Another funny old week. Endless rows with dumbo authors, a distinct absence of louche women to romp with and a disastrous trip to see the Happy Hammers (1-0 up till the 81st minute, lost 3-1), while the nation continues its seemingly inexorable slide into devastating recession. Its enough to push even the most cheerful among us to consider selling up and starting a Cypriot goat farm instead. Has to be an option. Incidentally, I actually dangled this carrot of a future life in the sun in the direction of a shapely young lady friend of mine a few weeks back. Her withering response was that she would be unable to join me in this exciting venture unless I could guarantee the goats would be non-allergenic, as animal hair makes her sneeze. This successfully put me in my place.
There is some better news knocking about to lift our rain-sodden spirits, though. Lewis Hamilton's magnificent triumph in the Formula One championship, for a start. Especially the bit where the Ferrari pit crew began to celebrate their hard-fought championship victory ... ah, hang on. Like most people I don't really give a toss about Formula One, but it would have taken the stoniest of hearts not to laugh at that. Well done Timo Glock.
Then there's the US presidential election, of course. Sadly Paris Hilton didn't make it all the way to the White House, not this time anyway. I did feel a bit sorry for dear old John McCain - the Bruce Forsyth of American politics - as his campaign was truly, astonishingly hopeless, and his rather gracious speech of concession was barely noticed amidst the worst excesses of Obamania. Anyway, we all love Obama, and in my case not just for his progressive policies and electrifying oratory. It turns out - and this is not a wind up - that Barack Obama, the US President Elect, supports West Ham United FC. Unbelievable.
One of many things we have in common, of course. Apparently he has extended family in Kent, and on a trip over in the late nineties (when, even more bizarrely, Obama went on a boozy stag night in Wokingham) they imposed a trip to Upton Park on him, the poor sod. I rather like the thought of the world's most powerful man spending an afternoon in the company of Steve Lomas, John Moncur and Trevor Sinclair.
Anyway, it turns out that he's followed us loosely ever since. So in January, when Obama's freshly installed in the Oval Office and supposed to be sorting out welfare reform, insurgency in Iraq and a national debt of ten trillion dollars, we now know there's a reasonable chance he'll be wondering why Luis Boa Morte is still getting picked ahead of Matthew Etherington, and worrying about how to solve a problem like Carlton Fucking Cole. Its an Obamination alright.
"Can we stay up? Yes we can!"
Celebrity spots
Two relatively strong sightings to tell you about. First Harry Hill last Thursday, outside Pret a Minger on Frith Street. A classic 'jizz' based ID (see blogs passim), with Hill in baseball cap and anorak to resist the remorseless November rain. Secondly, grizzled Geordie actor Jimmy Nail, outside the gay bar on the corner of Soho Street. We exchanged glances.
Its been a mixed postbag this week. Pete E. from Washington DC whetted my appetite with boasts of making a drunken twat of himself in front of an unnamed celebrity. However, when challenged, it transpired that the 'star' in question was someone called 'Murray from Flight of the Conchords'. I was underwhelmed. However, kudos go to Lionkiller from Woodford. Following on from my repeated sightings of Martin Fowler's buckle-faced stalker in and around W1, Lionkiller reports going head-to-head with Fowler himself at an unlicensed high-stakes poker game in Walthamstow. Lionkiller goes on to complain that Fowler "... folded about 30 hands on the trot in a £20 tournament ... I was amazed that anyone could play that tight". The devil's in the detail.
Recommendations
Poor old Russell Brand. One slip and he's toast. This tawdry Daily Mail-inspired witch hunt has dominated the news agenda all month. I'd be amazed if any of the 27,000 morons who 'complained' either listened to the show or really, in their heart of hearts, gives two shits about Manuel and his sensibilities. It does, however, give them a chance to take Jonathan Ross down a peg or two - how dare he earn six million quid a year? And then there's Russell Brand. How dare he have all that sex, all that lovely, filthy sex? Its just envy - the nastiest of all the deadly sins - of two people who are richer, more attractive and more talented than they'll ever be. Well, I love fast, fearsome wits. Brand is a true master of the English language, creative and flamboyant, and he should be cherished; instead he's been crucified by the bigots, the bandwagon-jumpers and the BBC. What I've found most surprising has been the response of fellow telly folk - Brand must have really upset, well, most of them. Ian Hislop, for example, launched an extraordinary tirade, when its his show that'll be next for the chop, now 'edgy' comedy is officially on the cusp of extirpation. It won't be long before there's nothing left bar Last of the Summer Wine and Hyacinth Bucket - now there's a real satanic slut.
Bouquet: strumpet.
Russell Brand went too far with some old actor, and subsequently apologised. The Daily Mail, on the other hand, was once a big fan of that marvellous Herr Hitler, and thought those Blackshirts were a jolly decent bunch. In who's eyes does the salt of public opinion really deserve to be flung? Sorry to bang on; as you can probably tell I'm very annoyed, and doubly disgruntled as I still seem to be a lone voice, more or less. Anyway, Brand to defy the odds and become the new Doctor Who at 100/1 (Paddy Power).
The Tottenham rennaisance hasn't cheered me up much, either. A couple of outrageous results and suddenly Redknapp is the new Messiah. So last week's smug recommendation to pile onto their imminent relegation looks like it was money down the drain. Sorry about that.
