I heard some interesting news today. Apparently Prince is suing 'fan sites' on the web that have images of him, or that reproduce his lyrics, for supposed breach of copyright. Consequently
This is not a fan site, and I'm not a fan, so on that basis I'm untouchable in the eyes of the law. In fact I'd welcome the opportunity to stand up in court and announce to the world that I find Prince pompous, his music bland and unfulfilling, and his frequent name-changes to symbols, numbers and squiggles and obsession with the colour purple pretentious.
It had to be said.
Sorry, got a bit sidetracked there. Anyway, work's been tough of late. A book that had been taking up a lot of my time - a real whopper - has now finally hit the bookstands (The Birds of Essex; I've heard all the jokes so don't bother), but I've had to switch my attention to a major new project and haven't felt able to face the torment of the keyboard in the evenings. You must understand. There was some excitement a few weeks back, though, when I wrote a column for The London Paper. Sharp-eyed readers with longish memories will recall that I slagged off this tiresome rag on these very pages about a year ago, where I complained that it consisted solely of 'a handful of celebrity-led 'news' items ... a few painfully contrived columns, vast reams of advertising and some sport copied from yesterday's Standard'. How wrong I was - The London Paper is undoubtedly one of the premier newspapers in the UK, combining the highest standards of journalistic flair with features and comment of an exceptional calibre. Or something.
It was for their 'guest columnist' spot, which appears on the letters page on a daily basis. I've always fancied having a go at column writing - if Michael Winner can get paid vast sums of money for broadcasting his ill-informed opinions to the nation, just about anyone can - so on something of a whim I dusted down an old yet reasonably topical blog entry, chopped it in half, took out words like cock, twat and fuck (while substituting in a rogue prick), gave it a quick tidy and sent it off.
Winner: had fling with Calley Donington from Grange Hill
And much to my surprise they agreed to publish it. There's a sting in the tail of this particular column, though; its democratic. The reading public can vote on the quality and entertainment on offer in a subsection titled, with crude yet effective brevity, 'More or Bore'. Newspaper circulation figures suggest that 750,000 copies of the paper are dished out every day, to general irritation. Assuming that at least some of these are read more than once (they get left on train seats in astonishing numbers), this meant that nigh on a million people would be reading the waffle I'd cobbled together; a bore vote with a million-reader mandate would be hard to counter, so there was some apprehension when the paper finally hit the streets. The response from my friends was generally bemused but supportive, though most of them took me to task for using my stage age (29) in the strapline at the bottom. I explained that this was both a comment on our age-obsessed media and a clarion call in support of poor old Menzies Campbell, hounded from office due to his being very, very old, but this protest fell on deaf ears.
Anyway, the good news is that the readership showed their support for my vision of scrapping the Olympics and instead building a 500,000 all-seater Wembley, and I secured a narrow 60:40 win. The bad news is that I'm now allowed to do another column. Next time I shall be 31, I think.
This week's celebrity spots
Only two, and frankly they're not great - an unshaven Ian Hislop, looking cross, going into Tescos on Dean Street, and, yet again, pointless reality TV 'star' Nigel Farrell wandering towards one of the nearby production companies. The man haunts me.
Farrell (right); semi-permanent blight on Soho
That's not enough to dine out on and I apologise, but luckily I do have these gems to share with you, sent in by some friendly readers - see, its not just me. David from Chigwell reports a close encounter at the Fowey Hall Hotel in Cornwall; former film critic Barry Norman was enjoying a spot of breakfast at the next table with Peter Sallis from TVs 'Last of the Summer Wine', while Ken Loach was two tables away. No mention of the breakfasts involved - try harder next time. Lucy and Liz of London delivered the strangest sighting of the week - roly-poly TV funnyman Dom Joly, rummaging around in the bins on Soho Square. We don't know why. Finally, Rob from Eltham reports an angry clash with mayoral candidate and fellow cyclist Boris Johnson, who cut him up on his bike on the Embankment. Rob made sure he overtook the straw-haired fop on Waterloo Bridge to show him who's boss - good work.
