Can I have more, please?

An update from George:

"Last of George's tubes came out today - hurray!  he's now feeding: tube-free and enjoying (yes really enjoying) eating soft, mushy food. Memory a lot better.  He's still in intensive care, but should be moved to trauma this week."

Progress is a good thing.

On another matter:  time to dig deep my friends...in the middle of the picture is soldier Chris...he was featured on the big screen during the Olympic Opening ceremony.

Chris is doing a sponsored ride to Paris for his chosen charity Kiterite  which describes itself as the world's first charity dedicated to using kite-sports in all its formats to help, support, educate and develop people of all ages with physical, mental health or learning challenges.  Anyway, Chris needs more sponsorship in order to achieve his ambition...so if you would like to sponsor him, click here  or perhaps just feed the link around the interweb on Facebook or Twitter....I'd be grateful, and Chris will too!

After my watch-box extravaganza, it seems somewhat hypocritical to take another pop at the bankers...but that's never going to stop me.  The Funding For Lending Scheme was launched by the Bank of England to encourage banks to lend to small businesses by offering banks cheap money.  It was designed to kick start the economy.  You may have read this week that bank lending is continuing to decrease. Inspite of the BoE lending some £14.5 billion, lending has fallen by £2.4 billion.  My maths may not be great, but I think I can calculate that the banks are sitting on a fat profit at the tax payers expense.  Again.  And in this very same week, Bog-eyed Osbourne has trotted off to Brussels to plea for bankers bonuses not to be restricted.  Jeez, by any standard that stinks.  Really stinks.  While the economy slowly sinks, the Chancellor can do no better than demand that city w*nkers be allowed to be paid more.  The banks caused the crisis, and it is more than time for them to do their bit to re-invigorate the economy so I can buy more watch boxes (oops).  Anyone with half an ounce must see that the system doesn't work.  Fundamental change is absolutely necessary...and more savage cutbacks by the Tories and their LibDem puppies which only impact on the less-well paid isn't the way to do it.

So more MoD cutbacks.  Whilst the Generals bemoan the loss of our military capability, I feel it is incumbent on me to point out that globally we remain one of the highest spending countries on military stuff.  Now that the world's map is no longer half painted pink, I suggest we cut back accordingly.  So an army about the size of Lichtenstein's will do very nicely thank you very much.  And the savings can be spent on something rather more worthwhile.  Suggestions on a postcard please.

Phew.  Enough said.

Watching the clock

We had a busy weekend.  Friday night was quiz night.

Last year we won, and this year we were the 'swats' table, so the pressure was on.  Or not in my case, because I refuse to be competitive.  That's my excuse for us coming fourth.  At least we helped raise £2000 for the NSPCC.

Saturday, we met with my dangerous friends in Camden.  They're dangerous because without exception, they encourage an over-indulgence of drinking and behaviour.   We will call them Mr and Mrs Chip.  That's a reference to one evening in Brighton when Mr Chip fell into the gutter and would have been intense pain if it hadn't been for the beer anaesthetic that we had consumed all day long.  A dozen years later, he still has a lump on his shoulder from the incident.  I may yet devote a whole post or two to them and our exploits.  On Saturday, we were more civilised than usual, and were in mid-debate about the diminution of artistry and the supremacy of concept as the defining moment in modern art when The Cat's Mother and I realised we were about to miss the last tube home so had to run away.

And on Sunday we were at The Tramshed, a restaurant that features works by Damien Hirst to celebrate a friend's daughter's 18th birthday.  There was twenty-four of us, and we were really quite noisy...so apologies to the other diners.

I have said for a very long time that if the house caught fire and I had time to grab only one thing, it would be a perspex cube which contains picture of The Boy and me from when he was about eight years old.  It's always been quite a treasure.  Assuming I was upstairs, I would also grab the picture, not quite a family portrait, that I had done for The Cat's Mother fifteen months ago.  And now I think I have one other thing...I could just about manage to carry it under my one free arm as I dashed down the stairs, flames licking at my heals, smoke choking me on the way.  It's this:

It's a watch box...

