The "To Do" List

Skiing - Holiday or Nightmare?

2010-03-15T08:51:00.000-07:00

Slumped in a chair in Geneva airport at 8pm on Saturday evening, I surveyed the scene around me. Hundreds of travellers flocking around this very small airport. Normally you can spot a few sunkissed faces with a smile or two as they recall a memory of a great holiday, the cocktail they had by the beach or when they pushed a friend in the pool and laughed and laughed. Not true at Geneva airport.

Hundreds of skiers and snowboarders walk through the halls - tired, broken, battered, all of them. And I was one of them. A madman who imagined that it would be fun to go on a holiday which included 6 hours of strenuous physical pain each day. Risk of injury is high; comfort levels are low and the French/Swiss will force more cheese on you than you could possibly ever need or want. What sort of a holiday is this?

To get from Geneva airport to any ski-able area, you first have to embark on a journey of such magnitude that Aeneas himself would have sent you a postcard to congratulate your fighting spirit. For me however, he did not.

You arrive at your "chalet" where, from the warm feelings the name connotes, you might expect to find log fires and bearskin rugs, but the reality is that you have to pay an extra 15 euros just to secure rental of your bed sheets (just one of the many stealth taxes that a Ski holiday keenly enforces).

Then you sleep on your wooden plank, get up at 8am and dress yourself in one of the most uncomfortable outfits you are ever likely to wear. The ski boots make you walk at a forward angle as if you are a gorilla. It's amazing how humanity has advanced so far in this past three thousand years. I'm quite sure that when a Gorilla arrived at the cave, threw down two wooden planks with foot and fist holders and pumped his hairy chest, the other gorillas threw him out of the cave and he rolled down the mountain, never to be seen again until his French Neanderthal cousin did the same 3,000 years later and it took off from there.

It's a bizarre concept for a holiday, but those that do it (myself included) can't seem to get enough of it.

And so, as I ~~sat~~ slumped in Geneva airport, sipping a ~~hot chocolate~~ chocolat chaud which cost me around ~~10 swiss francs~~ 20 english pounds, and I surveyed the wreckage of all other travellers, ~~I thought i'd never return to this mess again in my life~~ a small part of me knew that i'd be back in the same place again next year.

Why is Manchester so much better?

2009-12-31T08:02:00.000-08:00

I arrived on a train at 15.04, and was swept into the crowd walking toward the underground. Reflecting on this, I considered that I was not very comfortable going into a hole in the ground when I was on thirteeen on a camping trip, so why should I be happy doing the same now (with more people and no helmet).

People walk competitively when they're in the underground, contorting their bodies to fit through people's legs and get further underground quicker.

A few hundred metres and a few hundred seconds later, I contorted my own body (or did my best with my gargantuan Christmas load) into a small tube, putting my arms and my bags where space would allow.

And then I closed my eyes, returning to my music and the peace I had enjoyed not ten minutes previously on a much quieter train. And then somebody fell on me, and spilt their Fanta on my coat and bag. After he recovered (his Fanta, then himself), his shamed face appealed to my disappointed expression. I rolled over and comforted him, nothing to worry about I thought, a bit of soft drink, I enjoy having an Orange scent anyway. It was a blessing in disguise.

I knew however that my mild-mannered response would not ensure my survival in future. You don't fall over on tubes, not if you hold the bloody hand bar like every other sensible person. I should have told him to get a grip. Literally.

Returning to my flat, I can feel the emphysema developing nicely on my chest. Welcome back to London. Why is Manchester so much better? Is it the water?

do you have room in your suitcase? NO.

2009-11-21T15:03:00.000-08:00

It's Saturday night, and everyone seems to be out doing something social, but i'm at home in front of my laptop listening to George Michael. But please, don't feel sorry (or worried), i'm very glad to be home alone with GM's dulcet pseudo love ballads, it's a perfect opportunity to sit back and relax and let George do all the talking.

The solitude has given me a good chance to reflect, and get crabby about something that bugged me recently:

I heard the following conversation at work yesterday:

Guy: "You're going to New York next week aren't you?"

Guy 2: "Yes! I can't wait."

Guy: "Great. You'll have a great time. Hey, do you reckon you could pick me up a New York Knicks basketball t-shirt?"

Guy 2: "Err... yeh, err...where would I get one of those?"

Guy: "Any nike sports shop I should imagine, i'll give you the money and everything, I mean, if you have room in your luggage?"

What the fuck is up with people asking others to get them shit whilst they're on holiday? THEY'RE GOING ON HOLIDAY. THEY'RE NOT YOUR PERSONAL SHOPPERS.

I could understand if the person was going to Peru and they were in love with Peruvian wool sweaters and had recently lost their own a washing machine disaster, or if their grandma had a Macchu Pichu fetish and needed a fridge magnet before she snuffed it - but, honestly, a New York Knicks shirt?

I work in a digital advertising agency, surely this guy had heard of e-commerce and one of the million websites he could have bought this shirt -

SHIT, what d'ya know - three clicks from google I found this: http://newyorkknicks.shop.sportstoday.com/Dept.aspx?cp=1042_4643

Unbelievable. If you're reading this - please don't ask me to do your international shopping, unless it is a very detailed and country-specific request.

four-way photo

2009-07-09T11:20:00.001-07:00

This is a photo taken by Corinna Psomadakis using a geek chic cool new camera she had recently purchased which employs a 4 shutter googly eye camera which takes four shots (I think), one after the other, giving the impression of movement across time - a very interesting photographic concept.

It just so happens she decided to debut her new camera on a couple of douchebag jokers - that would be myself and my best mate Charlie. After we had both accidentally bought the same boxer shorts, and by complete accident had both worn them on the same day, we decided to highlight this fact and Corinna decided to document it.

The outcome, I think, makes for a great photo.

Corinna is trying to learn more about photography, and you can check out her shit here:
http://larbage.tumblr.com/

celebrity babysitting

2009-07-06T12:42:00.000-07:00

Whilst out for drinks on Saturday night, I got talking to a good friend about her latest 'babysitting' job. It transpired that she is on the cusp of earning a babysitting job with a very rich family. The exact type of family who are rich enough to pay a babysitter to go on an incredible holiday with them just so the kids can have someone to play with. This is not the first time I have heard had a friend who has somehow found a family who will pay them about £20 an hour to raid their fridge and watch The Simpson's in HD. Cristina's mother has regaled me with many stories of her college days in Malibu CA, where she would assist her living by looking after the kids of the rich and famous.

What is it with you people? Where do you find these ridiculous jobs? Is there some website community for uber-wealthy families and eager wannabe-nannies that i'm missing?

It's all too good to be true, and I want to know who is dishing out these bloody jobs, because I want one. And before you go judging me for wanting to look after small children as a hobby, spare a thought for the kind and gentle King of Pop, who made a pretty good name for himself doing exactly the same thing.

So this is an appeal (albeit a creepy one).

If you know a wealthy family / or are one, are looking for someone who is great with kids, but better with a TV remote. Please tell them to get in touch.

I won't touch diapers. Going rate is £10 an hour.

What happens now?

2009-05-30T06:12:00.000-07:00

“It’s all over now, baby blue.” Words immortalised by folk singer Bob Dylan, but not true for Guus Hiddink, one of a handful of English football professionals still on the clock with the unfinished

business of this Saturday’s FA Cup Final to contend with.

What about the rest of the footballers? At various points in the last month, they have finished their season-long shifts of physical torture. Now is their time for a well-deserved rest. All of the blood, sweat and tears of an English football season have finally come to settle on the hallowed turf. What happens now?

Some of the most interesting things in football often happen when we aren’t looking – the things which Sky Sports doesn’t show. Who cleans the boots? How many pairs of fresh socks does Robinho need for every game? Who takes care of the ball boys?

Football, from Liverpool to Luton Town, is a gigantic machine. It requires diligent minds and dedicated people behind every kick of the ball. You may not hear about them on the back pages, but it’s them we can thank for everything we love about football.

The season may have all but finished for the footballers. And after Saturday’s game, the fans can also take their two month sabbatical and watch some Cricket instead. But in each and every football club in the country, armies of staff are already preparing. Cutting the grass of the training ground, drawing up new tactical boards and printing names on new football shirts. The football season never stops, it just goes quiet for a few weeks.

Class of the Catalans - Champions League Final

2009-05-28T04:03:00.000-07:00

Last night, in a smoky Irish pub in North West London, I watched a battle of champions. Kings in each of their countries, heroes amongst their people, it really was the fight of all fights. It's only football you might say, not worth romanticising. In this case, it deserves all the glorification we can give it.

