White Cube

Last night I went to the opening of White Cube Bermondsey, YBA hipster Jay Jopling's newest addition to his collection of galleries. At 58,000 square feet of faceless 1970s warehouse, it's Europe's largest commercial gallery and will no doubt continue to raise the area's profile. (Of course, the gallery is of course not in Bermondsey proper, but among the growing strip of boutique shops and restaurants on Bermondsey Street, dominating the end just below José).

The art on display last night was second fiddle to people-watching, with the international jet-set clique choosing to slum it in SE1 before the Frieze Art Fair over the coming days. Hundreds of people queued down Bermondsey Street, hoping to rub shoulders with glamorous opening night crowd, including Damien Hirst, Tracy Emin, Gilbert & George and other YBA luminaries along with countless expensively-dressed, beautiful people laughing into their champagne flutes. Literally, all night.

While technically a commercial gallery, the prices mean that the art is as out of reach for most people as any Picasso, but it's still worth popping by if you're in the area. Future exhibitions and premieres are expected to feature contemporary works household names, so White Cube Bermondsey could become part of the gallery trail yet.

José opening

I recently went to the opening of José on my own wee Bermondsey Street.

José is a new tapas bar opened by José Pizarro, co-founder and former executive chef of Tapas Brindisa (itself an SE1 and Mr Christopher institution), and is inspired by the tapas joints of Barcelona’s bustling Boquería market. It's low-key, small, busy and very suited to Bermondsey Street.

José was so busy on the launch night – and has been the couple of times I've been back since – that punters tend to stand rather than sit, which adds to the authentic, bustling atmosphere and keeps the place lively. Despite being rushed off their feet, the staff were very attentive and able to talk in depth about each dish.

José himself (above) is affable and looks like a mischievous little devil – although if according to his works shall a man be judged, this guy is an angel: the menu changes daily and features incredible jamón ibérico de bellota, boquerones, croquettes and a very simple but very good tomato mush on bread. It doesn't sound like much, but I promise you would like it. The Spanish wine list was curated by Tim Atkin and has a strong focus on sherry, which I'm told Sr. Pizarro believes is well-overdue a renaissance in the UK, and a decent range of prices.

With a larger, more formal restaurant in the same area in the pipeline for later this year, José Pizarro appears to be establishing an empire in SE1. Lord knows, he has made an auspicious start.

José, 104 Bermondsey Street, SE1 3UB

Flesh and Blood & Fish and Fowl

Last week I saw Flesh and Blood & Fish and Fowl at the Barbican.

The short play centres on two admin gophers in a non-descript American convenience foods superstore. Gerry, played by Geoff Sobelle, is a sort of scruffy middle-manager who lives in the office bin; Rhoda, played by Charlotte Ford, is his gawky, whiny secretary who desperately wants to be sexy. Both are neurotic, obsessive and live an ordered, suppressed non-life. Geoff's inability to either successfully swat or ignore a buzzing fly, and Rhoda's guilty and constant Wotsit-munching sum up their powerless, unfulfilled, tedious existences.

BUT ONE DAY, with bathos and frustration already at fever pitch thanks to an unappreciated memo, noisy microwave and overly effective flypaper, ORDER AND RESTRAINT DISINTEGRATE. Rhoda reads out a news report about a pack of captured chimps murdering one of their own, and base and revolutionary instincts in the pair erupt. A deranged Gerry devours Rhoda's ready-meal, the pair do it like they do on the Discovery Channel in an unstable dumpster, and a sexually awakened Rhoda prowls round the office wreaking havoc. The degeneration is mirrored, or perhaps provoked, by the sudden appearance of nature in the office. First a bit of ivy creeps out of a drawer, then a stuffed weasel jumps out from behind a desk, escalating until the set is dripping with vines and taxidermy.

The message is unmistakable: "hey, don't ignore the natural world, and remember that we too are all animals". Nothing new – it's not a million miles from Day of the Triffids – and subtle it ain't. But by the time rabbits, pheasants, rams and deers have invaded the stage, and an uncomfortably life-like bear has mauled the protagonists (in front of a corporate video showing industrial food processing), you don't feel short-changed.

The balance between horror and comedy was perfectly struck. To my surprise, given it was part of the London International Mime Festival, there wasn't a beret or glass box in sight and the show wasn't silent. There were, however, long periods without script, admirably kept alive by tension, the eerie or absurd appearance of a stuffed fox or two, and the sheer physicality of the performers. Indeed, Sobelle and Ford each appear to be a blend of actor and clown: even leaving physical comedy aside, the characters are defined by their failings, and reveal their true selves in spite of their best efforts to project a casual, flirtatious or cool image – very clownish traits, as Sobelle noted in the post-show Q&A.

Flesh and Blood is inventive, funny, apocalyptic and a worthy winner of a Fringe First award last year. The show was first conceived in Philadelphia something like 7 years ago, and has appeared in various incarnations since, so keep your eyes peeled. And steer clear of ready-meals in the meantime.

Into the Woods

Once upon a time (that was last night), I saw Into the Woods at Regent's Park Open Air Theatre. It was one of the best things I have seen in London.

