blogmarch

Gay Ring About It

2007-09-16T23:09:00.000+01:00

G1, Southwark's baddest utter barista elect, has alerted me to a pretty unsettling discrepancy in the North London borough of Haring-. Well that's it really. To quote directly from his frenzied email:

"The station which I passed through twice yesterday describes itself as Haringay. The schools inspectorate thinks an area called South Harringay exists (two rs) and the council insists it is spelt Haringey (see www.haringey.gov.uk)."

Actually it's very simple. Harringay is an vaguely defined area within the London Borough of Haringey. A bit like Battersea. And that business at the station - well it's more shocking evidence that this country's going to hell in a handcart.

Peepo!

2007-09-01T23:54:00.000+01:00

Yeah so I've been away some while, roaming the land, writing and a musing but now I'm in a Blogmarch state of mind again so frenz..the experiment resumes.

And whilst I was having a late night shower (because I still don't understand those wait until morning to rid themselves of the day's sweat and grime) the Beatles' Hard Day's Night was going round in my head. And I was struck by the innocence of the lyrics , wonderfully reflected in the children's story Peepo!, which centres around a little non-verbal baby observing the micro world around him. It's all outdoor toilets, coal scuttles, tin baths and Dad donning army fatigues in the evening.

And it's a complete outrage because there I was thinking this was one of those timeless childrens' book passed down countless generations since those simplistic post-war years to find that it's written by a bearded hippy and his wife Janet and Allan Alhlberg in the early 90s. Well he looks like a hippy in the self-portrait and there's nothing intrinsically wrong with that but it's not the author painstakingly drawing on his papyrus under the paraffin lamp that I'd nostalgically envisaged in my head.

But I digress severely. A Hard Day's Night, one of those lines you just accept until many years later when you wonder what it's actually referring to. If taken in isolation and written in longhand as "A Hard Day Is Night" I quite like that. I'm assuming it's a commentary on the comparative severity of the nightshift. It makes sense put in context of their gruelling Berlin clubhouse era performing 5 concerts a day or whatever it was.

But that's wrong because he says (John I think.Definitely NOT Ringo who has an album of greatest hits being hawked on the GMTV ad breaks right now. Who buys Ringo albums but the most obsessive Fab Four completist and sympathetic relatives ?) "It's been a hard day's night" so the apostrophe is intact.

So I was marvelling at the mysterious subtetly and multi-layered complexity of this single throwaway line in contrast to the sledgehammer directness of today's pop lyricists. And the best polar opposite I could immediately think of was the double breasted Fergie of Black Eyed Peas singing about "my humps. my humps. my lovely little lumps".

But you know the strangest thing is that there's something quite subversive about this lyric. Because Humps and Lumps don't exactly summon up images of great sexual promise but more speed control measures and cancerous tumours. And maybe that's what she was trying to say. They are just that. Shapes resembling other shapes with the propensity for malignant intent.

The Dregs Beneath the Dregs

2007-06-21T00:01:00.000+01:00

Continuing on my fatalistic hell in a handcart agenda comes the revelation that Jade Goody has an entourage of fans who follow her around to various mundane events. The story itself is interesting for its relative favourability for someone supposedly still doing penance for her Celebrity Big Brother turn.

It's from today's Sun. So Jade Goody has finally passed her driving test (although chances are she'll lose her licence for having driven so long on a provisional). The test took place in Ongar, Essex and the article describes how:

She gave the thumbs-up to waiting fans — including Josie Sheehan, 48, who gave her a bottle of champagne.

Jade pecked her on the cheek and said: “I can’t open it now or I’ll get done for drink-driving.”

Better than Newsnight

2007-05-31T11:00:00.000+01:00

MES on very good form and looking incredibly youthful.

A life sentence

2007-05-29T15:40:00.000+01:00

Already feeling pretty under the weather following a Moment of Madness which saw me gobbling down a Chicken Fillet Burger from my local Kensy Lick’n Chick’n, my mood has been significantly worsened by the sight of that tedious expondent of the “life’s like that” school of quirkiness known as Zoe Williams.

This writer, whose role on the Guardian is to bore people senseless with the inanities of her “sideways look at life” when they’ve got some column inches to fill on a quiet news day has only somehow got pregnant. Which means that for the next 18 fucking years we’re going to be exposed to her banal observations on pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood.

Been thinking about it for a while, but this depressing development suggests that it's time to leave this country for good.

T9 bizarro world

2007-05-21T22:13:00.000+01:00

Bizarro World is the alternative parallel universe referred to in Seinfeld where a set spookily similar but not quite counterparts to George, Kramer and Jerry briefly tempt Elaine to the bizarro world.

Anyway, it occured to me that the Nokia T9 English dictionary has similar bizarro properties, especially when you decide to leave the predictive dictionary's first guess as it is despite your original intentions. It's already spawned, according to Stephen Fry on Radio 4, a "yoot" slang for cool - book. I've yet to hear it on the upper decks of my bus commute to date.

Got my best T9 bizarro to date this morning as I mass texted all my closest 100 acolytes to canvass support for my campaign to mark the tragic destruction of the Cutty Sark with a 9 minute silence this Friday only to get "Butty Park" instead. I was so struck by the seemingly rude sexchat slang that I'd inadvertently stumbled upon that I abandoned my campaign and instead rushed to register the key domain name registrations for Butty Park before someone else beat me to it.

Aye, there's the rub...ber band

2007-05-08T22:13:00.000+01:00

The act of leaning over to pick up something from the street is a radical act.

The Situationists used to employ fancy dress and performance to juggle the social order. The Medieval traditions of carnival and misrule threw the governing order into momentary disorder (to the effect of their final strengthening, the Marxists would say).

The person stooping to pick up a discarded rubber band mimics the action of the chaotic living outsider. It can be a disturbing action to perform, gleaning bands while the straight citizen looks on.

In taking these bands (two today, New North Road, near the Regents Canal) I am both cleaning up litter and touching the untouchables. Both by running my fingers over the materials that the normal members of society consider out of reach (probably pissed on) and by opting to feel the looks of disgust usually given to those people who stoop for other's fag butts.

By refashioning the scattered, discarded rubber bands into single object(s) of interior design desire, I turn an irritation of the streets into a game. The universality of the rubber band as a token of urban experience means that, in constructing the rubber band balls, I communicate with urban Brits who have come to know these bits of rubber as discarded, scattered things. If I am right, and the rubber band ball is a thing of admiration, then it is the most brutally effective of reconfigurations.

My ball is still very bouncy. At this stage is growing very quickly. There may well be an equation to explain at what point its girth will take lots of bands to make even slightly bigger.

Bandwidth

2007-05-04T16:32:00.000+01:00

News reaches Blogmarch from our contacts in the postal service that debate is currently heated in the industry. Not so much about the slow death of the Post Office and next day delivery, but in a much more pressing issue - what to do with those red rubber bands you use to collect letters for the same house together. Several solutions have been put forward by those men and women on the frontline, but by far the most popular is, apparently, DROPPING THE SODDING THINGS OUTSIDE MY FRONT DOOR.

As longterm readers of Blogmarch will know, we here subscribe to the belief that if God gives you nothing but gators, make some gatorade. Always a fan of the rubber band ball, Blogmarch has decided to construct a ball from nothing but red rubber bands. Most of the bands in the ball above come from the streets of south London, but sitings have also been made in the Lake District, and on the Uffington to Avebury section of the Ridgeway.

The ball is surprisingly bouncy. To this tester, anyway. Who may well be a particular naive tester, given that the ball is made of rubber, and was always going to be quite bouncy.

Check back soon to see the latest red-rubber-band updates.

Worthless shit in your attic

2007-04-25T14:56:00.000+01:00

I never much liked the Senseless Things. I thought they smelt. In fact, one of my proudest teenage achievements was that I also stubbornly resisted the other must-likes of my era like the Wonder Stuff and The Cure were obligatory elements of yer 14 year old indie kids’ tape collection. Admittedly, I did tragically succumb to Carter the Unstoppable Sex Machine and their silly sub-Jesus Jones guitar-drum machine sound and crusty cycling hats. But luckily I never actually bought anything. Me, I listened discreetly to Queen’s The Works (Radio Gaga, Hammer to Fall – I could go on) and also found myself getting drawn into The Fall thanks to their seminal Extricate album.

Now everything’s gone to MP3 and there’s a redundant set of classics sitting in every mid 30 something’s indie kid’s attic and surely some big money to be made. Yeah well, don’t bother. Whether it’s ebay or Amazon Marketplace no-one wants the stuff. Check out the price for The Senseless Thing’s fairly well know single “Christine Keeler”, 19 pence. In terms of the time taken to list the thing and then package it and send it off, unless you really have nothing of importance to do with your life it doesn’t add up. You’re effectively paying yourself for £1 an hour at best.

Try something a bit more special – like a white album, white vinyl copy of Birdland’s Lazy album. Starting price on ebay ? £1.99. Or something seriously mainstream, like a Huey Lewis and the News picture disc of The Power of Love. I own two of these I was possessed of such foresight. Yours for £2.99 Buy it Now from Terry’s Picture Discs on ebay.

RIP Wiz.

Haters Non Pasaran

2007-03-22T09:35:00.000Z

In the first of an occasional series, here is an actual admonishment to the more cynical section of the community, those miseryguts popularly described as 'haters', as found on internet March 2007. Authentic submissions are welcomed.

1] Don't be drinkin' Haterade.

The Bitterest Pilates

2007-03-21T22:48:00.000Z

As a keen patron of the expensive, fashionable and only anecdotally efficacious health solution, Blogmarch is a regular feature at some of London's most exclusive pilates salons. And it has done lots of good to what was once a sadly neglected spine (as for what were described by one pilates instructress as 'bum pads', no more shall be spoken).

But an incident at the end of today's frenetic 90 minutes of imperceptible squeezing and arguably imaginary internal spasming brought an aspect of the art, as it is practised today, into sharp focus.