This was truly the biggest sporting stage in the world. The best players, from all countries and backgrounds, playing for the biggest accolade, in the most popular and widely followed sport in this planet's history. Unless dinosaurs played some form of shuffleboard we don't know about - it doesn't get much bigger than this.

And last night, Manchester United couldn't cope with the skill and craft of Barcelona.

Alex Ferguson, manager of United for over 18 years, football sensei, could not overcome the tactical wits of a much younger Pep Guardiola, an infantile 38 year-old in his first year of management. And he can make no excuses - both managers have the same chess pieces in front of them. One manager's bishop may be stronger than the others, but the other may have a stronger castle - in the end they both have the best players in the world, it's just about how you play the pieces.

For Barcelona, possession is 9/10ths of the law, and therefore you need to concentrate on stealing the ball from them to have any chance of winning. Ferguson employed his two most frenetic and hassling players, Rooney and Ji Sung Park, on the fringes of the game where they had no influence.

Against Chelsea, Barcelona had already proven themselves to be frantic in defence, making mistakes under pressure and giving away costly fouls in the penalty box. Chelsea were unlucky not to have won at least two of four legitimate penalty calls. But where did Manchester United exploit this weak point? Where did they effectively dribble the ball into zones which would directly worry the fickle Barcelona defenders? In a game of this magnitude, even a world-class defender will do anything he can to prevent an opposition goal, even if it means the risk of giving away a penalty.

Manchester United may be champions of the Premier League, but this defeat will hurt Ferguson's pride more than any other. His wonder boys, with so much hope resting on their shoulders, were expected in February to achieve the unachievable and sweep all five major competition trophies. Now they walk away with just two.

United will regroup, rebuild and Ferguson will dig deep and replenish himself for one final push. Before he does, he would be wise to take a look at the best team in the Europe, his conquerors. A team owned by their fans, who forego a lucrative sponsorship deal and donate their shirt to Unicef, whose players learn to play with pride and to play beautifully at all costs.

HOLIDAY!!!

2009-04-30T23:27:00.001-07:00

As the world works itself into a big fuss over a maybe/maybe not pandemic to rival the 17th Century bubonic plague, I couldn't really care less.

It seems a shame that in plagues of the past, they were a little more creative with their name choices - the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century striking fear into the history books and the schoolchildren who read them. This time around, someone almost jokingly decided to call it Swine Flu, almost as if Pig Flu might not have a serious enough ring to it.

Do you think they decided to name it swine flu because you can't regularly find 'swine' in restaurants and therefore people can blissfully continue to order pork casseroles and bacon sandwiches when they go out to eat? I have to admit, i'd be scared shitless right now if they had called it Sausage Flu.

Without offending those poor souls who have contracted this unfortunate condition and suffered its effects, i'm still completely fearless. Why? Because i'm off on holiday.

I've heard you can get great deals to Mexico right now, but i've decided to go a little further afield. The longest flight i've ever taken - 14 hours spread across two flights. The west coast of America here I come.

I'm too excited for words. I've not had a holiday in ages, have been working hard across various jobs for nine months, trying to make life work in London on a shoestring. Finally, I can take a couple of weeks, see a bit of the world I've never seen before, take some photos and eat some delicious food (swine excluding).

Will keep you updated with some photos and stories along the way. It's time to become an American. If I meet Obama, that would be crazy. But goal number one right now - a regular streetside corndog and a budweiser, as soon as I step off the plane.

My local Pub

2009-03-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

Just had a Saturday morning session at my 'local'. It's a great thing to be able to say that you have your own 'local'. The phrase refers to the pub that's about two minutes from your front door, and even though it's probably tacky as hell, and the seating is moth eaten, there's a sense of pride you wear each time you go in there.

I can only imagine it's a bit different in America. If you don't live in a big city, they seem to have a problem putting drinking holes on every street corner in the suburbs. It must have something to do with their kids having such lovely white teeth.

To say "i'm off to the local" has three great implications:

1. It officially means you have your own abode, a place where you live, with neighbours and some annoying lady who peeps through her curtain. It's your area, your home, and that's great.

2. This sense of ownership is a step up on the adult ladder. You're no longer 12 years old and saying "i'm just off to my local....street corner to hang out on my bike". Now you can drink beer and not orangeade.

3. It's nice to go somewhere that's not your home, but that you still feel at home when you go there. If that makes sense?

A proper old man's pub, named after an American wooden-hulled ship - the oldest commissioned ship in the world today. The clientel is bizarre. Some bloke goes in with a sort of silver chain wig on and wears a leather jacket, but seems completely normal. A bloke with a pony tail runs a poker game on Sundays and Mondays in the upstairs bit. There's no quiz machine, no jukebox, none of that post-modern drinking apparatus that seems to be the habit of a new generation of young hedonists. Just simplicity.

Plad chairs. A straightforward selection of lagers and bitters. A few mixers, and the classic triumvirate of crisps - ready salted, cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. People go there to enjoy a drink and maybe if they see someone they recognise, they exchange a few words.

Greeks have something similar with the Taverna - the Hellenic "local". In the villages and suburbs, you'll see men playing backgammon, sipping away on a mythos, gossipping in between dice rolls.

The local is a great way to tie together a community, and a fantastic excuse to go drinking on your own. If you have a local - get in touch and i'll come round for a pint.

To Do: Visit the Local more often.

The Darkness - what a band. Remember? Just me?

2009-02-19T05:48:00.000-08:00

I love music, but i'd never clearly say that my tastes were ever consistent, refined or educated. I like what I like, and tend not to listen to anything which might reasonably be caught in a grey genre area. I'm not a genre person either - I like bits of lots of different things.

Basically - like religion - my taste in music is one of life's great mysteries. Faith is required.

And it is with great faith that in around year 2002, I devoted myself to the most cringeworthy band ever to have topped the charts - The Darkness.

They were a sort of mock 70s guitar-worshipping band that produced an album of pure mock-rock. A sheep could have written better lyrics, and the riffs (???) were so unnervingly tacky that the whole mixture, when combined and strapped with leather jeans and tatoos of snakes, produced a result that was not far short of a miracle.

I loved it like i've never loved any band before - one jam after another. I bought two t-shirts at two gigs I went to. The first time I saw them live was with my friend Chris Parrott. It was a dank, cold December night in Manchester, and Chris and I met up at the pub around the corner from the Carling Apollo, for our little music man-date. If we hadn't been so clearly obsessed by The Darkness, we'd have been ashamed that we were the only two people amongst our friends that saw a bizarre attraction in these jokers.

They enjoyed their fifteen minutes of the fame, and i'm glad that I was at the front to watch it unfold and then fold back up again.

Strangely, I'm sat in a coffee shop and one of their heroic ballads came on, so I just had to sit down and write myself a little trip down memory lane.

This blog post is to all those people who like a band for some very bizarre and unexplainable reason. Nobody else gets it, even though you wish they really did. Many years later, when you've matured and lost the t-shirt, you might look back on that obsession with a smile, knowing that you loved a band nobody else did - they were yours and they were brilliant.

A treat for all of you. Ladies and Gentlemen - The Darkness. RIP.

Doubt (Film Review)

2009-02-17T08:06:00.000-08:00

You probably wouldn't be convinced to see this film by the trailer. Words like 'depressing', 'blue', 'want', 'to', 'kill' and 'myself' would be conjured in your mind. And you can't be blamed. Here's the logline: An embittered battle between a Priest and a the Principal Nun of a Catholic school in 1960s America rages amidst allegations of the Priest's sordid relationship with one of the boys.

Woopee. Who's in that one? Jim Carrey?

No. In fact it's Big Phil 'Serious Face' Hoffman and Meryl 'Give Me Any Role' Streep. Two big names, and the expectations of their performances are high. It's with little surprise and much annoyance that the release of this film coincides with Oscar season. But then again - given the subject matter - I would hardly expect a June release - summertime movie this ain't.

So what's the scoop? Does it deliver? It doesn't i'm afraid.

It has a very strong feel of small-time about it. The scale of the drama and the setting (the camera hardly steps outside three or four locations in the school) restrict this film from producing any truly engaging and worthwhile emotional reaction. There are a few scenes of considerable length which clearly are devoted to the actor's talents as performers. But this is an adaptation from an original stage production - and it feels very much as if that is where it should have remained.

This is very much an actor's film, with Hoffman and Streep (and to a lesser extent Amy Adams) commanding all our attention. And when they make their appearances, the film begins to feel bulky and the story is apprehended at the precise moments it should be moving forward. This is a feature of the stage play, where the time and space is given to the actor to stop the action for a few minutes to marvel us with his airs and graces. It is not, unfortunately, a luxury of the cinema.