The sylvan setting was breathtaking, enclosed by beautifully lit trees and centred around a treehouse-style series of rickety platforms, spiralling staircases and ladders. The production made full use of the space, with Rapunzel's nesting box of tower positioned halfway up a tree, a staircase of umbrellas popping up to create a beanstalk, and the enormous Giant rearing to life out of undergrowth at the side of the stage. Fantastically whimsical costumes completed the impression and visually, the show was absolutely perfect.
In fact, pretty much everything was spot on. The cast was outstanding, with an assured and hugely charismatic performance from Hannah Waddingham as the Witch, and Michael Xavier excelling as a ravenous and, erm, "charged" Wolf and suavely self-absorbed Cinderella's Prince. Beverly Rudd also delighted as a gleefully greedy Little Red Riding Hood and, with one or two minor exceptions (Giants in the Sky - a Mr Christopher favourite - was less strident and urgent than it could have been), the performances were unimpeachable.

Into the Woods has always come under fire for its second act, which critics say loses its edge, contains weaker songs and gets its preach on. The moralising is undeniable - any show that contains direct instructions on how to parent is going to get on some people' wick. But the plot and songs are fine - they're just different to those of the first act. The first act is the first movement or theme; it sets up shop and could be a neatly contained, simple (if inconsequential) show in itself. The second act then takes the first as its starting point; it plays on it, builds on it, pulls it apart a little and - yes - deviates. But as one article argued this week, it shows Sondheim's genius in forcing contrasts, darkness and dissonance into what can be a saccharine genre.

The reviews have rightly been excellent and it's just a shame that the run, at five weeks, is so short. Get a ticket if you can.
Until 11 September, Open Air Theatre.

UPDATE 16 MARCH 2011: Into the Woods wins Best Musical Revival at the 2011 Olivier Awards.

Dee Dee Bridgewater

I saw Dee Dee Bridgewater at the Barbican on Friday, and she was awesome.

The show was titled To Billie Holiday with Love - A Celebration of Lady Day, with Bridgewater revisiting the character that gained her an Olivier Award nomination for the play Lady Day in the mid-1980s. There were no impressions, save for a brief speech, but the performance was consummate.

A Grammy and Tony Award winner, she almost failed to make the gig - the volcanic ash meant that her flight was cancelled and, despite saying in a recent interview that at nearly 60 years old touring had become an ordeal, Bridgewater endured a 14 hour minibus ride from Stuttgart to London. (Incidentally, US trumpeter Wallace Roney can't get to the UK and Bridgewater now can't get out, so she's taking his slot at Ronnie Scott's tonight and tomorrow.)

But she made it. As did her daughter, China Moses - a Parisian-born R&B singer and MTV presenter - who opened with a set dedicated to Dinah Washington. And thankfully so did Bridgewater's quintet, who were outstanding. Reeds man James Carter was particularly brilliant, taking songs by the scruff of the neck and thrilling the audience with blistering solos on soprano sax, tenor sax and flute.

But what about the lady herself? She was incredible. Bridgewater has an electrifying stage presence, a tremendously mercurial voice and a powerful, strident delivery. Every song was performed differently, each was absolutely mesmerising. The show was for one night only, so there's little point in recommending it now. But it really was good. You should've gone.

Set list included "Miss Brown To You", "Loverman", "God Bless the Child", "Don't Explain", "Them There Eyes", "A Foggy Day", "Mother's Son-in-Law", "You've Changed", "Fine and Mellow", "Strange Fruit" and "Lady Sings the Blues".

Avant-garde

Euurgh God, avant-garde music. Isn't it all just a bit... weird and intense?

Well yes, it is. But you could say the same about a lot of modern art, and it's actually quite easy to 'get' modern art.

We look at a Pollock or Francis Bacon, and while we might think it's boring, serene or ridiculous, or worry that we don't understand it, we can certainly see it. And this at least means we can set about intepreting it (even if all we come up with is, "well I could have done that").

The canvas defines the art's parameters, so even the craziest and most chaotic scrawlings are contained. It's a totally different story, however, with contemporary classical music and jazz. Sound is boundless - everywhere and nowhere, and constantly shifting. And I think that this is why we tend to be so severe in our views on 'avant-garde' music.

We use mental rules to interpret complex sensory stimuli; for instance, we like to group things that feel similar or are close together. Melodies that move in little steps sound unified and structured, whereas those that repeatedly make huge jumps between high and low notes sound fragmented and random. Regular rhythms create coherence, erratic ones confusion. The use of certain scales allows harmony, the use of others dischord. In each of these pairings, our brains interpret the former as music and the latter as noise.

Of course, I am not for a minute bemoaning dissonance or tension. Playing with the listener's expectations is a central principle in music, and balance and resolution are essential. A composer must not lose coherence, but must also avoid outright predictability and create interest.

Yet some pieces of modern music simply do not allow you to follow them. In my view, these compositions are bad music. I don't really care if the piece can be justified by some musicologist: its organisation may be technically valid or 'correct', but if it is only present in theory rather than audibly perceptible, you have a serious struggle on your hands to convince people that it's music - or music to which they might want to listen.

For the most part, however, the melodies and rhythms of modern classical music and avant-garde jazz are not random and erratic - there is a pattern in place. But it might not be what we're used to. And so there's no point trying to listen to it in the same way as you would to Mozart. Instead, we should try to approach these pieces in the same way as we would a paint-spattered canvas or big block of red.

