and somewhat annoyingly, I got no reaction whatsoever. Nothing. Nadda. Nischman.

Still, As I shifted into first gear and resumed my journey, I couldn't help but think that the bitch looked just like a live-action version of Fenella the Kettle Witch from Chorlton and the Wheelies.

Imagine this, slightly less green and sans fez, behind the wheel of a silver VW Golf and you get the general idea.

Number 3: Cock in an Audi

Just a few minutes after my encounter with a speeding Fenella I had another, potentially more life-threatening altercation with another motorist. I was driving down the road on which my office is located when, what should come shooting out of a side-road with scant disregard for the give-way line, and with the driver TOTALLY LOOKING THE OTHER WAY? An Audi A8.

Quick, all drivers with no understanding of the rules of the road - to the cock-mobile!

And as if an Audi driver wasn't enough of a cock to begin with, this one had decided to give his car a matte finish, which took him right up to a whole new level of cock-ish behaviour. I got to see this crappy matte finish quite close up as he eventually stopped about a foot away from my driver's door. At which point I opened my mouth and divulged a choice few colourful metaphors at a somewhat increased volume.

His reaction to this? An apology, you think? Of course not - this is an Audi driver we're talking about here. He extended his hand and gave me the 'V' sign, as if him nearly driving into my car was my fault, obviously.

Cock-o-meter readings are pretty much off the scale, captain.

On the plus side, I know where the guy lives, and if this cold snap we're having at the moment actually does follow through and dump a load of snow on London, I'm going to write 'COCK' on his windscreen in lovely big letters.

Number 4: Shabby cabby

First off, I apologise for that heading. It makes NO SENSE whatsoever, but I do like the fact that it rhymes *claps like a speshul*. Anyway, so shortly after leaving work yesterday evening I'm driving through Chiswick when I get caught at a particularly busy pedestrian crossing. I think I let about eight people across in total - and they weren't all in one group or holding hands like school children, so I actually ended up sitting there for the best part of a minute. Just as the last person is halfway across, though, the cab driver who had, moments earlier, been driving a bit close behind me, bips me. Yes, you read that right - he BIPS ME to encourage me to drive on!

Can you imagine that in court?

"So, just what motivated you to mow down the plaintiff on the evening in question?"

"Well the cabby behind me bipped so I thought it would be alright."

There wasn't really much I could do in retaliation, though, because it was dark so he wouldn't have been able to make out any irate gesticulations on my part, so I ended up just waiting for the lady to finish crossing and drove off.

So there are my tales of woe. I feel a bit better for getting all that off my chest; it was quite therapeutic. Feel free to sound off in the comments if you've also wanted to thump someone recently.

Ingrid

While enjoying my first cuppa of the day and surfing the interwebs before heading off to work this morning I came across a story on the BBC website that turned my mood from surprisingly chipper for a chilly Wednesday to deeply saddened - because I discovered that Ingrid Pitt, star of many classic Hammer Horror films, had died.

And the reason it saddened me? Because I have an Ingrid Pitt story that is one of my fondest memories.

My first job out of school was as a - as we liked to call ourselves - graphics monkey at Visual Imagination, the late lamented publisher of such science-fiction magazines as Starburst and TV Zone. I'd been working there just short of a year when, in November 1997, the news spread around the office that someone famous was going to be stopping by. That celebrity was Ingrid Pitt, and I can state the exact date with certainty because it was my birthday.

To be honest, I wasn't actually terribly familiar with Ingrid's work, having only seen a few Hammer Horror films in my time, and although I knew her name chances are she could've walked past me in the street and I wouldn't have recognised her. Still, a FAMOUS PERSON was coming to the office.

Ingrid was stopping by to meet with David, the editor of Shivers, another of VI's magazines and one that was devoted, as you might guess by the title, exclusively to horror. And because the graphics department was hidden away on the ground floor and all the editorial staff were upstairs, we would be the last to meet her. I remember distinctly getting a phone call from one of the other members of staff soon after she arrived saying something like "she's here!" so obviously I wasn't the only one who was a bit excited at the prospect.

So anyway, eventually we hear footsteps coming down the stairs, the door opens, and David ushers in this lovely, dare I say buxom lady with a warm smile on her face. Despite being somewhere around the age of 60 at the time she was still beautiful, and incredibly unassuming. I was immediately won over.