I know it is the absolute height of luxury and extravagance (96' yacht, Ferrari and ski chalet in St Moritz excluded), but I absolutely love it.  I have quite a few watches.  Not expensive ones...in fact most are Swatch watch price, but over the years I have collected them and enjoy looking at them...sometimes even wearing them.  Some I can no longer tell the time on - because they don't work, they're too complicated, or the markings on the dial are too small for my fading eyesight - but I do like them.  My favourite is the one bottom left, made by Braun and inspired by the design genius Dieter Rams...it was a fiftieth birthday present from me to me.  Until now, they've been shoved in a drawer, but are proudly displayed in the polished wood box above which I received on Friday.  One day I will pass this on to my son....providing I'm upstairs when the house burns down.

So if your house was burning, is there one thing you would take with you?

Through the looking glass

I think I've been taking LSD.

That can be the only explanation for my life over the last four days.

I'm not objecting, it's rather fun and I hope it continues.

Before I start, I have proof-positive that lawyers are total w*nkers.  I write press releases for a living (you'd never guess it from the quality of writing here I know), and last week I had to write one about a brand of biscuits.  In it I described them as 'the nation's favourite biscuit brand'  The press release had to be checked by their in-house lawyers.  They came back and said the line had to be removed unless I could prove that it was true.  The line, in fact, came from their own website.

I had an e-mail this morning from the Royal Mail headed 'News of changes to our pricing', it goes on:

"We have announced that stamp prices will remain the same for 2013.

The price of a First Class stamp will remain unchanged at 60p.

A Second Class stamp will remain unchanged at 50p.

The price of a First Class Large Letter stamp will remain at 90p and a Second Class Large Letter stamp at 69p.
This morning I arrived in the office to a phone call from a very posh hotel in Paris.  In somewhat broken English, he explained that he had been given my number by The Ritz Madrid as the person who could help him get a better price for the deal.  I didn't know which deal, nor how I could help him.  I'm not a fixer.  He was reluctant to let me go as he was convinced I was the man he needed.  I wish I knew what it was all about.

On Friday, I received a random friend request on Facebook...normally I just delete them, but the name was familiar, so I decided to find out more.  As it turns out, this person is a very well respected author...so well respected he's been listed for the Man Booker prize three times.  He is so well connected, that by accepting his friend request, I am now one step removed from many of the UK's best and biggest literary and media giants.  Of course, it's a massive mistake...I don't know who he thinks I am.  He doesn't have masses of friends, clearly quality not quantity is his mantra.  But by a remarkable turn of coincidence, over the weekend, I've been asked by to link up on LinkedIn by a literary agent and the marketing director of a top publishing firm...

Anyway, a true story from my new BFF:

"In Kabul there is still a synagogue on Flower Street. Two Rabbis who hated each other fought over it. One reported the other for sex crimes under the Taliban. This could have ended very badly. But Mullar Omar, head of the Taliban, was so fascinated by these two men's loathing for each other he let them off saying that it beat most Afghan feuds by a long way. One is now dead but the surviving Rabbi is a respected member of the local community."

I would like to apologise right here and now to my doppelgänger who is presumably missing out on all the fun...

As mad as a box of frogs (fritz)

Having just got the motorbike sorted, it's a bit disappointing that it won't start again.  The Cat's Mother thinks I should get rid of it.  I don't disagree.  But I think I should replace it, whilst she thinks the money should be spent on bus fares.....

Have you been watching Howard Goodall's Story of Music?  As a school boy I was weak on foreign languages, and music was the most foreign of them all.  It was just beyond my comprehension.  Oddly, though, listening to music was one of my favourite past times.  With this series, Mr Goodall managed to unravel many of the mysteries that had eluded me from my childhood and the series was absolutely fascinating.  Actually understanding music composition remains out of my grasp...minor, major chords and all sorts of other nonsense cannot be absorbed by my brain...but the story was superb.  We've still got one episode to go (thank you iPlayer), but the last one where he vented his spleen about Wagner really helped put the music in its social and political context.  The clip on the link above is Stravinsky...chosen for a reason.

Last week we went to see some Pina Bausch.

