Saturday, April 30, 2005

Up The Shithole*

No, not another unsavoury San Francisco carpark practice, but the exciting news that in spite of popular demand, the late, unlamented London Lifestyle (TM) bible Shithole* will shortly be making its second online début.

The inaugural meeting was held last night in the Blue Anchor, an impromptu editorial team appointed (stand by to receive your surprise contracts) and a schedule of features for Issue 1 lovingly scrawled across the back of the Evening Standard and a number of fag packets.

Not only this but a domain name has been acquired, a vast webspace purchased, and all I need to do now is learn HTML, acquire some web design skills, locate my missing comedy talent, buy a new digital camera, develop an imagination and/or get my hair cut, and we'll be away!

In other news, I am very sad to be missing tonight's glorious, fairy-lit début gig of future post-rock legends Marineville. [BLATANT PLUG: The Star, Guildford High Street, errr, forgotten what time, £4 on the door]. I have no doubt that in a year's time I shall be frantically pretending to have been there.

Thursday, April 28, 2005

A La Recherche De L'Appartement Perdu

Flicking through the free copy of New London Lifestyle (TM) magazine fabric (love that lower case, *so* 1999) that came with this month’s issue of comedy bible Elle Deco, I happened upon a ridiculous article about my hippy ex-landlord and one-time manager of Daisy Chainsaw, who for purposes of legal safety we’ll call Nuthatch Doggo (which actually suits him better than his real name).

Turns out that Nuthatch has taken his often-expressed desire not to lay a heavy vibe on anyone to its logical extreme, by reincarnating himself as a personal yoga teacher to Madonna and Sting (Sting, you say? Would he have achieved such wealth and recognition if he’d named himself Proboscis, or Ovipositor, I wonder?). I was heartened to see that in spite of his new A-list starf**king credentials, he’s still styling himself on Leo Sayer.

Which got me to reminiscing, like the fifth-rate Marcel Proust that I would love to be, about our joyous 1998-era flat in West Ken. This lurid den played host to not one but *two* legendary parties, each featuring much insalubrious action, including a live sex show (you know who you are); Hawaii Elvis and Las Vegas Elvis escorting a Razzle sub-editor off the premises for lying on the living room floor grasping at women’s crotches; my friend S sprayed from head to foot in gold paint; two other friends attempting carnal unity in our tasteful mirror-fronted wardrobe; the Second Coming of the Messiah; an impromptu fireworks display on the roof terrace *and* a number of friendly visits from the Environmental Health and HM Constabulary.

Happy days. Still, as Proust will attest, you can’t carry on like that forever. Can you?

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Was It Rob Newman Or Antigone Who Said

"Is this it? Am I supposed to just...go on living?"

Whichever it was, the answer is "That's about the sum of it."

Thank you, Channel 4, for bringing so much comedy into my life.

In other news, I can sensationally reveal that the new Dr Who will be played by Davros. In order to exterminate himself, Davros/Who will be forced to trap himself in a place that Daleks can easily access, but where the only exit is down a flight of stairs. Namely, the first floor of Marks & Spencers on Kensington High Street. Teatime sci-fi was never so reflexive. Or British.

Fear And Self-Loathing In Slough.

Guided by the principle that you didn’t see Jack Kerouac or Henry Miller sitting around of a weekend worrying about whether their section headers should be in 14pt Arial or 16pt Univers, I just went out in search of some picaresque excitement, action and adventure.

It soon became apparent that I’d picked the wrong town for that, however, so what with being a girl and all I settled for the oldest known antidote to extreme sleep-deprivation and self-loathing, to wit: spending money I haven’t got on pointless rubbish.

Now usually buying books will cheer me up (one day I might even try reading them) but today it only served to prompt a massive bout of vituperative self-abuse (not *that* sort).

“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas? What, you mean you don’t already own it? What kind of complete, total loser *are* you? What’s it doing on your favourite books list in your profile then, you charlatan!”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, not *another* book about complexity theory! You’re only going to put it in the bookshelves in a fruitless attempt to impress people cleverer than you. Loser!”

“Enduring Love? You already own that, you silly cow. You might even have read it too, if it wasn’t rotting away in the cellar of one of those falling-down houses that you insist on buying and then abandoning because you can’t finish anything you start (cue Elliott*)”.

Still, that last one is one in the eye for Belbin.

Not content with the haul of books, I then wandered about in search of more unnecessary tat, getting more and more riled up at the entire global clothing industry’s ludicrous attitude to bikini sizing, which effectively means that I will never, ever be seen sporting a fetching two-piece swimsuit, and especially not at any point during my forthcoming sojourn among the eight-foot, golden-skinned Amazonians of Venezuela (which, if you put it like that, is probably all for the best anyway. Thank you, Dr Pangloss).

And in a final nod to my utter inability to be consistent or decisive about anything at all, I spent about four hundred pounds on nicotine patches that will see me through another two-month period of being a non-smoker, after which I will reward myself for my commendable abstinence by immediately reverting to a filthy 20-a-day habit. Great.

* STATUTORY WARNING: may provoke etc. etc.