This is obvious - even Ross Geller advised that his work should be thought of as "sound poems" rather than songs - but too often we refuse to do it. But why can we bring ourselves to apply different rules to Rothko as we do to Rembrandt, but not to Berio as we do to Bach?

Is it because music intrudes in a way art does not? You can move on in a gallery; you have to endure at a concert. Is it because we're used to putting in no effort with pop music, whereas even accessible art is seen as worthy and more highbrow? Is it just because modern art is more established in the mainstream than modern music?

Whatever the cause, it could pay to look at avant-garde music in a more tolerant and forgiving light. Even if the only response is "well I could have done that."

The Mysterious Hills and the Baffling City

Today I have been trying to understand MTV's smash hit series The Hills and its equally bewildering sibling, The City.


For the blissfully uninitiated, The Hills follows the lives of hip young things living in LA, while spin-off series The City documents the move of one of the things to New York to work for a fashion designer. Now, you ask, what's so hard about that?

Firstly, WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? They're actors, right? The premise is that both shows are reality TV, but this is patently untrue. Each episode is packed with drama, heartache and a suspiciously neat story arc, like a serialised chapter of a Dickens novel only with high heels, beach parties and rows over the layout of Teen Vogue. Whereas if it actually were reality, each episode would be packed with searching for keys, arguing with customer service hotlines and walking into a room and forgetting why you were there.

So which is it? The best explanation I can find comes from (where else?) Wikipedia: "the cameras follow [characters] daily and capture whatever unfolds." OK, so it's reality. Oh, hold on - there's more: "There is 'structure' provided to the program, as real life develops day-by-day and most dramatic events generally occur while being filmed."

Bear in mind that this is the best explanation I've found. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? What the hell is meant by "structure"? Structure like a storyboard, script and director? Because that's not really "structure", I'm afraid – that's "how you make TV shows."

Wikipedia also explains that one hip thing has confirmed that she is "joining the cast" and "has inked a deal with MTV to appear as a series regular throughout two seasons." How can you 'sign up' to appear in someone's life? Did she have a bit part as a passing acquaintance, only to act so deliciously and indispensably that the producers demanded the cast befriend her? God, I hope she knows. We don't want her going all Truman Burbank on us and flipping out when she finds it's just for the cameras.

And what about this 'job' business - does the City star actually work for the fashion designer? Did she get the job on merit? How close were we to having a series about a spin-off Hills character who spends all day flipping burgers or photocopying? And does the designer not get a bit ticked off with her employee's constant breaks for angsty Dawson's-style summits with her on/off boyfriend, explosive latte-fuelled clashes with bitchy rivals, or requests to be promoted as this season's storyline kind of counts on it?

I DON'T UNDERSTAND. And yet everyone is very excited about these shows and Heidi and Holly Montag are apparently very important people and don't you know, it's like reality but like also really cool? DON'T YOU GET IT? Sadly I do naaaht. So I'm going to pretend it doesn't exist, sit under a rock and wait for The Apprentice to come round again.

Holiday season

It's that time of year again, when politicians' holidays are subject to a level of scrutiny usually reserved for – ooh, I don't know – the customer list of a Lincolnshire moat cleaner. And Daniel Finkenstein has a fine game on Comment Central this week:

- Match the Politician to the Summer Holiday -
1 - Nicholas Sarkozy
2 - Nick Clegg
3 - Gordon Brown
4 - David Cameron
5 - Barack Obama
6 - Vladimir Putin

a - Visiting the in-laws in Spain, doing a spot of light cycling
b - Topless horse riding through rugged, Siberian terrain
c - Rental home with own orchard, pool, golf and basketball court (est $50,000 a week)
d - Fife and Cumbria, with a worthy spell of volunteer work
e - 10 day holiday in France with “a really trashy novel”
f - Three week break in Cap Negre, with no-fly zone imposed

(Answers: 1 f, 2 a, 3 d, 4 e, 5 c, 6 b)
How many did you get right? I got the Obama and Sarkozy ones mixed up. (Of course, the basketball court was a giveaway.)

Obviously, none of this matters. It's trivia. But the papers are full of it because, as DF points out, it's very calculated trivia: "it's the anticipation of analysis that leads to those choices being micro-managed."

Take Putin, manfully stripped to the waist as he patrols mountainous terrain 'pon his powerful steed (in the same region of Serbia, incidentally, in which he was snapped shirtless while fishing and horse riding in 2007).

The intention can be summed up thus: Russians heart macho. Ex-President acts macho in photograph. Russians see photograph. Russians heart ex-President, want to make President again. Ex-President smiles, feels macho, tells rest of world to shut up while he does JUST VHAT HE VANTS VIT THE GAS SUPPLY, DA? That, in a slightly racist nutshell, is it.

And what about "call me Dave" Cameron? For a start, it's pretty rare to hear a boy announces with relish that he intends to read "a really trashy novel". Something easy to read, yes; pulp fiction, yes; ooh a bit of Maeve Binchy and a pina colada, no.

And second of all, that phrase is used exclusively to show that you know it's rubbish, but you're indulging in a guilty little pleasure. But hold on a minute... I have engaged in guilty pleasures before! Is Dave My Kind Of Guy? Because if he is, I'm bloody voting for him.