If you've been daft enough to be reading this for a while, you'll know I'm a bit of a groupie having got hooked by the Wim Wnders film Pina.  The two albums I listen to most on my iPod are the soundtrack to the 2012 Olympics Opening Ceremony, and the soundtrack to Pina.  That's telling.  As part of the Cultural Olympics we went to see a performance of some Pina by the Tanztheater Wuppertal and frankly it was pants.  We left quite disillusioned  even if I remember rightly, we shared the show with the rather stunning Florence Welch and and nearly stunning Lilly Cole.

So we went with no illusions and few expectations....and were surprised by just how wonderful it was.  All right some of it was absolutely barking mad and wouldn't have gone amiss in a Berlin cabaret show.  German humour such as it is does not translate easily into English.  However, the bits that were brilliant were truly brilliant....I would highly, highly recommend you see it if you get the chance.  Though not now because the run has finished already.

Wood you?

I saw this on my ride to work yesterday...it was great to be back on the cycle after a bit of a break because of the weather, skiing and general apathy....

Had to pop into one of the shops on Bermondsey Street yesterday, and whilst browsing spotted a wooden item (for reasons to be explained sometime in the future, I can't say what) and asked the shop owner about it.

"It's Amazonian wood" he proudly declared.
My jaw dropped.
"Is that a good thing?" I replied
"Well it's only the roots"
"I think it's recycled"
"It's very lovely isn't it?"
He stuttered and blubbered.

I was horrified, turned on my heal and left...surely EVERYONE knows that the destruction of the Amazon is wreaking havoc.  This may have been a legitimate item, but there was not certificate, no authentication so I doubt it....really disappointing.  Next they'll be trying to sell me ivory.....

P.S. I've updated yesterday's post so you can now see OC staring down OD

Office Dog

Whilst the internet is full of cats, I don't detect the same level of interest in dogs.  I don't mind either way, cat, dog, rabbit...they're all just balls of fur that like their tummy tickled.  I grew up with plenty of dogs, a few rabbits, a number of guinea pigs, a pair of gerbils, a shoal of fish, even the odd budgerigar, and more cats than you'll find in a pharoah's tomb.  So it was very nice when Office Dog moved in.

But, it has to be said that OD is ODD.  He's one sandwich short of a picnic.  No, he's an entire round of sandwiches short.

When he first arrived he wouldn't actually come in the door.  He has a phobia of wooden floors.

Not long afterwards we had Office Cat come to visit for a couple of weeks.  In true cat fashion, OC sat staring at OD daring him to come in for hours.

Eventually, OD was bought neoprene socks.  If I came in wearing latex, there would be a few raised eye-brows I can tell you.  With socks on, he gradually (over the course of several days) dared to put firstly one foot, then another, then the third and finally all of them in the office.  It took a little longer before he would actually walk forwards.

OD leans to the left.  No I don't mean he votes for the Ed Miller Band, I mean he leans to the left.  So when he comes in in the morning, he rubs all along the passage wall on the left.  And when he leaves, he does the opposite.  On a daily basis, this proves difficult because the way the door opens, means that he becomes trapped between wall and open door.  That doesn't help him leave.  At Christmas, the first year, it caused a problem because the Christmas tree  is sited on the left hand wall.  OD couldn't walk round it.  He had to walk through it.  Our twelve days of Christmas were spent picking up broken or bouncing baubles.  So the second year we moved the tree to the other side of the room, away from left or right hand side walls.  Sure enough OD still had to walk through it.

He likes his luxury, so always manages to find a warm patch on the floor, where the underfloor heating is.  I can't blame him for that, as there's many an occasion I would like to curl up in the warm.

Going from one end of the office is erm interesting.  All the desks are along one side of the office - where the windows are.  There's a large area on the otherside, ideal for swinging a cat.  However.  However.  He can't walk through the open area, he has to scrabble under the desks....first in one direction, and then the other when he returns.  Naturally under the desk is where all the cables are.  Daily we have to re-plug the computers into the network.

Food is his one great love.  It always is with labradors, but he is a particular enthusiast.  Indeed, there is a clear hierarchy of love dependent on how much food someone gives him.  The Spanish Girl gives him the most; I give him the least.  He rarely comes to see me and the greetings in the morning are cursory.  Things have changed since I started giving him the odd twiglet or two.

It's been a hard couple of months as the vet has insisted he lost eight kilos.  At least we can feel his ribs now.