And this is my main problem with 'Doubt'. And it was my main problem with 'Capote' also. I can admire and applaud the skill and profession of the screen actor, but I hold some reservations about whether or not the film works.

Plus, "Priest accused of molesting a small child, Nun takes offense, big shouting match occurs" - is this not an episode of Eastenders?

To Do:

Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona (Film Review)

2009-02-15T04:57:00.000-08:00

What a wonderful film this is. And isn't.

The short and tall of it for you - Vicky and Cristina, two young Americans (early 20s) escape for a summer in Barcelona, staying (as we all do) with wealthy ex-patriots who now own wonderful villas on the city's outskirts. Sexual and emotional exploration abounds, most prominently for Vicky and Cristina (although not at the same time) with sultry Catalan artist Juan. Juan's ex-wife, Marie-Elena (Pen Cruz) joins the fray, resulting in more sexual exploration for Cristina (this time, at the same time).

Not even in Almodovar have I seen a director who can handle the Spanish scenery so beautifully. The easy, siesta lifestyle of the people in Barcelona and Oviedo is brought to life to such a great extent, that I left the cinema feeling very jealous of the various lunches and dinners and balmy summer evenings the characters enjoyed. At times, perhaps I felt as if the director was so enamoured by the locations that he filmed a travel documentary rather than a movie - but even so, it's nice to see Woody Allen getting out of New York for once.

His neuroses didn't travel with him - which i'm grateful for. Normally, in Woody Allen films, one character is set up as the neurotic, self-analysing protagonist who fails at almost everything until the last five minutes of the film - normally, Allen is rather good at this caricature himself. With 'Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona', there is a set of characters altogether more composed. Scarlett Johannson's character, Cristina, is so aloof that if the aeroplane had landed in Russia, I doubt she'd have noticed or minded.

Javier Bardem's character is artistic to the extent of being a bit fucking annoying, and despite his rip-roaring and sultry attitude (he looks as if he's acting whilst sleeping) - I can't help but think his character to be one-dimensional.

Penelope Cruz - the little firecracker extraordinaire - puts in a blinding performace (the only one) as ex-wife turned lunatic Marie-Elena. Darting between Spanish and English like bullets from a gun, she is charged and energetic, a true emblem of a fiery Spanish culture where the heat and the passion mix like gunpowder and the naked flame.

This is a film about love. But not in the typical rom-com sense, nor love in the sense of that poor Indian girl Kevin Costner grows to love in 'Dances with Wolves', not love like email love between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in 'You've Got Mail'. This is pure Dionysian love, ripping the heart in pieces, the type of thing that Greek poets talk about and Greek Gods fought about. We can't really put our fingers on it, it's nothing tangible. But somehow - Woody Allen has tried to, and only those that know about it will really know what he's talking about.

For the rest, it's a great video about Spanish culture - with some pretty attractive people in it.

See it.

To Do: Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona.

Tropic Thunder (Film Review)

2009-01-31T07:54:00.000-08:00

Various people have told me this film is "funny as shit", a phrase loaded with ambiguity, which i've regularly used without thinking anything of it. Back in the day (another phrase I use casually as if I fought in a war or something) - I used to watch any film - good, crap, funny as shit, shit as funny - absolutely anything. Now, time is precious, and so when I sit down to watch a film, I want some slim hope that this comes well recommended and i'm almost certain to like some of it.

Tropic Thunder certainly fits that bracket. Big coveted names star in this film (Black, Stiller and Downey-Junior). A stock of comedy talent that, despite a few hiccups along the way, have at some point in their career delivered with some great laughs. Why can't they do it again?

Well they do. Sort of. A few gems. A few hiccups. It's all the same and it all cancels itself out.

Jack Black is perhaps the funniest of the three, giving a frantic performance as a heroin-addict star with the sort of tourettes comedy that can offer be startling and genius. Stiller is standardly good, even though he carries a few jokes a bit further than they can be stretched. I think its baffling that Robert Downey Jnr should get an Oscar nomination for his role, it's funny for a bit, but he goes overboard on the accent and becomes at times a bit of a blur.

I could go on about how the concept of this film is really interesting and could have been taken a lot further. And how the film treads a little to close to the line of out-and-out parody (i.e. Scary Movie et al). But I won't because there's only one more thing I need mention.

Tom Cruise. What the hell was he thinking? He gives a fantastic cameo as a hotshot Producer, and dons a bald head and the most ridiculous fake chest rug i've ever seen. They must have shaved the coat of a grizzly bear to match this up.

If anything, this movie shows Tom Cruise in a light which he's never seen in all his dark days as scientologist and Spielberg's action lovechild - I'd recommend seeing the move purely for this reason. To be honest with you, it's funny as shit. Make of that what you will.

Haircut Saturday

2009-01-31T03:05:00.000-08:00

There's a lot of stuff I need to blog about right now, so expect a fair few posts over the next couple of days.

Firstly though, it's Saturday morning and first on my To-Do list was a hair-cut. The foppish, Hugh Grant look just doesn't suit me, and if I don't have it short enough to scruff it up with some product, then I look at least 30 years older than I am.

Secretly (or not so - this is a blog after all), i've been looking forward to this haircut all week. Why? Ben - the new hairdresser that I chanced upon when I first moved into my new flat in Pimlico.

Let's just clear something up from the start - i'm using the term Hairdresser - when in fact this is the most ridiculous term ever. Ben doesn't dress my hair, he doesn't arrange clothes for it, or select a hat to cover it up - he cuts it.

Nor is Ben a Barber. This term crosses the line between some Chavtastic shop with a revolving Red and White beacon on the shopfront and an old-style boutique where they do wet foam shaves. I'm no chav and i'm no Gentleman. I am a man, and Ben - good at what he does - he cuts my hair. He is my Haircutter.

So - Ben, such a great guy. I knew i'd found my best haircutter ever, because he's a massive football fan. I'm really paying him for a half-hour chat about football, and that's probably what he is charging me for. He's such a nice guy that he'd probably cut my hair for free.

Ben has some really insightful stuff to say about football. He reckons that the time has past when there was a real stock of Galactico players - the Kluiverts, Davids, Romario, Bergkamp - the great Nike school of players. They've all disappeared, and Ben is right. He also has some interesting stuff to say about Arsene Wenger's managerial style (Ben is an Arsenal fan), and we laughed together about hapless Spanish fool Rafa Benitez.

The time passes effortlessly, and before I know it, my hair is shorter and I feel great for having chatted about football for half an hour.

You see - this is what Cristina would call a Bromance, a slightly unorthodox case because it also transcends a professional boundary. Two guys, get together to chat about things which women might not understand. It's a wonderful thing. I can't talk to Cristina about football, but I can pick from various other topics (moisturiser, celebrity gossip, dolly parton and booty heels). So I need this mano-a-mano bond. And I don't mind paying for it if I have to. Even if it is with my hairdresser, or haircutter, or...well, whatever.

To Do: Grow hair quicker.

The Times on a Saturday - read this if you read that!

2009-01-25T08:55:00.000-08:00

Every Saturday, absolute top of my "To-Do" list is to buy The Times newspaper, maybe cook up a bit of breakfast, sit back with a glass of pulped orange juice, or tropicana, and read the paper and associated magazines.
Pure English.
Pure Saturday.
Pure bliss.

And for all of those of us that are not lefty or righty enough, but like our news given to us roughly somewhere in the middle - are we not all aggrieved at the new layout of The Times on a Saturday?

Is this protest of one or have I got a following?

The Times has a beautiful paper on a Saturday, which I consider to be far better than the famed Sunday Times. The latter is a bulky, overwrought waste of paper with sections for every walk of life (Travel, Driving!!, Money, Life & Style!!!, Country Walking, Origami). We don't need all of these things and we certainly don't read them. Instead, we need all of the best bits condensed into one easy newspaper, giving us a slice of the news pie which we haven't been able to scoff during the week. That's what a Saturday paper is. Or at least, should be.

The Times had a great thing going on with their Saturday magazine. ALL of my favorite columnists - Giles Coren, Bob Crampton, Kate Muir - they were the super team or journalists - the J-MEN if you will. And it was all so cool - great words with great pictures backed up by sublime art direction.

Now it's all gone, and my Saturday morning newspaper pleasure has gone into the shredder with it. They've changed the font and the layout completely - giving it an overall stench of (cough cough) Guardian. A lot of my friends and their families are Guardian readers - there's something wonderful and hippy about the liberal fonts of a Guardian arts & film supplement. There's nothing wrong with it - it's just an acquired read. Instead, I need something in between the stoic Telegraph and the whimsy Observer, something serious but which doesn't take itself seriously.