So what is the point of this self-fulfilling bit of stage management? World leaders know the public is watching, so they put on an act; we see them act, and correctly surmise that it's for show. I suppose there is no point.

But it seems to work. Plus it fills column inches and - crucially - it gave us an opportunity to laugh at Tony Blair in his trunks. Surely that counts for something.

Bad head

Hey, want cool hair? GQ has just explained to me that Randi Lee, 34, has effortlessly cool (if bland) hair because "he always showers at night. Sometimes he uses shampoo, sometimes he just rinses. Then he goes to bed. When he wakes up in the morning, he’s already got the bedhead thing going.".

"Well," I thought to myself last night, "I can do that."

- Reasons why authentic bed head does not work -
1. First and foremost: superfluous sticky-up bits that make you look less "bed head" and more "idiot who cannot even get his hair to grow in the right way."

I once set off to school with what I thought was a rather racy new do (swept back in the style of Andy Garcia), only to find when I got there that my traitorous tresses had risen in the car and that rather than resembling a smooth-talking Mafioso, I looked like the self-conscious lovechild of a hedgehog and a greasy waiter. (I probably should have used 'POMADE', but the thought of smearing engine oil onto my head was appealing to my nine-year old self as it is now) My arrival at the school gates was met with howls of persecution from friends, teachers and the media that I can still hear today. At least I'm pretty sure it was the media. It was bad, anyway.

So that's danger #1.

2. Cold bits on the pillow that you roll back onto an hour after switching out the light. If God had intended me to sleep on a wet patch, he'd have withheld bladder control.

3. The risk that Stay-Puft from Ghostbusters will get you.*

4. You might end up looking like the imbecile from that advert, "Tim" or whatever he was called. You know the one I mean. "Everyone knows a bloke like Tim!!!!!"

I'll tell you what, gleeful voiceover man from Head and Shoulders, I do NOT know a bloke like Tim. I make it a point of principle. Or rather, if I DO know him, I know him as Tim, The Wanker With Faux Bed-Head Hair And A Horrible Array Of Smug Grins In Different Outfits. Not a moniker I am keen to acquire for myself. Certainly not if it necessitates sporting sticky-up bits and invoking the ire of a Ghostbusters baddie.

5. Admittedly this next one isn't so much a bed head problem as a 'washing your hair before bed' problem, but I think you're bright enough to see that that's what all this metrosexual bed head posturing was a cover for. My REAL issue is wet hair in bed. And do you know what the biggest risk involved with that is? WET-INSIDES-OF-EARS.

Wet-insides-of-ears create an instant and irrational feeling of vulnerability. I think my subconscious hypothesis is that earwigs (which obviously aim to live in actual ears) prefer wet, slimy ears (LIKE THEIR DISGUSTING SLITHERY BODIES) to normal ears. Ergo, fall asleep with wet ears, have brain eaten by earwigs. It's that simple.

So unless you like being papped as a weeping nine year old or BEING EATEN ALIVE FROM THE INSIDE OUT, leave the bed head to lothable lotharios from TV Land and wash your hair in the morning. Sorted.

Next week: Stray Nail Clippings - "One Thousand Splendid Swords."

* When I was small I was afraid of the hairdryer. But my Mum told me that if my hair wasn't dried properly before bed, I would get DAN DRUFF. Dan Druff rooted himself into my worldview as a monster in the style of Stay-Puft, the fictional Michelin-sponsored ghoul from Ghostbusters. I am assuming that this exact scenario happened to everyone. Even if it didn't, ignorance will not save you from his marshmallow-fuelled wet-haired fury so you best watch out.

A Surreal Service for the King of Pop

An estimated one billion people around the globe viewed Michael Jackson: A Tribute yesterday, a hybrid memorial service and showbusiness extravaganza that was as surreal as it was touching.
Among the 17,500 fans present were African-American entertainment powerbrokers including Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, Berry Gordy, Kobe Bryant, and the Revs Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson. Performances were given by Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson, Usher, Jermaine Jackson and, with an odd 'Clinton Cards'-style rendition of Human Nature, John Mayer.

Encased in a 14-carat gold-plated casket, MJ's body was carried into the stadium by the star's brothers all wearing a single, white, rhinestone glove. Queen Latifah's beatific tribute was warm, calm and heartfelt, and Stevie Wonder conveyed tremendous gravitas in his eulogy and solemn performance of They Won’t Go When I Go. The Rev Al Sharpton concluded a fiery, rousing speech by asserting: "Paris, Michael, Blanket — I want you to know there was nothing strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with."


Jackson's three children had never before appeared in public and took to the stage in the finale. Eleven year old Paris, with surprising self-possession and dignity, sobbed: "I just wanted to say that, ever since I was born, Daddy has been the best father you could ever imagine. And I just wanted to say I love him so much," before collapsing into squealing tears. It was moving and frankly uncomfortable. As was the relentless grooming she received throughout at the hands of her aunts and uncles, frenziedly stroking away her hair and pressing her to speak up.

There were odder moments to come. AA Gill suggested this week that Michael Jackson was without peer as the worst judge of character in the history of mankind: "it was as if everyone he’d ever met had been chosen by Endemol." And there were certainly some grotesqueries on display yesterday.