You never want to get too close to him after his lunchtime walk.  He has a habit of eating sh*t.  I mean literally eating faeces.

There's only one thing he loves more than food, and that's walking home.  When it's time to go, he's up and off like a rocket...though bare in mind the sixth paragraph above.

The other day he had an almost unfathomable dilemma.  I arrived in the office at lunch time with my lunch, and at the same time also eating their lunch was Andy Pandy, Soon-to-be-mum and There's Lovely Girl (OK, I confess to missing them off my cast list).  The trouble was, it was time for OD to leave.  It was like a short film on a loop, with him running to the door, returning in the hope of food, and then running to the door before returning in the hope of finding some food.  It could have gone on all afternoon if he hadn't been dragged out by his collar.  Evidently he was unusually hesitant on the way home too.....

He barks whenever the door buzzer goes, and sometimes when the phones ring too, and has terrified one of the delivery drivers who comes along every week.  In the office his favourite game is 'peek a boo'.  I hide behind the pillar, occasionally poking my head out out and then hiding again.  This keeps him amiused for hours, and me away from doing what I should be...

So that's the Office Dog....I hope you like him as much as we do

A cast of thousands

Trust.  It's one of those things the world seems desperately short of at the moment

Last year, around the time of the last petrol crisis last year...the pumps were running dry and just after it was serviced, I suddenly found that my motorbike was smelling of fuel.  A leak.  If I filled up, I would be high as a kite by the time I was at the end of the road.  Not that this stopped me riding it, I just filled up half-way, which meant that it was only semi-comatose on my journeys.  Mind you, you could still smell it when the garage door was closed and stood at the other end of the drive.  Of course, the general idea that petrol is leaking from the tank and on to the engine should have made me worry about going up in a puff of smoke...but like any teenager I thought I was invincible.  One day I will grow up.  Anyway, I took it to the dealership who solemnly declared the tank was leaking, couldn't be repaired and I would need to splash out £1100 on a new one.  Gosh that's a lot I thought, and continued riding it.  Eventually it was due for another service.  I decided to take it to another garage, and played the innocent.  "I think I can smell petrol" I said.  They had it for a couple of days, found that a valve had been removed and placed in a compartment under the seat.  So could you please vote on whether the fist garage was a) incompetent and wanting me to spend £1100 or b) had deliberately removed the valve so that I would spend £1100 and so they would acquire a perfectly good fuel tank

I don't suppose anyone really wants to know about the great time we had on our holiday, so I will just introduce a few of the characters:

1. The Muffins.  We went with all the Muffins.
2.  Lord Poddlington.  That was me.  Evidently my breakfast was excessive.  Bacon, sausages, tomato and fried egg.  Followed by a bowl of fruit.  Followed by two rolls with butter and jam (apricot).  Followed by cheese and ham.  All washed down with fruit juice and a pot of coffee.  Nor did it help when I cut out one course...the bowl of fruit.  I have returned as excess baggage
3. Michael The Farmer.  The first instructor for Papa Muffin and The Cat.  A local who helped out at busy times.  He'd been skiing  since before he could walk.  But he couldn't speak English.  So The Boy translated...even the technical stuff.  At the end of the lesson, he walked off and we never saw him again.
4.  Mythical Steve.  Our last instructor.  He was English, but had lived in Austria for 25 years.  he was a good friend of the ski school owner, but none of the other instructors had ever met him.  He was everything you would expect a ski instructor to be.  Bleached blonde, tanned and with an unreformed outlook on life.  So every time a female sixteen years and older got near us, he would let us know it was 'a great view'...especially if they bent over to do up their boots.  He was fast on his skis, but very impressed The Boy could keep up with him "I've never seen anyone who hasn't done a season ski that well" he said.  Meanwhile I was left on the mountain by myself.
5.  The Bonnie Scot.  Our main instructor.  He had done the BA part of his degree in engineering from Strathclyde, and taken a year out to be a ski instructor.  My money is on him never going back.  The mini-Muffins adored him of course.
6.  Frau Fuhrer.  The owner of our hotel.  She was coiffured like nobody you've seen for fifty years, and charming as could be if you were a guest.  I'm guessing working for her was not so easy.  She was delighted to have us staying and made us feel like the best of friends.  Hotel management as it should be.
7.  Boris The Russian.  And his pretty blonde wife, half his age.  If you've ever come across travelling Russians, you'll realise that he is big, bald and brutish.  They sat at a table quite close to us and generally engaged in polite conversation with the child that was at their table.  Half way through the week, the boy disappeared.  The last evening Boris was very agitated indeed, and you couldn't help but feel that one wrong word and your skull would be crushed.
8.  The cast of waitresses...all lovely, helpful and permanently smiling (not in an American way).  Some things got lost in translation.  One said to me "You make me very happy" which was not half as inappropriate as it seems here.
9.  Leopold The Lion.  Our waiter.  Possibly the most nervous man in the world.
10.  The Barman.  The Boy thought he was grumpy.  The rest of us thought he was very pleasant.
11. The Swiss Family Robinson.  Guests on the other table near us.  She was also beautifully coiffured.  Not an eyelash out of place.  He wore either a sleeveless yellow cardigan, or one with sleeves.  As he was 70, it prevented  me wearing my own yellow cardigans.  That was the only reason.
12.  Sleeping Beauty.  The Cat's Mother rarely, if ever, made it down to breakfast before the rest of us had finished. She doesn't ski, so would spend her mornings and afternoons reading in one of the mountain cafes.  One suspects that gluhwein was inhaled.  We were grateful for her attendance and good humour.
13.  The Irish Family.  Lovely as they were, we couldn't help but feel that making their four-year old sit down for dinner at 8.00 after a long day on the slopes was a mistake.  It may have been his catawailing and crying that gave us the clue.

