"Someone should invent the transportater"

I'd been looking forward to this weekend for a while. The Writer was coming to visit and we planned a lovely east end experience browsing the the markets, critiquing the try-hard Shoreditch/ Hackney set and drinking in my superb local. We'd not seen each other for about two years so we knew it was going to be a big catch up. In a previous life we'd been fellow copywriters at a Whitstable agency working for a director of dubious mental stability, and bonded over a love of music.

Saturday started off well - glorious London sunshine, I baked a carrot cake and got the flat visitor-ready. I met The Writer at Bethnal Green tube and surveyed the amazing cross section of people passing through the gates to the Central line. East end fashion is sometimes so ugly it's hard to tell who's being ironic and therefore 'cool' and who genuinely is just really, really badly-dressed. Double denim for instance. So wrong, but apparently so now.

We began our catch up with civilised tea and cake back at mine, then decided to go and have a 'nice quiet dinner' in my lovely local. As always the welcome, service and food was impeccable and we were deep in conversation until a guy clocked The Writer ordering more wine at the bar.

He introduced himself and before we knew it, launched into his life story - apparently, a tv-presenting cab driver, born in the flower market, 48, owns a place in Sharm el-Sheikh, brother is the CEO of Britvic, went to school with Martin Kemp from Spandau ballet, he lives in the same block as art critic Adrian Searle and the fashion director of Burberry and his Mum knew the Krays... Brilliant, you can't make this shit up. We thought he did at the time, but a bit of Googling today does confirm a few of his tales.

He invited himself to sit at our table and we ended up spending a couple of hours engaging in bizarre but interesting conversation with this character. After a lot of talk about him being single and once he started buying us wine, I did invent a nice boyfriend. We've been together for five months apparently, he was in Scotland over this weekend and it's going really well. According to The Writer, he's also well endowed. I did question how she might know this detail about my imaginary lover but it all got a bit too complex to think about.


Despite Jonny Hollywood being very charming and fun, we decided it was a good time to go when, after saying "No ulterior motive!" all evening, he asked us again if we'd like to go back to his warehouse across the road to talk a bit more. Errrm, no. We politely declined and made our way back to mine, laughing at how strange the evening had been. The Writer grabbed a bottle of Rioja and we decided that staying up drinking until 4am, listening to music and debating the world was a really brilliant idea. Which it was. At that point.

I awoke to a text from The Writer asking if I was alive, at gone lunchtime. I concluded that if I was reading a text, then I must be. Just about. With a hangover so severe that I even had to think twice about having a cup of tea, I set about trying to take my mind off the pain with the creation of famously hangover-soothing bacon sandwiches. At this point, No'rn Ir'on comes in and we fill her in on the evening and how we got into the state we in.

No'rn Ir'on sat on a bar stool at our breakfast bar and tucked into some of my homemade cake with a brew. The Writer lamented the fact that she had to make her way across London then get a train home, which was the least appealing plan with a hangover, ever.

The Writer: "I wish I could just transport myself instantly home to my bed...."

No'rn Ir'on: "I know! I've said this many times, but someone should really invent a transport-, a transportater."

I instantly cracked up as she pronounced it with a heavy emphasis on 'tater' which is how she pronounces the Northern Irish crisp brand Tayto.

Me: "What, a device for the instant transportation of potato-based products?"

No'rn Ir'on leans back to laugh on the flimsy stool she's perched on, but suddenly the metal gives way and she slips off the side of the stool as it collapses. It's too much and I'm doubled over the kitchen counter, The Writer is laughing too but clearly at the expense of her pain receptors.

I see The Writer off on her awful journey and manage to get to the shop without falling over, vomiting on anyone, or coming into contact with any naked flame. Back in the kitchen, I complain to No'rn Ir'on about possibly sweating wine and she responds with a burp as she's finishing off her Chinese food from the night before.

Me: "I don't understand how we're single."