But this is Hollywood. We expect over the top. We expect the Rev Al Sharpton to claim that MJ invented charity, sporting success and love; Brooke Shields to hysterically rhapsodise over the beauty, purity and life-giving properties of Michael's laugh (in short: "Michael's laugh was the laugh of a puppy laughing at a kitten reading a poem about happiness written by a sparrow"); and Usher to engage in a self-indulgent griefathon we should have seen coming with his opening statement: "You meant so much to us - especially me." It was all part of the Jacko hoopla.


Of course, the strangeness didn't stop at the stadium turnstiles. In the UK, the memorial service was broadcast on BBC Two (despite the corporation receiving more than 700 complaints about its 'excessive' news coverage after Jackson's death) and commentated on by Trevor Nelson and Paul Gambaccini.

Until two weeks ago I had no idea who Paul Gambaccini was. To be honest, I think I had him down as a minor character in The Sopranos or the inventor of Gino Ginelli. It turns out he's a seasoned broadcaster, but not one with an ear for self-editing. Gambaccini churned out some hopelessly bland sentiments on the night of MJ's death (my personal favourite: "He was a surprisingly tall man - over six feet in fact, even though I never met him myself. To think that such a tall man could be felled by something like this is really quite something.") and provided similarly waffley and condescending commentary last night.

All in all, it was a very strange affair: a macabre blend of glitzy spectacle and genuine emotion, watched by a sixth of the world's population. As soon as the service finished, the set was hurriedly dismantled as the venue was to be taken over by a circus. Of course it was. After all, this was Michael Jackson.

Wimbledon 2009 Men's Final

Roger Federer became the first man to win 15 grand slam tournament singles titles with his victory on Wimbledon's Centre Court yesterday.

In a final that can safely be labelled 'epic', the 27-year-old Swiss defeated Andy Roddick 5-7, 7-6, 7-6, 3-6, 16-14 over four hours and 16 minutes. Roddick broke Federer twice, and though Fed broke A-Rod just once, it brought him the title.

While it was certainly long, a classic final this was not. Sure, the 77 games played were the most in any grand-slam event final in history, but 74 of those games went with serve after powerful serve. This was an endurance contest; a slog; a laboured battering akin to two enormous sea lions taking turns to exhaustedly wallop each other. Both players looked punch-drunk by the end, though one looked markedly happier than the other.

Was it a fair outcome? Perhaps. Roddick arguably played better than Federer throughout the match, but as the 29 straight exchanges of serve in the fifth set show, it was a close thing. Simon Barnes noted that "[Federer] didn’t beat Roddick, he outlasted him," adding "Federer didn’t want it more than Roddick, don’t think that for a second, nobody could have wanted it more than Roddick." And yet Federer was able to close the deal, yet again.

Let me come clean: despite a wholehearted respect for his abilities, there's something about Federer I don't like. Relentlessly victorious, blandly smooth, effortlessly slick. Ever-so-slightly smug. Excessively polished. It's the smarmy blazers, the serene poise, the flawless play. Can you hold someone's omnipotence against them?

And then there's Roddick. Born through sheer bad luck into The Era of Fed, the 26-year-old American won the U.S. Open in 2003 and since then has lost four other grand slam finals (Wimbledon three times, and the U.S. Open) to Federer. One grand slam win is not a fair representation of this guy's career. One win gets you into the history books as a footnote, an anomaly. Even though he lost the final yesterday, Roddick set a record for number of games won in a Wimbledon final at 39. He's a better player than one slam.

Of course, there will be some who will spread their hands wide, shrug and quip "oh, the runner-up prize is only £425,000? What is poor Roddick to do!" (the implication being that as Andy Roddick has earnt some money anyway, he has no right to be disappointed! Do you see?).

Yes, it's true that Roddick has lots of money. He's married to a Sports Illustrated swimsuit model (left) and his house is doubtlessly the size of everything that I and everyone I have ever met has lived in put together. And you can't argue with results: if Federer beats you in four grand slam finals, it's because Federer is a better player and deserves to win. And I agree with that.

Yet who could deny that Roddick deserves more than one bauble on his record? Who could deny that Federer's monolithic, all-conquering reign has suffocated the talent and success of others? And who could deny that had things panned out fractionally differently yesterday, Roddick would have been a deserving champion?

Before the final, Roddick said: "I know how tough it is, but you know I’m excited about this one. I didn’t know if I was ever going to get to play a final at Wimbledon again, and I’m certainly thankful to have that opportunity." Well, you're most welcome Andy. Sorry it didn't work out. 2010 anyone?

A Time to Cull

A friend of mine recently declared that if the vast majority of her friends on Facebook called her up and asked her out for a drink,* she'd drop the phone screaming, leap in a taxi to the airport and change her name to Babylon Nunchucks.

Now, while I'm quite attached to 'Mr Christopher' and, in the event of flight, would steer towards a less 'blaxploitation' moniker anyway, I do know where she's coming from. Sick of status updates from someone I met once in a pub three years ago, wall-to-walls about what "gr8 banter" Thailand was and endless albums of 'Random Photos!!!', I can't help but think that streamlining my friends list might not be such a bad idea.

So it was with this notion in mind that I set out this afternoon firmly determined to cull my roster by at least a third. Cup of tea by my side, hands ominously poised over the keyboard, I twinkle my fingers and begin.