14. The Boy.  Our final ski instructor.  Yes, I'm pleased to say (chest puffed out) that the ski school were desperate to take him on and verbally offered him a job for next ski season...his gap year is probably all organised.  And I might get cheap ski-lessons too.

There's news, and then there's important stuff

A lot can happen in a week.

We have returned to find that the UK has been downgraded to the same credit level rating as those third-world outfits the US and France.  As the downgrade has been made by the same people that gave the mortgage bonds which ultimately caused the financial crisis a triple A rating in the first place, I, quite frankly, don't give a hoot.

I was disappointed to have missed the news that trial by jury is a nonsense as the one judging Vicky Price wanted to know if they could use information given as evidence neither by the prosecution or the defence to come to their decision.

Whilst we were away I had some great news about George,  "I went to see him yesterday and he is now aware of stuff going on around him but he can't talk and only opens his eyes a little bit. That is pretty big progress though.  They think he will be fine judging by the brain scan. He is having a 4 hour hip operation today. That's a big deal too."

After that there was a second piece of good news about George, "Op went well - later and longer than planned but he's back in ICU.  Apparently facial op is planned for tomorrow - waiting to speak to doctors about that. at least by tomorrow there shouldn't be any more surgery"

So I'm just waiting for an update about that.

Not Bognor

Yes I do realise there's more than a striking resemblence with Llandudno and Barnsley...but no you're not quite right...and well done to the clever clogs..we are indeed in Kirzbuhel. I will be taking up the eating suggestions. When we're back I will respond to the comments on the last post..can't now as I'm doing this on my phone whilst doing my best Eddie the Eagle impersonation. We're here with the Muffins...so I'll also let you know whether I can maintain my record of reducing a child to tears by beating them at cards. The Grande Dame who runs the hotel will not be pleased. Oh and The Boy appears to have the offer of a job as a ski instructor here next year during his gap year...they'd have taken him tomorrow if they could!

Wish you were here

Can you guess where?

Dear George

I recently gave you a 'cast list' for Don't Panic. RTFM.  You can find it here.

Gay George and Gay John moved out of the office not long before Christmas...but we've kept in touch.  They decided that they'd like to have a virtual office in readiness for George moving to the country.They're good guys, really good fun to have around and I think of them as friends.....even though Jon's share tips are to be avoided like the plague...as are his betting tips.  I can't tell you how much I've lost through his recommendations.  Whenever I bit and went with one of Jon's tips, a wry smile would come over George's face as he himself firmly zipped up his wallet and put it in his pocket.

