I have further evidence that homeopathy is bobbins

"It's a kind of magic!", says the homeopathic naturopath who, apparently, was a real doctor in France, but is not allowed to practice in Quebec. She is asking me many questions about for e.g. my favourite colour and whether I prefer salty things to sweet things, reading them out of a gigantic book that looks not unlike the 1987 edition of Linda Goodman's Love Signs.

I am there because someone I work with who I like very much said I should go. I did not realise the 'doctor' was a homeopath until it was too late to elegantly cancel the appointment, and so I decide to keep an open mind and see if there is something to take away from the experience other than leaflets about Reiki.

She is very nice and I very much enjoy talking to her but it is absolute bobbins, what she is saying. I am determined to be honest, so I sit back in my chair and say with my mouth: "I do not believe in homeopathy!".

She starts laughing. "It is only in North America that homeopathy is not recognised", she says, drawing on a piece of paper and rolling her eyes. "They have done many wonderful things in North America, but they are not always right." I do not press her to define 'recognised', and watch instead as she rummages through her book of Magic. Yes, I do prefer harmony to conflict, and no, I am not constipated.

She does not ask me why I do not believe in homeopathy, and starts to write my prescription which will, if I understand my fellow doctor-visitors correctly, cost in the region of $1,000,000. I have no idea what she is prescribing, and she does not explain, so I say something else. "I don't believe in homeopathy because there is no evidence that it works, beyond the placebo effect, and more to the point, it just doesn't make any sense. Water doesn't have a memory, for starters". She smiles and keeps writing.

"Drink lemon in the morning, with hot water", she says. "It will help with the acidity." "Is that a good idea?", I say. "Lemon juice gives me sort of ... heartburn. Burny acid. In my stomach. And it hurts. So how can it help with acidity?" It is at this point that the alleged doctor delivers the fact that proves to me, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that 'alternative medicine' should be banished.

"Don't worry. Lemon has a false acidity. In other words, it tastes acidic, but it is not. It will neutralise the acid in your stomach."

With that, she gives me a bill for $100, which will - I am astonished to tell you - be paid by my medical insurance. "But you will see I have put it down as a naturopathic consultation, not a homeopathic one; as I say, they do not believe in homeopathy in North America."

I come home and watch this and feel very much better.

I have evidence

"I do not believe you had a banjo player in a cardboard boat at your wedding!!!", said a detractor the other day. That person is a bloody idiot. We did, and here is a photograph of him to PROVE IT.

Sadly, he has a guitar in this photograph, so you will just have to believe me when I say he also has a banjo. (And no, we didn't fully understand what the cellophane thing in the background was either.)

He is called Philippe.

I make an appeal to any English people who meet Americans for the first time

If you are English and are going about your daily life (e.g. at a party, dancing at a disco, buying sausages, at a meeting of international colleages, a sales conference, a wife swapping party, in a hotel lobby or at a rodeo) and you are introduced to a North American, please, upon hearing them speak for the first time, grasp them by the hand, look them in the eye and scream into their confused faces:

"OH. MY. GOD. I LOVE YOUR ACCENT."

This will also work if you are speaking to them on the telephone, but make sure you let them speak for five minutes, demonstrate that you have not been listening to a word they have said, and THEN say: "I'm sorry, I wasn't listening to what you said, I was just listening to your accent."

You may also tell them their accent is 'awesome', 'cute' or 'cool'. Once you are feeling more confident, feel free to ask them to say things for you, e.g. orange squash, Buckingham Palace, marmalade, and discotheque.

** UPDATE **
Prompted by a comment below, may I also suggest that, after shouting "OH. MY. GOD. I LOVE YOUR ACCENT", you then take a deep breath and ask: "And where are you FROM?".

I read the comments on the YouTube

I am watching this video by a lady called Shakira (who is apparently only 4ft 8 inches tall in real life), wondering, as I was instructed to by the friend that told me to look it up, what exactly she is doing in the cage and whether or not she is hurting herself with her repetitive hip dislocation.

But what is this? I am distracted from the sexy lupine antics of the South American wolf-fox by the comments that are written underneath it. Here, for your particular enjoyment on this chilly November evening, is a contribution from a "Miss Mackenzie". Where she is from, we do not know - but sure as eggs is eggs, she has her finger on the pulse!!!

I am made to laugh until I squirt by John Peel

I was sent this this morning by my friend Louis, who is reading a copy of John Peel's autobiography (found in Oxfam).

It made me extremely happy. I hope you enjoy it too.



In answer to the question "how did you feel about the music of the early ‘70s?", he replied:


“Well, when you look at that period, the only bands that got signed up were bands that contained at least one member of a previously successful band that had broken up, and almost the only new band that came through during the whole of that time was Roxy Music, so that’s why when punk came along, it was such a welcome breath of foul air, because you hadn’t realised how bored you’d been.

For instance, round about 1975, the controller of Radio 1, who was very much into motor racing, took us to Mallory Park. It was a regular race meeting, but there was a Radio 1 dimension to it. There’s a huge lake that takes up much of the area in the middle of the track, and right on the edge of the lake there’s a couple of small islands, and they’d set up a mock medieval tent on the bigger of the two islands and this is where the élite went, and you could only get to it from a footbridge guarded by security people. Slade were there, and the Bay city Rollers were also there. I was there too, standing outside the hospitality tent talking to my fellow DJ Johnny Walker.

Cars were hurtling around the track, and all these Rollers fans were dashing across, even during races I think, because the Bay City Rollers had been brought in by helicopter and were standing on top of this observation platform, waving to the fans on the other side of the road. The fans would run across the track, then down to the edge of the lagoon, and they’d see the Bay City Rollers about 20 yards away across this muddy water, reeds and stuff. Of course, these girls were all wearing Bay City Rollers chic – which wasn’t flattering – and they started wading through the water to get to their heroes.

The only security on the island – and it seems barely credible – was provided by the BBC Sub-Aqua Club. So you’ve got all these people in frogman outfits with flippers and goggles standing on the bank, catching these girls, carrying them back through the mud and depositing them on the other bank, where they’d just turn round and come back again. But Noddy Holder (of Slade, who had enjoyed an unbroken string of hits throughout the early 70s) went over the bridge and walked through this crowd and they paid no attention to him at all. He must have thought at that moment: “This is where it all ends.”

So helicopters are going backwards and forwards, all these girls are struggling through the water and there’s frogmen hopping about. I turned away, just in time to see on the main part of the lagoon, Tony Blackburn is hurtling across the water, waving to the crowds, in a speedboat driven by a Womble. I turned to Johnny and said, “Mark this well, because we‘ll never see the likes of it again.”