On that note, I drag my sorry arse back to my room and eat a Calippo ice lolly in bed.

Not Going to Glasto and Not Drinking Tea

I've had another quiet month on the old blog front. There's a few reasons for this, but it's mainly laziness I'd say. And being busy and all that.

A few things to talk about today: firstly, I got my hair cut off. It's the shortest hair I've had since I was about 8, so it was kind of a risk. I got a bit overexcited in my trendy hairdressers and allowed the heady mix of complimentary beer, loud rock music and beautiful androgynous hairdressers to warp my sense of reason. It might not seem a big deal to a lot of people, but I ran a serious risk of allowing myself to be shorn to look like a boy, circa 1984, with learning difficulties. Very few people can carry that off.

Luckily, Lorenzo was fabulous as well as gorgeous, and gave me a brilliant haircut which makes me feel liberated. Though one of the first responses I got to such a "forward, strong-look" cut was "Now you're definitely a Shoreditch Twat." I was hoping I was still borderline. I'm not wearing a fake-fur coat, red lipstick and pointy shoes. Well, just the pointy shoes.

Other things this month that I feel like sharing: I'm not going to Glasto. I know, after all the bloody fuss I made last year, sat whining on the sofa and pathetically trying to recreate the Glasto experience by drinking cider on my balcony, TV on loud and sporting a straw cowboy hat. I scored my ticket deposit on the day they were released, and spent a good few months telling everyone that I'd got a ticket. Then I started thinking about it as the payment deadline for settling the balance drew closer.

I know that Glastonbury isn't about the headliners. I know there's a million stages and acts playing, and you can see lots of epic sets without going near the main stage. But - Muse, U2, Stevie Wonder as headliners? Really? I could see myself enjoying Stevie on the Sunday night but I have a seriously ingrained hatred for Muse. I'm not sure what it is. Perhaps the weasely-faced Bellamy, the pompous, overblown rock anthems, the lazy lyrics, the "we are a stadium rock band and therefore are EPIC" sentiment implied in their unsubtle, teenage song-writing. Can't quite put my finger on it. Oh hang on, smug. That's it.

Same goes for U2. There's something about U2, Bono in particular, that makes me cringe. That stupid song about 'putting on your boots' makes me want to hurt other people, or myself. U2 and Muse in the same village at the same time (there are rumours of an on-stage collaboration, I'm gagging just writing that) - there's a serious danger of mass, passive smug.

So, I made the decision to let my ticket go to a Muse-lover. I am certain that come June, I'll be bemoaning missing out on the 40th anniversary Glastonbury. If you hear me bitching about it, please remind me that it was my own fault. I'm going to the brilliantly local-but-proper-festival-with-proper-acts Lounge on the Farm which mainly involves being a bit hazy in the sun with my Canterbury friends; and will be attending Lovebox since the line up is really good and it's in my local park five minutes from my flat - result.

In other news this month, I caught the utterly grim norovirus winter sicky bug thing the other week. Absolute hell. The worst part for me, apart from spending hours sobbing on the bathroom floor in agony, was not being able to drink tea for a couple of days. Seriously depressing. It wasn't so much the projectile vomiting and not being able to eat for three days that got me down, it was the kettle being sat unused and forlorn and my lack of hot, calming tea. I hope it never happens to me again. I've been tea-drinking with even more fervour since then to make up for the tea void.

Finally, I've been very angry this week. Furious. At the BBC's announcement of the closure of 6Music. BBc, what the fuck are you thinking? This is the only non-commercial station that actually caters for music lovers. I base my musical discoveries on it's playlist. It's like a friend whose music taste you trust, and actually follow their recommendations. The DJs are brilliant for the most part. I'm actually on a mission to marry Shaun Keaveny from the breakfast show.

What other station wakes you up with a vintage Buzzcocks archived live session followed by the latest cutting edge new band? I actually look forward to waking up on a Saturday morning to listen to Adam & Joe's inane in-joke ramblings and listening to Jon Richardson on a Sunday morning in bed with a brew is actually one of life's great pleasures. What am I going to do now?

