I am 37. That means I was Too Old to engage in the Take That first time round. And as I was neither brought up nor educated in a provincial market town, I had things to do with my time other than read Smash Hits, do my hair and think about Jason touching me with his popstar hands. Robbie Williams is mad, so I never had much interest in him either (which is odd, as a lot of Gentleman Callers in the past have been one sandwich short of a picnic, so it's obviously not something I generally avoid, insanity). But most of all, I didn't like their songs and that, especially not the one with bloody Lulu in.
Don't know what happened, really. About six months ago I got drunk by myself and got at the iTunes. (What is the name for this? You know, the iTunes equivalent of Drunken Dialling. I wonder if I could put an alcohol sensor into my computer so I neither blog, write emails nor open iTunes when I'm drunk. The consequences are invariably disastrous). Acquired Take That's Greatest Hits. Never listened to it, though.
But look! It's Gary Barlow on the telly. He is interesting and funny. And also clever! Aaah, look, it's the others. Aren't they sweet, especially Little Mark (but he shouldn't sing by himself; his 'w' thing sounds weird). And oh my sweet Jesus, it's Take That's new single. It is genius! I shouldn't love it. I should hate it. I should resist it. I should not leap on the "aren't Take That great?!" Iron-O-Bandwaggon. I am old, and cynical, and love Thom Yorke for his mind.
But Patience? Gary is still hurting from a love he lost! I will love you Gary. I will have patience, and I will "not be too hard on your emotions". I know you need time, Gary. I know "the scar runs so deep and it's been hard". You say your "heart is numb and has no feeling", but I will be your salvation, Gary. I want to be "the one on whom you can always depend".
Sigh.
And here, in an astonishing moment I could never have predicted, I will do two things. The first one is to put a "pop video" on my weblog off the YouTube, and the second one will be to tell you that it is of Take That's new single, Patience. (The third thing I will do is lose whatever scant credibility I had left. But I tell you this: I bet there's someone at NME who really fucking loves Patience and listens to it in their bedroom underneath posters of a band I have never heard of and would not understand. And no-one can deny that this is a "great pop song", which is what you say when you secretly like something that's supposed to be uncool.)
Do you love it too? Do you? You DO, don't you! I can see it. Don't pretend you don't. You. Love. It.
P.S. The video's a bit pony. Close your eyes and think of Gary when you play it. Go on. You will Love It.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Day 137: I Have Been Sailing In A Little Red Boat
Dear Anna, the writer of the very splendid Little Red Boat is on holiday in the Kenya, mainly looking at lions and tigers. While she is away there are people doing the "guest posts" for her. Today it is me! I am very excited. She asked some of us questions. I mainly answered the ones that allowed me to talk about Parsons and arses (they rhyme and have something in common), and say the word "cretinous".
Please (if time and curiosity allow), click on the link above to see what I have written and take a tour of Anna's weblog, which is better than this one. You will particularly like if it you are of a Nautical Bent, as there is a picture of a Little Red Boat on it. I wonder if Anna has sailed to Kenya in it.
Please (if time and curiosity allow), click on the link above to see what I have written and take a tour of Anna's weblog, which is better than this one. You will particularly like if it you are of a Nautical Bent, as there is a picture of a Little Red Boat on it. I wonder if Anna has sailed to Kenya in it.
Day 137: I Go To A Nightclub And See The Light
"It's like a feature-length episode of Dr Who", said Mel. "You just don't know what's going to come through the Vortex next."
On cue, an enormously fat woman with an ill-fitting halter neck top walked up the stairs. Seconds later, a woman so small her clothes would have been ex-VAT appeared. ("Fuck me, it's a dwarf!", said Mel.) More and more people came; there was a lot of hair gel, spades full of foundation and some concentration on 'trends' as outlined in Closer magazine every week. And suddenly, everything made sense.
I have long wondered what it is that makes provincial towns different to London. I'm not talking about the Proper Cities like Manchester or Newcastle (and Glasgow's much better than London), but that particularly English type of market town. There's something different about the people there. Richard Skinner usually works at the local radio station and plays hits from the 80s; there are 'boutiques' that sell clothes your mother wouldn't wear and a High Street like every other High Street in Britain. There's usually a 'posh bit' that has lovely shops (including an organic butcher), and very pretty houses that you could buy if you decided not to live in London.
.
But what is it about the people I see in the streets? I've been looking at them for years. I see them on the television and read about them in the magazines. They do phone-ins on local radio, Sky Plus the X-Factor and live a mile away from their mothers. But these facts aside, they are Different to me and I have never been sure why.
