October 6th 2003 - October 12th 2003
Sunday Boom boom
Saturday Grassy arse
Friday Little guy
Thursday What a card
Wednesday Meesc
Tuesday Unlegless
Monday Props
Sunday 12th October 2003
Much hoo-hah over the question of whether Derren Brown's half-assed Russian roulette caper should have been banned on the grounds it might encourage suicide attempts.
I'd have thought that if anything might lead you to blow your brains out, it's the realisation that television executives actually believe you capable of taking the whole thing seriously...
Saturday 11th October 2003
In amongst the Google requests that have driven desperate people to Blogadoon lately (context for maya angelou? erotic explosives? paul mccartney freemason?), I was intrigued to spot someone searching for more information about church grass canary wharf.
It will intrigue you, too, if you know Canary Wharf at all - a marble-over-concrete office-mall combo distinguished by its distinct dedication to Mammon. (There is a church there, in fact, tucked away in what I strongly suspect is an under-rented shop up by Westferry Circus, an anonymous space that reminds me of those 'non-denominational chapels' that offer souless solace to terrified travellers at the end of long, deserted, corridors in modern airports.)
And Canary Wharf does have grass - albeit neatly marshalled into three or four open spaces, such as the acre or so lying east of 1 Canada Square, a 'leisure amenity' that hosts 'community concerts' on summer nights, bombastic performances whose inchoherent racket rises up to beat against our fifteenth floor windows, sound devoid of content, the quality of noise you'd expect from sitting opposite someone wearing a personal stereo half a mile high.
(There is also, immediately above the Jubilee Line station, the park, or rather parklet, whose main function, I was delighted to discover, is to weigh down upon the hollow concrete box which houses the underground concourse sunk into the waterlogged ground beneath it and stop it, whoops, bobbing back up to the surface.)
But church grass canary wharf? How could that combination possibly intrigue anyone enough to drive them to a search engine?
And then I remembered. Somewhere on the Isle of Dogs, I think, possibly just slightly south of the Canary Wharf complex, a couple of artists have taken over a deconsecrated, possibly semi-derelict, church in order to smear the walls (and, perhaps, the ceiling) with a mixture of clay and grass seed and then sit back and watch it grow. It sounded fascinating when I read about it, and I wanted to go see it.
Finding further detail on the net proved surprisingly difficult at first. But thanks to clues provided by a dead-tree copy of TimeOut, I can now tell you that it's at Clare College Mission Church, Dilston Grove, SE16 (Bermondsey rather than the Isle of Dogs, and somewhat spookily described as built of 'reinforced concrete floating on London clay'), that the artists responsible are Heather Ackroyd and Dan Harvey and that it takes place as part of the 2003 Lift Festival. Hurry though, it closes on October 19th.
Friday 10th October 2003
When asked who he wished to represent him in court, the man accused of the stabbing of Swedish foreign minister Anna Lindh allegedly replied: "Tom Cruise".
Thursday 9th October 2003
Poor, beleaguered Invisible Duncan Smith, so desperate for a conference gimmick that he copies a Labour pledge-scheme and lays himself open to all sorts of nasty puns: his identity card, his loyalty card, his creditability card, his yellow card, his last card, his rump card: IDS puts his card on the table.
Wednesday 8th October 2003
Miscellany
One of the stories I missed mentioning during my ahem-sabbatical was the news that the BBC's director general had expanded his investment portfolio, thus providing a particularly no-really headline: Dyke buys new golf club
Also missed, the revelation that one of the earliest products of the media empire created by would-be press baron and pornographer Richard Desmond was a magazine called Home Organist.
In re a homosexual Dr Who, a tip of the hat to a late-night comedy concept that had previously passed me by: Gay Daleks
Misinterpreted headline of the week, a teaser that I saw on, I think, the front-page of the Guardian earlier this week: Drive-by killers strike. Pay and conditions, presumably.
Imagine my surprise: Bay City Rollers say their manager 'liked young boys' ("Paton tried it on with me, but I wouldn't enter his sordid world," said McKeown, whose book Shang-A-Lang is due out next month.)
Can anybody explain why on earth we need a gay and lesbian directory enquiries? (Next up, a light-loafered Talking Clock.) (I said Clock.) (Third stroke, anybody?). Somewhat less surprising: it's the most expensive service out there.
The notice on the door of Wyndham's Theatre on the night that he decided he just couldn't take it anymore? Michael Barrymore has been cancelled. Yup.
Does anybody still wear pyjamas? Yes, apparently: Jeremy Paxman.
Scientists use laser technology to unravel the secrets of why the cookie crumbles, claiming they will now be able to produce a more predictable biscuit. And there's me thinking that one of the most enjoyable aspects of biscuit-eating is that you never know just how much of it is going to make it to your mouth. Ah well.
A new blog on the block, a witty title, no pun unturned, erratic posting schedule and time, plenty of time, hanging heavy on his hands. What's not to like?
Tuesday 7th October 2003
Wow. Three days off in a row - something of a record lately. Even more unusually, I enjoyed the break without feeling obliged to get totally legless.
Saturday was David's 30th birthday party, held in the same sumptuous architect-designed penthouse duplex that hosted a previous, equally enjoyable, party. Unlike some of some of my fellow guests, I didn't get falling down drunk or gild the lily by heading on to Action. (David and I went to Queer Nation instead, and had a high old time.)
Sunday was - yes indeed - the RVT; despite the sunshine, the grassy knoll was a little too chilly to be truly inviting (and the lack of grass reveals a surface strewn with broken glass and cigarette ends; if we wanted that, we could go inside.) We headed off instead to what may well turn out to be the winter equivalent of the knoll, the Pizza Express at Kennington.And I alternated beer and diet coke, thus staying comparatively sober throughout a thoroughly pleasant evening. (We have a new pastime: scanning the crowd to see whom we'd cast in our porn movie. If you see us pointing at you and exchanging knowing nods, you're in. Either that, or we've perused your gaydar profile.)
And then yesterday, prolonging the relatively adult behaviour, I took myself into town to purchase necessities: good bread (from the Neal's Yard Bakery), strong coffee (from the Monmouth Street Coffee Shop), and a bagful of books. (Ok, so I managed to drink a couple of pints and be thrown out of somewhere for Inappropriate Behaviour as well - I didn't claim it was an entirely adult weekend.)
Monday 6th October 2003
First we had the stage collapsing under too many nuns; now the balcony collapses under Juliet. And one of Siegfried and Roy's tigers turns on its master.
It seems the props are striking back.
What next? David Blaine's box decides to dematerialise, dropping him fifty feet onto a crowd of angry punters?
We should be so lucky.
......previous week