So it's all about budget cuts and the fact that "Only 20% of adults questioned knew about 6Music." This is the point! It's that 20% of discerning adults who really, really care about quality music. It's not about the populist 80% who will happily listen to Radio 1 and not give a shit that they will hear the latest auto-tuned Black Eyed Peas track five times within two hours. The BBC have said that they will listen to the public: so make your voice heard, email the BBC on srconsultation@bbc.co.uk and let them know what you think. There's Facebook groups, Twitter hashtags and online petitions. So get involved.

Right, I am going to go and concentrate on Jon Richardson's final 6Music show with another brew. Have you emailed the Big British Castle yet?

A Change is as Good as a Rest

January's been a bit mental really. I've taken a big step and resigned from a job that's basically been my life for two years, to go and face a fresh creative challenge. I am nervous, sad, excited and filled with anticipation. And vaguely worried - what if they don't like tea or swearing?


It's a timely change, as The Blonde and Grumpy Scot are also moving on to new challenges, and as well as being a big joint celebration this weekend, it's also a double birthday whammy. There was never any choice but to party in Edinburgh this weekend. It's the weekend that marks the beginning of the next era.

The partying began last night with the final end of month drinks for me. I had to be a bit sensible though and come home to pack. No'rn Ir'on, not so much. After falling through my bedroom door at 5am, mumbling "wrong room" and bouncing off the walls to get to her own room, I went to the bathroom. I immediately trip over her massive handbag, dumped inside the front door, along with her shoes, book and various other possessions strewn around the hallway.

My towel is in the shower for some reason, there's cash on the bathroom shelf and it generally looks like it's been used by a very drunk person. I think this is the extent of it, until I leave the flat to get to the train station. I find the front door open with her key in the outside lock still, and some more of her possessions in our communal stairwell. Brilliant.

I'm now safely on the train rattling through the lovely Yorkshire countryside lit by the winter sun and listening to Oddblood, the new Yeasayer album. Very good record. Looking forward to a reunion with two of my best friends in the world who have shared a journey with me including a LOT of tea, even more creative swearing, laughter and tears. (Mainly mine, Grumpy Scot has witnessed a few 'tired and emotional' scenes from me. Including when I left Canterbury where I sobbed uncontrollably for three hours like a mental. But we had been drinking cocktails all evening so I don't take responsibility for this.)

Right, onto Wild Beasts album, and I'm going to seek out the refreshments person in search of tea.

Tea on the train. I'm going to regret this aren't I?

The first day of 2010

Sunlight burning my eyes? Yep.

Mouth like a birdcage floor? Yep.

Head like some small animals had taken up residence in it and were having a metal concert in there? Yep.

It could only be a New Year's Day hangover. My first words of the new day of 2010 were,

"Urrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh.... someone make me some tea."

Animal Girl and KiteBoy felt the same of course. We felt guilty because of the glorious winter sunshine outside so rather than dying on the sofa which we all really wanted to do, we decided to make the effort to go and wander.

I made bacon sandwiches for breakfast, a task which should take no more than 20 minutes maximum. It took me in my champagne-muddled state, around an hour to make. It was going to be a tough day. Animal Girl felt particularly bad as she really disliked the 'dirty, minging' London water so had only consumed alcohol the evening before.

The simple task of showering took far longer than it needed to. I tried to make myself feel better by making a special effort with my hair and makeup. This did not have the desired effect of masking the aftermath of the NYE festivities. I merely looked like a hangover with really good hair and very expensively Lancome'd eyelashes.

We embraced the fact we'd awoken in a brand new shiny year in one of the best cities in the world and ambled from St Paul's to Tower Bridge and Southbank. It was a great way to start the year. Apparently though, every European was actually on this path today. After a good trek and a dip in my blood sugar, I threw a small strop about climbing the stairs up the Tower Bridge to walk along the top, with the whole population of Europe, and stayed on the banks of the Thames with my camera, capturing the first sunset of the year.