Central to the philosophy of pilates is the low ratio of instructor to athlete. Although the idea is to give the practitioner confidence and knowledge enough to manage their own routine, the result is that he or she is very much in thrall to the expertise of the teacher, and to the way they interpret the art. 'Where's my one?' I often find myself thinking, having completed my latest set of unprovable clenches.

Later, on my way out of the salon, I noticed an exchange between my teacher/expert/advisor/one and a member of the public. Said MoP had wandered in off the street, and was after a leaflet to take home to her husband. 'Now, here is the leaflet' said my one. 'Now, sit there and just calm down.' She didn't say 'calm down' in response to a particularly jittery manner on the part of the MoP. The one fluttered her fingers as she said it, as if to make clear that she was simply dispensing some free lifestyle advice, as well as leaflets. The MoP seemed a little confused, as if she was thinking 'is this part of it?'

And therein lies a problem with one-on-only-a-few exercise techniques. In surrendering your body over to an expert for a course of pilates you potentially open yourself up to a whole kitbag of your particular one's other philosophies, many of which with little to do with the beliefs or practices of Mr Joseph Pilates. Because your knowledge of pilates is less than the one's, you have no choice but to entertain (however briefly) concepts that owe more to the heterogenous belief system sometimes known as 'all that other shit'.

It starts with Orinoco Flow on the studio stereo and before you know it you are on to mystical breathing, reiki, third eyes, ear candles, auras, chakras, bioresonance, ionic bracelets, Bosnian pyramids, sonopuncture, the Michigan dogman, morphogenetic fields, breatharianism, kotekas.

It can be relatively boring but benign. An old one of mine used her authority to pronounce on the relative values of various sorts of jogging bottoms. As far as it related to Pilates, fair enough. But this one's obsession with American Apparel (or appar-ay as she knew it) went far beyond. It was an abuse of power.

Breaking Free from the Man

2007-03-18T22:35:00.000Z

So the great All Saints comeback ends after barely two singles. They've "parted" with Parlophone after new album Studio 1 peaked at number 41 in its first week. This despite acres of high profile magazine cover features where through gritted teeth they were repeatedly compelled to insist on they were great friends again.

It's Melanie Blatt I feel sorry for. The two Appletons will always be ok with their two Liams. Shaznay seems like the sensible sort who saved her money and anyway, she always earnt more as the principal songwriter. But Mel was the one who got pregnant, married the sometime bassist from Jamiroquai, Stuart Zender (bet he plays a Fender) and openly admits to being a bit short these days. The Endemols of the world await vulture-like to absorb her into the bosom of reality TV.

The comeback single, Rock Steady was rather good. That daft bint Cheryl Tweedy of Girls Aloud claimed that All Saints were copying THEIR sound which is predictably absurd. The Girls Aloud sound apes the girls singing on the bus together style of Bananarama, all unison notes and rotating lead vocals. All Saints do harmonies. Beautiful, shimmery, honey-voiced combinations that reach their peak of perfection on the William Orbit masterpiece that is Pure Shores.

Anyway - true to form. The follow up single Chick Fit and death-knell for the comeback was embarassingly bad. Accompanied by a video that is painfully ill-judged. I can't watch more than a minute because in its goosebump inducing dreadfulness it has the power to summon up long repressed personal memories of teenage humiliation.

No, let's play the blame game

2007-03-08T17:12:00.000Z

It has come to Blogmarch's attention that in criticising Zoe Williams for her lame, predictable opinions, a previous story on this site has created a philosophical conundrum of a potentially disastrous kind. That point of view, you see, is itself a lame, predictable opinion, of the sort expressed by... Oh no, circularity alert!

Closed off from the world by a skein of logic, this siamese twin of an idea has no choice but to swill its liquor of rank mediocrity back and forth till it coalesces into a mechanism of the darkest energy. Only then does it rise and set off in search of the crazed, cruel mind that gave it birth. This is how we invented the cylons, people.

Is there

2007-03-05T21:08:00.000Z

A better example of narrowcasting than writing a rap to perform (ahem 'throw down') at a Macdonalds drive in with you and your pal's meal deal request?

The Inside Story

2007-03-05T13:16:00.000Z

Blogmarch's veterinerarian correspondent brings news of events that are sending shockwaves through the pet cremation business. Incinerating animals is costed on strictly per-carcass basis, you see. It seems that certain crafty animal quacks have been caught trying to present the hollowed out corpse of a great dane, stuffed with the bodies of smaller animals. It's Hugh Fearnley Whittingtall filtered through Six Feet Under.

Now that is news. Perhaps the esteemed editor of the Manchester Guardian could squeeze in a few stories of animal-stuffing scams and the like, at the expense at the much derided, much shit Zoe Williams? Having rinsed out the tatties of her previous USP - 'I work at home' - she has now moved onto the thrilling, as yet uncharted, territory of 'I use a bicycle'. Today, she brings insights such as 1] Avoid Oxford Street, better to cycle along one of the roads that run parallel to it; 2] When cycling west to east in south London, you can avoid Elephant and the Bricklayers' Arms; 3] Your bike is relatively likely to get nicked if you leave it outside Paddington station. Gah. The question is, how many spirit- sapping, self-obsessed, ignorant, opinionated ninnies could you fit into Zoe Williams, then render into ashes? Theoretically? And no, smarty pants, Blogmarch would not fit inside this particular cadaver.

Technorati tags:
Great Dane
cremation
Zoe Williams

Silverton crushed by Romana

2007-02-27T21:16:00.000Z

BBC Breakfast's Kaplinsky clone, Kate Silverton produced an abysmal performance on the red carpet at this year's Oscars. A shame really because she's far more likeable than the ruthlessly ambitious automaton Kaplinsky, despite the scandal of the Philip Hayton on-air walkout. The normally bespectacled pretender looked liked she'd actually lost her glasses in the melee as she struggled to maintain a semblance of control in the red carpet scrum.

Given the open goal of a generous 3-4 minutes with the newly Oscar-ed Helen Mirren she couldn't seem to ask any other question than a variation of the most banal question of them all - "what was going through your mind as they announced the winner". That was followed by "and what were you thinking as you walked to the stage".

I can only assume she must have panicked. This interview had clearly been negotiated well in advance and I can't believe she didn't have a better set of questions prepared. The rest of her time was spent looking more and more uncomfortable with each feeble attempt to shout for the various big names going past, admitting "it's not very dignified is it ?"

By contrast, GMTV's feisty resident LA correspondent Carla Romano was far more at ease. Years of working the red carpet have sharpened her tactics for lassoo-ing the ones that count and even when she fails it's not the personal tragedy that Silverton clearly felt.

So where now for Silverton ? Not quite ready for that big leap into Saturday evening television, a nice daytime quiz show might be a short-term solution. Rob Curling gained a cult following in his time for the under-rated Turnabout and it could be time for a celebrity version 2.0 Still, someone at the BBC is clearly intent on fast-tracking her as she also fronted a pointless Panorama "expose" of some IVF doctor which created barely a ripple of media interest.

Technorati tags:
Kate Silverton, Helen Mirren, HBBC Breakfast, Carla Romano

On a roll

2007-02-17T23:41:00.000Z

Certain things in life demand to be preserved for eternal online posterity. And this, a birthday cake made up of a beautiful formation of home made sausage rolls, is one of them. Weary from a forgettable trip once more to Euroland that necessitated a 4am start on my birthday itself, this miraculous Homer Simpson-like fantasy made reality instantly dissolved my black mood.

Thanks to all who made this happen. For those who know me, sausage rolls have long been an Achilles heel of mine. An appetite destroyer that triggers a genetically implanted Pavlovian response, I only have to be a few minutes early at Victoria Station on the way home, and the West Cornwall Pasty Co comes a calling.

Of course, for £1.20 I know I'm probably necking a concoction of 25% at best mechanically recovered meat so imagine the liberation I felt as I gorged on multiple sausage rolls made with high class pure meat from the posh butchers.

It's barely three days past and I can only wish there were still some waiting for me to snack on with my morning cup of tea.In the meantime, I have the photo to remember this special occasion by.

Where's The Mincemeat?

2007-02-15T17:23:00.000Z

At times of strain, recently, I've found myself quietly singing "Where's the mincemeat, Alan Rough, Alan Rough, Alan Rough? It's in your pocket" to the tune of 'London Bridge is Falling Down'. It seems to comfort me.

Now, as Blogmarch's more football-astute readers will be aware, Alan Rough was a goalkeeper who made his name playing for Partick Thistle and Scotland in the 70s and 80s. As a Scottish goalkeeper, he was always a figure of fun for the unfunny, who would employ the term 'Scottish goalkeeper' instead of a joke, with the understanding that they were famously rubbish. Of course, as Blogmarch's more Scottish-football-astute readers will know, Rough got even more stick because he played for Partick Thistle, the butt of gags a plenty from Rangers and Celtic fans. Which was unfair because the seventies Thistle were a miraculous success, but was better than being the butt of butts a plenty from the same.

Anyway. The song relates to when Alan Rough did a Richard Madely, walking out of a shop without paying for an item of paltry value, in this case mincemeat. Hence a weekly serenading from opposing fans.

It's quite funny, in a disposable sort of way. But I'm not sure why it works so well to sooth my squalling brain. Perhaps because it takes me to late seventies football. Now, I'm only vaguely interested in the weekly goings on in the Premiership. But football has been around me all my life. Nowadays, I find myself boning up on the results before going home to see my parents. But the era of Steve Heighway, Pat Rice, Jim Cannon and Jock Stein, and Alan Rough, holds a deep imaginative allure for me.

In 1978 I supported Scotland during the World Cup in Argentina. 'England cannae do it cuz they didnae qualify', as the song of the time ran, after all. And so, partisan issues of my Scottish mum and English dad were temporarily postponed.