Recommendations
Well, the bookies are rarely wrong. As predicted, Willie Thorne and Mr Hopwood were swiftly dumped out of Strictly Come Dancing by a cruel and unforgiving public, along with Tenko veteran Stephanie Beacham, and an out-of-shape John Barnes, who has drifted out to a remote 40/1 for the title, narrowly avoided the chop this week. Barnes has filled out considerably since that heady night in the Maracana (though admittedly that was in 1984).
Barnes shrugs off Burt Reynolds en route to scoring one of the great England goals
Anyway, since my last entry England have somehow contrived to cock up a straightforward qualification process for Euro 2008, capitulating feebly, like Napoleon, in the Muscovite gloom, though in this case General Winter took the form of a plastic fucking pitch. This has particular resonance for me as a West Ham fan. Back in the late 80s, a slew of middle-ranking second division sides got rid of their grass and dropped in the astroturf - like flying cars and robot butlers, this was the future. We had to play on these synthetic monstrosities regularly and usually to calamitous effect, since they gave the home side, used to its vagaries of bounce and inured to agonising carpet-burn, a massive advantage. Perhaps the worst debacle was on 14th February 1990 - a date etched on my heart, known to Hammers fans everywhere as the St Valentines Day Massacre. Semi-final of the League Cup, Oldham Athletic away; lost 6-0. Oldham spent most of the nineties spiralling down through the divisions and are now flirting with relegation to League Two, ha. Anyway, its time to put the memories of that nightmare to bed once and for all, so I am backing West Ham to win the League Cup at a tasty 12/1 (various). We've got the best of the draw (Everton at home in the quarters) and everyone else has more important things to worry about (especially Spurs).
Its time we buried the hatchet with the Germans. And this site might help - The German Joke of the Day, including a Q&A section where English jokes are deconstructed by a panel of skilled Teutonic joke experts, with ruthless and clinical efficiency. There's also the opportunity to win a pig's head.
This is not a fan site, and I'm not a fan, so on that basis I'm untouchable in the eyes of the law. In fact I'd welcome the opportunity to stand up in court and announce to the world that I find Prince pompous, his music bland and unfulfilling, and his frequent name-changes to symbols, numbers and squiggles and obsession with the colour purple pretentious.
It had to be said.
Sorry, got a bit sidetracked there. Anyway, work's been tough of late. A book that had been taking up a lot of my time - a real whopper - has now finally hit the bookstands (The Birds of Essex; I've heard all the jokes so don't bother), but I've had to switch my attention to a major new project and haven't felt able to face the torment of the keyboard in the evenings. You must understand. There was some excitement a few weeks back, though, when I wrote a column for The London Paper. Sharp-eyed readers with longish memories will recall that I slagged off this tiresome rag on these very pages about a year ago, where I complained that it consisted solely of 'a handful of celebrity-led 'news' items ... a few painfully contrived columns, vast reams of advertising and some sport copied from yesterday's Standard'. How wrong I was - The London Paper is undoubtedly one of the premier newspapers in the UK, combining the highest standards of journalistic flair with features and comment of an exceptional calibre. Or something.
It was for their 'guest columnist' spot, which appears on the letters page on a daily basis. I've always fancied having a go at column writing - if Michael Winner can get paid vast sums of money for broadcasting his ill-informed opinions to the nation, just about anyone can - so on something of a whim I dusted down an old yet reasonably topical blog entry, chopped it in half, took out words like cock, twat and fuck (while substituting in a rogue prick), gave it a quick tidy and sent it off.