My eyes race down the register and swiftly I come to Borderline Buddy No. 1. A former classmate who despised me at school, and then a few years ago presumably thought "Hey, that Mr Christopher! Must get in touch with him and satisfy myself that he's HAVING A LOATHSOME TIME."

How the tables have turned, Borderline Buddy No. 1! Let's have a look at your profile picture. There you are, grinning away - no doubt recalling the chemistry lesson in which you 'accidentally' called me Pisstopher (very funny, WHOREDERLINE BLUBBY NO. 1). Wall crammed with posts from old classmates, photos of 'Random Nites Out!!!' in the same old pubs, job info stopping squarely at Tesco, 1999-present.

You seem nice enough, but why on earth are we friends, Borderline Buddy No. 1? We have nothing in common. I'll never need you for a favour. You offer me nothing. REMOVE FROM LIST.

Hold on a minute. What the hell is happening? For how long has my chief criterion for friendship how useful a person might be? When did this happen?! OH MY GOD, AM I W*NKER?!

Undelete, undelete, add as friend, add as friend.

And this thought process basically repeats itself all the way down the list. Too frightened of being a self-serving b*stard to remove anyone, I am left with a friends list that remains as flabby and diluted as ever, a dull sense of guilt over The Person That I've Become, and a cold cup of tea that I spilt on some paper about half an hour in.

And the realisation that I've just blogged about Facebook is enough to make me hurl my computer out of the window, leap in a taxi to the airport and befriend a rabble of beach-living technophobes with no networking potential. Because I am NOT THAT GUY. Fellas, meet Huggy Funkenstein.

* Individually I mean, not en masse. That would set anyone's alarm bells ringing.

"Yer Hiyud!"

So that's it. No more grizzling, growling and scowling from Suralan, no more eye-rolling and eyebrow-raising from Margaret, and no more irritatingly pensive frowns from Nick (there IS a God). Series five of The Apprentice is over.

Far more surprising than actual result (more on that in a moment) was the revelation that Margaret Mountford is sadly hanging up her stern gaze, twinkley eyes and imperious smirk in order to fully focus on her PhD in papyrology at UCL. Of even more concern is the rumour that BBC rules on conflict of interest may preclude Suralan from both fronting The Apprentice and advising the government, with his recent appointment as Big Business Papa (or something) talking precedence over the opportunity to groom a third finalist in the Michelle Dewberry / Kate Walsh mould (say what you like about him, he certainly has a type).

But what of the result? It was all a bit much of a muchness in the end: both contestants impeccably competent in their performance of the final task and both fully accepting of the hype that Suralan is the fiercest, most successful businessman the world has ever known. Other than that, Kate seems the more polished professional but Yasmina has that entrepreneurial streak, aligning her with the "oi saahld TVs ahhht the back of moi vaaahn" mentality of Lord Grumpypants (title tbc). Yasmina also delivered the most memorable line of the show, in response to the resurgent Philip's assurance that "people didn't think that Pants Man was a good idea, but they will..." - "That's a shit example, Phil." Ten points to her.

And on that basis alone, I think, she won. Kate will doubtlessly go on to have a moderately successful television career as a Pretty Perky Grinner, while Yasmina, after hearing the immortal words "Yer Hiyud", relishes a future basking in the glamour of Surallun's digital signage department, flogging display boards to doctors' surgeries. Personally, I'd forgo either of those careers for the chance to register as a library assistant at UCL and watch Margaret stalking down the corridors with a bunch of Egyptian scrolls, an icy stare and a contract to front The Apprentice 2010.

Mr Christopher and the Robot

Once in a while you hear a song that grabs you, turns you into a wide-eyed, teeth-grinding obsessive and only lets go once you've demanded to have it played every time you enter a room for the rest of your life. Ladies and gentlemen, thanks to the above, I was that soldier.

The Girl and the Robot is a soaring, theatrical powerhouse from Norwegian electronica duo Röyksopp. Released next week, it's the searing second single from Röyksopp's third album Junior, and has shot to the top of my iPod's playcounts since I first got hold of it in March.

Now despite slyly alluding to being way ahead of the curve with that single, I confess that I've only just heard its predecessor, lead single and album-opener Happy Up Here (released in January). While not quite as determinedly demented as The Girl and the Robot, it too is pumping, winding and absolutely blinding (and has a much better video).

Reviews of the new album are strong, the singles are outstanding and, after second-album syndrome arguably took its toll on The Understanding (follow up to 2001's universally acclaimed debut Melody A.M.), it looks like this could be a return to form for Röyksopp.

ENOUGH. Take me to HMV.

Showtime

Thank God. Finally, it's here.

You know what I'm talking about. Yeah you do! No, not the long-overdue resignation of the woman with the most annoying face on the planet, former Communities Secretary Hazel Blears. Nor the admission that Sacha Baron Cohen's stunt with Eminem at the MTV Movie Awards was staged.

It is, of course, That Episode of The Apprentice Where They Do The Interviews! I literally cannot wait. Five fledgeling media careers held up to the light in a serious of gruelling interviews by four big-name businessmen. Only they're big-name businessmen who look like they've come to read your gas meter, talk like pantomime baddies and are happy to be complicit in the "Suralan is the best - in fact, perhaps the ONLY - businessman in the world" schtick which is, of course, utter tosh.