I suppose I feel the safety and certainty of childhood in the song, now with an adult, sarcastic twist that would have quite passed me by at the time. The faces of players of that era are so burnt into my psyche that I feel I can imagine the expression of mild annoyance flickering across Rough's face under a sustained barrage of phlegmy heckles.

There is something perfect about the stolen item in question, as well. The mince 'n tatties Scotsman may be as much of a stereotype as the jellied eel troughing cockney, but the idea of a Scottish crowd singing 'Where's the mincemeat?' just brings me a smile. And where's the harm in that, I asks yer?

Technorati tags:
Alan Rough
mincemeat
squall

A true patriot

2007-02-12T22:27:00.000Z

Dayne Gilbey. Step forward the UK's first martyr in the campaign for enforced sterilisation. A man who endured 5 hours of pain to have the Great British breakfast fry-up permanently tattooed on his head. Explaining his decision, Gilbey said: "My friends and family keep asking me why I'm doing this. For me it's just something different which has never been done before."

I guess the thing is he can always grow hair over it and all. But when it starts receding. Whoa!

Dr Quirky, BSc, PhD, MSc Napoli

2007-02-12T22:20:00.000Z

Whilst attending a quirky wedding in Dorset last weekend, I took an early evening stroll along the Sidmouth waterfront. Quite without warning I actually entered a moment of history.

There on the stormy horizon lay the slumbering hulk of the MSc Napoli (I didn't realise ships could receive academic honours), a tragic sight that captivated the hearts of the Great British Public this January. Despite its atmospheric, emotional mood, this photo is not by a professional but by my very own hand.

I would be lying if I said I wasn't moved. And a distinct lack of memorial or book of condolence was quite frankly a slap in the face. I hope this publication will serve to fill that gap for the time being.

If

2007-02-12T20:18:00.000Z

David Koresh had been christened Ian, would his sect have been called the Branch Ianian?

Savoury Saveur

2007-02-04T19:41:00.000Z

If you were to assemble a full evening meal using nothing but crisps, how would you do it?

For me, the key is to stick as close as possible to the classic menu of crisps. It seems unreasonable to respond to such a challenge with johnny-come-lately gastro-chips. These are, of course, muchly and reasonably derided elsewhere. My satire battery is not full enough to retread this territory. Just imagine Punt and Dennis talking about it with their trademark imaginative and surprising humour.

So. Prawn Cocktail for starters? I think I might opt for the Skips, the maize snack variant. Not just because of a long held fondness for Giant Haystacks (BTW did anyone reading this tell me that they knew the women who used to clean his wrestling costume? And it had more skidmarks than a Croydon carpark? If so, well done.) No, but I think the gentler flavour of the Skip would spark the appetite better than the harsher Walkers PC, say.

When stepping into the main course, and considering options, one notices for the first time what crisps, actually, are. They seem to mimic the bits on the edge of the plate. Salt and vinegar. Cheese and onion. Even tomato sauce. So, for the main dish, the choice comes down to Frazzles/ smoky bacon crisps, or Roast Beef flavour Monster Munch. If you would suggest brown hula hoops here, consider yourself banned from these pages. We don't need your sort.

Now the glory days of the Munch are long gone, of course. But for those not lucky enough to try the roast beef variety, it had the oppressive fleshiness of pedigree chum kept in the toe of a wellington boot. Great days. Perhaps I would get one of my five-a-day with a pickled onion monster munch or to. Or, for those on a budget, a handful of 10p Transformasnacks.

The dessert is a quandry. And an ironic quandry at that. For many packed lunches, it is the crisps that serve as afters. Unless you had a yoghurt. But you will struggle to find a decent sweet crisp. Plantain fritters are about as close as you are going to get, and that isn't close. So, swiftly on to the cheese board. A classic Golden Wonder cheese and onion, Cheesy Wotsits and Quavers. Just about ready for a good cigar. Hey now there's an idea - tobacco flavour crisps...

Technorati tags:
crisps, Monster Munch, Hula Hoops, Giant Haystacks

The Touch of Death

2007-01-26T08:29:00.000Z

Fiona Phillips is the embodiment of car-crash daytime television. Crass, ill-informed and fundamentally moronic, no-one escapes from an encounter with the haggard sunbed disaster untainted. Not even Billy Bragg. I had switched over to GMTV just as Fiona was in the middle of a live two-way interview with Billy from Hive Beach, one of the beaches affected by the oil slick from the damaged SS Napoli.

Billy was wearing a semi-Barbour jacket and has clearly been on the pies, so it took me quite a while to be certain that this man who was appealling for local residents to come and help with the clean-up of the beach at the weekend was the same angry political firebrand of past.

So the interview comes to an end and it goes something like this:

FP: Well, thanks Billy for coming on the show and good luck with the clean-up. In fact I've been humming one of your songs all morning. Shipbuilding.

BB: (looks embarassed.)

FP (to co-host Andrew Castle): such a good song

BB: it was Elvis Costello

FP: (aghast) oh gosh. Sorry my researcher told me it was one of your songs.

BB: (embarassed) I wish it was. It's a great song.

FP: Oh well thanks Billy anyway.

FP: (to AC) so what are Billy's most famous tunes ?

AC: (looks flustered)

FP: Never mind. Anyway. This morning you could be winning £20,000.....

Technorati tags:
GMTV, Fiona Phillips, Billy Bragg, Elvis Costello

Great London Writing

2007-01-25T11:09:00.000Z

Like much of the best graffiti, this piece found near Old Street tube is both confounding and amusing.

A simple bawdy gag ('Sit on Myspace') gains a satirical power from being scrawled on the blank, silent walls of a 'Private Shop'. The necessarily euphemistic name of the shop adds further gusto, in comparison, to the writing. Even better, there is an inexpicable word ('fortress') in the window.

As an imprecation it doesn't quite work. It's difficult to work out the point the writer is making about the shop, Myspace, or his/her relationship with the world at large. And thus, it takes its place in the great London tradition of nonsense graffiti.

Technorati tags:
Graffiti, Bad Science, London, Myspace

A dirty threesome

2007-01-23T14:28:00.000Z

Dr Quirky goes serious, in conversation with Blogmarch

Yesterday, the Independent does this big full page splash about Blue Monday.

Using “mathematical equations”, Dr Cliff Arnall, psychologist and former tutor at Cardiff University, has worked out that January 22nd is officially the most depressing day of the year.

This bloke does the same thing every year, and still gets it in the bloody papers. Last year it was revealed that he was simply producing some 'boffin' thing for a travel company to get publicity for cheap holidays at this time of year. This year it’s the RAC taking advantage of a lazy newspaper looking for some light-hearted filler.

As for that Edmund King cnut from the RAC. What the funk is he talking about here?? "We hope motorists will rise to the challenge of 'beat blue Monday' day and find ways of beating the commuting blues," said the foundation's chief executive Edmund King."Travelling smarter rather than longer is part of the answer, while putting a great song on the stereo is a proven mood-lifter."

How can you swap longer for smarter in a traffic jam?!?!

Anyway, Dr Cliff Arnall has previous on this as exposed by the Ben Goldacre’s brilliant Bad Science column. He’s one of a number of "whackydemics" happy to perpetuate the caricature of scientific boffins using “mathematical equations” to measure daft things. Check out the amusing clarification by Cardiff University which they clearly insisted on.

Technorati tags:
Dr Cliff Arnall, Bad Science, Blue Monday, boffin

What I Don't Want

2007-01-22T22:11:00.000Z

I really don't want a FLAME WAR, you know. Not a bar of it. Just in case you were wondering. You might have come to the conclusion that cyber conflict was right up there at the top of my ambitions for Jan/Feb 07. I'm not sure what would have given you that impression. You are wrong, anyway, so wrong. You see, I just don't want to get involved in such a thing.

I don't see things changing in the near future, either. I think I'm unlikely to develop a yen for a FLAME WAR. It is of no appeal.

If I haven't made myself clear, I'm not looking for any sort of computer-based exchange of rhetorical hostility. It's the last thing I want to do. Hate the idea. Hate it. Far too many other things going on in my life at the moment.

And don't think you can tempt me in with your coquettish games. You see, if I had the time to get fully greased up up in a FLAME WAR I'd do it in style. I would display the awesome technical nous and withering array of slapdowns that has become my FLAME WAR hallmark. Or it would have done, if I were interested in FLAME WARS. Which I'm not.

Soviet Bus Stops

2007-01-20T09:29:00.000Z

Look at these. They're amazing.

Link found via the wonderful Things magazine site.

Technorati tags:
Soviet bus stops

Making World History

2007-01-18T10:58:00.000Z

Result! I have officially complained to OFCOM about Big Brother. I’m one of the record breaking 21,000 complainants and I’ve got the email to prove it. I think it’s up there in my Top 3 alongside queuing overnight to sign the Diana book of condolence and taking part in last year’s UK’s biggest Flash Mob event in Trafalgar Square. In fact, it was one of the easier ones. They’ve even got a shortcut on the homepage which takes you straight to the application form.

If you want to do the same don't forget to save a printed copy of the application for the scrapbook. To be honest, it was quite hard working out what to say as I don’t actually watch Big Brother but I wanted to sound authentic. Some of my friends have secured tickets for the eviction event this Friday and I’m very jealous. I think it will be historic and they’ve spent all week working on getting the placards right so they get a really good spot in front of the barriers and maybe even talk to Davina.

Technorati tags:
OFCOM, Big Brother, Shilpa, Racialism

Dead Christmas Trees. A Series.

2007-01-17T17:02:00.000Z

Technorati tags:
Dead Christmas Trees,

Function vs Form - Ultimate Smackdown

2007-01-17T12:02:00.000Z

Due to standard IT restrictions on the downloading of software, I’ve been stuck with MSN Messenger version 1.0 for a very long time. It’s deprived me of a more sophisticated repertoire of animated emoticons like the barfing Pacman, the chance to see your funny ID photo and enigmatic applications such as Chalkboard.