That was The Times. But all it takes is a font change, a three-column layout preferred over a two-column, and black and white portrait pictures for each journalist so we know just how they artsy they look. Not even Coren and the J-MEN can save this mess.

Does anyone know what i'm talking about? I feel as if i'm on my own with this one.

Slumdog Millionaire (Film Review)

2009-01-22T06:26:00.001-08:00

There were high expectations surrounding this film. Edgy and youthful director Danny Boyle, face like a spade, previous credits include Trainspotting, The Beach, 28 Days Later - looks like a Brit made his way into the Hollywood cool club.

Fair enough. Let's all give credit where credit is due. I know i'd like to be there. But alas i'm not, so i'll keep my critical sword sharpened and my bitterness at an arm's length, and proceed with this review.

As it turns out, Danny Boyle definitely does deserve his place amongst the cool club, and so does Slumdog Millionaire. A fantastic cast of young and old actors perform brilliantly in this love story set across the slums of India. The Slumdog himself (Dev Patel) is put through his paces on a show of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and he keeps getting the questions right despite not having received any education whatsoever. How does he do it? Well that's the story folks. Each question prompts a flashback to a moment in his turbulent life in which the answer reveals itself.

Great scripting and brilliant acting. The images are rich with the colours of India; died cloths being hung to dry, the earthy reds of building sites and the misty sunset behind the Taj Mahal. The editing carries us forth at blistering pace, and we get an espresso style shot of Indian culture across various class bandwidths.

However - here comes the knife - I can't help but wonder if this film is getting plaudits at the moment for a style of filmmaking it borrows from an even longer tradition of Bollywood filmmaking in India. Perhaps an industry and method of cinematography which hasn't until now been recognised by the major award bodies. But in Slumdog Millionaire, it receives the right amount of 'Westernisation', to bring it to the attention of the judges who hand out their golden statues.

This - and this only - is my complaint. But perhaps it is not substantial enough to merit me criticising this film too heavily, and maybe Slumdog will sheer in new international audiences for Bollywood filmmaking. Maybe.

Let me put the sword away however, and celebrate a good film when I see one.

Here we have a fast-paced, historical action love comedy story. There's a bit of everything in there, but it's not necessarily a film for everyone. You need to like all of these things to truly enjoy this film. You need to like the moments when you cringe, when you laugh, when you breathe a sigh of relief and when you feel you could cry because of the injustice you're seeing on the screen. If you're not into all of these things at once, Slumdog isn't for you. If you are, there's a real treat waiting for you at the cinema.

To Do: Watch more Bollywood.

TV Review: 'The Diary of Anne Frank'

2009-01-11T17:54:00.000-08:00

Write the following down on your "To-Do" list - Watch The Diary of Anne Frank

I must take my hat off to the BBC for a thoroughly enjoyable drama series. Before I heap further praise on the programme itself, i'll take another hat off and bow it toward Geoff Breton, my friend from school who plays Peter Van Daan in the show. A cracking perfomance and it's good to finally see Geoff getting the praise and airtime he deserves because he's a bloody good actor.

If you haven't seen or heard of this dramatisation, the basic jist is a fleshing out of the actual text of the diary itself, using (I think) the diary itself to form a voice-over narration from Anne.

The setting of the annexe lends itself well to five shorter 30 minute mini-dramas rather than a huge slog of 2 hours in which we might have started to get a little claustrophobic in our seats. I think this is a great way for the major British networks to start releasing their dramas. All too often we get a huge chunk of a crime drama dumped at 9pm on ITV and can't be bothered to invest two hours of our lives without promise of a good show. And once we're an hour into it, we've missed all of our alternative programme choices, and have to stubbornly stick it out to the end when we already know the muderer is the vicar who dodged the police questions after ten minutes and who claimed the crimson blood on the chalice was the wine of christ and how dare they accuse christ of being a murderer. Case solved.

If we get drama in bite-size, we can have a little taster, see if we want to taste more, and then proceed as we wish. Plus it's so simple on BBC iPlayer to make these choices when you need to.

If you haven't already - go to the iPlayer, and watch 'The Diary of Anne Frank' - it's fantastic and moving and for the first time in a while, i'm proud of the BBC for producing some world-class television.

I'm also pretty proud of Geoff. I guess he's probably got lots of girls coming up to him in the street now, saying stuff like "Hey, aren't you that guy from Anne Frank, can I have your number? Can I put it in my diary?" Which would be a sick joke for a girl to make, but he probably goes along with it. He probably gets free drinks and free Armani suits. He probably has an entourage now with drivers and cooks and everything. He probably has people blogging about him and telling the whole world that they know a famous guy from the telly.

Some people are just plain lucky. Others blog.

Crikey!! 'Austraila': Film Review

2009-01-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

Rating :

Returning from an afternoon cinema trip to see 'Gone With The Wind 2', better known at the box office as 'Australia', my head was rushing. Papered across town with mixed reviews, some good, some bad, some awful; clearly this was a film that had split opinion.

It had not split me however. A genuinely good film I thought. Normally I can't stand Nicole Kidman. Her extreme-Englishness makes me want to throw a cricket ball at her head. Her forehead makes for such a large target that I should strike something. Plus, I partly blame her for ruining my saint-like appreciation of Tom Cruise, the once pearly-smiled likeable shortman of Hollywood turned scientological fanatic and destroyer of anything that's holy. BUT - this aggression aside, she was bearable for most of the 2hrs 45 mins.

Expect the dubious nods to Australian culture such as the token kangaroo, and the portrayal of the aboriginals in the film is bound to stir up some controversy somewhere. Although, I can't help but feel a fairer treatment is given to them than can be spoken of the cameo Greek actors in 'Mamma Mia!' - something I may not have noticed if I hadn't been dating a Greek girl for some time now - efharisto very much.

At this length you better make sure you keep some popcorn for the final stretch, at least to keep the Kidman-itis at bay. But I can't say I was ever bored by this film, or ever wished it would end. It was, in nature, an epic. Epics require a longer pitch. There is nothing quite so epic about a 90 minute Woody Allen comedy - humorous, rude, illicit - but not epic.

You may well disagree with me about Woody and his heroic sagas of life and love in downtown upstate, leftside New York. But, regardless, this is where I ask Pandora to open up her box - what makes a film an epic?

It's clear that we love epics. They are some of the most celebrated and awarded films in history. Ben Hur (1959) won 11 Academy Awards, a feat matched only by two other films, one of which was Lord of the Rings (2004), a great epic of the 21st Century. Various films have tried to make claims to join the genre.

King Kong (both 1933 and 2005) made valid claims. They are films with high production values, sweeping musical scores and an ensemble cast of bankable stars. But we can't honestly think for a second that an overgrown monkey on an overgrown building has the mettle to be an epic? It's just not realistic enough - it lacks believability. Now we enter difficult terrain.

What claim can Lord of The Rings or Star Wars have to be an epic? Answer: their fantasy world remains consistent within itself. The world of a hobbit or a jedi is alien to us, but natural to those characters. In films like King Kong (Jurrassic Park, Spiderman - all super hero films), the audience is asked to confront a world which is parrallel to their own, a realism they know and experience on a day-to-day basis, but which in fact contains a totally uncomprehendable fantasy element. Blurring this boundary between what they know and what they cannot possibly know defies believability for a filmgoer. As long as the filmic world remains consistent to itself, and does not offer the viewer a bit of both worlds, fantasy and reality - then credibility can be found in almost any type of epic.

The epic relies on this factor and a good many other things.

People must die, and always people we like. Characters must seek vengence, and get it, and finally lose it. There's almost always a developing love, enveloping into a kiss, sometimes a marriage, always a lovers' tiff. There are animals, weapons, water, land, blood, tears and laughter - all of these things and all other things. You see - the thing about an epic is that it has to have a little bit of everything. That's what gives it scale and power. That's why we like it so much.

In every way, Australia, Baz Luhrmann's new epic, fulfilled all of these things. It's a fantastic film and I recommend you go see it soon. Doubtless everything appears more epic on the big screen than your TV, so don't wait for it to come out on DVD, splash the cash. And if you can't do that, wait for Orange Wednesdays.

To Do: Watch more epics.

Where does Santa stay abroad? A HO-HO-HOTEL.

2009-01-05T17:58:00.000-08:00

Christmas. Well, what can I tell ya?

Shopping was left to the last minute, as usual. Done in a haze, hazily done. Oxford Street. Saturday 20th December. Dad - check. Grandad - check. Nana - check. Cristina - check. Mum - too difficult to buy for, leave it - hope something will turn up.

