Head-swapping on Horizon

I found out today that a friend of mine, Andrew Cohen, has done very well for himself in life - he's the new editor of the BBC's flagship science programme, Horizon. The bastard.

I haven't seen him since we left school, but I watched him just now on the BBC website - it's definitely him, only old, and still sporting the same ridiculous goatee he had when he was 17. There he was, spouting off in once-familiar fashion.

For the duration of my school career, Cohen and I mucked about together in Physics, played calculator cricket in Maths, fucked up experiments together in Biology, and burned things in Chemistry. Frankly, we were shit at science.

Somehow we have both ended up delivering science to the masses, though. I stumbled into it and I expect he probably did too. This is probably a bit worrying - for example, I remember the New Public Face of Science spending an entire biology lesson (for some reason that's lost in the mists of time we were on a roundabout outside school) throwing mud at passing cars, while at least three Physics lessons were taken up with our designing a sophisticated machine to remove, swap and replace living human heads. Even now, this appeals more than anything I ever learned in Physics. Charles Boyle? How about bollocks. Kepler's Law? Get fucked.

Anyway, good luck to him. I'm made up for him actually. And to be honest, though it would be nice to be on the telly, I suppose, I'm perfectly happy doing what I do now, sitting on my backside in the pampered world of publishing, in the heart of London's vibrant West End. And here's a taster of why:


Celebrity spots
Another week of powerful celebrity action in W1, again with a comedic twist. First, Harry Enfield again - smoking a cigarette (Silk Cut? Well they're not proper fags are they) outside my office, followed by another famous smoker, Arthur Smith, scurrying across Dean Street in the rain while looking hectored. Finally, the world's least charismatic sports anchor, Steve Rider, in the paper shop. Its not a wig.







Rider: not a syrup.



This week's recommendations
The first test. Last week I scribbled these ill-chosen words:
"Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow ... I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long."
Like most people in England not under the Sky yoke, I have been going to bed at about midnight to listen to the cricket on the radio under the bedclothes ... dozing off around two, sleeping fitfully and waking throughout the night whenever something exciting happens, before rolling out of bed at eight o'clock confused and exhausted. I wish now I had just gone to sleep like everyone else - England were systematically dismantled in brutal and chilling fashion. No more bets on the Ashes - I can't see anything other than an Australia victory by at least 3-0.
Away from the cricket, its that time of year ... no, not the increasingly ludicrous and inconsequential Sports Personality of the Year - but the battle for the Christmas Number One! The X-Factor winner is long odds-on, but I'm backing the barely believable coupling of Cliff Richard and Brian May at a healthy 7-1 each way. Surely Cliff's due another festive smash hit?
Some of the best music I've yet discovered on MySpace - Broadcast. Black Cat in particular is a work of genius.

Oo oo oo the Spunky Fruitbat

I've got a new record player. I had one when I was a lad, of course, but its not worked since 1992, so now I have a nice new one. I've never really got used to the compact disc - I still occasionally get up to turn it over when one finishes, though trying to make out music through the cracks and whistle of ancient, dusty vinyl requires the most patient and discriminating of ears. I've been listening anew to a lot of records I'd forgotten I had; first on was a range of punk classics which I haven't managed (or been arsed) to upgrade to CD, starting with the frankly awesome Spiral Scratch by The Buzzcocks. Everyone should listen to this at least once in their lives - forget the Sex Pistols, this is the record that really spawned punk. The guitar solo in 'Boredom' has to be heard to be believed (two notes ... not as diabolical as it sounds). Followed by the first Clash album, the Ruts, some early Joy Division, and then Jimi Hendrix and Funkadelic.

I then drifted forward a few years to my, err, early-nineties heyday. There were quite a few bands around then that I was fairly obsessed with. First, The Wedding Present - the Four Songs EP. I was amazed to find that this is still most enjoyable. The Weddoes were always a jolly band, despite their love-lorn, doom-laden lyrics. But after a quick jump around to 'Take Me! I'm Yours' I decided to take a deep, dark plunge into the barely remembered world of 'classic' Indie - Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine. You might remember them. Me and what seemed like most of the teenage population of London started listening to them in the 6th form, went to a few gigs and were swiftly smitten. Two blokes, Jimbob and Fruitbat, both with guitars, and a drum machine. I suppose some arty music-degree types would say they pioneered sample-laden guitar-based neo-punk, or something. They reached their career apogee by kicking the shit out of Philip Schofield, of all people, live on telly at the Brit awards - vintage stuff. You wouldn't get McFly performing a public service like that nowadays. Carter were also style gurus for a generation; Fruitbat always wore baggy shorts and a cycling hat (copied by me), while Jimbob's head was entirely shaven bar a long, slender river (or, indeed, a horn) of hair at the front that snaked down over the face (copied by me, to disastrous effect). Sadly, Carter's music has stood the test of time about as well as their fashion sense. In fact, its embarrassingly bad. I stuck on their 'breakthrough' album, '30 Something', which I remember at the time thinking was The Greatest Record I've Ever Heard. Oh dear.

But perhaps I am being a bit harsh. They were of their time, and I was a big fan for, oh, a year or so. A few months ago I was at a Chas n' Dave gig, would you believe. In the bar beforehand I saw someone standing with their back to me, shortish with a woolly hat and large ears, and I thought to myself "that's Fruitbat" - and when he turned round it bloody was as well. The last time I'd seen him had been when he signed a T-shirt for me at a gig, back in the Stone Age. I couldn't quite believe that I'd recognised him - from behind - after all these years, but I realised that it was actually all down to the slightly unusual angle of Fruitbat's ears, together with the hat - unique and diagnostic characteristics. Now, (and this is quite a segue but go with me on this), there is a name for this sort of ID in the birding world - where you recognise something without quite knowing why, from shape, size, movement and posture, often out of the corner of one's eye. And its my duty to inform you that the internationally approved term for this, almost unbelievably, is jizz.