And for whichever editor it is that does an excellent job stitching up the boardroom scenes each week, where every pointed put-down from Suralan is met by an open mouth, petrified eyes and, unfailingly, utter silence, it is his f*cking birthday.

There'll be stumblings, strops and serious errors in judgement. It's going to be great. I only wish that this little chap was still with us. Imagine the stories he could tell us about Sandhurst (he kept it quiet, but apparently he was once offered a scholarship there?)...

Tie Trouble

I mean it's impossible. Absolutely impossible.

Fortunately the life of Mr. Christopher is not sufficiently glamorous that I am required at many black tie events. But the few that I can get to are usually treated to either a pre-tied version that makes me look about eight, or a self-tying version that, sadly, looks like it was tied by an eight year old. So primary school all the way, really.

Which, of course, is embarrassing for a man of 26 (even if that man wants to draw on his clothes with a fat-ass crayola in the manner of a four year old. Anyone spot a pattern emerging here?).

So what to do? Is the look I'm after (see right) to remain permanently out of reach?

Colin Farrell wears a normal neck tie to black tie events and looks darn good for it (left). But despite our many, MANY similarities (number of cooing admirers in particular), I'm not quite convinced it would work for me. For one, I want to make it look like I made an effort and know what I'm doing, rather than blithely throwing on what I normally wear to work.

It's not clear why I'm talking about this now, given that I don't even have a black tie event on the horizon. But it seems like the sort of dilemma I'm going to struggle enormously with when the time comes, so probably best to start flapping well in advance.

Reading the riot act

This morning I asked a friend how he felt about the phrase "to read the riot act". I asked because apparently David Cameron has being reading it out again and again lately to show people how annoyed he is about MPs' expenses. His poor throat. (I hope he doesn't try to claim for Strepsils.)

I only heard the phrase for the first time in the past year and am still forming a view. I think I'm quite a fan. It's theatrical, archaic and has a quirky ring, like "bang to rights", which I recently discovered means the opposite of what I'd always thought. For years I've been unwittingly surrendering all-but-clinched arguments with cheerful remarks like, "so, if you look closely, you can see my actions were clearly bang to rights! Agreed?" I'm now told it means 'a fair cop', not 'within one's rights'. I tell myself it's an easy mistake to make, but I think that's only true if you're under the age of eight or Paris Hilton.

But anyway, we agree. "To read the riot act" is a trusty, stylish little phrase. But on the other hand, it doesn't really make sense.

The phrase is employed to describe a hearty bollocking. Yet to me, the recital of a statute isn't really something that can be done with much fist-shaking, vessel-popping or wall-thumping. Surely "reading the riot act" is more the sort of thing you do to lull a child to sleep? Have you ever to tried to read an Act of Parliament? DO NOT. You will lose three weeks of your life and emerge socially scarred, forever interrupting conversations to request the definition of terms or ask that the past two minutes' discussion be removed to an appendix. It's like having dinner with a thousand lawyers (brrr...)

So, as I think they say on Malcolm in the Middle, what gives? Well, my friend referred me to to phrases.org.uk, which both handily answered my query and proved that we know how to party on a Wednesday afternoon.

"To read the riot act" originates from 18th century England. Magistrates who had espied an unruly mob congregating on the village green used to leap out of bed with their nightcaps and candlesticks, rush across the square, recite the entire Riot Act of 1714 and give the crowd an hour to disperse. And when I say crowd, I mean group of twelve or more. So basically any sports match, play or birthday party. And when I say an hour to disperse, I mean before throwing the group in jail for three years. It had better have been a HELL of a party...

Now. The original figurative usage of the phrase meant to reprimand rowdy characters, and warn them to stop behaving badly. This follows phrase's origin quite literally. But unless Cameron is being deliberately rendered as a frightened judge wearing pyjamas and a moustache-hammock, something is amiss. This is not the sort of reading he has being giving.

So it seems to me that the emphasis and connotations of 'riot' in "to read the riot act" is shifting from the reprimandee, who was read the Riot Act to dissuade him from losing both his rag and his liberty, to the reprimander, who is just sort of, you know, so angry he's like a one-man riot.

And that kind of linguistic corruption - which according to Wikipedia might be called an autoantonym - is VERY interesting!

Isn't it?

Two more similar tit-bits, but thankfully with much less exposition, are that (1) 'wan', which means 'pale' in today's parlance, used to mean 'dark' in Middle English, and (2) conversely but entirely coincidentally, 'dark' used to mean 'light.' So there.

In Defence of Early Hip Hop

People tend to regard their first stumbling foray into the world of music with a sense of pleasant disinterest, as if buying that Milli Vanilli record was something that happened to somebody else. Rarely does anyone still feel passionately about the music that stirred their tender tweenie soul. It occupies a place in the nostalgic canon between pogs, colour-change T-shirts and those rubber poppers you used to lose by the end of morning playtime. Age hath greatly wearied it, and the years most unkindly condemned.

But not for me. Because you see, I spent those years listening – and I mean pretty much exclusively – to the blossoming, exciting and very hip hip hop and R&B of the day (well, not quite exclusively). I'm talking about the gloriously innocent window between around 1989, the date of Chris Hits #1 (my first compilation tape - thanks Dad) and 1993, when gangsta rap moved from the periphary to the mainstream and we all started stomping around talking about 187s and hos and trying to twist our fingers into gang signs ("Chris Hits Rulez OK" – I needed a group of friends to do it but I think it showed those bloods and crips a thing or two about dexterity).