David introduced her to all of us in turn, with me being the third person to meet her. I watched out of the corner of my eyes with anticipation and mounting nerves as she said hello to my two colleagues closest to the door, and then before I knew it she was standing by my desk.

"This is Tim," said David. "It's his birthday today."

I mumbled "hello."

Ingrid looked at me and her already wonderful smile exploded. She held both hands out towards me and said in her softly accented voice "Oh, darling! You are so young - come to me!"

And like countless victims of her seductive vampiric Hammer Horror characters, I rose from my chair and stepped closer. From the way she held her hands out I expected something like the sort of birthday greeting you'd get from an aunt - y'know, a quick kiss on the cheek and a bit of a hug.

What I did not expect was for her to place one hand on either side of my head and quickly pull me down face-first into her delightfully ample bosom.

And then proceed to hold me there for the best part of a minute.

At one point I actually thought I might suffocate while wedged between the lovely boobs of this wonderful actress, but then I realised if I was going to go that would probably be the most magnificent end to my then 20 years on the planet, so I decided not to struggle and just give in to my fate.

Eventually, however, Ingrid released me, and I emerged smiling, red-faced, and a smidgeon embarrassed while all my colleagues - and Ingrid herself - erupted in laughter.

Ingrid had come to the office that day to discuss writing a monthly column for Shivers, which eventually resulted in the brilliantly entitled The Pitt of Horror, and while I never had the privilege of meeting her again after that day I often asked David how she was, to which he would often reply "oh, typical Ingrid!" before relating some witty story about her. And somehow, rather fortuitously for me, I always ended up working on the pictures for The Pitt of Horror which meant that I got to read - and always thoroughly enjoy - her column before everyone else.

So here's to Ingrid Pitt - a wonderful, larger than life lady who entertained millions of horror fans around the world, and gave a 20 year-old chap one of his most treasured and amusing memories.

*doffs cap*

The bitch and the bell

I popped to Westfield last night for a spot of post-work shopping, ostensibly of the Christmas variety, but we all know I always have a hidden agenda geared towards treating myself to anything that takes my fancy so expectations for finding any presents for anyone but me were running spectacularly low. Surprisingly, however, I did actually find a something in one particular shop that I thought a certain person would like, so I decided to buy it. And this, in turn, led to a bit of an awkward situation.

Now, you know I have no qualms about naming and shaming any shops that I think disrec' me, but in this instance I'm going to have to keep schtum, if only because the certain person in question does have a habit of coming here as a result of Googling his beloved offspring - which quite frankly sounds like the sort of alarming statement that would usually have the authorities leaping into action.

So anyway, with item in hand I walked up to the counter, where there are a number of tills arranged side by side, each of which had a shiny bell in front of it that you could tap to call for service if all the staff were outside having a cheeky fag or boffing in the stockroom. In this instance, though, there was a member of staff at the till.

"Ooo, shiny bell!" I said (no, really, I actually did) as I walked towards her. "Can I ring it?"

She gave me a look of absolute disdain.

"No you cannot," she replied.

I chuckled, assuming she was being faux serious, and raised my hand to give it a jaunty tap. The assistant looked at me again, reached forward, and pulled the bell away.

"I said no."

I totally did the sad face bottom lip quiver to no avail, and completed my transaction without contributing any of my traditional flirtatious banter (her loss). Never one to give up without a fight, though, as she handed me my bag, I reached out once again to tap the bell.

"NO!" she said, yanking the shiny thing away from me. I glared at her, and walked out.

But mark my words: at some point I'll be back, and using all my ninja training I'll get to that counter and ring that bloody bell if it goddamn kills me (or security cart me out like a common criminal in a painful armlock).

I like a challenge.

One reason why I would make a rubbish 19th century housemaid

There was a point this afternoon, a half hour period - somewhere between 14:15 and 14:45-ish, I'd guess - where everything went to hell in a handbag at Sparky Towers. Ironically immediately after a phone conversation with Sparky Ma where she told me she was having a terrible day and I replied by saying mine was going brilliantly. That'll be karma then.

You see, I own two pairs of jeans that came with instructions not to wash them for the first six months, and instead to bung them in the freezer for a couple of days. I was slightly dubious of this at first, but amazingly they come out smelling fresh and looking brand new. And as something of a bonus, I soon discovered that during the summer months there was nothing more pleasant than covering one's gentlemanly assets with trousers fresh from the arctic wastes of the poultry drawer.