Winner: had fling with Calley Donington from Grange Hill
And much to my surprise they agreed to publish it. There's a sting in the tail of this particular column, though; its democratic. The reading public can vote on the quality and entertainment on offer in a subsection titled, with crude yet effective brevity, 'More or Bore'. Newspaper circulation figures suggest that 750,000 copies of the paper are dished out every day, to general irritation. Assuming that at least some of these are read more than once (they get left on train seats in astonishing numbers), this meant that nigh on a million people would be reading the waffle I'd cobbled together; a bore vote with a million-reader mandate would be hard to counter, so there was some apprehension when the paper finally hit the streets. The response from my friends was generally bemused but supportive, though most of them took me to task for using my stage age (29) in the strapline at the bottom. I explained that this was both a comment on our age-obsessed media and a clarion call in support of poor old Menzies Campbell, hounded from office due to his being very, very old, but this protest fell on deaf ears.
Anyway, the good news is that the readership showed their support for my vision of scrapping the Olympics and instead building a 500,000 all-seater Wembley, and I secured a narrow 60:40 win. The bad news is that I'm now allowed to do another column. Next time I shall be 31, I think.
This week's celebrity spots
Only two, and frankly they're not great - an unshaven Ian Hislop, looking cross, going into Tescos on Dean Street, and, yet again, pointless reality TV 'star' Nigel Farrell wandering towards one of the nearby production companies. The man haunts me.
Farrell (right); semi-permanent blight on Soho
That's not enough to dine out on and I apologise, but luckily I do have these gems to share with you, sent in by some friendly readers - see, its not just me. David from Chigwell reports a close encounter at the Fowey Hall Hotel in Cornwall; former film critic Barry Norman was enjoying a spot of breakfast at the next table with Peter Sallis from TVs 'Last of the Summer Wine', while Ken Loach was two tables away. No mention of the breakfasts involved - try harder next time. Lucy and Liz of London delivered the strangest sighting of the week - roly-poly TV funnyman Dom Joly, rummaging around in the bins on Soho Square. We don't know why. Finally, Rob from Eltham reports an angry clash with mayoral candidate and fellow cyclist Boris Johnson, who cut him up on his bike on the Embankment. Rob made sure he overtook the straw-haired fop on Waterloo Bridge to show him who's boss - good work.
Recommendations
Well, the bookies are rarely wrong. As predicted, Willie Thorne and Mr Hopwood were swiftly dumped out of Strictly Come Dancing by a cruel and unforgiving public, along with Tenko veteran Stephanie Beacham, and an out-of-shape John Barnes, who has drifted out to a remote 40/1 for the title, narrowly avoided the chop this week. Barnes has filled out considerably since that heady night in the Maracana (though admittedly that was in 1984).
Barnes shrugs off Burt Reynolds en route to scoring one of the great England goals
Anyway, since my last entry England have somehow contrived to cock up a straightforward qualification process for Euro 2008, capitulating feebly, like Napoleon, in the Muscovite gloom, though in this case General Winter took the form of a plastic fucking pitch. This has particular resonance for me as a West Ham fan. Back in the late 80s, a slew of middle-ranking second division sides got rid of their grass and dropped in the astroturf - like flying cars and robot butlers, this was the future. We had to play on these synthetic monstrosities regularly and usually to calamitous effect, since they gave the home side, used to its vagaries of bounce and inured to agonising carpet-burn, a massive advantage. Perhaps the worst debacle was on 14th February 1990 - a date etched on my heart, known to Hammers fans everywhere as the St Valentines Day Massacre. Semi-final of the League Cup, Oldham Athletic away; lost 6-0. Oldham spent most of the nineties spiralling down through the divisions and are now flirting with relegation to League Two, ha. Anyway, its time to put the memories of that nightmare to bed once and for all, so I am backing West Ham to win the League Cup at a tasty 12/1 (various). We've got the best of the draw (Everton at home in the quarters) and everyone else has more important things to worry about (especially Spurs).
Its time we buried the hatchet with the Germans. And this site might help - The German Joke of the Day, including a Q&A section where English jokes are deconstructed by a panel of skilled Teutonic joke experts, with ruthless and clinical efficiency. There's also the opportunity to win a pig's head.
