Beware men with gold teeth

Veronica and Oscar are moving back to Spain. The Spaniards are deserting us, taking with them their innate ability to party all night and get up fresh as a daisy for work the next day. And their horror at our uncivilised attitudes to food. ("You eat potato chips! In the street! In Spain we sit at the table, we drink wine...")

So we went for a goodbye drink in Stoke Newington. Miriam and Ash come out, a rare thing since their little girl was born. Both very happy to be out.

I'm talking to Miriam when a man comes and stands very close to us.
"I fancy a kebab," is his winning line. He has a diamond earring, a beanie hat, a gold tooth smile. He's very drunk. We chat for a while, clearly he's taken a shine to Miriam.
"I'm a married woman, with a little girl," she says. "That's my husband at the bar."
"Me too," he says. "I'm married, I've got 3 kids. They're beautiful."
"Well you're cheeky then. Why aren't you home with your wife and kids?"
Uh oh, I think. She's pouring gasoline on a flammable material.

He wanders off, but circles back with a friend in tow. His friend is small and wiry, with scars all over his face. He takes exception to Miriam telling his mate to step back.
"You're being out of order, " slurs the friend. His face is getting redder and he's starting to shake. For some reason I think of Joe Pesci in Goodfellas. "I could... I would go over there and smack my glass over your husband's head."
I try a diversionary tactic.
"Have you known your friend long?" I say, like we're chatting at a garden party.
"38 years!" he says.
"Wow, you're joking, you don't look 38."
He almost blushes, but isn't distracted for long. He's casting dangerous looks at Ash over at the bar. My heart starts to beat fast as I flash through a likely scenario, as Vero's leaving drinks and Miriam's rare night off descend into shouting, glass-smashing, sweet Ash pouring with blood, police and ambulances.
"Let's go," I say, trying to shoosh everyone else out in my best teacher style.
"It's okay" someone says. "Miriam's got it under control." Sure enough, she's sweet-talking them over at the bar. Ash looks relaxed.

Finally Mr Gold Tooth wanders out in search of his kebab, taking Joe Pesci with him (though not before a finale in which he tries to sell us an E.) And I breathe a sigh of relief. I'm no good at violence.

Billy Liar

English people. What are they like? I was wanting to write about this because of Alda's fantastic post on Icelanders. (Alda's on a break, but catch up on her archive, she's great).

But I got stuck because we are so contradictory. Whatever truisms exist about the English, the converse could easily be true.

eg: We are polite and considerate. (Oh yes? What about our proudest export, football hooligans?)

We are reserved. (But ply us with alcohol and we turn into Viking berserkers.)

We moan and bitch and grumble all the time (but are surprisingly stoic in the face of serious shit like, you know, being bombed).

We love talking about the weather. (Can't argue with this one actually. It's the one thing that unites rich and poor, young and old, black and white, etc).

My feeling is that the best book ever written to describe the English was Billy Liar - we are a nation of fantastists.



Still from the film







No, it's no good, I don't have Alda's talent. Help me out here. What do you think? How are we perceived? If you're not English, what do you think of us?

(And is it a stupid question? Does nationality really make a difference?)

Life is sweet

Look at this great photo from London Rubbish.

I'm digging the crazy biscuit sculpture.

Just say no if they ask to borrow your computer

Oh techie boy
What did you do?
Now i-tunes only
Plays U2
My tunes have gone
It gives me pain
How can I get them back again?

Why I never became an actor

We went to Camden School for Girls. It is considerably hard to find a play with lots of parts for girls in it. This is why we ended up doing The House of Bernard Alba, a cheery Lorca play about a dictatorial woman with 5 daughters, who decides to lock them up for 8 years (!) of strict mourning when their father dies.

One of them falls in love with the local romeo and it looks like she might escape her mother's clutches, but then Bernarda decides that he must marry her oldest daughter, (who's no spring chicken) instead, and all hell breaks loose. I auditioned late and got stuck with the part of the maid, which meant coming on and saying lines like "Don Alfonso's here!" and going off again.

We really, really enjoyed doing the play, but for a heavy tragedy it veered very close to comedy during rehearsals. One of the daughters is meant to have a hump back and Bernarda, the mother, uses a cane - at one point she has to chase her daughter across the stage and it was starting to look like a Benny Hill sketch. But we pulled it together for the first night.


I took this photo off-stage, about to run in with the crucial information about Don Alfonso.

On opening night, in the last tragic scene when everything is kicking off, Bernarda's daughter takes her cane, the symbol of her tyranny; in a moment fraught with high drama, she throws it to the ground and breaks it. At that moment, I come on in my guise of maid to say "Don Pepe's here!" or something similar.

But it is timed beautifully with Sophie throwing down the cane, which doesn't break. Instead it bounces. In a fluke that I couldn't have achieved if I'd tried, I rush in, don't see it, step on it, and surf, no, ski on it halfway across the stage. I can hear the front row sniggering all the way through the final lines of the scene.

Thus endeth my acting career.

Evil weed

I'm not going to write about Spain, because it breaks my heart coming home again.

(Except to say thanks to Em and the Curve for their company and for taking us to Salamanca (?) in Barceloneta for the finest seafood paella known to man. This weekend went cava-food-cava-food-cava-food-fine-wine-food, and now I'm back to school, and let me tell you it's even worse when you're an adult. )

No, what is really worse about coming back is my utterly PATHETIC and SHAMEFUL lack of willpower. Finished the last of my tobacco whilst away and said, that was the last one. How long has it taken before I had to run to the smoky pub next door and raid their cigarette machine? 2 hours after getting home.