But one evening at Blush (Cheltenham's Premier Nightclub) and All Is Clear: people in provincial market towns have the kind of hairstyles you only ever see in the window of hairdressers. Improbably layered things with complicated fringes and boys looking like boys do in Coronation Street: hair so sticky that if you threw something at it, it would stick, sculpted into improbable crusting shapes.
I think I've found the secret. There's fuck-all else to do in an English provincial town of an evening except drink pints, get in fights and eat chips in the street, so complicated hairdos are just another way of passing the time.
As for me, I've got very simple, short hair. I think it makes me look elegant and tidy, but I probably look like a fat ladyboy. I'm not sure what's worse, frankly.
On cue, an enormously fat woman with an ill-fitting halter neck top walked up the stairs. Seconds later, a woman so small her clothes would have been ex-VAT appeared. ("Fuck me, it's a dwarf!", said Mel.) More and more people came; there was a lot of hair gel, spades full of foundation and some concentration on 'trends' as outlined in Closer magazine every week. And suddenly, everything made sense.
I have long wondered what it is that makes provincial towns different to London. I'm not talking about the Proper Cities like Manchester or Newcastle (and Glasgow's much better than London), but that particularly English type of market town. There's something different about the people there. Richard Skinner usually works at the local radio station and plays hits from the 80s; there are 'boutiques' that sell clothes your mother wouldn't wear and a High Street like every other High Street in Britain. There's usually a 'posh bit' that has lovely shops (including an organic butcher), and very pretty houses that you could buy if you decided not to live in London.
.
But what is it about the people I see in the streets? I've been looking at them for years. I see them on the television and read about them in the magazines. They do phone-ins on local radio, Sky Plus the X-Factor and live a mile away from their mothers. But these facts aside, they are Different to me and I have never been sure why. But one evening at Blush (Cheltenham's Premier Nightclub) and All Is Clear: people in provincial market towns have the kind of hairstyles you only ever see in the window of hairdressers. Improbably layered things with complicated fringes and boys looking like boys do in Coronation Street: hair so sticky that if you threw something at it, it would stick, sculpted into improbable crusting shapes.
I think I've found the secret. There's fuck-all else to do in an English provincial town of an evening except drink pints, get in fights and eat chips in the street, so complicated hairdos are just another way of passing the time.
As for me, I've got very simple, short hair. I think it makes me look elegant and tidy, but I probably look like a fat ladyboy. I'm not sure what's worse, frankly.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Day 136: I Get Lost
I have no sense of direction and I can't read maps. I'm not very good at following instructions either. (On the other hand, if I drive a route once I will always remember it. I think.) But I was concentrating very hard on Friday, you see, for I had to get to The Big House we had hired two hours before everyone else, what with dinner to make, tables to lay and lies of the land to be got, and the instructions were memorised and ready to be followed Very Carefully Indeed.
It was raining like a bastard on the M4. Proper sheet rain, with Richard Skinner on local radio dedicating 'True' to Nikkii of Hungerford and divvers in the middle lane eating sandwiches and smoking pipes. And I got to Frampton Mansell, turned right and thought: oh good, it is Not Yet Dark and I am On Time, and there are only a few simple instructions to follow.
"As you drive into Frampton Mansell you will see a fingerpost pointing left down the valley to Oakridge. Follow this road down the bottom and take the right turn up the hill on the other side. When you pass the sign saying Oakridge Lynch, take the next turning right and drive along the lane until it forks.
I follow the instructions and end up where I started. By now it is dark. I am on single lane country paths with high hedges on either side. If anyone comes the other way, I am more fucked than a fucked thing with a reason for being fucked. I go round again. Just as the fork comes an ENORMOUS LORRY appears. How can it get down the lane?! This is Magical! I swerve down the other fork. The drivers flash, honk and wave. They are Cheery! I reverse backwards up a hill in the pitch black. It is raining harder. I go round again, and again, and again. I am back at the beginning! What am I doing wrong?
Lo! There is a pub. I park the car. I am slightly Hysterical. I go into the pub. Silence falls as the door swings open. They know where the village is! "Go back down the road, under the viaduct. It's up the other side of the valley."
I go under the viaduct. I am in someone's garden! I reverse backwards uphill in the pouring rain. I resume the Position. Round and round I go. The instructions do not make sense. I have been At It for an hour.
Look! There is a man, with a big labrador and very thick spectacles. I stop. "You're not far, only about half a mile; I think you go down there (points vaguely), then double back on yourself; it's the third house on the right." I drive off, and round. There is the man again! He has not run, but I have driven round in another circle. He is kind and offers me more directions, and would get in the car and show me but Cannot, for "Betty has muddy paws". As I drive off, I realise the dog has a luminous yellow jacket on not because she is cold, but because her owner is blind, or at the very least partially sighted. This goes some way to explain why he is in a road in the dark in the pouring rain without a torch. He does not need one!