Worked 22nd and 23rd. Met Cristina at Euston station on the 23rd to take a train which would take us northward to Manchester. We both arrived as if we'd packed for a 2 year stay in an unpredictable climate country. Finally get the bags onto a train, Burger King brown bag in hand to start us off with a classic Christmas food group.

On the way, we discuss other food groups. Cristina quotes Elf: "We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup."

I groan.

Tuesday 23rd. A fantastic meal of Christmas lasagne with parents, Grandpa, Cristina and best mate Crooky. Wine flows, chaos ensues, Mum asks me why i'm not a lawyer. Christmas has officially started. Excitement.

Wednesday 24th - Christmas Eve. Family trip to restaurant in Manchester, more meatball type behaviour of stuffing faces and boozing. Last minute shopping for Mum, in heavy and detailed consultation with my Dad - goes something like this:

INT. DEPARTMENT STORE - AFTERNOON.

Adam

Dad, do you think Mum would like this
make-up bag?

Dad
I just don't know son.
Adam
What do you think she wants?
Dad
She has everything son.
Adam
But I need to get her something.
Dad
I just don't know son.

Leave parents around 4pm, Cristina reminds me that tomorrow is her name day, which in Greece is more important than a birthday. She reminds me of this fact whilst holding my hand with a tight grip. This threat prompts an 11th hour shopping spree - purchase Legally Blonde and Legally Blonde 2 - ideal presents. Name Day shname day - taken care of.

In the cinema by 6pm to see 'Four Christmases'. 2 for 1 tickets - Oranges Wednesdays!!! I couldn't believe my luck. Deduce the fortune to be an early present from Santa - feel content.
Film is rubbish, dampers Christmas spirit slightly.

Too much alcohol and too much Italian food makes Cristina a bit nautious - she heads to bed early after I make her up a snackplate of cold meats and cheese. She loves this. From what I gather, her mother's snack plate is both famous and delicious. Feel good about recreating some snack plate spirit. This soujourn gives me a break to wrap the presents. Cristina comments that my bow-curling skills are too good and inappropriate for a man.

25th December. Wake up. Duh. Feeling great. Christmas morning!!! Not the buzz of being 6 years old, but still a good one. Cristina and I go through our stockings, fantastic and thoughtful presents on both sides.

Around 10pm, we head down to the lounge, joined by parents. Mum has decided to lavish Cristina with an array of pink themed gifts: slippers, shampoo, socks and bath robe. Parents don't disappoint - a fantastic spread. Mum opens her bluetooth handsfree in-car mobile phone kit - her look is pricelss. Thanks Dad.

Christmas Day breakfast at midday - a Christmas walk, and then Christmas Dinner at 6.30. We settle down on the sofa, boozed and bulging. The boardgames come out, SceneIt Interactive Movie Quiz. Dad becomes hugely competitive, Cristina joins him in this spirit and tries to beat hard on a tired mother and ageing Grandpa. They lose, Dad gets frustrated, but not disheartened. Mum asks me why i'm not a lawyer. Collapse in bed after one last inspection of Christmas presents.

*****

There was probably a lot more along the way. And it was all a bit of a whirlwind. I'm sure your Christmas was the same. A madcap dash to shop, eat, drink, unwrap and sleep. People say it's a great time for taking stock of where you're at in life. I think it all happens too quickly for that. But, it does give you a chance to take stock of those around you. Friends, family, cats, dogs, hamsters - everyone. In which case, I had a great Christmas, and would do it all again in a flash.

To Do: Christmas

walkin' the walk

2008-12-18T01:59:00.000-08:00

My housemate showed me this incredible picture of Obama on the campaign trail, as he talks to reporters in Providence, Rhode Island (a state which eventually went to Clinton in the primary).

The detail of the worn-out soles of his shoes says everything really. And in the bottom right corner, you can just about make out the spine of his own book, 'The Audacity of..."

Go now and see lots more incredible photos at Time magazine's web-site.

Pepsi - well done, you made a funny...

2008-12-18T01:17:00.000-08:00

I'm quite a fan of this Pepsi Max advert, which I found lying around the internet somewhere.

Twist, follows twist, follows twist = FUNNY. Well done Pepsi, you piqued my interest.

BUT - let's not kid ourselves - massive stereotyping has it's place in this world. How do we differentiate between a geeky girl and a hot mama? Simple: a pair of wide-rimmed glasses and a book. Hot mama wearing the time-tested LBD - simple formulas work, as upsetting and impersonal as they may be.

What is the gay guy wearing? A black 't', tightly fitted around the biceps and chest region (yes, I notice). Is this a formula? Yes and no. Yes because a lot of gay guys go for the black 't' look. No because if you're straight, the chances are you can't pull one off.

Douchebag Holiday photos

2008-12-08T17:24:00.000-08:00

Why is it the case that when people are abroad, and they see a shop with a mildly rude name - they feel the need to take a photo of it? And then show it to the world by posting it on facebook. I just don't get what their message is.

"Here, LOOK at the name of this shop - 'KNOBS AND KNOCKERS' - honest, it's a real shop, I took a photo. Don't you get it? KNOBS as in, well you know. And KNOCKERS, as in, well you know, tits. Look, I took a photo."

"What do they sell?"

"Dunno. Bras and underpants I reckon."

Just in case you thought I was kidding.

We've probably all done it at some point in our lifetime. I remember when I was fifteen on a ski holiday to France, on the bus to Meribel, we passed the quaint little village of Pussy (there's probably a french accent somewhere on that name). Predictably, the whole coach thought the coincidence was too hilarious to miss with a camera.

Most ridiculous are the photos of signs, restaurants or shops which have the same name as the person taking them. Or even, worse, if you see a shop called 'Doug - charcuterie' and decide that your actual friend Doug from back home would fall off his chair laughing when he finds out that there is a little ham shop on the outskirts of Marseilles named after him. Just. Not. Funny.

"Oh look - there's a car. A car that has 'Coke' on the side. I've NEVER seen that in my life. Quick, quick, get a picture before it drives away. No, wait, get a picture with me trying to open it as if it's my coke car. Hey, shit, I just thought, "coke car" - do you think the guy is a drug dealer?"

Maybe I'm being a bit harsh here. It's only a bit of holiday harmless fun after all. Let's not take it too seriously.

Funny story of today.

2008-11-21T10:44:00.000-08:00

This is frickin' hilarious.

Obama and me.

2008-11-19T06:14:00.000-08:00

I never really blogged on the US Election around the time of the 4th November. Part of the reason for this is that I was driving along in my car during the day of the election, I looked overhead to see a flock of white birds had just taken flight above me. That's nice, I thought. Freedom, liberation, purity - perhaps today will be a good day for America and the world.

As that though was passing through my mind, a huge load of bird shit landed on my windscreen, like heavy bird shit rain. White globules of "ha ha we're birds and we can shit on your car if we want to". Appropriately, I shouted "oh shit!". Then I turned on the wind-screen wipers by accident, smearing the mess all over. Then I tried to turn on the windscreen wash button, only to dilute their pasty white crap and give my windscreen a white hue as if I had smoked it out.

It occurred to me that on this momentous day in world history, when something great was happening in America, a flock of birds had decided to shit on my day, and my car.

Luckily for the world (but not for me), this was not a case of 'same shit, different day'. Obama romped to a historic victory. Did he change the world that day? Yes, I think he did. Did he change America? Time will tell.

But, let us not let thoughts of the future shit on his parade. He achieved a great and wonderful thing that day, and his honorable campaigners (and of course their generous financial backers - no shit) should receive all the plaudits.

John McCain's campaign however, well that was just a crock of shit, wasn't it? Every time I saw a clip of him on the road, Mississippi, Ohio, Florida, he was just shootin' the shit, totally directionless, without policies that affected any real change in the Obama sense of the word. Shit, he didn't stand a chance.

Well, i'm glad Americans stood their ground and went with the right man. It's a very exciting political time right now, and it can only be a good thing that millions of first-time voters are entering a political climate which engages their interest like no other before it.

Obama comes into effect 20th January.

Something is going to hit the fan.

Let's hope my car stays in tact.

Quantum of Solace - film review

2008-11-02T13:35:00.000-08:00

The "To Do" list is packed out at the moment, and there never seems to be enough time to do it all, or anywhere near all of it.

Regardless of this, I took the time out to go and see the latest installment in the Bond franchise at the weekend. After the success of its predecessor had caused a Bond revolution, a major refurbishment of all that was old and tacky into all that is modern and tonic, there was quite a bit of hype surrounding its release.

In the midst of a world recession, it is both comforting and disturbing to see that the only two things that can swing the headlines away from the credit crunch are James Bond and the X-Factor. Perhaps there is a role yet for Cheryl Cole as the next Bond crumpet?