Since they moved out, we've saved a fortune in tea costs.  These two are chain-tea drinkers.  They are never without a mug of PG Tips in one hand.  When they first arrived, I thought I could handle it and tried to keep up with them...but the exercise I got from running backwards and forwards to the toilet was wearing me out. The dishwasher could barely keep up as well.

When it came to food, lunchtime would always be a hot dog.  Day in, day out.  The smell was tantalising   And this was frustrating because they would eat lunch at no later than 11...so I had to stick it out for another couple of hours.  Eventually they decided to vary their diet and would wander down to Sainsbury's to see what was on offer.  Anything cheap was good.   Sometimes they would come back with half a dozen shepherd pies which would keep them going for a few days.

Sport was always a hot topic...I could join in using my best 'blokishness', but really didn't have a clue - Cricket, Football, Rugby were daily conversations.  Tennis less regularly...but eventually I found I could express an opinion on whichever team or player and they were wise enough to just nod and agree.  On other topics, the debates could be lively.  George was invariably vitriolic about anything where he had an opinion...trying to get a word in edgeways was nigh on impossible.  We shared a common view on bankers and politicians.

I was due to meet up for a beer with Gay George, but surprisingly hadn't heard from him.

I got this e-mail last night from Jon

"George has had an accident and been knocked off his bike. It happened last Friday and he hasn't been conscious since. There is some pressure on his brain so they are treading carefully. He has facial fractures and fractures to the hip and pelvis. Will keep you posted"

George is married, in his mid-30's and has two young children.  He cycles everyday - their business is 'inventory clerks' so they would go from property to property on folding bikes.  George wears a helmet.

I'm knocked for six by this...and desperately hoping he pulls through.  I hope his wife and family are coping, it must be really traumatic for them 

Foreign sagas

The Oscar Pistorius saga is unfolding as the day wears on today, and it's left me feeling quite melancholy.  Who knows what the eventual outcome will be...it's sad enough that a promising young woman has been killed.  Pistorius helped light up the summer last year, and inevitably, this will cast a shadow over the memories of those glorious days.

Last night, The Cat's Mother did something that she would never have done before she met me.  It's a fascination how we can end up doing different things when we meet someone.  She has spent many years enjoying more 'mainstream' entertainment...I, on the other hand, enjoy different, new, challenging.  Together it makes for a rewarding life.  So we took to the streets of Dalston, one of London's roughest/trendiest areas to find The Dalston Boys Club.  We were going to The Art of Dining - an experiential dinner evening.  The theme was Victorian dining, called 'Eat your heart out'.  With these you turn up and sit amongst strangers...you either love it or you hate it.  As well as your meal, there is entertainment...in this case, a lady and a gentleman extolling the (humorous) virtues and vices of Victorian marriage.  It took a strange turn when  the husband suggested that after the initial passion subsides you should turn to buggery, and the wife suggested intimate friendships with her lady friends.  But apart from that, it was a marvel.  The hall had been decorated with lots of Victoriana (mostly faux, but certainly adding to the theatre of the evening).  It was a five course meal with cocktails and a bottle of wine.  I can remember some of it - to start a beetroot and apple soup, followed by a thinly-sliced heart salad, then a mackerel pate with rhubarb jelly, and then duck and finally a delicious tart.  We started off with a champagne, gin, Cointreau and marmalade cocktail, enjoyed a beetroot bloody Mary, and finished with something else...all washed down with a scrummy red wine.  Apologies if the details are sparse, but neither of us are used to downing large amounts of alcohol in the middle of the week.  This morning was not fun at all.

We sat next to a Russian couple.  Exactly as expected, he was a digital technology guy, and she was a model (she had just come from a photo-shoot with Rankin...and had the photos to show us!).  They were very sociable, and we very much enjoyed their company.  For me what was totally extraordinary was that they hadn't come from the great metropolises of Moscow or St Petersburg, but from a city called Perm.  On his right arm...the whole length - he had a tattoo of the city's Contemporary art museum. I'm betting you've never heard of it...we certainly hadn't.  It has a population of about a million, and from the way they described it, it is a sort of communist-built Milton Keynes.  I think they said it's a three-day train journey from Moscow...that's a long way - it is definitely Europe's most eastern city, and sits in the Urals on the 'border' with Asia.  That is so remote....I looked it up on a map.  For some reason I've got a little obsessed with it, trying to work out how two people from such a far-off and remote place could end up living and working in London.  I think it says something remarkably good about how London in particular, and the UK in general is seen by the outside world.  It certainly made for an enjoyable and interesting conversation.