Anyway, the freezer thing worked so well that I decided to keep doing it after the six month period was up - with one caveat: they would be washed if I dropped something on them. Lo and behold, while giddy on gingerbread latte last week I managed to drop milk froth on my leg. I can't remember why I decided the other pair needed a wash as well, but I guess I just decided to go all in.

Let me segue off on a tangent for a second here. A few months back I bought a top that came with the washing instructions 'handwash only.' In hindsight, you'd think I'd just bung it in the freezer, but no, I did as I was told and handwashed it in cold water before hanging it on the shower curtain rail to dry. It went marvellously.

Emboldened by my newfound washer-woman skills, for some reason today I decided I would handwash these two pairs of jeans, despite the fact I was putting the washing machine on anyway. This actually went quite well - until I made my fatal mistake. I decided to hang two sodden pairs of jeans on the shower curtain rail, just as I'd done with that top a few months ago.

And as Yazzle Dazzle later pointed out to me via a sarcasm-laced email:

top: light. Jeans: not. Nuff said!

I might've called her a bitch in my reply.

Another tangent: when I decorated my bathroom a few years ago I couldn't for the life of me get the shower curtain rail down, so I had to paint around where it connected to the wall. Experience now tells me that I should've weighted it down with two wet pairs of jeans, because let me tell you, that thing was ripped CLEAN OFF.

So there I am, moments after the curtain rail has bounced impressively off my head (lucky there's nothing to damage in there), leaving the curtain itself draped over me like the brightly-coloured cape of an inept superhero, with two pairs of jeans and a broken hanger in the bath, swearing like ranty old Mel Gibson despite the fact that no one is around to hear my admittedly creative and excessively colourful metaphors.

It took me about 15 minutes to work out how to hang the shower curtain rail back up again (yes, I'm simple, move on), at which point I thought "I wonder if it would stay up if I hung one pair of jeans at each end…?

The answer, dear reader, is an emphatic NO.

After hanging the shower curtain rail up for a second time, I decided to hang the jeans on either side of the bathroom door. This worked. Unfortunately, they were dripping quite a lot of slightly dye-y water. I'll put some newspaper underneath, I thought! But wait - I don't buy newspapers. I read that sort of tosh on my iPad, and I certainly wasn't going to pop that under them.

And so, of course, I unfurled a leftover roll of birthday wrapping paper and popped that beneath them. That works, I reassured myself, and would also be a super nice surprise in the morning when it actually is my birthday. It'd be like the floor was wishing me a happy birthday.

Then I jumped on a train and headed up down for a bite to eat with Lee who, after I'd related this tale of woe to him, looked at me like I was an utter special. Thus, to cut a long story slightly shorter, as soon as I got home I tutted, rolled my eyes, and bunged both pairs in the washing machine, which quite frankly is exactly what anyone with the merest sliver of sense would've done in the first place.

Let's chalk it up to my imminently advancing years and never speak of it again, yes?

'Tis the season

Now, I *hate* the early arrival of Christmas. The sight of a Christmas tree in a shop in October or November makes my blood boil. You don't know how often I've had to suppress the urge to pick it up and beat it against something like Basil Fawlty. The one aspect of early Christmas that I do enjoy, though, is the arrival of Starbucks' festive beverages - specifically gingerbread lattes.

During one of my daily visits to Secret Starbucks last week I was given a sneak preview of this year's red cup (nice) and promised that I could have a gingerbread latte one day ahead of all the regular civilians that frequent the store. This gave me a happy, which I openly displayed with some special clapping and excited jumping. Sadly, however, upon swinging by on the day of promised advance gingerbread latte, the member of staff who'd made the offer was nowhere to be seen and no one else would honour her promise, so I had to make do with a misto and a massive sulk.

But then, yesterday: UNMITIGATED JOY.

Basically I got into work ridiculously early in a surprisingly successful attempt to miss the maddening traffic that would undoubtedly ensue as a result of a tube strike, so I was in Hammersmith just before eight. The thought of actually starting work that early was utterly terrifying, so instead of going to the office I carried straight on down to Hammersmith high street and into a Starbucks.

"Can I have a gingerbread latte," I asked the lovely barista.

"No," she said, before smiling and saying "ha ha, of course you can."

I was *this* close to saying something along the lines of "bitch, please; you do not joke about that sort of thing," but I behaved myself and just chuckled along with her.