At Tower Bridge there was a little German Christmas market stall selling wurst, frites and gluhwein and for some bizarre reason, pumping out Tenor Saw's 'Ring the Alarm' - it's surprising how good reggae sounds in the City by the river in the sun.

Animal Girl is so called in this blog because she's obsessed with animals. She owns a rabbit named Tim (kudos for the human name) and two Dumbo rats who are very friendly and also have excellent people names. I'd told her about the rodents on the Tube tracks and we kept a keen eye out when we waited at the Tube station.

KiteBoy: "There's one!"

Animal Girl, getting extremely excited: "THERE'S ONE! A MOUSE, A MOUSE!!!"

I fell about laughing at the glee in her eyes and watched as lots of European tourists craned their necks to catch a glimpse of a London Tube mouse. She created quite a stir on the platform.

We wandered down on Southbank in the evening light, watching the neon carousel and listening to Big Ben chime across the water at 6pm, laughing at the amount of people queueing to go on the London Eye. We also stood puzzled at a street entertainer (I use the term very very loosely) who had a queue of excited idiots waiting to be bent into poses by him, to have a photograph taken. I tried to understand it. I really did. But it was just crap. And a dubious way for some guy dressed like he was in The Matrix to touch children.

By this point, we were dehydrated, hungry, frozen and still really hanging. An evening of cooking, eating and relaxing beckoned. KiteBoy was hardcore enough to get back on the beers. Me and Animal Girl stuck to water and tea and had an early night.

Italy Day 6: Falling in love on the plane

A stunning morning in Ostuni. I was sad to wake up in my luxurious bed for the last time and contemplate heading back to London. Last days of holidays suck.

Angelo came to collect us as agreed, The Blonde decided to leave behind her dubious bottle of cactus liquer for the next holidaymakers. It was with a genuinely heavy heart that I walked down the perilous stone steps for the last time with my case bursting with biscotti and trullo-shaped novelty limoncello bottles.

In the car, while watching the landscape under the bright sunshine and admiring the crimson soil and gnarled olive groves; I began to formulate the life plan of how to actually move to Ostuni. First thing, learn Italian.

In a wonderfully cyclical bit of fate, Lily Allen's Fuck You came on as were pulling up to the airport, the bizarre soundtrack to our trip; and a rainbow curved down from underneath a fluffy cloud. Goodbye Apulia!

I almost had a bit of a strop in the airport when faced with a) Ryanair's ridiculous luggage allowances; coupled with not being able to bring back any cheap Italian cigarettes. Boo. This was swiftly put aside however, when we began to queue for boarding. I actually fell in love about three times in that queue, there really are some extradordinarily beautiful men in that country.

I kept saying "Seriously, look at him!" to the The Blonde about one tall handsome man. Sculpted cheekbones, stubbly and D&G model-esque mouth, wearing a scruffy Who T-shirt and listening intently to his earphones. Sigh. Casually gawping at him took my mind of the queueing boredom for a good 45 minutes.

On the plane, it was literally a bunfight, scrambling for seats and wedging luggage into any available crevice. Ryanair flights are not a pleasant experience. Until now.

The Blonde sat by the window, I sat next to her and we watched people filter past us and the empty seat next to me. Suddenly, Beautiful Man walked past and OH MY GOD sat down next to me. The Blonde laughed out loud at my face as I whipped round to face her with wide eyes; half a look of alarm and half giddy excitement. I looked uber cool at this point, obviously.

He waited until everyone had packed their luggage in the overhead compartments before carefully placing his pristine Temptations vinyl on top of everything. He was listening to soul on his iPod. Taste as well as beauty. Some people just have everything.

I spent the entire flight not quite knowing what to do with myself.