Last month's musical choice Theoretical Girl was kind enough to drop me a line to thank me for recommending her. So I'll recommend her again - its nice to hear from somebody with some manners in this cut-throat age. In addition, this week I have mostly been enjoying CHEW LiPS, who I suspect will be big. Have a listen now before the hype machine takes over.
There is some better news knocking about to lift our rain-sodden spirits, though. Lewis Hamilton's magnificent triumph in the Formula One championship, for a start. Especially the bit where the Ferrari pit crew began to celebrate their hard-fought championship victory ... ah, hang on. Like most people I don't really give a toss about Formula One, but it would have taken the stoniest of hearts not to laugh at that. Well done Timo Glock.
Then there's the US presidential election, of course. Sadly Paris Hilton didn't make it all the way to the White House, not this time anyway. I did feel a bit sorry for dear old John McCain - the Bruce Forsyth of American politics - as his campaign was truly, astonishingly hopeless, and his rather gracious speech of concession was barely noticed amidst the worst excesses of Obamania. Anyway, we all love Obama, and in my case not just for his progressive policies and electrifying oratory. It turns out - and this is not a wind up - that Barack Obama, the US President Elect, supports West Ham United FC. Unbelievable.
One of many things we have in common, of course. Apparently he has extended family in Kent, and on a trip over in the late nineties (when, even more bizarrely, Obama went on a boozy stag night in Wokingham) they imposed a trip to Upton Park on him, the poor sod. I rather like the thought of the world's most powerful man spending an afternoon in the company of Steve Lomas, John Moncur and Trevor Sinclair.
Anyway, it turns out that he's followed us loosely ever since. So in January, when Obama's freshly installed in the Oval Office and supposed to be sorting out welfare reform, insurgency in Iraq and a national debt of ten trillion dollars, we now know there's a reasonable chance he'll be wondering why Luis Boa Morte is still getting picked ahead of Matthew Etherington, and worrying about how to solve a problem like Carlton Fucking Cole. Its an Obamination alright.
"Can we stay up? Yes we can!"
Celebrity spots
Two relatively strong sightings to tell you about. First Harry Hill last Thursday, outside Pret a Minger on Frith Street. A classic 'jizz' based ID (see blogs passim), with Hill in baseball cap and anorak to resist the remorseless November rain. Secondly, grizzled Geordie actor Jimmy Nail, outside the gay bar on the corner of Soho Street. We exchanged glances.
Its been a mixed postbag this week. Pete E. from Washington DC whetted my appetite with boasts of making a drunken twat of himself in front of an unnamed celebrity. However, when challenged, it transpired that the 'star' in question was someone called 'Murray from Flight of the Conchords'. I was underwhelmed. However, kudos go to Lionkiller from Woodford. Following on from my repeated sightings of Martin Fowler's buckle-faced stalker in and around W1, Lionkiller reports going head-to-head with Fowler himself at an unlicensed high-stakes poker game in Walthamstow. Lionkiller goes on to complain that Fowler "... folded about 30 hands on the trot in a £20 tournament ... I was amazed that anyone could play that tight". The devil's in the detail.
Recommendations
Poor old Russell Brand. One slip and he's toast. This tawdry Daily Mail-inspired witch hunt has dominated the news agenda all month. I'd be amazed if any of the 27,000 morons who 'complained' either listened to the show or really, in their heart of hearts, gives two shits about Manuel and his sensibilities. It does, however, give them a chance to take Jonathan Ross down a peg or two - how dare he earn six million quid a year? And then there's Russell Brand. How dare he have all that sex, all that lovely, filthy sex? Its just envy - the nastiest of all the deadly sins - of two people who are richer, more attractive and more talented than they'll ever be. Well, I love fast, fearsome wits. Brand is a true master of the English language, creative and flamboyant, and he should be cherished; instead he's been crucified by the bigots, the bandwagon-jumpers and the BBC. What I've found most surprising has been the response of fellow telly folk - Brand must have really upset, well, most of them. Ian Hislop, for example, launched an extraordinary tirade, when its his show that'll be next for the chop, now 'edgy' comedy is officially on the cusp of extirpation. It won't be long before there's nothing left bar Last of the Summer Wine and Hyacinth Bucket - now there's a real satanic slut.
Bouquet: strumpet.
Russell Brand went too far with some old actor, and subsequently apologised. The Daily Mail, on the other hand, was once a big fan of that marvellous Herr Hitler, and thought those Blackshirts were a jolly decent bunch. In who's eyes does the salt of public opinion really deserve to be flung? Sorry to bang on; as you can probably tell I'm very annoyed, and doubly disgruntled as I still seem to be a lone voice, more or less. Anyway, Brand to defy the odds and become the new Doctor Who at 100/1 (Paddy Power).
The Tottenham rennaisance hasn't cheered me up much, either. A couple of outrageous results and suddenly Redknapp is the new Messiah. So last week's smug recommendation to pile onto their imminent relegation looks like it was money down the drain. Sorry about that.
Last month's musical choice Theoretical Girl was kind enough to drop me a line to thank me for recommending her. So I'll recommend her again - its nice to hear from somebody with some manners in this cut-throat age. In addition, this week I have mostly been enjoying CHEW LiPS, who I suspect will be big. Have a listen now before the hype machine takes over.
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