Or perhaps we can run a competition to find the next bond (the "OO-Factor"), in which contestants have to show they can tackle warlords and tie a bow tie?

The thought is not as ridiculous as the latest Bond film itself, which would most definitely fail to impress Simon Cowell. The plot circles around the globe like a moth buzzing around a light, with no aim or purpose, only serving to tire itself out completely. We go from Siena (Italy), to Haiti, over to Bregenz (Austria), to London, to La Paz (Bolivia), finally settling in a remote part of the Bolivian desert. All of this without a moment's rest, not even to have a quick peek to see if Bond picks anything up at duty free.

In my memory, a Bond film has never been so impatient. These films work in "bumps", short bursts of action, equally spaced apart to maintain inertia whilst giving the audience time to breathe. We never get this opportunity to breathe in Quantum, the action ties us down and wont let go.

All the classic elements have been sold off in a Bond scrapyard sale. Q the gadget man has been deemed too old to be in the new films. The flirtations of girl-next-door Moneypenny have also undergone the chop. Most upsetting is the decision to absent the most famous movie song of all time, the Bond theme song. Normally played over an action scene (i.e. Pierce Brosnan devastating Moscow in an army tank - see it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WtnVPzMHdMg), in Quantum the song is wasted over the end credits.

A word on Daniel Craig also: rage. That is the best word to describe his performance. He never lets up for a moment, even when he sits down to drink a glass of water, his veins seem to be popping with the sheer anger that he feels toward the world. Bond was never this angry, but if we are led to believe that this performance marks a sea change in our perception of Bond, then perhaps we have to accept the transformation.

However, if this is really the case, then perhaps the producers can appease us by leaving in some of the old trademarks that we so love and enjoy. Such a radical overhaul of a british cultural institution like Bond will doubtless have its critics. We can't just go and put a yellow hat on Big Ben because Damien Hirst tells us it looks good, and nor can we go and make Bond so angry.

Just like the BBC's recent debate between the neo-Brand-ites and the conservative Songs of Praise watchers, a film like Bond will always have its traditionalists and its modernisers. The debate between the two will rage furiously. And that is not a bad thing. What the last two films have done is open up a level of discussion, in the pubs and cinemas, about what Bond should be. That type of discourse is healthy and fantastic for the future of the cinema.

This is by no means a bad film, and I encourage you to make the effort and go to see it. If they can afford to spend $200 million in making the film, your ticket price of £7 seems excellent value for money. There are some fantastic scenes, and as an action film, it is better than the rest. As a Bond film, it may leave you slightly perplexed.

They predict that the number of cinema visitors will be the highest it's been since 1969. The Quantum of Solace has a lot to do with that, but we must remember that Bond can never be all things for all people.

Quantum of Solace:

Action: 8

Acting: 6

Eye Candy: 8

Overall: 7

To Do: Try to be smooth like Connery, not angry like Craig.

Me, half a pint of cider, a pub quiz machine. Wednesday Night.

2008-10-22T15:58:00.001-07:00

My friends had left the pub.

But I remained, desperate to play on the quiz machine. The evening had been a pleasant one. We had enjoyed a continental beer, a bottle of inexpensive wine, a small meal, a few more beers. A very pleasant evening indeed. But it was not enough for me.

I had a close eye on the quiz machine all night. Desperate to ply my 50p coins into that machine in the hope that my limited knowledge might give some financial returns. But my friends had left the pub, gone home, sayonara, goodnight vienna. Was this to be the end for me?

No, ofcourse not. I remained in the pub, determined to get on that quiz machine. A group of lads and ladettes had assembled around the machine, laughing and joking, casually punching in random suggestions.

I went to the bar, conscious of being alone in a pub at the age of 23, but also wondering how I might go about making some friends.

I ordered a half pint of cider. The barman looked surprised, "half a pint?". Obviously this was not a half-pint type of pub. Real men only drank full glasses of beer, and anything else was considered a little bit strange. They probably didn't even have half-measure glasses, so I buckled under the peer-pressure of a minimum wage barman, and shamefully ordered a pint.

Next move. I wondered over to the quiz machine, lurking on the edge of the quiz group, peering over shoulders - my plan was to interject with any answers I felt confident about. If they were the right ones, maybe they would gain me 'quiz machine street cred'. Whatever that was.

Nothing came for a long time. I even got one wrong, shouting the name of a Rolling Stones song that I clearly had no idea about. Suspicious looks were aimed in my direction and I was officially blackmarked as a potential quiz dunce.

Finally, the team lost all of their money and the quiz machine was left empty. I got in quickly, inserted a coin and selected a game. I was playing on my own, with no audience, and no support, but was doing quite well. I answered a couple of tough questions on sports and literature, two subjects which are very much aligned in the modern quiz machine.

By this time I had drawn a small crowd. People were impressed with my steely nerve in front of trivia questions. I was pressing buttons all over the place, answering on a whole range of subjects with the sort of calm and panache that would have earned me a spot on Jeopardy/Mastermind.

Then it came. The once in a lifetime question I had been waiting for.

Q. What did German writer Goethe request on his deathbed?

A. More light.

B. More life.

C. More dark.

The pub gasped. Something stirred deep inside me, a distant piece of an article I had read somewhere in some library in some past life as a student. The answer was 'A'. Somehow I knew it was right. I pressed it. A green tick emerged, and the small crowd clapped in appreciation. A faceless voice from behind shouted "Great knowledge mate. Cheers to that".

And that was it. I had got what I'd stayed behind for - a good dose of trivia and a few cheers from a few people i'd never met (and a small cider hangover the next morning). Some people might think it's quite sad to hang around in pubs on your own, the activity of an old man perhaps. To those people, i'd say, as Goethe did, to look for more light. And more quiz machines.

To Do: Hang around in pubs. Not too often though.

Golf ain't so bad.

2008-10-22T15:57:00.001-07:00

Often people ridicule me for playing golf.

"What an old man's sport! Do you like old people? Are you, like, the age opposite to a paedophile? Are you a geriophile with your golf sticks?" say my friends. "There couldn't be a more unsexy sport in the world than golf" says my girlfriend.

And a part of me agrees with their reason. Not the geriophile part, but they do talk some sense about golf being a lame sport, with little action, no drama or thrills to mention. These were my thoughts as I set off to play a game on Wednesday with three retirees: Dave, John and Tom.

Dave barely possessed any teeth, had a leathery face due to excessive drinking and had already lit up a cigarette before playing his first shot. Trying to start the day off with a bit of chit chat, Dave told me that he had just retired from a business he owned which manufactured fire sprinkler systems. What a thrilling venture I thought, and then that thought finished and I went back to thinking Dave was quite an unremarkable chap.

We plodded along in the windy conditions, walking and golfing. What was the point in all of this? At least if I had gone for a walk in a national park then I wouldn't have felt obliged to talk to fellow walkers. But somehow, because I was hitting a little white ball around, I was locked in a social nightmare of awkward chit-chat. "Nice shot John", "unlucky there Tom". My friends were right, I was a young man playing an old man's game. What was I doing?

And then I saw something that changed it all. Playing behind us was a husband and wife, and I had noticed something peculiar about them. With every shot the woman would hand her husband a golf club, walk him over to the spot, place the ball down for him and then stand close-by. After he had hit the ball, she went back over, took his hand and then they walked onward.

The husband was blind. He couldn't even see the golf ball or the grass in front of him. His wife was helping him to play a sport which he obviously loved playing. He couldn't even see where his shot was going, whether it was good or bad, he could only rely on the descriptions and help from his wife.

In no other sport have I witnessed that level of compassion and desire to play. It was truly touching to see and made me look at the game in a whole new light.

Dave smoked a lot, but he wasn't too shabby a golfer, and he seemed to be enjoying his retirement. Tom had just gone to part-time in his work as a councillor, and we had a bit of a chat about snooker. Mild-mannered John worked in the marketing department for cereal giant Kellogs, so I had a good chat with him about what brands really make the Kellogs machine turn. If you were interested, Special K, thanks to some nifty advertising, forms at least 40% of their business. John was apathetic about it thought, saying that he preferred coco pops.

So, to all those that think golf is a game for old people, you'd be dead right, it is. But there is nothing wrong with that. Just ask Dave, John and Tom - three very nice chaps who I enjoyed a good walk with on Wednesday.

To Do: Play more golf.

Warning: Politics may follow.

2008-10-12T09:19:00.000-07:00

By far and away, this is the most ridiculous letter I have read in The Times:

"Sir, Numerous interviews immediately outside of 10 Downing Street show the letterbox positioned incorrectly and contrary to listed buildings approval. The letterbox is cut horizontally into the central timber stile (upright) and above the timber rail (horizontal).