So the day our IT administrator came to install some XP updates and then left to go and attend to a minor Blackberry crisis, I seized the moment and starting feverishly downloading all manner of updates.

5 minutes later I had a brand new shiny Windows Live Messenger and 5 minutes later I had spat it out of my PC. Because if Microsoft are consciously trying to be the absolute inverse of beautiful Apple user simplicity (which seems to be quite popular these days), then Windows Live Messenger is the glorious apotheosis of their master project.

It’s the ultimate intrusive Cillit Bang headfuck. The wonderfully discreet and minimalist Messenger 1.0 box that subtly nestled in the corner is over. Microsoft have clearly decided that WLM is the ONLY thing you’ll ever need your computer for. So you now have two windows open automatically which obscure the entire screen. And the menu on your left features all manner of branded links to websites they deem you would like to have, ads flash along the bottom in scrolling text, and the dialogue box is twice the size of its predecessor.

I’ve always disliked the smug anti-Microsoft tribalism of the Maclifers but I feel, like in Graham Greene’s brilliant novel The Quiet American, “sooner or later, one has to take sides”. On one side, maximised functionality that steamrollers any consideration of aesthetics or actually starting from the point of meeting a consumer need. On the other, a responsive, design led philosophy that seems to make our lives easier, simpler and just that little bit more classy.

And now of course we have the iPhone. Don't expect the first iteration to be that great. New Apple products and Operating Systems are notoriously glitch heavy first time round and that's a worry for them. We can manage without our iPod for a couple of weeks whilst it's down the garage but people have basic assumptions of cast iron reliability with their mobile phones. Maybe the prohibitively high price is designed to attract only the most evangelical Mac addicts who won't rock the boat. Blogmarch respectfully suggests you wait for the third mini iPod equivalent version cos by then they'll have it cracked.

Technorati tags:
iPhone, Windows Messenger, Graham Greene, Quiet American

My Tourette Shame

2007-01-12T08:38:00.000Z

OK, so no posts for ten days, then a Celebrity Big Brother one. Whatever happened to the great ideals of the publication? People have been to prison for sentiments expressed therein, refusing to be silenced by the censorious spirit of Power.

When I say 'therein', I mean the whole 'writing things down' genre, you understand. Not Blogmarch specifically.

In recent days the downtime has been taken up, in bursts of a few minutes at a time, with observing the work of Mr Donny Tourette and his 'band', the Towers of London.

I know, I know. But take a look. And another. And for the full Spinal monty, watch them react to a lukewarm review in the NME.

Points that should be made. Forget the risible debate about whether Donny comes from Squatney or Buckinghamshire. Reflect on this. Doesn't he look like Paul Kaye aka Dennis Pennis? [Include timewasting theoretical interlude here, comparing Tourette 'singer' and Pennis 'interviewer', and their parasitical 'meta' relationship to their host industry. Pause to wipe self off.]

Also, this 'punk' thing. To me, they sound like they are ripping off The Damned more than the Pistols, while their look derives from Motley Crue/Dogs D'Amour, not punk. I wish I'd been a Punk Rocker with Elnette in my hair. The whole thing is, in fact,like something from that wonderful subgenre, 'punks created by TV executives' (see Sid Snot, and plenty of drama school boys playing the bad boyfriend in late seventies Brit sitcoms).

[The following paragraph features a false memory. Although Bolan and The Damned were fans of each other, there is no footage of The Damned being interviewed by Bolan. This must be a conflation of Bolan's own comments at the time about punk, and the fact that The Damned supported Bolan on tour at the time. Please excuse Blogmarch's ignorance and consider the following paragraph in the light of this. And thanks to vigilant truth defender, Mr Gavin Ross (I presume Gavin Ross, editor of A Thousand Mark Feld Charms, which looks ace), for pointing this out]

Ever seen the footage of Marc Bolan interviewing The Damned in 1977? Somehow the jeepster is transformed into the Vic Reeves trouser-rubbing man, his gaze lingering on these rough boys with their rough rock'n roll. Grr. Weirdly, Donny seems to be both The Damned and Marc Bolan at this lowpoint of both their careers. Or, at least, a cartoon of said artistes made with shitty twig by a drunk salmon.

Technorati tags:
Donny Tourette, Sid Snot, drunk salmon

Here's a Thing

2007-01-02T09:57:00.000Z

While waiting at Moorgate station for an eastbound circle line tube the other day, I found myself reflecting on the magical distortions of time underground. One street level minute will take sixty, recognisably long, seconds. But take the short trip to beneath your feet and, as all Londoners will tell you, things cease to be so simple. A London Underground minute is worth anything up to four or five normal ones.

Which got me to thinking about the term "cotton-pickin'". You are most likely to hear it in the term "Now wait just one cotton-pickin' minute..." The sentence would seem to require an adjective that emphasises the shortness of the minute in question - it is 'just' the one, not worth refusing the request to wait. But of all the professions that make the time whizz by, I would have thought cotton picking is rather low on the list.

Technorati tags:
Moorgate, time

Euroquirk

2006-12-30T16:08:00.000Z

Back refreshed from a lovely yuletide excursion with the wife, I cannot report much quirkieness in continental europe, much to my (and no doubt your) intense frustration. However, whilst always at pains to sample local fayre, I must say the following two culinary delights caused great mirth and merriment in the Quirkie household.

First, on the train from Malmo to Copenhagen (across Europe's longest bridge no less), I had a very enjoyable Plopp (1).

Not to be outdone, on the return leg, specifically on the overnight train from Hamburg to Brussels, I ate some Spunk (2).

Ahem.

(1) Plopp is a curiously flavoured Swedish choco-biscuit with caramel.
(2) Spunk is a deliciously salty licorish pastille from Germany.

Technorati tags:
spunk, plopp

Pressed Down

2006-12-29T12:49:00.000Z

Could there be a bleaker artistic existence than to be a band member of the Ordinary Boys right now ? They might have been grateful for being saved a trip to Brighton's JobCentrePlus by singer Preston's successful turn on Celebrity Big Brother. They might have been uneasy at the gradual shift away from their vaguely mod-ish roots to appease their new teenybopper audience. But surely they've hit rock bottom as they find themselves in the ignominious position of being relegated to backing band in their new moniker - Preston & The Ordinary Boys.

It's not 100% official yet. I first heard the new name on Capital Radio as their latest execrable effort "I Luv U" was being aired. On the website they've snuck it into a few very recent news releases but as of yet it's not up in lights. But I guess it's been decided that it's necessary to signpost that yes it is "Preston and his band" to the gormless numbties seduced by the tediously contrived Preston and Chantelle love story.

Anyway, anonymous members of The Ordinary Boys, you surely know it's just a deferred stay of execution for you. The music's shitter than ever and in the artistic veer towards the mainstream who needs a full-time band ? I predict by August we'll be seeing the debut of Preston & Chantelle. And what better vehicle than the Children in Need 2007 charity single ?

Blogmarch got it all sussed.

Technorati tags:
Ordinary Boys, Preston

Arsenal 2 Everton 2

2006-12-25T23:07:00.000Z

If Highbury was the library then the Emirates is... whatever's even quieter than a library. At least Highbury as a ground had presence, heritage, an aura. But this... it's the ultimate symbol of football's Faustian pact with the capitalist forces of globalisation.

Fair enough in money terms it was a no-brainer. For as long as Wenger's Arsenal have been the most pleasing on the eye Premiership team by a mile, they've had 20,000 fans-worth of unrealised income just sat there on a waiting list whilst Man U have been steadily expanding away to a fat 70,000+.

In architectural terms, the Emirates is an impressive site. Its undulating 3rd tier gives it a character and unique signature that any number of identical Premiership modern stadia can't match. But it's in the vast hypermart of a club shop "The Gunnery" when you know that football has gone to hell in a handcart.

Writ large on a wall beside an astonishing 17 separate checkouts (including 2 express lanes for the 5 items or less) is the kind of testimonial that you'd expect a bank or an estate agent to have to plaster in lights. Which makes sense because someone has to spell out why we would ever happen to like them. But when it gets to this - when they feel the obligation to somehow spell out the virtues of Gooner "fandom" as a former Canadian colleague of mine used to term English football culture, then I'm afraid all is lost.

Technorati tags:
Arsenal, Emirates Stadium

Wikipedia Death Row

2006-12-24T21:04:00.000Z

I am currently complicit in the pending execution of a self-important, unremarkable and wholly unnotable music artist who has penned his own inflated Wikipedia biography. With a bit of luck and a prevailing wind, this pretentious turd's tragic B&W photo of himself in a crude film noir pose complete with wistfully held cigarette will be no longer come Boxing Day.

I can't tell you who it is because I don't want to get rumbled by said artist himself but as compensation here is the full list of Wikipedia entries awaiting vaporisation.

Technorati tags:
Wikipedia Deletion, film noir

Shit Things

2006-12-13T15:23:00.000Z

Being an occasional series where Blogmarch vents gastrically on our underperforming world.

Number One

"X just got Y", where X is a consumer product (here including tv companies, celebs and even days of the week, as "Friday night just got...") and Y is a comparative adjective: bigger, sexier, annoying-er.

Oh it did, did it? Just this moment? And I missed it? Thanks for the 'heads up'. I'll have to make sure to pay closer attention to these developments in the future. I'd hate to find out about the incremental progress of your product at a rate slower than almost immediate. Thanks for keeping me in the 'loop'. I owe you one, piece of marketing.

But how did it happen? So, X just got Y-er did it? Was noone else involved? Was it truly, as you seem to imply, somehow inherent in X all along? Whichever way, one thing is for sure - nothing will ever be the same again. The world just got crappier.