Anyway, because it was the first day of festive beverages, I decided to treat myself and go venti, and so, two minutes later I'm confronted with a towering vat of fresh coffee, sickeningly overpowering gingerbread syrup, and whipped cream. I almost needed to sit down to let my visible arousal subside gather myself, but instead, and much to the horror of the other customers, I jauntily wished the barista a Merry Christmas and skipped out the door.

Cutting to the chase, it was awesomely amazing. And I love this year's cup design (although maybe not so much when Yazzle Dazzle reads the words on it out to me in a patronising fashion that makes me look like a complete and utter speshul).

I am slightly curious as to why Starbucks chose to put Joey's massive porcelain dog from Friends on the new red cup, though.

Any-hoo, so one thing I'd not banked on was the slightly odd effect my first syrup-fuelled latte in 12 months would have on me. Basically I had a bit of a funny turn, put the cardboard sleeve that goes around the cup on my wrist…

…and started strutting around the office, crossing my arms and shouting "WONDER WOMAAAAAAAN!" a bit like Darth Vader Stewie in Something, Something, Something, Dark Side.

You'd think I would've learnt my lesson after that, dear friends, but alas no; I had another gingerbread latte at lunchtime, and another one at around nine o'clock in the evening. I was turfed out of Starbucks in Westfield when they closed, at which point I staggered about like a drunk demanding to be let back into a pub. Oh, the shame.

But hey: IT'S CHRISTMAS!

Aloha!

Remember earlier this year when I was struggling for something to blog about so I basically asked you lot to come up with content for me by encouraging you to unleash your imaginations using an OFFICIAL SPARKY TIM CUT OUT 'N KEEP ACTIONLESS FIGURE? That was all good fun, wasn't it? I loved what you all did with me, even if I fear that one actionless figure in particular might've been forced into taking part in some things that it might never quite recover from.

What I knew at the time, however, was that there was another contender eager to take part in the fun, but one that was waiting, biding her time until, like John Denver, she could leave on a jet plane headed for more exotic climes…

That contender was iPandah. And she took me to Hawaii.

Now, you might look at this and, like Senator Vreenak, thinks "IT'S A FAAAAAAKE!" After all, you can get a picture of a pineapple to pose in front of pretty much anywhere. And my nips are well perky, so it must be a cold day. Set eyebrows to 'QUIZZICAL.'

This photo is more convincing for the simple reason that I'm a sucker for pretty girls in grass skirts, particularly when they appear to be grazing my shoulders with their boobs. WIN.

Still need convincing?

The view from, I believe, the 24th floor. Suck it up, bitches. Now where did my sexy hula-girls go?

Flight of fancy

As I mentioned here, I saw the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future the other week and thoroughly enjoyed it. Not only did it remind me what a truly great movie it is, but it also made me want to watch parts two and three of the series, both of which are also great movies, if not quite as awesome as the original.

When I was younger I was one of those kids who got totally sucked into the hype of big movies; in 1989 when I saw the first Tim Burton Batman movie I was the dumpy little kid in the queue clutching a bag of Minstrels in my sweaty little hands while wearing a Batman baseball cap and a Batman t-shirt with several Batman badges attached to it. Four years earlier I'd been similarly obsessed with Back to the Future; I wanted a denim jacket like Marty; I wanted a red body-warmer I could wear over the top of said denim jacket like Marty; and I wanted to be able to ride a skateboard. When Back to the Future Part II came out I wanted one of those gaudy reflective baseball caps worn by Marty McFly Jr. in 2015 (and apparently now I can have one).

But what I really wanted was a time machine made out of a DeLorean.

So there I am on Saturday night, curled up on the sofa watching Back to the Future Part III with all these childhood memories flooding back, and I'm thinking "yes, I would totally still rock that red body-warmer." And then I'm thinking "that DeLorean still looks totally bad-ass" (I assure you that I only use the phrase 'bad-ass' in my inner monologues). I mean, it's without a doubt one of the most easily identifiable and iconic movie cars of all time. I still lust after it.

And then I remembered that the difference between the me who saw Back to the Future back in the 1980s and the me who was watching Back to the Future on a Saturday evening in 2010 is that this me can drive. Ha - in your tiny, cherubic face, 80s me!

So anyway, I picked up my iPad and started Googling DeLoreans for sale.

Turns out there are quite a few of them around, they all look like they're in relatively amazing nick (and if they're not there are plenty of specialists who'll get them up to scratch for you), and some of them are quite reasonably priced - like HERE. Eighteen and a half grand - and it's just down the road from me (not *literally*, but you know what I mean). The DeLorean Motor Company in the States will even build you a 'new one' if you've got the cash - in right-hand drive and with all the mod-cons like an iPod connector and bluetooth!