The Blonde, whispering "Talk to him!"

Me: "I can't! He's Italian. And beautiful. Oh...and asleep."

Italians are funny on planes. It was by no means a rough or turbulent flight, but yet still the whole plane clapped upon touchdown. I've never seen this before. Why? The pilot did not heroically guide us to safety through a storm. He did not fight off a terrorist in the cockpit. He just did his job. Yes, I couldn't do it; but he's trained to do what he did. I don't clap the waiter when he brings me a good coffee. I don't give the bus driver a standing ovation when he delivers me to the correct bus stop outside work of a morning. Curious.

The plane's wheel had literally just touched the tarmac, when everyone jumped from their seats and began to unpack their hand luggage from the overhead lockers. The Blonde and I looked at each other in disbelief as we taxied down the runway at a still high speed. A man knocked into the sitting Beautiful Man as he yanked his bag out of the locker. Beautiful Man dressed him down in Italian. I melted a bit. Gorgeous, loves music and courteous to others. Oh God.

What a holiday - couldn't have asked for anything more. Loved the place, the people, the food and wine, the light. The Italians know how to do everything better than us. Except, tea. But that can be forgiven.

Back to London. Grey. Wet. Cold. Depressing.

Put the kettle on.

Come Dine With Me?

Evening world.

I'm reaching the conclusion of a Bank Holiday weekend that's veered between partying at The Gherkin and lazing around watching DVDs.

I now find myself with a cup of fennel tea watching Come Dine With Me. (I know, I'm living the rock n roll dream. Oasis actually split because they look like a bunch of primary school teachers compared to my debauched antics)

I got to pondering why this cheaply formatted little programme has become such cult viewing. Everyone I know loves it, from my Mum to my friends.

Partly it has to be the people, usually at least half the dinner party guests are erring on the side of, well, bonkers. It makes you wonder whether people actually watch the programme before going on it. You're clearly going to get put in a group with annoying people who you have very little in common with. Great viewing though.

I love the descent throughout the week of awkward unfamiliarity to Dutch courage-induced "Do you know what? *hic* I think... You... Are ... Rude. And your food was rubbish."

It's entertaining watching strangers poke through someone else's house, the one I'm watching at the moment has a guy making a chocolate fondant for the first time, while his dinner guests discover the whip and policeman's hat in his wardrobe. The well to do Anglo-American property developer chips in, "I've seen far worse in people's cupboards". I bet you have.

It's barely even about the food. Even as an avid cook, the menus are a sideline for me. Though it does always amuse me that there's usually one who attempts some ridiculous combition of prawns and chocolate or something.

I think I'd like the job of the VoiceOver bloke. He gets to mock people for half an hour and exhibit explicit Schadenfraude. Ace.

I've been asked what I'd cook for my dinner party. Probably some tried and tested simple dishes for maximum tipsy time with the guests. Asparagus with lemon and pancetta to start, maybe a risotto after... By dessert I would be expecting a full on scrap to start so it'd be unimportant.

I was just thinking about whether any of the people actually keep in touch. Alison the simple housewife who bleaches her patio twice a day declared, "I never. Ever. Want to see any of these people again."

Bon appetit


-- Post From My iPhone

Animals with Human Names....

Evening World.

After a manic week, I've been entertaining/distracting myself with a subject that anyone who knows me will know is close to my heart.

Animals - with human names.

I don't know quite where this came from. But I did have a cat called Geoff (named after the Eddie Izzard sketch about the creator of the Pentagon security system: Geoff Geoff Geoffty Geoff, and possibly the beardy bloke from Byker Grove) and it was the perfect name for him.

We chose him because we wanted, I quote, "the spackiest looking kitten in the litter" - he promptly forward rolled out from behind a filing cabinet, being half Burmese he had massive ears and long legs inherited from his mum; and stripy legs from his random tabby cat dad. So he looked a bit out of proportion and stupid.