Technorati tags:
Shit Thing, just got

Salt Lake Samba

2006-12-13T11:58:00.000Z

RSL. In the UK it stands most commonly for Radio Station Licence. In the fringe sports arena that is US Soccer RSL means one of the newest Major League Soccer franchises to sprout from dust, Utah's Real Salt Lake who play at the amusingly mundane sounding Rice-Eccles Stadium. Yes, stung by accusations that blogmarch is becoming a navel gazing muso's retreat, we is talking sport.

The only reason I'm aware of RSL's existence is the earth-shattering news that the Washington DC's teenage hotshot sensation Freddy Adu, once dubbed the "new Pelé", America's first (Ghana-born) soccer superstar is on the move.

Having made a sensational debut at the age of 14, complete with million dollar Nike sponsorship deal in pocket, Adu burst onto the MLS scene in 2004 and achieved an underwhelming 11 goals in 87 appearances. Last month, Adu completed a two-week training stint at Manchester United with not even a polite hint of a potential interest in taking up the offer from S'rAlex. The only feedback we have is that old red nose felt he had a "suspect temperament" but let's suggest that's a smart bit of Nike-managed hearsay.

Because by overtly telling the truth ie "I didn't sign him because he was crap" would have burst any remaining pretence that Freddie Adu is anything but the new Cherno Samba. Such was the hype around Samba's potential when still turning out for the England Schoolboys, the far-sighted Championship Manager chaps had him as a first choice Liverpool striker with 10 England caps and 2 goals to his name. In reality, Samba left the dizzy heights of Malaga B to make his English league debut at the age of 21 as a 78th minute substitute for Plymouth Argle.

Late to Market

2006-12-11T22:37:00.000Z

I hadn't really grasped the astonishing wonderment of iTunes Music store until a couple of recent 79p song purchases. Of course, from the start it allowed me to indulge in my love of outstanding pop anthems which I wouldn't have otherwise had in my discreet possession. The embarassment of going into any half-decent record store to hand over cash for Rachel Stevens' Sweet Dreams my LA Ex is, I suspect akin to trying to buy a copy of Razzle Razzle in a crowded WHSmiths. I would stress I have done neither. Which reminds me of an unnamed friend who used to tell me that his favourite place to buy jazz mags was always small newsagents staffed by a wizened old Asian lady that he felt able to dominate. But I digress quite significantly.

I have also purchased on my pop tour Britney Spears' finest musical moment, the superb Toxic and the unquestionably brilliant Crazy in Love by Beyonce. But these are obvious choices. The more impressive are those tunes which I would never had otherwise been able or bothered to buy. In olden days I would simply have forgotten them until the next time I heard them by chance some five years later.

And so I find myself, in a matter of 5 clicks, barely 5 minutes after I first heard it, in possession of Altered Images' wonderful Don't Talk To Me About Love. Despite the incredulity of others, I'd never heard it before and only a random watching of TOTP2 enlightened me to its existence. Barely days later, Magic FM of all the stations in the all the world, reacquainted me with the utterly sublime "Duel" by bonkers German 80s arthouse synth band Propaganda. 79p worth of heaven, finally mine after many years of vaguely trying to remember looking for it the next time I'm in town..

Technorati tags:
Propaganda, Altered Images, Razzle

The Currency We've Spent

2006-12-11T14:21:00.000Z

Blogmarch's more disco-enhanced readers may already be familiar with the work of West End Girls, the pair of Swedish teenagers who cover Pet Shop Boys with a suitable lack of gusto. They are great, partly cos the taller one is 'Chris', and the shorter one is 'Neil'. That is to say, they aren't doing an impression, but performing 'after' the PSB: they employ dogs, builders hats and dayglo miserablism, but leave it at that. This gives them room to be thrillingly different, while bringing a lovely dumbness to the songs. And the singer has that clogged up, Eurobeat voice so associated with crackers Scando-pop. It just pushes the Pet Shop Boys' careful balance of disco and songwriterliness hard over towards the spangly side. The effect is vapid and disposable in a way you imagine Neil and Chris really enjoying. Well, Chris at least. Make sure you hear the version of Suburbia recorded for The Sims (the Booglurbia mix) by the way. Yer Marshall Mcluhan would get into a frenzy about it all.

Compare and contrast with Devo 2.0. Coneheaded motorik freaks par excellence, the original outfit (below) spent two decades producing some of the weirdest sarky pop and rock ever made. Now Disney have assembled a team of fresh-faced apple pielets (above) to gonk along to a bowdlerised selection of the old tunes, with the original band's full participation. The band's wikipedia entry notes that 'Jerkin' back and forth' has now become 'a perky song about dancing'. Although all this might provoke an immediate revulsion, on reflection it does seem very, well, Devo.

Technorati tags:
West End Girls, Devo 2.0, gonks, Mcluhan

Top 10 (non-sexual) Small Pleasures

2006-12-07T22:36:00.000Z

in no particular order

1. Vindication on the Bus or Walk option

The smug self-satisfaction of a gamble that's paid off. Legs stretched thanks to a brisk walk and no bus passed you by. I AM A WINNER! I AM A WINNER! Meanwhile the losers at the bus stop are still standing there and even when the bus comes it's going to be so cramped that they probably won't get on.

2. An Expense Form completed

Weeks of guilt as receipts swell your wallet to virtual implosion. You're heading towards your overdraft limit and there's all this virtual money just asking to be redeemed. Every day you're burning with the sense of injustice at the interest-free loan you're giving the company. So you knuckle down. Dust down the diary. Invent the specious reason for that unexplainable taxi receipt. Watch the numbers tot up. Sign off the claim with a flourish and skip gaily down to the accounts department. Closure... and the wonderful knowledge that cashback is on the way.

Convenience Store Goes Dirrrrty

2006-12-04T22:43:00.000Z

One of my favourite named stores in South London. Granted it is on a corner but I can't think why they added the extra N except as a subtle homage to the Christina Aguileira track. No sign of counter staff in leather chaps last time I looked which would be faithful to the video of course.

Dr Quirkie's World of Quirk (2)

2006-12-02T11:38:00.000Z

I was contemplating my next world of quirk entry last night, whilst cradling a pint of Badger's Blansford Fly in a pub in Thames Ditton. Somewhat distracted by the entrance of Adrian Mills, he of Esther Rantzen's "That's Life" fame (along with Gavin and Doc Cox), and living embodiment of Alan Partridge in looks and 'attitood', I rested my pint on this incredible beer mat.

This time I didn't find the world of quirk, the world of quirk found me. Life's like that.

The shame of it

2006-12-01T10:34:00.000Z

Went to Hoxton's trendy Hoxton to see avant soundscape mutterers Jackie-O Motherfucker. They were splendid, particularly their rickety take on Public Enemy's open-goal satire on US TV, 'She watch channel zero'.

They are the sort of hairy band (or perhaps 'collective') who grant the viewer much visual pleasure, though they may well disdain from such antiquated notions as 'putting on a show'. It was fun to spot extra members crouched at the back of Cargo's miniscule stage, honking or battering away at niche instruments. The harder you looked, the more there seemed to be.

However, I seem to be haunted by goons spilling their lousy opinions all over the music. I don't gain from hearing some high-collared Hackett expressing his view that a 25-minute choppy, abstract interpretation of an old American folk song is 'sprawling' or 'indulgent'. Similarly, I got to see the miraculous jazz-pensioner Jimmy Scott a few weeks ago, to have half his set blended with unflattering comments about his idiosyncratic voice. What did you expect? Or more importantly, what did I expect? If you don't want to hear the hell that is other people's opinions, stay home with your boxed sets.

Incidentally, I proved my peccable jazz credentials by gobbing on the next day about Jimmy's moving performance to all and sundry, dropping googlefacts such as 'he was Billie Holiday's favourite singer you know... Oh you haven't heard of him?' I was halfway through this routine to a taxi driver, who said 'so he's got the same name as the tennis player?' I had been lauding the hair-on-back-of-neck-erecting powers of Mr Big Racket himself, Jimmy Connors. You can't delete that sort of retrospective shame. When word gets out I may well be barred from jazz, and possibly tennis, for that.

Technorati tags:
Jackie-O Motherfucker, Hoxton, Jimmy Scott, shame

Banish Unwanted Plaque

2006-11-28T10:26:00.000Z

If ever there was a story that symbolised the murky tabloid exploitation of an impressionable, grief-stricken individual, it's the Sally-Anne Bowman murder. There's something distasteful about the manner in which this story has been kept alive with "exclusive" new photos of Sally-Anne's amateur modelling career trailed on the front page in managed phases.

And it seems that egged on by a media all too happy to encourage Mrs Bowman's public exhibition of grief and give them another excuse to print a photo of the "next Kate Moss", she has become rather obsessed with the installation of a permanent plaque in the road where she was murdered.

Understandably the residents of Blenheim Crescent aren't particularly happy with the notion of their street becoming a haven for ghouls and grief tourists. Anyway, thankfully Croydon Council have rejected her application, leading to Mrs Bowman predictably lashing out at the blameless residents by accusing them of "gloating and look at the whole situation like we've lost, but they don't know the full story."

Well thank funk for Croydon Council but I wouldn't put it past the NOTW launching a campaign to "honour Sally-Anne" because of course it's what she would have wanted. As for the precedent this would set I can only shudder at the thought of 12 separate memorial plaques outside the unfortunate former house of Fred West.

Technorati tags:
Croydon Council, Sally-Anne Bowman, tabloid

Back In The DWP (nee DHSS)

2006-11-25T23:12:00.000Z

Doesn't work now does it ?

A random Guardian article recently referenced what is, on reflection, my all-time favourite Half Man Half Biscuit track title - Tending The Wrong Grave For 23 Years.

Fittingly it was from their most recent EP release in 2003, Saucy Haulage Ballads. I've no idea how it sounds but as the owner of just the one HMHB album - the seminal Back in The DHSS I think I can make a pretty good guess.