Cutting this letterbox through the upright stile weakens the timber door dreadfully. It should, of course, be cut into the horizontal rail.

This property is a prominent Grade 1 listed building in a conservation area which is often seen around the world. As such, will the local Westminster planning department issue the building's resident with the appropriate notice? Failing which a £5,000 fine and/or imprisonment is the appropriate penalty."

CHARLES HOLCOMBE, Brighton

The Times, 11.10.2008

I guess this chap is right in many respects, and he is probably a qualified anal retentive. But in all honesty, during a time of extreme economic hardship, where people are losing their jobs all over the country (indeed, all over the world), how does Mr Holcombe have the time and moral energy to write this diatribe on a government letter box? Surely, there are more pressing issues?

Perhaps however, the conservatives should consider this the only viable way of relinquishing Gordon Brown of his position as PM, by stitching him up for his faulty post box. And I can only imagine that the ill positioned letter box is the reason why my letters to the Prime Minister have gone astray recently.

"Dear Prime Minister, Adam Burrows here, perhaps you can stick a few of my suggestions on your 'PM's To Do List':

- Consider promoting X Factor's Cheryl Cole to a cabinet position in the next reshuffle, or at the very least, Danni Minogue.
- Start writing a blog (perhaps call it "The PM's blog", or "Prime Blog") in which you can let the public know all about your experience as our nation's leader.
- Create a chocolate bar called 'Credit Crunch', to consist of milk chocolate, raisins, biscuits and gold coins to alleviate poverty and fight the recession from the front line, the candy shops.
- Whilst the world markets are shrinking, now is the time to strike, go for gold and reclaim the British Empire. Go on, no one will stop you, surely.
- Return the Elgin marbles to their rightful owners.
- Virgin Trains is no longer the virgin it used to be, nationalize it.
- Consider a name change, Gordon is a little drab but could be saved by a more vibrantly colored surname. Try 'Orange'.
- Change your bloody post-box."

Sorry for the rather political blog this week. I assure you, it won't be happening again.

To Do: Think less political.

"Credit Crunch" - The Movie

2008-10-09T06:49:00.000-07:00

After four weeks of busting my ass for a television/film company, I was rewarded (extremely belatedly) with my first big ass paycheck. Ofcourse, I literally ran to the local HSBC to deposit that little paper slip of joy into my account. On the way, I thought of all the ridiculous things that could happen to this cheque on the journey.

A bus could fly past, travelling above the speed limit and causing G force winds to send the cheque high into the air, floating on a gust. About two hundred yards down the road, a waste disposal truck is chugging along. The cheque looks as if it is about to float down and settle on the road, allowing an easy pick-up. Instead, fate (and rubbish) is there to interject and the paper sliver falls straight into the waste truck, and nestles itself on a black bin bag.

I think quick, jump into a taxi, scream "Follow that waste disposal truck!!" to the driver. He's clearly an ex-marine turned cabbie so he puts his foot down and off we go. We come to a set of traffic lights, "Pull up alongside the truck" I shout, "I'm going to jump for it. Come and find me after, i'll pay you when I cash this cheque that I'm chasing." He agrees, caught up in the moment, he's not worried about the cab fare, he's just happy to be back amidst the sort of front-line action he saw as a marine.

There's no need to jump, the traffic light is still on red. I exit the taxi, and leisurely climb into the back of the rubbish truck just as it pulls away. I can see the cheque now, resting on refuge, so near, yet so far. The driver must know there's an intruder, he starts to swerve the dumpster truck from side to side, throwing me about in the process, dislodging the cheque.

This continues for about ten minutes before we arrive at the waste depot, and along with the rest of the rubbish, I am tipped out into a huge scrapyard, and knocked unconscious.

I open my eyes, not knowing where I am, tied to an industrial boiler with black bin bags. "Why were you in my truck?" shouts a voice from behind. A rotting lettuce, possibly iceberg, possibly romaine, is thrown at my face. "I was looking for my paycheck. It fell onto your truck." "You're lying! There are no paychecks anymore. What do you think this is? The Golden Years?" Another piece of rotting fruit hits me in the head.

Wham. Bam. Smash. Two bodies drop to the floor. Marine Cabbie comes to save the day, whacking the binmen with a spade. About fifty more binmen come flooding into the boiler room, but between us, we manage to fend them off with more waste. I grab the cheque, we exit through a window, and speed away in his taxi.

*****
Best of luck to everyone out there feeling the squeeze at the moment.

'Credit Crunch' - THE MOVIE - will be out in cinemas soon.

To Do: Cash more cheques, get more cheques. Seriously.

Girlfriends are more important than films.

2008-10-01T11:01:00.000-07:00

An excerpt from recent Guardian article by Tom Perrotta, novelist and screenwriter:

"A few years earlier, I'd come perilously close to dumping an otherwise excellent girlfriend after she professed her admiration for An Officer and a Gentleman."

I mean, really. Come on Tom, let's set the record straight here. You're saying that you would gladly rid yourself of a perfectly good girlfriend so that you can stay indoors on a friday night watching Platoon on DVD, safe in the knowledge that no romance-loving woman is going to interrupt your party-for-one by asking to watch Richard Gere.

I'm sorry to say it Tom, but the truth is that no matter how good looking you are, the chances are that you still pale in comparison to Richard Gere. Let's face it, the guy has some swarve and panache which you can buy with a Hollywood actor's salary. You're girlfriend probably didn't admire An Officer and a Gentleman, she simply wanted to watch it for Dicky Gere.

To Do: Watch more Richard Gere movies to improve girlfriend skills.

Kings of Leon - album review.

2008-09-30T11:55:00.000-07:00

I was getting bored with my itunes library of music. There are only so many times you can listen to Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah. My eclectic mix of old, new and inappropriate for my age, was becoming tiresome. I needed a fresh angle, reinvigorate my interest and get me back on the pulse of modern music. Were U2 still around?

I joke ofcourse. U2 are still around (somewhere in middle-age obscurity) and thank god for it. Whereas my music radar wasn't too far out of sync, it needed the sort of fine tuning that you can only get from buying albums, listening to them over and over, until you form an opinion of what the music does for you. The random single song downloads from itunes were not healthy, they were short-term, stop-gap solutions to a music starvation. I needed an album, shiny cover, off the-shelf, in the charts, on the ipod, listen, enjoy. And so it was: Only by the Night - Kings of Leon.

Now this isn't a random purchase. It comes from many years of loving and listening to the Kings of Leon, and seeing them in concert twice. I own their first three albums so it was a sequential purchase to add the fourth to that collection.

I've got to take my hat off to them for a whole bag of reasons. Their music, constantly evolving and instilled with a commitment to producing music (four albums in five years), is consistently good. Nay, consistently better.

With this latest album they have decided to raise the bar significantly. There are songs in life that seem to be pitched to their audience at a slightly higher level, somehow rising a bit above the normal chart song mould. They go from being catchy tunes with memorable beats to sprawling and compact musical manifestos. The type of song I'm talking about seems to jump out at you and change your perspective on something, whenever you hear it, no matter how many times.

It may seem like i'm talking nonsense, and quite possibly sounding like the type of douchebag that would hold up a lighter at a concert and sway side to side with his eyes shut, whilst neglecting the person he's just set alight next to him. In truth, for everyone, there is a song like this, that speaks out to you and probably causes you to act like douchebag lighter dude.

For me, that song used to be Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley. Now I think i've found a few more in the new Kings of Leon album.

To Do: Buy more interesting music.

A night in the Premier Inn.

2008-09-26T15:40:00.000-07:00

My new vocation as a travelling video-journalist took me to the heady heights of Watford North on Thursday, to the nations favorite budget hotel, the
Premier Inn.

I was excited. A night in a hotel, hand over the company credit card, grab a full english breakfast in the morning - how was this not going to be at least a satisfactory Thursday night? My anticipation reached its zenith as we pulled into the car park to discover the hotel was nestled inbetween a TGI Friday's AND a MacDonalds. We were here at last, with everything on our hotel doorstep. The Premier Inn logo is a gentle, luminescent moon which looked near perfect when set against the bright yellow of the famous golden arches, both stood side by side, the big sleep meets the big mac.

We checked in. There was no need for a concierge at this hotel, I thought of asking where the nearest McDonalds was, but considered that it might be a level of sarcasm too testing for this receptionist. The cameraman (Sayed) was currently in fasting mode during the month of Ramadan, and requested a wake-up call at 4am for when he was due to break his fast. The receptionist eyed him suspiciously and said "Oh, yes, 4am sir, I'm sure...". Clearly she suspected him of requesting a 4am call so that he could wake up and take care of some personal business, of a strictly non-religious nature. We had a little laugh and then went our separate ways.