I don't think our model will thank me for this picture of her

Investing in the future

Given the latest food crisis, I'm a little worried about The Cat's Mother suggesting we have Toad in the Hole for supper.  It was bad enough eating Hot Dog last night.  And as for the Horseradish sauce on the beef at the weekend...

On Monday evevning we fought our way through the snow to go and see an off beat production at The Roundhouse in Camden.  It was my choice, and based on me thinking we would be seeing something different and challenging...just the way I like my theatre.  In fact Robert Lepage's Playing Cards is two and a half hours of tedium....some very clever staging but a bunch of ill-defined and uninteresting characters.  It was quite a spectacle as you can see from these pictures...but it failed the 'bum test'...how long before you start wriggling on your seat - I managed ten minutes...leaving another another 140 to go.  It did pass (oh for heavens sake!) the todger test...yes one of the male characters was all naked and flaunty.  I'm still waiting for some theatre with boobs and bits, whilst The Cat's Mother keeps eye-balling the male offerings.

You know I like Street Art...well here's someone making our telephone exchange boxes a bit more attractive

Crowd sourcing is the new 'thing'.  If you've not come across it, essentially it's about getting a large number of people to cough up a little money to make a thing happen.  Most famous is 'Kickstarter'...currently trying to persuade a very large number of people to find some ready dollars to build a Death Star.  If I remember rightly, they need $54,000,000,000,000.  Which is quite a lot.  I got involved once in the funding for some very clever bicycle lights...called REVO Lights.  They've gone through all the testing, prototyping and so on before going into production.  My set arrived.  I read the instructions, realised that to fit them was more complicated than building a spacecraft, so they now sit unloved in the garage.  If you knew how much I'd spent, you'd think I was an idiot.

Foolishly, I failed to donate to Lloyd Cole's latest album...he was looking for funds to pay for the recording of the music.  I hesitated.  I don't know why...I would love to have thought of myself as a record producer.  I still feel the music world beckons.  Anyway, the album will be out soon(ish)

My latest venture into Crowd Funding is 'Unbound'.  I've contributed to the costs of publishing a book on Street Art here.  If you fancy it, put a little bit of money in...you know I want you to.

I am Superman

I was doing my favourite thing on Friday night...falling asleep on the sofa whilst everyone else was out.  Peace and quiet and a hopeless French (comedy) film - OSS117



But then The Cat materialised and wanted a lift to the station.  I returned to a text from The Cat's Mother that she was nearly at the station after her evening.  Naturally I went to pick her up.  Except she had jumped in a cab.  Even before the snow fell, it was a little frosty.

Saturday daytime was taken up with rehearsals for The Chinese New Year's Parade, before we headed off to a card evening with friends and around thirty two other people.  I hate cards.  And I didn't know the rules for whist.  So whilst consuming large quantities of slow-roast pork belly I drank gallons of red wine.  In my head I was the funniest person there.

And then the early start for the Parade.  There were supposed to be changing facilities...but the women had taken over the men's tent, as well as their own, and got all arsey when we started taking our trousers off in front of them.  So we retreated and I decided that rather than undress in the road whilst getting soaked by the rain, I would get into costume in a telephone box.  I can assure you a telephone box just of Trafalgar Square on a Sunday morning is not somewhere you want to be for long.

Eventually the parade started and we were mobbed by a vast crowd...it was fabulous, although a little un-nerving.  We went up from Trfalgar Square, along Charing Cross Road, down into Sftsbury Avenue and then along into China Town.  Unlike the Olympic Stadium there was literally no distance between us and everyone watching...with all those cameras going, I began to understand what it must be like to be famous.  We all loved it!  We did our choreography...but remarkably someone managed to take this just as we were having a rest!



At the end we cut off and relived our performance in Leicester Square, gathering quite a crowd.  All good fun if a little damp and freezing