Why is it funny ? Well it's best not to over-analyse these things but there is a perfection in the "23" of the 23 years. Citing this as the best of the bunch is no mean praise. A quick glance at their exhaustive discography reveals an Aladdin's Cave of wonderful song titles through the years starting with the likes of Fuckin' Ell It's Fred Titmus, the seminal I Hate Nerys Hughes(that's her below), Outbreak of Vitas Gerulaitis, Christian Rock Concert and Yips (My Baby Got The).

They weren't all great. The more obvious puns (Paintball's Coming Home, 24 Hour Garage People) tended to fall flat. But there's always a stand out title just around the corner. Right down to the most recent album Achtung Bono they were still churning them out - Shit Arm, Bad Tattoo to name just one.

I am doing Half Man Half Biscuit a great injustice by referring only to the titles of their tracks. Despite the instant laffs, their lyrics had a stinging poetic brilliance often underpinned by supremely infectious choruses. The Wikipedia profile covers this in far greater detail.

Thinking small

2006-11-24T10:27:00.000Z

If a tree falls in a forest, but no-one writes about it on their blog, did it really happen? THINK ABOUT IT.

I read a story somewhere (on paper, I know that much) about a step forward in nanotechnology. At least I think I did. Apparently they have found a way of making the teeniest, tiniest cups that have ever been made. They measure a fentilitre. Or possibly a femalitre. I can't remember. Anyway, the excellent thing is that these new cups are designed to be inkpots for nanobots. If you share Blogmarch's admiration for the very small, you will enjoy the image of a pensive micro-machine licking the end of its tiny quill before dipping into an even more diminutive receptacle of small ink.

However. As a serious journalist, I attempted to confirm my sources before writing this piece. But my searches using all the terms mentioned have drawn a blank. I have a feeling it might have been in Private Eye, but I left that on the tube. And maybe it was satire – I can never never quite tell when they are joking, those clever types.

I once wrote an essay about a Saxon burial trove in Sussex that contained a chest that had been traded and pillaged all the way from (what is now) northern India, bearing marks of the cultures it had passed through. This demonstrated the active trading routes of the so-called dark ages, and the fact that those people were not as culturally distinct from each other as we used to assume. My tutor liked my essay, but wondered where I had read about this particular object. I thought she had told us about it in her most recent seminar, complete with slides. It seems I had fallen asleep and dreamt it.

I still don't entirely believe that the chest doesn't exist. As for the nanobot inkpots, they may be there already, just too small to see.

Technorati tags:
nanobot, Private Eye, inkpot

5am start - Business Day Trip in Euroland

2006-11-22T22:55:00.000Z

Bond Double Header

2006-11-19T20:44:00.000Z

On a weekend when blogmarch was more than pleasantly surprised by the quality of Casino Royale, a less impressive interpretation of the Bond genre was being executed elsewhere. Execrable is a word I try to use more often than I currently do, and the BBC newsreaders' Bond sketch for Children in Need, plumbed depths that had already been well established in previous years' performances.

Go see for yourself. I defy you not to cringe at least 10 times. And for those who claim it's for a good cause - piss off.

James Bond
Casino Royale
Children in Need
newsreaders
BBC

YouBruv

2006-11-18T12:10:00.000Z

It started on Tuesday May 23, 2003. 3 years and 6 months later, it ended. I have changed jobs, spawned children, moved house twice. And now, the prize is in my hands. A £50 cheque from YouGov for my faultless participation in 83 online surveys over that time. The system tried to dominate me but it's me who perservered and came through when others fell aside.

It began slowly, just 7 surveys in 2003 at 50p a time. And I despaired at my paltry fund of £4.50 including £1 joining fee. Just 7 again in 2004 had bumped me up to the pointless sum of £12. 2005 was the breakthrough year. 23 surveys including a halycon month in June when I completed 8 surveys in 17 days.

The sudden upturn in my fortunes came about because YouGov launched something called the BrandIndex survey. This involved regularly asking the same monotonous questions about the same brands every bloody time. Had I heard either good or bad about this list of detergents ? What about perfumes ? What about hi-fis? And now what about these food brands? But in between the bread and butter of BrandIndex, there would be the occasional frisson of excitement when the 75p and £1 surveys came in. For the extra cash I'd take my time to be diligent and insightful in my mouse clicks.

I was ruthlessly efficient. You have to be. One friend quit after 3 surveys because he said they took too long. In trying to give his answers he had spent over 20 minutes completing one particularly survey about mortgage providers. Five minutes is the golden rule. Be fast, but be consistent. Practise your mouse navigation skills so you can seamlessly glide through the survey.

Towards that £50 mark the surveys began to dry up and I started to panic. Don't tell me they could play this dirty. Suddenly taking me off the map just because I was close to the moment of payout. But then in one final joyful week - 3 surveys including one 75p beauty pushed me over the line to nirvana.

But now I've made it I don't know what to do. I have to buy something which reflects the sweat and tears I have committed to the cause. Please help.

YouGov
BrandIndex

Bonnet in Need

2006-11-17T21:14:00.000Z

I'm sitting here hyperventilating with excitement for the big event of the Children in Needathon. I think you know what I'm talking about. The usual suspects will be there - Kaplinsky, Raworth, Jezza Bowen, the slightly creepy Dermot Murnaghan and all-round good egg and "middle aged Tintin" Bill thingy from BBC Breakfast. This year it's a Bond theme. Clever eh ?

But for once my voyeuristic thrill at watching Fiona Bruce reveal a naughty glimpse of thigh is slightly sullied by the presence of Rob Bonnet.

It's barely a year since this po-faced sports presenter for BBC Breakfast disappeared from our terrestrial screens. So what's he doing front of stage on bass guitar, posing John Deacon-like in his usual stiff manner. He doesn't really play the bass guitar - so what's he doing there ?

He was rightly replaced by a younger, fresher model in the form of over eager pup Chris Hollins. The absolute antithesis of Bonnet, Hollins likes nothing other than getting kitted up to go rucking and mauling down with the professionals, mugging for the camera as he bungee jumps off Lambeth Bridge to the guffaws back in the studio. Hollins has risen so quickly that he's even got a Come Ice Dancing type sketch on Children in Need tonight all to himself.

Bonnet never demeaned himself like the current lot. He just stuck to his job. He reported sport. Of course with the noble exception of that one night a year, when he more than happy to show he was game as the rest of them.

His farewell sports report was memorably (to me)tinged with an undertone of bitterness. He tersely confirmed that he "wasn't disappearing completely from your screens" but could be found on the graveyard of News 24 doing "special reports". Of course, before he left he got his greatest hits montage. But it was made even more tragic by the sheer uneventfulness of his key moments. Here's Rob reporting from outside a stadium in Calgary. Here's Rob reporting inside a stadium somewhere.

Rob, the king is gone but clearly within the high ranking personnel at Children in Need, he's not forgotten.

Children in Need
Rob Bonnet
Promotion

Give them a big hand

2006-11-17T16:03:00.000Z

As tonight is Children in Need, I thought I'd put together a collection of a few of my fave whacky stunts that the Great British Public are pulling this year, all in the name of raising a few pennies for Auntie Beeb and Pudsey the bear.

I don't mean the stuff that gets all the big press - brilliant as that always is - but the local heroes who are actually getting off their a***s and do some crazy stuff, all in the name of a great cause.

First, let's give a big hand to Newcastle-Under-Lyme and Keele University Conservative Future. Last year the right-leaning funsters put their heads together and dyed their hair blue (the traditional colour associated with Britain's Conservative Party).

This year, chairman Owen Meredith will be going one step further and having his leg hair shaved off on the big day. "Although I am somewhat concerned about losing my leg hair," the twenty year old marketing and politics student admitted, "my worries are nothing compared to what thousands of children and their carers face every day."

But the fundraising frivolities aren't restricted to the potty Potteries. Workers at ACT Training in Cardiff have been holding lizards all week - all in the name of raising some much needed cash. The creepy crawlies have been leant by the big-hearted crew at Fangtastic in Caerphilly.

And the list of unknowns pulling off crazy stunts in the name of a good cause doesn't end there. Mulleted upsetter and 'comic' novelist Bruce Dickinson will be flying members of the public in his personal jet for money. Did you know he has a pilot's licence? We can presume he does.

Terry Wogan will be kicking off coverage of this year's event at 7pm (GMT) on BBC1, with human avatar Natasha Kaplinsky and Fearne Cotton, Jo Whiley's little sister. Nothing has leaked about what they will be getting up to, but Wogan has promised "no-holds barred fundraising". So get your credit cards ready - my money's on Kaplinsky with an eye-gouge.

charity
Keele
Bruce Dickinson
gouge

World of Quirk

2006-11-16T20:53:00.000Z

Good afterevening, and welcome to the world of quirkie. Gather round and take a knee as I introduce you to the wilder side of life. First up is Mr Michael Hughes, an intrepid phototourist. He visits tourists attractions, buys a tacky gift, and naturally superimposes the actual attraction with its tacky reproduction... using only his fingers. For example, here is New York New York's famous Statue of Cup'o'tea.

This man is bus-mental.

And the piece of resistance. You will quite literally never look at a petit dejeuner the same way after seeing his virtual croissant. Nutter.

Quirk
phototourist
bus-mental

Keepin' it real

2006-11-16T13:08:00.000Z

It has been said before, but the best lines on Folsom Prison Blues aren't "shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die", they are in the moment at the heart of the song, where he imagines the people on the train going past his prison:

"I bet there's rich folks eating in a fancy dining car/ they're probably drinkin' coffee and smoking big cigars."

While the violence that put the character in his current position is remembered in the vaguest of details, this fictional image, summoned purely from the sound of the whistle of the train as it goes around the bend, is as clear as daylight. In Jamesian terms, the image is rendered alive by detail while life in prison remains tragically abstract. And yet, the couplet is crammed with reminders that this is fantasy - "I bet... probably".