God I love this ad. There just aren't enough car adverts featuring sexy, wistful shots of seagulls these days.

Inevitably, this all led to me getting a wee bit excited and a smidgeon carried away. I had some work to do on Sunday afternoon that would've taken me about two hours if I'd knuckled down and got on with it, but because I spent a considerable amount of time continuing my internet search for DeLoreans and daydreaming about how awesome I would look cruising around West London in one, it actually ended up taking something more like eight hours. I did, however, come to the conclusion that there would be no fear of accidental trips through time while pootling around in my theoretical sports car; I'm lucky if I hit 8.8 miles per hour on my drive into work, let alone 88.

Eventually, after many hours of drooling and clapping my hands excitedly like a special, the rational part of my brain talked me out of buying a DeLorean. I mean, I only bought a new car last year - surely it makes far more sense just to get a hover conversion done on Clubbie?

The terrifying tale of Fatback and Shrewface

Back in the summer when it was hot and sunny and lovely and Yazzle Dazzle was working not far from my office we would meet each lunchtime for coffee and good times. Each day we would grab our beverages then hurry outside to nab one of the four tables situated outside Secret Starbucks where, because we're silly buggers, we often found ourselves descending into panicky, breath-restricting laughter as our conversation devolved into the latest round of inane banter (I've mentioned to Yazzle Dazzle on several occasions that we should do a podcast). Not only that, but while sitting there day after day we found ourselves seeing the same recurring cast of characters passing by, and we started giving them names: there's Michael, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Michael J. Fox; the trolley boys, two chaps who just seemed to walk up and down the road dragging trolleys behind them; and one old man who looked so much like a notorious serial killer that we dubbed him Harold.

Unfortunately there were also a number of characters whose presence we did not appreciate each day, such as the two ladies who would plonk themselves down at a table and spark up a ciggies without actually buying anything from Secret Starbucks. Outrageous, I think you'll agree; this is a reputable coffee bar, not fag-break alley!

And then there was ... THEM.

They are a fairly respectable middle-aged couple on first glance, but then you look closer; she is aloof looking and wears floral skirts held up by immense belts that would appear to do double duty holding in her not inconsiderable girth, and he has one of those horrible squished up faces and a nasty nasally voices that just makes you want to poke things up his nose in an attempt cure it and surgically rearrange his facial features in an attempt to make better use of the available space.

OK, so this sounds like a harsh judgement based on physical appearances, but let me explain their crimes further:

They hog the available space; there's not that much room outside Secret
Starbucks and they spread themselves out like they own it, or don't bother shuffling their chairs in if you're trying to squeeze in. They favour the same prime location table as we do. They don't even buy coffee - they buy tiny little bottles of fruit juice and take an age to finish them. And most heinous of all, when they do finish them THEY DUMP THEIR RUBBISH ON OTHER TABLES RATHER THAN TAKE IT TO A BIN.

I shit you not; one day Yazzle Dazzle and I were heading over to the only available table and as we walked toward it he - of the squished face and nasally voice - saw us coming and brazenly dumped his rubbish on it, leaving the table that he and his spherical accomplice were docked at clean and clear! Some withering glances were fired off that day, let me tell you.

And it was not long after that incident that we arrived at Secret Starbucks one day to find them sitting at our favourite table and Yazzle Dazzle angrily muttered "Shit! Fatback and Shrewface are here!"

Beautifully creative yet wonderfully fitting names, I think you'll agree.

And so, over the course of the summer months, the four of us engaged in a silent war of staring and scowling in an attempt to win the table of choice. One day we would get it, the next day they would. Every lunchtime was a new and exciting battlefield.

Then, one day, they were gone. we had won. Fatback and Shrewface had been vanquished.

I'm now lunching on my own again, Yazzle Dazzle having finished her tenure at summer job and skipped off somewhere else for autumnal job. And because few people like to sit outside Secret Starbucks on a breezy, potentially rainy autumnal day, I've had the pick of the outside tables each lunchtime. Well, assuming those two chain-smoking, non-coffee drinking harridans don't rock up for one of their fortunately infrequent appearances.

So there I was the other day, sitting there listening to some tunes on my iPhone, sipping coffee and watching the world go by, when I noticed that something large was moving in front of the West London skyline and blocking out the sun. Startled, I turned my head to the right and all was revealed.