An hour and a half later I have still not found it. Then a sudden turn reveals the Lorry! I stop. They lean out. They are not from round here; they are Brummies doing a delivery. But they are very Cheery indeed, and offer me their SatNav. But I have no postcode. They claim to have seen the fingerpost I need a few yards back. We wave. I reverse backwards uphill in the dark and pouring rain, and resume the position.
I still cannot find it. I see a man carrying a sack! He has huge googly eyes and one of them is looking at the stars. He points me up the hill, round the corner, gives me five left turns and a double-back, and wishes me well. I stall. Tears are not far away; I am Frustrated and Lost, and the lasagne is cooking itself in the boot. I wish I had a Man with me, one that could do DIY, change tyres, reach high things that I cannot and read maps. (In return I will cook, run baths, be kind and tell jokes.) My eyes prickle a bit. I have lost reception on the radio, for I am at the Bottom Of A Valley.
I drive off. It is now two hours later. Suddenly I turn; I slow down; I stall. I look to my right. It is the House! I have Stalled outside the house!
The house is very beautiful, like the kind of house I dream about living in one day. It is Worth It.
The others arrive. They have had Trouble, but none as bad as mine. I am ashamed to admit it has taken me two hours to find the house from the A419. Everyone has been to the pub. Everyone in the pub thinks it is very funny. I am not laughing much, and then someone gives me the wine. Everyone is there. We are all laughing. It is OK.
(By the way, if you ever need to find The House from the A419, follow this map:)
The next day in the daylight we go to Cheltenham. I drive through a pedestrianised street, past a Police Van. I am Fixed and Rigid in Primark and sent out into the rain, which is better than being in Primark. We will all meet at the Christmas Fair at 2.30, whereupon we will eat sausages in buns and look at Wooden Ties. We meet; we eat long sausage; we look at Wooden Ties. Someone buys a lipstick in the hope of getting a free mince pie. Her mission is Successful!
We get in the car to drive back. It should take twenty minutes. An hour and a half later we find The House. My passengers quietly and kindly tell me that no, it is not necessary for me to take them to the station the next day, for they will Order A Cab.
That night we all go out, all twelve of us. I order cabs to take us there and cabs to bring us back. The cab driver tells me that it is Fiendishly Difficult to find the House and that I should not fret. I tell him it took me two hours to find it. He goes very quiet. "Not THAT hard", he says, and turns up Lionel Ritchie.
It was raining like a bastard on the M4. Proper sheet rain, with Richard Skinner on local radio dedicating 'True' to Nikkii of Hungerford and divvers in the middle lane eating sandwiches and smoking pipes. And I got to Frampton Mansell, turned right and thought: oh good, it is Not Yet Dark and I am On Time, and there are only a few simple instructions to follow.
"As you drive into Frampton Mansell you will see a fingerpost pointing left down the valley to Oakridge. Follow this road down the bottom and take the right turn up the hill on the other side. When you pass the sign saying Oakridge Lynch, take the next turning right and drive along the lane until it forks.
I follow the instructions and end up where I started. By now it is dark. I am on single lane country paths with high hedges on either side. If anyone comes the other way, I am more fucked than a fucked thing with a reason for being fucked. I go round again. Just as the fork comes an ENORMOUS LORRY appears. How can it get down the lane?! This is Magical! I swerve down the other fork. The drivers flash, honk and wave. They are Cheery! I reverse backwards up a hill in the pitch black. It is raining harder. I go round again, and again, and again. I am back at the beginning! What am I doing wrong?
Lo! There is a pub. I park the car. I am slightly Hysterical. I go into the pub. Silence falls as the door swings open. They know where the village is! "Go back down the road, under the viaduct. It's up the other side of the valley."
I go under the viaduct. I am in someone's garden! I reverse backwards uphill in the pouring rain. I resume the Position. Round and round I go. The instructions do not make sense. I have been At It for an hour.
Look! There is a man, with a big labrador and very thick spectacles. I stop. "You're not far, only about half a mile; I think you go down there (points vaguely), then double back on yourself; it's the third house on the right." I drive off, and round. There is the man again! He has not run, but I have driven round in another circle. He is kind and offers me more directions, and would get in the car and show me but Cannot, for "Betty has muddy paws". As I drive off, I realise the dog has a luminous yellow jacket on not because she is cold, but because her owner is blind, or at the very least partially sighted. This goes some way to explain why he is in a road in the dark in the pouring rain without a torch. He does not need one!