We'd been considering calling him Harold, since we were still in our studenty "I love Neighbours like it's real" phase. But he wasn't a Harold. He was a Geoff. AND, spelled the English way. Not Jeff, ok America?

He now lives with The Baker in Cambridge and is growing old disgracefully into his excellent name. (His street name is G-Unit like the rapper. Or Fancy Pants because of his reminiscent-of-70s-trousers-legs)

My next animal will be adorned with a human name. But the thing is, it has to be either really normal, really posh, or kind of... well.. chavvy. Tell me a gorgeous Oriental kitten named Wayne is not amusing?

What I really want - is a MASSIVE horse (was thinking ex police horse since they are bombproof, but chances are their legs are shot from all the road work too, so possibly a big Hunter or Dutch Warm Blood) and I want to call it - Dave. Or... Martin.

I cannot bear animals named Snowy or Fluffy or anything trite. Give it a human name, it's much more entertaining and unpredictable.

How about.... a duck called Tarquin?

A puppy called Janice?

Any suggestions welcome.

Good job I am not a cat lady yet, or the Vets' records would be very entertaining. (Or provoking an anonymous call to the local mental hospital from Veterinary reception)

"Hi there Miss Tea Queen, it appears that your kittens Norman, Carlos, Kevin and Bianca are due their vaccination?"

And before you judge me, I genuinely have a friend who's had rabbits named Tim and Gary, and another with a cat called Horris.

So it's not just me. Honest.

Tea is the answer to everything

'let's have a cup of tea'

I wonder how many of the world's greatest decisions have followed that statement?

Some people don't get my tea obsession. My closest friends do. Coming from solid Northern stock meant that I grew up with tea. I still find it weird to meet adults who 'don't drink hot drinks'.... Er, what?

I've been drinking tea for literally longer than I can remember. It's the drink you have in times of not knowing what else to do. Someone's received some bad news, had their heart broken, had a crap day at work, is in shock, comes over to your house- what do you do? You put the kettle on.

It's the stuff of rituals. Afternoon tea, first thing in the morning, when you arrive back from holiday.

It's the drink of sympathy and comfort, the apology after a row, the breaking of the ice in an awkward social situation.

Then one must consider the tea itself. I'm a fan of old school simple mainstream teabags. And it has to be strong. And as a tea purist, I find the notion of sugar in tea a weird and unnecessary addition. You can't taste the tea!

I'm all for herbal tea too. Little pick me ups throughout the day, soothing after dinner tea and the not-very-pleasant-tasting-but-swear-it's-doing-me-good detox blend I like to rely on after one too many glasses of wine the evening before.

It's a different culture to coffee. I love coffee with the best of them and must have a huge cup of strong filter coffee in my hand as I enter the office daily, but coffee culture is, well, a bit poncey. Don't get me wrong, I'm a trained Barista and love the satisfaction you get from making the perfect espresso that bubbles through the La Spaziale machine in exactly 20 seconds with a perfect crema on it's glossy surface, and there is nothing like the smell of coffee brewing.

But tea is classless. I bet the Queen drinks the same sort of tea as your local builder. What is so annoying about coffee chains is that you become one of those people who orders a 'skinny wet latte mocha choca frappucino, soy and extra shot, hold the whipped cream ya?' I've got a friend who refuses to enter Starbucks on the basis that she feels like a twat ordering 'special coffees' and is too intimidated to even ask for a 'normal coffee' because the staff invariably shoot you a withering look like you're some sort of outsider to the American overpriced cafe culture, and ask 'do you mean an Americano?'

Saying this, I almost certainly will go and waste a couple of quid on my 'venti drip to go with hot milk' tomorrow morning; but not until I've started off the day at home getting ready in the right and proper way: with a big mug of strong Yorkshire tea.

Now I need a blend suitably soporific to wind my mind down for bed. Lavender and camomile, anyone?

Ooooo, be a love and put the kettle on.


-- Post From My iPhone