Weirdly, it reminds me of a moment in this song: Shhh-it by Oi Polloi, a spirited attack on leading anarcho popstars Chumbawamba, sportingly made available on the tubthumpers' own website. Outraged by the perceived hypocrisy in signing to a major/letting songs be used on adverts/eating honey etc, the Scots noisy gits made this hilarious piece of bellyache. "You're shit... you're shit... you're fucking shit."
Anyway, once again the image that nails it is the most fictional. About a minute and a half through, one of the singers accuses the band of using roadies "while you sip wine backstage". I love that. Sip. Wine. Sellouts.

Folsom
Henry James
You're shit

Setting the quirk bar... high!

2006-11-16T08:02:00.000Z

To celebrate the appearance of the celebrated Dr Quirky (PhD Loop de Loop University 1991) on Blogmarch, thought I'd post this. It's the one man who can put the wacky flu up the good doctor himself - it's Daaaavid Lynch. And a cow.

Especially, note this high priest of caprice's straighter than straight final words - 'keep out of trouble'. Quirk that, Dr Quirky.

Quirkier than Pauline Quirk

2006-11-15T23:21:00.000Z

Yes - starting tomorrow we'll have a regular weekly column - Dr Quirky's World of Quirky. If there's something quirky going on anywhere in the world you can bet that Dr Quirky's nabbed it for his Quirkbag.

Some people have complained you see that the blogosphere is a magnet for ranting extremists and those with a mission to groom impressionable youngsters. Well not on Blogmarch.

Thought for the day

2006-11-15T06:48:00.000Z

Have been haunted about the story of Francis Bacon (below) and his death by chicken (right). According to popular history (ie probably made up, at least in part), the essayist and inventor of modern science got out of his carriage in Highgate one winter evening in 1626. To prove a point about his theory of refrigeration, he bought a chicken and encased it in snow. This all happened in the little Highgate Pond Square.

To cut a short story shorter, the chicken still rotted, but Bacon caught a chill and died soon after. Bizarrely, it is the chicken that is said to haunt the square to this day.

Seems an odd sort of celestial justice to me, though. I'm presuming that the chicken was dead when Bacon bought it - I find it hard to imagine even this most rigorous scientist dispatching (and presumably plucking and eviscerating) the bird on a whim. The bird was sitting in Ye Olde Poulterers waiting for some Early Modern Londoner's pot, anyway. The point being, what is this chicken-phantom's problem?

Or rather, why did this become a ghost story? I think it relates backwards - to a time less than half a century earlier when John Dee had been seen as a black magician for his scientific experiments, his animals his familiars. But it also looks forward to the post-enlightenment modern era, when any involvement by science in the 'way things are' is considered to be meddling with the natural order of things. And sometimes is.

The moral of this? It's either to watch out for ghostly turkey twizzlers amassing around the country, Day of the Dead-style, or make sure you wrap up warm this winter.

Hey Student Backdrop!

2006-11-14T14:23:00.000Z

“You fuckin make sure, you take care of them fuckin’ backdrops, they’re fuckin’ money, them! I won’t be fuckin’ happy if they’re not there!”

So said Mark E Smith to the now 43rd former member of The Fall on their disastrous US tour in early 2006. In this fascinating interview with Ben Pritchard on the background to the acrimonious departure of 3 members of The Fall, it's clear that the scandal of the lost backdrops started it all.

Now Blogmarch is a huge fan of The Fall and has seen them live more than 20 times at least. It's a bit of a running joke that the backdrops and accompanying T-shirt adaption is universally crap. But bearing in mind we now know just how precious they are to MES, this latest effort is quite possibly the worst ever. It looks like it's been produced on a dirty old sheet and designed for some half-hearted sixth former's art project. I mean look at it. It's not even been coloured in properly because the crayons were bought from some pound shop. And what's with the cuddly beaver in the CAT hard hat ? Is this the new Fall mascot ?

Most tragically, it doesn't even come close to covering the actual back screen of the stage let alone the drum kit.

On a lighter note

2006-11-14T11:43:00.000Z

This is a very odd looking cat, isn't it?

Goji Fraud

2006-11-13T22:31:00.000Z

I fucking hate "Dr" Gillian McKeith. Firstly because she is not a doctor in the sense of someone who is using that term to imply qualified medical or academic expertise from an accredited academic institution. I hate her even more for contributing to the culture of quackery and extortionate profiteering around the "superfoods" phenomenon. A trip to my local upmarket deli with requisite box shelves reaching up to the ceiling reveals that a piddlingly small packet of luxury muesli with added goji berries is yours for 11.99 sterling pounds.

And right next to that packet is McKeith's similarly costly range of goji berry products which feature "2000% more antioxidants than oranges; 500 times the amount of vitamin C by weight that oranges."

In her defence she does not at least make the utterly unsubstantiated claim that goji berries are used to fight cancer in China as even more unscrupulous pedlars in the US are still claiming.

Firstly, let's just get clear that this so-called "jewel of the Himalayas" (handy isn't it cos that makes it sound really expensive and rare) are actually more commonly known as wolfberries. And as for the anti-oxidant claim, Wikipedia's page on goji berries recognises without dispute that the central claim about wolfberries' supposed extraordinary anti-oxidant levels have yet to be recognised in any respectable peer reviewed academic journal.

The second claim, that these berries, have 500 times the amount of vitamin C by weight than oranges is similarly tenuous. If this were true, it is recognised "would make it one of the world's richest sources of vitamin C behind the Australian billygoat plum and the South American camu camu."

But in their dried format by which they are sold in the West, "the amount of vitamin C in dried berries is actually in a range of 29-148 mg per 100 grams of fruit, still a healthful serving amount similar to citrus fruits and raspberries." That's citrus fruits as in your pikey old common lemons, oranges and even if you're feeling a little exotic - limes.

There's something utterly depressing about the utter lack of scrutiny applied to individuals such as McKeith and the unsubstantiated claims featured on these packs. If you want to broadcast a TV advert, there is an organisation called the BACC which vets with a fine toothcomb every single product claim made in your advert, often requesting highly technical explanations behind those claims before you can go on air. That process doesn't seem to exist in the field of "alternative" healthfoods.

If anything, there's a well-established collusion between the likes of the Daily Mail and GMTV who churn out almost on a weekly basis another "the new superfood" feature for affluent and neurotic middle class folk to swallow whole before getting on the phone to their nearest bearded healthfood store owner to beg him to keep 3 jars aside for them.

There's a wonderful Japanese phrase from some new book I would plug if I could remember its name which collects interesting phrases from foreign languages with no English equivalent. The phrase is "muka muka" which means feeling so angry that you want to vomit. Well this goji berry scam is inducing some serious "muka muka" in me as I type and I'm off to go and drink some tap water.

goji
goji scam
Gillian McKeith

Breakfast of Hate

2006-11-13T11:49:00.000Z

Every morning I begin the day wracked with self-loathing at my sheer indolence and readiness to be taken for a ride by capitalist demons Oatso Simple. For the privilege of putting 30g of oats into a small bag I pay 4 times more (58.9p per 100g) than if I had just weighed it out myself (15.5p per 100g) from a box of the same company’s oats.

Some of you might argue that half a cup of oats is the equivalent but the truth is that porridge is a delicate creature. The slightest imbalance of weight to milk to microwave time (not forgetting the individual wattage of the machine) can render porridge totally unpalatable so it’s worth getting it right. With so many different size cups in my mug portfolio it’s a risk I’m not prepared to take.

I'll get my goat

2006-11-12T18:10:00.000Z

My flight back was cursed with repeated doses of this oddly offensive ad. I mean offensive in an Ignatius Reilly, hell in a handcart kind of way. Prolonged exposure to most ads tends to be to their detriment, but this one has really got into my brain. And what is the point of a blog if not for the passing on of noxious brainworms? I should say that the online version of the ad is in slightly better condition than the one I saw, which had the voices sounding slightly deeper, and less in sync. So the whole effect was even more 'Ambassador you are spoiling us'.

Ad makers, here's a tip: if you make something that sours after the first, say, three viewings, don't put it on a longhaul flight entertainment system. Especially one where the stupid control won't allow fast-forwarding without missing the vital first few minutes of the filmic treat the viewer is actually trying to watch. You can't do without the beginning of You, me and Dupree, after all, you'll be lost for the rest of the movie.

Anyway. Top annoying things about this are:

1] In the Churchill bit, the way the waiter demonstrates his understanding of the situation by just leaving the drink and thoughtfully withdrawing from the room. This is excruciating Tussauds history that leaves a very bad taste. The point being made seems to be that the Langham staff are sensitive to somewhat tense situations. Like, say, THE BLITZ.

2] Oscar Wilde's yawp of surprise at the butler's witticism has haunted me since seeing it. In casting someone with Wilde's lantern-jawed features, the makers have actually given the part to a Richard Kiel lookalike. It would take a very talented casting agent to do otherwise, perhaps, but this becomes a problem when they make the grave error of portraying Saint Oscar as some sort of buffoon. to my confused synapses, the Langham Wilde has something of Hugo the Abominable snowman about him.

3] Like many, I'm allergic to moments of inspiration on film - whether it is Beethoven struggling over that tricky fourth note for his Fifth (stumbling by chance on 'Dur' after 'Da, Da, Da'), or lakeland poets fighting over the exact nature of their lonely wandering ('as a... cow?' 'Nah'). I can't think of exact example, but you know the sort of thing. I seem to remember Backbeat, the Beatles in Germany film, had a few goodies. But in this case, the advert posits a revisionist view of literary history where, instead of being one of the greatest English speaking wits, Wilde was a porridge-brained posh boy, a bling-obsessed goon. The butler, here, is Blackadder to Wilde's Prince Regent. At the same time it insinuates that the qualities lauded by Wilde's aphorism are those of the hotel. Why all this makes me shiver with annoyance is not very clear. I don't mind that it is wrong. I don't mind that in its wrongness it rather distastefully does down a man who is rightfully venerated for his courage as well as his brains. I think it annoys me because it does these things with the tawdriest of motive. Just as in the WW2 scene the hotel seems to claim some credit for the bravery of Londoners and the statesmamlike qualites of Churchill, the portrayal of Wilde seems to suck out his style, wit and sardonic approach to life, and parcel it up as the property of a swanky hotel. And that ain't right.