I hate smoking, and want to stop, I've done it before - for more than a year - and all this seems to have done is re-doubled the addiction. Like I'm smoking more to make up for it. It's like in Trainspotting, they come off heroin and have cold turkey and all that, but afterwards they're still merrily lighting up their cigarettes, so they still haven't managed to kick the nicotine.

Bah, I'm a pathetic drug addict.

A short poem ( a real one)

Okay, I'm going away for a few days and as I'm all out of inspiration, I'm borrowing these words for you to contemplate in the mean time.

Be good while I'm gone.

Today

I'm ignoring it with dignity.

Update: No no I take it all back. I feel love for all the world, because it's half-term, hooray hooray!

Happy Valentine's Day, to all my little internet buddies.

Snaps for Sarah

Because she upped and left her small town and crossed the ocean and found herself a job and a house and made friends and a life for herself, all by herself, in her early twenties.

Because she has eclectic and surprising taste in books, like A History of Cod and books about feral children.

Because you can't, you just can't, even if you tried, take a bad photo of her.

Because you'd never guess it, but she's a fan of Ray Mears' Extreme Survival, World of Survival and Ultimate Survival Guide. If I ever get stuck in the jungle, the desert or the arctic circle, I'll know who to call.

Because she always has good new music to listen to.

Because she has the x-rated version of Duran Duran's Girls on Film, and all the Blondie videos, on DVD.

Because she cuts through our namby pamby English pussy-footing around with Canadian no-bullshit directness.

Because her straight-talking can take my breath away.

Because she invented the word "meh". Yes, she did.

Because she's let me crash on her sofa a million times, and it's a proper sofa-bed, more comfortable than my own bed.

Because she gets up and makes beautiful breakfasts for you when you're hungover.

Because she's the last word in glamour and can rock a pair of hoop earrings like no one else can.

Because she's extraordinarily bossy with mini-cab drivers and knows how to drive a hard bargain.

Because she's big bad Sarah. I love you Sar. You'll probably never read this, but happy new house anyway. Looking forward to hanging out with you in happening Farringdon.

Update: And she has a shiny new site all of her own, check it out: www.stupidanimals.org

Guilty pleasures

We've all got them. At an early age was seduced by the record collection of big sis, who listened mostly to disco. Lurking amongst the too-cool-for-school Velvet Underground and Gorillaz on my ipod is some vintage Sylvester and just the other day found myself singing Luther Vandross' Never Too Much in the shower.

Go on, tell us your guilty pleasures. We're all friends here, I promise not to tease. Much.

* * * * *

Inspired by Wyndham, I thought for a change I'd answer in the post instead of the comments box.

First up is Just Jane, bravely raising the bar high by confessing to Marillion's Kayleigh (Marillion, there's a blast from the past!) and Rainbow's Since You've Been Gone, I believe from the Jurassic Era. She kept her guilty pleasures hidden from the punk fraternity - til now.

Natalie, there's no shame in liking Dolly Parton. She's a goddess amongst women, and an inspiration to us all. Though I draw the line at her coat of many colours.

Matt is even more brave in admitting to a liking for Chaka Khan. It's a rare (straight) man who likes Chaka Khan. Matt, I hope you can borrow a handbag from Nikki to dance around, or it's just not the same. (And by the way, I just watched your lip-synch video, made me laugh a lot. Kind of like that scene from Wayne's World where they're head-banging to Bohemian Rhapsody).

Em, Karen Carpenter is a truly soulful singer. And as you've outed yourself as a Neil Diamond fan, I guess it's time I came out of the closet too. I love Forever in Blue Jeans.

Wyndham does not 'fess up, but he admits that Sylvester is ace. I'd say the word is faaaabulous, sweetie.

We all feel like a weight's been lifted off our shoulders now, don't we?

* * * * *

We have a late contender with Ghoghghoti, who confesses to miming along to Sade in public - wish I'd been there G - and a love for Kate Bush, but unfortunately this gets you kicked out on the grounds of good taste.

But the Curve's valiant admission "Three little words - Electric Light Orchestra" sees his choice take pride of place in our Hall of Shame. Three little words for you the Curve - Mr Blue Sky.

Bugger, now I'm going to have that in my head all day.

* * * * *

Greavsie goes old school with the Lionel Ritchie classic, Three Times A Lady. I'm picturing you serenading Barbarella with it on Tuesday, Greavsie.

Dave F, like G, is another Sade fan - Sade doesn't cut the mustard I'm afraid, too bland to be a guilty pleasure - but redeems himself with Dire Straits. Dire Straits!? That will do nicely, sir.

Lu (along with Lochie the Wonder Dog) has fond memories from her student days of getting ready to go out to the Grease soundtrack. Most definitely guilty as charged, since it was uncool from the moment it arrived on the musical scene in the 70s. Hmm, remind me to post about Grease sometime. (Psst, Lu, I've got the video but don't tell anyone.)

Fun with fonts

Free fonts from all your favourite films. Via the proposterously useful Lifehacker

Parents evening

are 2 words to bring down the happiest most optimistic of teachers.

Tonight and tomorrow night. Oh lord.

Last time one of them informed me solemnly that his son had asthma, eczema "and he must not eat sand."

It's okay, I told him, nobody's allowed to eat sand.

Linkage

"40 words (no more, no less) every day for a year, and each day I'll write about a different person."

I really like the idea of this 40*365 project (via Gordon Mclean)

Shoes

Couldn't explain this phenomenon if I tried. Surely I'm not alone in this.
These are the kinds of shoes I buy:-

































These are the shoes I wear.









The madness must stop. Sorry, shoes. I'm packing you off to Ebay.

Caption competition

Thank you, Hackney Council, for this flyer. Worth every penny of our council tax to produce it. Captions, anybody?

Why we like the new housemates

This is what I found when I came home from work.