Quickly I whipped out my phone and tapped out a text to Yazzle Dazzle. It read:

"OMG! FATBACK AND SHREWFACE ARE BACK!"

And this time, I'm facing them solo...

Big day out

Back in August when I had a week off and Best Mate Jo and I trundled off to the zoo for the day, we had a moment - possibly on the train on the way home - when we looked at each other and said "geez, we should do this sort of thing more often."

Actually it was definitely on the train on the way home, because I gazed wistfully at the London Eye and said "I've never been on that." Best Mate Jo looked at me and said "I've been on it twice, but I'll go again if you want to."

And so today we went on the London Eye.

Incredibly, after a grey and slightly miserable start, as our train pulled into Waterloo there was literally not a cloud in the sky. This was good. I'd like to say we got off the train and made a beeline straight for the Eye, but we didn't because I got off the train and immediately said "I NEED A COFFEE" like some dead-eyed addict, and immediately headed off in the direction of the nearest Starbucks. I wanted to be functioning and alert, y'see.

Coffee sourced and in hand, we subsequently headed for the Eye.

The excitement started with some queuing. Admittedly the queue did move quite quickly, but because we get restless and bitchy just standing around, after about two minutes we were quietly taking the mickey out of the people around us: specifically some woman in a pair of ill-advised leather trousers who was also wearing sunglasses inside. That kept us entertained until we got to a till, at which point I looked at the lady behind the desk and said "we'd like two tickets for the, er, London Eye," and she looked at me like I was an utter special.

With tickets in my sweaty little mitts, we were then shepherded into an area where they took one of those excrutiatingly awful tourist pictures of you against a green screen, and then into a screening room where they show a 4D (WTF!?) four-minute promotional film of London and the Eye, which I thought was pretty pointless because I was already in London, and had literally just bought tickets for the Eye. And a dragon in the film sneezed on us. Seriously - real moisture hit us. Gross.

After that we were out into the open for some more queuing.

Admittedly, again, the queue moved pretty fast, but not before I'd ridiculed some woman's vile boots and some old dude's awful ponytail.

It was as we neared the front of the queue that I turned to Best Mate Jo and said "you do know I'm petrified of heights, don't you? This is possibly the highest I've ever been, and chances are I'm going to scream all the way round." She gazed at me with a look of utter contempt that even I'll admit I was deserving of.

So, anyway, we got on, and it was awesome. There actually comes a point where you're so high up that the height becomes absolutely meaningless and inconsequential. And I didn't scream, before you ask.

Some pictures, yes?

And we're off. At this point, if you suddenly decide you're busting to go to the toilet you are WAY OUT OF LUCK.

Obligatory Kids in the Hall-style 'I CRUSH YOU!' picture.

Awesomely blue, utterly cloudless sky. Also, note brightly-coloured office buildings that look like they've come from IKEA.

Jaunty angle.

About the Eye's highest point. Amazing how close the Houses of Parliament and Battersea Power Station actually are. Got an awesome mobile phone signal up here too.

And the fun didn't stop there. Having come back down to Earth we scrambled over to Leicester Square for a big fat awesome lunch. The only thing that wasn't awesome here was the fact that it took about 20 minutes for them to rustle up the bill, by which time we were running perilously close to missing out on our planned afternoon activity. Matters weren't helped by Best Mate Jo almost making a faux pas as she handed the waitress the cash as we hurried out, and said "we NEED to go - NOW!" which made it sound like one of us had left an epic shit on the table or something.

The waitress looked at us with a look that was a combination of utterly perplexed, extreme concern, and unmitigated fear, and replied "um, slightly worried…"

"Oh, god, don't worry," said Jo. "We've got to get to the cinema!"

And we vamoosed in a cloud of dust. Ish.

After accidentally veering us towards the wrong cinema, we eventually got to the right one, just in time to watch a 15:10 screening of the 25th anniversary rerelease of Back to the Future, my very favourite movie with slightly incestuous undertones. I'm pleased to report that the film is every bit as great as I remember it being, and it was an utter joy to see it on the big screen again. Like Marty, I too was transported back in time - but instead of 1955 I was reminded of the glory that was the mid 1980s - a truly awesome period for popcorn movies. And I also now have an overwhelming urge to buy a red body-warmer, and I can't stop listening to THIS.

All-in-all, a great day.