Jizz. A word that also means, well, sperm, usually in the context of 'spurting'. Sorry to descend to such vulgarity, but there is so much fun to be had with this in the staid birding world. For once, our transatlantic cousins are a step ahead. Accidentally mention jizz to US birders and you will get uncomprehending looks of astonishment and horror, and occasional helpless mirth. British birders, by contrast, use the term indiscriminately and in the politest of conversations. I have genuinely heard birders discussing 'gull jizz' without a trace of shame; there's also warbler jizz, wader jizz, even bat and dragonfly jizz. So much jizz flying about. So the next time you see someone you faintly recognise but you don't know why, blame it on the jizz. Just try not to step in it.


Celebrity spots
A spectacular, perhaps never-to-be-repeated week. First, Danny Baker buying crisps in the newsagents in Dean Street. Again, the initial ID was 'jizz' based - scruffy, short and balding. The years have not been kind to the former TV funnyman. Later that same day, cowering from the rain during a fire drill at the production company next door, none other than Harry Enfield, Paul Whitehouse and Geoffrey Perkins - who knows what mischief they were planning? And finally, 'star' of reality show 'Its not easy being green' Dick Strawbridge. The possessor of the finest moustache on television, Dick was bravely taking on a Guinness in the pub next door - top work.



Strawbridge (right) with some bint.


Recommendations
Once they came to conquer, pillage and plunder. Nowadays the norsemen simply steal our football clubs. West Ham's brave new era begins at home to Sheffield United on saturday, who I am backing at 4-1 (Paddy Power) to win. Ho hum.
Meanwhile The Ashes starts tomorrow, of course, and England have already been virtually written off. I think it will be much tighter than the pundits are predicting ... 19-5 the draw for the crucial First Test looks pretty long.
Adventure Playground deliver sound electronic funk. Try them.

Torment in Thorrock

I had a wander round Lakeside today. Conveniently located on the junction of the M25 and A13, Lakeside consists of a vast acreage of what our friends across the Atlantic would call 'malls'. It has an irresistible, magnetic attraction for the flotsam of estuary Essex, who travel here from the length and breadth of the 'magic triangle' (that's Romford, Southend and Chelmsford) to snap up trainers, reasonably-priced jewellry, cheap fags and tight-fitting, tarty clothes. Visiting this high temple of rampant consumerism is not, as I'm sure you can imagine, one of my favourite pastimes, but I had to go. I badly needed a new pair of shoes, having discovered to my cost last week that if you have a hole in one shoe in Scotland in late October, you get a soggy sock and exceedingly cold feet; for all its multitude of faults, Lakeside is renowned as the premier spot for footwear in the county.

Anyway, with the shoes in the bag, so to speak, I was having a mooch around W. H. Smiths. Unless you want to buy a cookbook, some miserable paperback trash-lit or a dreary celebrity autobiography, the place is next to useless. The world's only bookshop that doesn't actually specialise in books. Disappointed but not altogether surprised that there was nothing there to take my fancy, I found that the upstairs exit (and my route to a sit-down and a nice cup of tea) was blocked by a big security guard. I tried to shuffle past, only to be told that I 'couldn't go through without buying a copy'. Peering past this uniformed buffoon, who did I see but none other than celebrity nonentity Chantelle Houghton, busy doing a book-signing. Or not.

So much about this is wrong. Look, I bear this woman no malice, but how her agent (or whoever) can justify her 'writing' an autobiography is beyond me. She was on Big Brother, she copped off with a minor pop singer, she got married. Fifteen words is all it takes. Stretching this out to a 300-page hardback would challenge the finest of literary minds, let alone Britain's favourite Paris Hilton impersonator.

I felt a bit for her though. Sales were slow to say the least. Almost nil in fact. I thought about buying a copy and getting her to sign it to show support, but it was £14, and at the end of the day I only wanted a cup of tea. So I retraced my steps to the downstairs exit; going back up I found that a fairly sizeable crowd of non-book buying passers-by had gathered to gawp at Houghton through the plate-glass window. Most fair-minded commentators would say that her 15 minutes of fame is long since past, but it seems Chantelle remains a box-office draw in these parts.

I eventually headed off the Waterstones. Surely they wouldn't let me down, and I would actually be able to buy something sensible to read. But no. Another horde of star-struck shoppers was clustered around the door. Another book signing. Another bloody Big Brother contestant.

This time it was the poor-man's Norman Wisdom, grinning simpleton Pete Bennett. Enough was enough. I wasn't prepared to fight my way in, and I certainly wasn't prepared to pay for a book I'd never read and have the dubious honour of being sworn at by some z-list celebrity for the privilege. There was nothing for it but to wave the white flag of surrender, call it a day and head off home, stopping off to watch the football results in Dixons, of course. You'll be glad to know that neither John Tickle, Shahbaz or Jade Goody was anywhere to be seen.


Recommendations:
Wayne 'Hawaii 501' Mardle. Oh dear. His 50-1 price was for a reason - beaten in the first round by a genuine fat-bastard darts player, Andy Smith. Oh well. Undaunted, this week I am backing West Ham to continue their magnificent, erm, 1-game winning run and trump Arsenal tomorrow at 9/2 (William Hill).
Tiffany Stevenson's blog - well worth a read.
Mashed up electronic beats - featuring a great deal of Yazoo - by the spectacular Divide & Kreate.