An hour and a half later I have still not found it. Then a sudden turn reveals the Lorry! I stop. They lean out. They are not from round here; they are Brummies doing a delivery. But they are very Cheery indeed, and offer me their SatNav. But I have no postcode. They claim to have seen the fingerpost I need a few yards back. We wave. I reverse backwards uphill in the dark and pouring rain, and resume the position.
I still cannot find it. I see a man carrying a sack! He has huge googly eyes and one of them is looking at the stars. He points me up the hill, round the corner, gives me five left turns and a double-back, and wishes me well. I stall. Tears are not far away; I am Frustrated and Lost, and the lasagne is cooking itself in the boot. I wish I had a Man with me, one that could do DIY, change tyres, reach high things that I cannot and read maps. (In return I will cook, run baths, be kind and tell jokes.) My eyes prickle a bit. I have lost reception on the radio, for I am at the Bottom Of A Valley.
I drive off. It is now two hours later. Suddenly I turn; I slow down; I stall. I look to my right. It is the House! I have Stalled outside the house!
The house is very beautiful, like the kind of house I dream about living in one day. It is Worth It.
The others arrive. They have had Trouble, but none as bad as mine. I am ashamed to admit it has taken me two hours to find the house from the A419. Everyone has been to the pub. Everyone in the pub thinks it is very funny. I am not laughing much, and then someone gives me the wine. Everyone is there. We are all laughing. It is OK.
(By the way, if you ever need to find The House from the A419, follow this map:)
The next day in the daylight we go to Cheltenham. I drive through a pedestrianised street, past a Police Van. I am Fixed and Rigid in Primark and sent out into the rain, which is better than being in Primark. We will all meet at the Christmas Fair at 2.30, whereupon we will eat sausages in buns and look at Wooden Ties. We meet; we eat long sausage; we look at Wooden Ties. Someone buys a lipstick in the hope of getting a free mince pie. Her mission is Successful!
We get in the car to drive back. It should take twenty minutes. An hour and a half later we find The House. My passengers quietly and kindly tell me that no, it is not necessary for me to take them to the station the next day, for they will Order A Cab.
That night we all go out, all twelve of us. I order cabs to take us there and cabs to bring us back. The cab driver tells me that it is Fiendishly Difficult to find the House and that I should not fret. I tell him it took me two hours to find it. He goes very quiet. "Not THAT hard", he says, and turns up Lionel Ritchie.
Day 136: I Do My Christmas Shopping
Thanks to the good artisans at the Cheltenham Christmas Fair, I have done all my Christmas shopping in ten minutes - and in the pouring rain, too!
For the gentlemen in my life (inc. Tiny Post Master and the Shopkeeper), a wooden tie. Made of the finest Wood cut in the approximate shape of a tie, cut into smaller pieces with a jigsaw and mounted on elastic, Wooden Ties! (or Ties! Wooden), will provide an amusing talking-point for all the family on Christmas morning. They're guaranteed to please pranksters of all ages.
For the ladies in my life, an Animal made of Fake Pearls with Staring Eyes. An attractive addition to any collection of pointless gee-gaws and porcelain figurines, Fake Pearl Animals will carry on collecting dust and unidentifiable sticky substances for years to come. They truly are an Heirloom of the Future.
Coming Soon: It takes me nearly two hours to drive two miles, but I am helped by a Blind Man and two Brummies in a truck; I go to Cheltenham's Premier Nightclub (and Member's Bar); I eat sausages for two days with Unfortunate Consequences; we are helped into town by Andy and Colin (although Denise has a license too).
For the gentlemen in my life (inc. Tiny Post Master and the Shopkeeper), a wooden tie. Made of the finest Wood cut in the approximate shape of a tie, cut into smaller pieces with a jigsaw and mounted on elastic, Wooden Ties! (or Ties! Wooden), will provide an amusing talking-point for all the family on Christmas morning. They're guaranteed to please pranksters of all ages.
For the ladies in my life, an Animal made of Fake Pearls with Staring Eyes. An attractive addition to any collection of pointless gee-gaws and porcelain figurines, Fake Pearl Animals will carry on collecting dust and unidentifiable sticky substances for years to come. They truly are an Heirloom of the Future.
Coming Soon: It takes me nearly two hours to drive two miles, but I am helped by a Blind Man and two Brummies in a truck; I go to Cheltenham's Premier Nightclub (and Member's Bar); I eat sausages for two days with Unfortunate Consequences; we are helped into town by Andy and Colin (although Denise has a license too).
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