I'm talking, of course, about stuff like this:



During the early 90s, America was cool. Unashamedly, unequivocally, universally cool. Even, surely, to Al-Qaeda (who, for the record, I think later took the command "BOOM! Shake the room!" far too literally).

Everyone - or at least, everyone at my school - wanted to be American. Everyone wanted to live in a house like the Cosby's, dance like Kid 'n Play and learn the words to The Fresh Prince of Bel Air as quickly as humanly possible.

It was a time when a reference to Homebase earned you the reputation of a kid who was cool, edgy and perhaps even slightly dangerous, rather than a kid who spent his free time grouting or turning the soil and whose idea of danger was to shut his eyes and spin around in the cactus aisle.

It was a time of hope, innocence and wonderful self-delusion. Even as late as 1997, I imagine that I could pull off a Fubu cap and look more LL than Vanilla Ice.

But then again, back then, who DIDN'T want to stop, collaborate and listen! anyway? Despite the poor man's surname being Van Winkel (which doesn't seem to me to have received sufficient press coverage) and his later attempt at renounciation, make no mistake: Vanilla Ice was one cool dude. We all thought it. And if that's not joyful delusion then I don't know what is.

Sure, there were times when this god-awful sort of ethno-ragamuffin look got a little out of hand (Soul II Soul, I'm looking at you). And lot of the music videos now seem horrifyingly corny (Soul II Soul, I'm looking at you). But listen to this, this or this and tell me these guys weren't on to something seriously good. And if there's a person alive whose face doesn't light up at the words "Drrrums please!" then I haven't met them.

The point is that before it was led to the more, erm, 'unremittingly violent' side of life by Compton's finest, before America stopped being widely adored and had to rein in its braggadocio, and before we all realised that Milli Vanilli were FAKING ALL ALONG, hip hop was a happy, confident little boy who ran around in the park all day long and ate sand from the sandpit.

So you can keep your repulsive sweat-activated T-shirts, your utterly pointless pogs and those stupid poppy-off-the-finger things you used once and never saw again. This is a childhood obsession that shall never grow old. When I gaze back to the flowering of my musical youth, I remember the positivity, the funk, the energy - and being the first kid in school to learn the words to 'Boom! Shake the Room'. And the cool points I got for THAT surely forgive a thousand sins.

* That one might have been just me. I Googled the dance and - though I've discovered it had a name: the Funky Charleston - other details are not forthcoming. More of a one-man craze then. Which at least explains why no-one is ever up for doing it with me.

Conclusions from the London Marathon

I ran the Flora London Marathon on Sunday. Here are ten great things I didn't know about the marathon then but do now:

1. I can run faster than loveably vile chef and thinking lady's adulterer Gordon Ramsay.
2. I cannot run faster than a carrot.
3. While employers can no longer sponsor marathon-running employees as much as they once did, thanks to the recession...
4. ... most other people's generosity remains unchanged. Current non-work fundraising total: £1563.01
5. Contrary to popular opinion, the Cutty Sark is not a particularly memorable landmark to run around when it is in a box.
6. Running past your office will make you wail that all is forgiven and claw at the doors, begging to be let in for a few hours' monotonous proofreading in a dark, quiet room.
7. Waving your arms around as you cross the finish line will make your iPod fall out of your pocket and crack on the floor.
8. If you run the marathon, the BBC will refer to you in its coverage as an "athlete". In your face, grammar school P.E. teacher Mr. Stevens!
9. There is an entire spectrum of blisters on my feet; a cacophonous rainbow of colours ranging from benign beige to furious crimson. Lesson learnt: marathons give you blisters (in other news: Pope thought to be a Catholic).
10. Giving up alcohol and caffeine will not make you run faster than your original target (3.30), revised target (3.45) or realistic expectation (3.50). Lesson learnt: wine and coffee doth a fast runner make. Presumably.

Sounds like good advice anyway. And on that note, must dash - meeting a friend to celebrate.

MMMICHAEL!

Now I enjoy a good Segway as much as the next man. The bizarre transporter is much beloved by G.O.B., and what's good enough for the creator of Mr. Bananagrabber is certainly good enough for me.

Why love the Segway? Because it is ludicrous. It looks like a toy that will overbalance if driven over a small pebble. The driver (driver? Pilot? Captain?) is planted starkly upright, like a candle struggling to maintain its dignity atop the world's crappiest cake. Bold. Proud. Open to insults (and stones) thrown from the kerbside. It is difficult to be taken seriously commanding something so prepostorous and pathetic. But in the Segway's loveable stupidity lies its charm.

No charm of any type, however, resides in that preserve of the decrepit and infirm: a granny buggy. So what better template for Segway to use for their new range!



Is it a Segway? No! Is it a golf cart? Maybe! Does it remind you of Mrs. Biggins terrifying the town with her drippy nose, snarled obsceneties and dog barks? Yes!

Now look here Simon Segway: you're in danger of falling between two stools. So either do this properly and make an actual car, or stick to what you do best - give us all a good laugh, and allow the ridiculous to become the sublime.