4] At the end, when the mobile phone goes off in the butler's pocket, the Victorian crowd are irritated in exactly the way people are if such a thing happens now. The ungodly devil noise of the late 20th century just makes the crowd tut, as if to say 'some people...'. You almost expect him to answer and say 'Yep, can't talk, I'm in the 19th century'.

5] The basic idea for the ad is The Shining in reverse - the butler is an undead time-travelling spirit of the hotel, though presumably not the unspeakable evil manifested in The Overlook Hotel. This is irritating (especially when the brain has entered that scratchy inflight state of whirling, tired questioning), because the viewer can't work out whether the makers (or the hotel chain) are aware of this context. So the possible meanings of the ad are multiplied by the power of ignorance. What's for the next ad, an homage to the Bates Motel?

Anyway. I may be thinking too hard about it. Thanks for listening.

The Beat Goes On

2006-11-09T10:00:00.000Z

I know it's a bit naughty, but I do love stopping by at a Starbucks for a Danish. Here's mine from this morning, already half eaten!

Things are going great guns. The hotel has been lovely. Clean, and the people are very kind - happy to do the smallest little thing. So maybe it's a little unfair of me, but Blogmarch will speak the truth as it is. This plug and tv socket are strangely askew, aren't they?

All the latest from me

2006-11-08T15:11:00.000Z

Am away on the trip at last. It's all working out well so far. Even managed to get through customs unscathed!!

Was feeling a bit tired after the journey, so was glad to get to the hotel. Luckily there was some fruit waiting, in a bowl.

The adventure continues.

The iPod of food

2006-11-06T12:18:00.000Z

Every week it’s part of my business to keep abreast of what’s hot in the world of the consumer. Essentially this means reading MediaGuardian and getting a weekly email from this service called trendwatching.com. As far as I can see their sole raison d’etre seems to consist of creating horrific neologisms and unleashing them onto the marketing industry for a laugh. So they have words like Massclusivity – it’s exclusive but it’s also Mass, Transumers – consumers who worship the temporary and the transient and Tryvertising – which in their own words is “all about consumers becoming familiar with new products by actually trying them out”. Personally I thought that was called “sampling”.

When I was a kid I spent some time unsuccessfully trying to “seed” a new catchphrase. You know, like “sick” is good or “book” equals “cool”. I remember the term was “craters!” but can’t for the life of me recall whether this was a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it was meant to signify that this was something massive eg: in reply to the ground-shaking news that “Atari have just brought out Frogger II” I would exclaim “Wow! That is craters!”

Obviously this was in the pre-internet days when I was forced to rely solely on the archaic method of peer-to-peer viral word of mouth activity. At the time the peer response was overwhelmingly underwhelming despite my numerous efforts to seamlessly integrate it into my everyday conversations. In this exciting brand new Web 2.0 era though I think its time has come.

But I digress.

So these trendwatching.com types come up with these terms and then show examples of innovative brands and retail concepts which seem to substantiate the burgeoning activity related to their latest –ism. And I’m not even sure which term it comes under but I have become utterly obsessed with their championing of the Crispy Cones fast-food concept http://www.crispycones.com/ that’s currently doing great guns in California’s Santa Anita shopping mall. It has a strapline “Conestructing Revolution” that could have come straight from Alan Partridge. Most of all it has the all-important killer proposition – “The food you love in a cone.” The accompanying blurb reads: “Take your favourite foods: Pizza. Asian Beef. BLT Sandwich. Teriyaki Chicken. Place them inside a tasty spill-free Crispy Cone. What do you have? A healthy, delicious meal on the go.”

Best thing of all is the menu. You can choose from such delights as Chicone Teriyaki – so far so good. Margarita Pizzacone – ok. Bit Ronseal but sounds alright. But then they clearly got bored. Options such as Meatballscone and the nonsensical Porcone (ie a cone with pork) don’t exactly get those Pavlovian salivations going.

The founder of Crispy Cones is culinary entrepreneur Nir Adar. He confidently declared in a 2005 Time article "Food should be as portable as a phone. Cone pizza will be the iPod of food this year." Exhaustive desk research by myself found the solitary piece of feedback on the cone revolution from "Jason" on the strangenewproducts blog. He says, "The meat tasted okay, but the cone tastes odd. And all the oils drip to the bottom of the cone for a rather gross surprise at the last bite.." He's not exactly selling it to me. Further investigative sleuthing reveals that their self-proclaimed flagship store in Santa Anita is actually their only store to date.

Anyway there are global franchising opportunities available and I think it's a winning concept all the way. With some inventive naming input and some proper photography, I think this is the new sushi. If you’re interested in a CrispyCones London joint venture then get in touch.

Late Learner

2006-11-02T15:47:00.000Z

There’s this incredible sit-com on weekdays Channel 4 at 7.30am which is about six friends who live next to each other in some apartment. I think it’s New York. And it’s all about the fact that even if your job’s a joke and it hasn’t been your day or week or even your year, these people are still there for each other. Alright it’s a re-run of Friends. When it first came out I used to sneer at all those tedious girlie girls snuggling up on their sofas in their pyjamas and socks enjoying a bit of me-time watching Monica and Ross, that Phoebe is just so damn quirky and Chandler and Josh heh I wish I had flatmates like that etc. But I tell you what. 10 years down the line you ain’t gonna see no Extras or Green Wing picking up new fans like that. That’s the real test of comedy and I am good as hooked. I’m even reading frighteningly detailed “biographies” of the fictional main characters on Wikipedia of which Chandler Bing’s is the highlight (and actually goes a long way to explaining the success of the show).

I know of course that in about 10 weeks time we’ll start to see Matthew Perry’s absurdly ballooning face as the painkiller addiction starts to take its toll. And that in 20 weeks or so we’ll get to that point when it’s not even remotely believable that these guys and gals are meant to be the mid-to-late 20 somethings they’re meant to portray. And then it goes to complete shit when they start doing crap like coming to London and so on.. but in the meantime, I’ve seen a good 40 episodes now and not a bad one in sight. When you compare that to something like Jack Dee’s derivative tumbleweed that is the Lead Balloon sitcom then you realise just how good Friends actually was/is.

Talking of Matthew Perry he pops up in 3 episodes of The West Wing around Season 4 or 5 I think and he’s outstanding. In fact he got 2 Emmy nominations for his role and it’s a shame they didn’t extend it further. He’s also in Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip which started off all guns blazing but the initial critical and audience love-in appears to be fading fast.

Racist Kent

2006-11-02T14:33:00.000Z

The BBC version http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/london/6088568.stm of the story outlined below leaves out the thrilling dialogue, but does mention that the good Dr Arnaot has run into a bit of bother with the Blair-loving caucasians (and their mysterious witnesses, no doubt) before this particular incident.

The evil face of Kentism

2006-11-02T12:28:00.000Z

I love this story from the South London Press, even if I don’t fully understand what exactly happened. Was the pregnant woman in the car at the time or actually wedged between a car and post? That’s not really the point – it’s more about her diatribe against all these white people being Tony Blair’s bitches and the even more fascinating and specific hatred of the Kentish blondes. Anyway, what an insight into this GP’s conspiratorial state of mind. If all the white people vote for Tony Blair, did black people vote for Michael Howard and maybe a one-off flirtation with the cuddly UKIP chaps ? And as for the verdict – how is "all you white people are the same", "the English, Kentish blonde people and their witnesses" not “racially aggravated” ?

A GP accused of leaving a heavily pregnant woman in agony after wedging her against a post with her car was "obsessed" with getting to a meeting on time,a court has heard.
Dr May Arnaot, 50, of Chandlers Drive, Erith, left Sarah Chambers in "unbearable pain" on a petrol station forecourt in Erith, on August 10 last year.

She allegedly yelled at the terrified nursery nurse: "You're Tony Blair's bitch, all you white people are the same - you all vote for Tony Blair."

Fortunately a paramedic was at the scene and Ms Chambers has since given birth to a healthy baby.

Ms Chambers was a passenger in her fiancé's Ford Fiesta when Arnaot first drove at them in her Y-reg Nissan XTrail 4x4, causing them to swerve, in Gravel Hill, Erith.

On Monday, Dr Arnaot chose not to give evidence in her defence at Blackfriars Crown Court and called no witnesses.

But jurors heard the doctor's police interview in which she claimed she was stressed and in a rush when she encountered Ms Chambers and her fiancé Steven Boakes.

Dr Arnaot insisted CCTV would show Mr Boakes as the aggressor, throwing punches through her window with a "horrible, outraged look ".

Later on in the interview she became agitated and began to complain about the state of society.
In answer to the police officer's suggestion she was being evasive, the doctor, originally from the Middle East, accused him of siding unfairly with "the English, Kentish blonde people and their witnesses".

Prosecutor Christopher May told jurors in his closing speech that "her account simply doesn't make sense", and was "far-fetched, inaccurate and blatantly untrue".

He said she had exercised her right not to testify and damaged her case.Following lengthy legal argument, Judge Deva Pillay earlier cleared Dr Arnaot of having a racial motive. But Mr May added: "Her hostility, her state of mind is something that you are more than entitled to consider."

Arnaot denies dangerous driving, damaging property, common assault against Mr Boakes, and assault occasioning actual bodily harm and common assault against Ms Chambers, on August 10 last year. She was cleared of racially aggravated assault occasioning actual bodily harm. The trial continues.