The hotel room was uniform, clean and empty. If you're already getting the sense that my enthusiasm was starting to ebb, then you're exactly right. Staying in a hotel room on

your own just doesn't hold the same appeal. I unpacked my toothbrush and it looked odd on its own in a glass next to the sink. The TV was small, and an abundance of mirrors gave the room a slightly creepy expansion. Pulling back the sheets and getting into bed, I decided to retrieve the toothbrush from the bathroom to save it from its lonely existence in there.

I'm quite positive that staying in this hotel room with another person (I have someone in mind, no, not CR) would have been a genuinely fun experience. The bed was comfortable, the space was a large one, but all of these details dwarfed me when I was left on my own.

I struggled to get to sleep, clutching my toothbrush, one eye on the door, half-expecting a raid.

It never came though, the night passed without event and the morning came once more. My attention had now turned to the breakfast. They had informed me at check-in that breakfast (all you can eat buffet = heavenly words) was served in TGI Fridays. And it was actually Friday. What a stroke of luck. The excitement had returned to this event once again. In the wake of the previous night's disappointment, I didn't want to rush things again like a child on christmas morning, excitedly unwrapping his presents at 6am only to be left bored by 10am. So I took a shower, lay on the bed for a while, watched an early morning episode of Frasier.

As an aside, I absolutely love Frasier. I think it's hilarious and witty. But I declare this love whilst realising that it is part of a series of middle-age sitcoms that reveal I watch the sort of television only someone in their middle fifties might watch. Others watch Family Guy and laugh out loud, I just don't get it. Some watch hip and trendy shows like Arrested Development, but I miss the youthful humour. You could surmise that the type of sitcom you watch reveals a lot about the type of person you are. If this is true, what do Frasier, Will and Grace, and Friends reveal about me?

After a morning of middle-age television, I arrived at TGI Fridays, ready for my breakfast and full of friday feeling.

The simple and crushing fact is this: TGI Friday's is not a good place to eat at 8am. Even on a Friday. It has nothing of the joy that you might find of an evening time. There are no silly waiters whisking around with a hundred badges attached to their braces - how stupid they look, but also how cool. Around the walls, in block hollywood font there are quotes like "It's always Friday at Fridays", and "Live the dream." American dream memorabilia lines the walls, brazenly stuck on as ornaments - extremely tacky, but once again, so very cool. The drinks are "botomless" at TGI Fridays, allowing you to request as many drinks as you want. All of this joy, all of these wonderful attributes, they all disappear at 8am.

I quickly finished a bowl of cereal, and the waitress (devoid of badges) came over to take my order. I asked for a full english breakfast. It came too quickly, leading me to believe that someone must have ordered and left, allowing me to have their unwanted breakfast. Not that I wanted it either, the eggs were rock hard, the sausages tasted funny and the beans already had a crust. I cried out for a burger, some friday fries and a botomless diet coke.

None of these things were forthcoming. The hotel stay-over had been a disaster. Better luck next time I thought, a lesson learnt. Rather upsettingly, I shall never view TGI Friday's in the same light ever again.

To Do: Give TGI Friday's a grace period, to allow it and me to overcome our difficult experience together.

I am well-read. In Menus.

2008-09-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

Going for a drink with a friend recently to a local bar/restaurant, I was perusing a rather interesting menu. I'm not going to lie, menu reading (regardless of purchase) is one of my favorite self-amusements. People often throw around this term 'well read'. "Are you well read?" they ask. And I answer "Yes, I am well read. In Menus."

There's just something about reading a menu that gets you straight to the core of what that restaurant is all about. It's an opportunity for them to show a bit of personality, not just in the dishes they serve. The presentation of the menu should mimic the dining experience.

Modern bistronomoque translates to high quality thick card, with a matt finish, bold black print on a white background. The wording of the dish descriptions in a modern restaurant is normally always a little creative, trendy and a little try-hard. My favorite example of this is what one restaurant referred to as 'Tempura codfish, chips and Manchester Caviar', which was in fact Fish, chips and mushy peas.

Handwritten menus can be a greasy breakfast cafe or a cool, hip place that cares more about its food than its printed menus (which one depends entirely on the style of the penmanship). Really upper class fancy joints tend to leave off the currency signs from their prices, assuming that their punters know enough about money to presume that they would pay £9 for a foie gras starter and not 9 of any old random currency.

Yes, a menu really is the key to understanding what you're dealing with when you sit down at that table. It's a chance to impress and of course it's the main way of getting a punter to order a dish. I love the sound of "Pan Fried Sea Bass with Fennel and Potato Dauphinois & Honey and Soy dressing", but i'd be less inclined to order it if I saw it scribbled on a post-it note.

Menu speak is something we're all familiar with, but often overlook how annoying it is. When a restaurant advertises a £16.00 steak as part of its main courses, but requests a £2.00 supplement on that dish, I wonder if they could not have factored that into the original price. I often wonder if I could request a steak without a supplement, perhaps they could cook it a bit less and save on some gas.

Please notify staff if you have any nut/other allergies is another favorite of mine. "Excuse me waiter, I have a nut allergy." "Very good sir, i'll just go and remove the nuts from our satay chicken and pecan pie."

A little bit of humour goes a long way in a Menu, and helps ease the process of reading and selecting, which is particularly important for those of us that are 'well-read' and read often. Even though I was only there for the bar part of the bar/restaurant, I couldn't help but have a glance, and this was certainly a restaurant which mixed comedy with food. It's policy on vegetarians was particularly liberal: "We have a great selection of vegetarian dishes. They go very well with our steaks."

The thought made me chuckle. A menu should be entertaining, unique and not just conform to standard expectations. It mattered not that the disclaimer could be taken as offensive from some the perspective of some vegetarians. I could hardly imagine that vegetarians picketed outside the restaurants, boycotting the Fruit Fascist restaurant. In my own carnivorous opinion, the words perched beautifully on the fence between confrontational and self-deprecating. It told me that this restaurant didn't take itself or its food too seriously. It hoped that the food was good, and the customers would like it, but it was prepared to laugh about it all. All of this I had gathered from just one line on a menu. And there was no £2.00 supplement on the steak.

To Do: Read more menus.

Food cycles

2008-09-23T15:18:00.000-07:00

There seems to be a lot on the "To Do" list at the moment. Most pressing seems to be the need to stop eating fast food so regularly, for the typical health/feel better/look like a model reasons. It has often been a personal myth of my own that if a person goes through a surge of eating fast food, peaking in a session which includes a particularly greasy specimen, they will have reached the temporary point of no-return, the crest of the hamburger hill. On the other side is a gentle downhill stroll, full of yoghurt and fresh fruit, good times and model looks, right before you reach the bottom of the valley where another great hamburger hill is now in front of you. The appetite grows once again, the fast food makes a comeback to the diet, and you can't help but draw the conclusion that eating is a cyclical process.

But this is nothing new. Eating has always been a cyclical process, wherever you live. In America, the Turkey trolley is rolled out but once a year. Thanks are given for its arrival, and then the annual feast begins. In England, it is tradition to eat Toffee covered apples on Fireworks Night. If ever there was a novel way of finding your five a day fruit and vegetables by covering its entire surface area with teeth-rotting glucose, then it was the Toffee Apple, but thank god and Guy Fawkes that it only arrives every November.

In Spain, custom dictates that when the clock strikes midnight on 31st December, everyone must rapidly consume 12 grapes, one for each chime of the clock. The habit began in 1909 when grape growers from Alicante considered it a good way to offloade surplus production for that year. Seedless to nay, ever since Spaniards have loved the custom (Mexicans also jumping on the bandwagon), and so have the grape growers.

A bible could be written about religious eating cycles. Christians indulge in a bit of bread and wine every Sunday, which is certainly not sustainable for the low-carb Atkins Christians. Unless of course the bread was to be wholegrain, but then how can we honestly consider the body of Jesus Christ to be wholegrain? In France, do they break the brioche and drink the wine on a Sunday? Aside from this weekly binge, one festival stands out in particular: Shrove Tuesday.

This particular gem of a religious holiday (my favorite, let it be known) works on the wonderful premise of using up all of the plainest foodstuffs in the cupboard, rich ingredients like eggs, milk and sugar go into the pancake recipe to prepare for the Lent fast. A useful way of getting rid of those high-carb food bombs that you wont need for this 40-day fast you're about to embark upon. All of this sounds great in theory. In practice, this yearly food cycle sees Christians and non-christians alike out in the supermarkets, stocking up on chocolate dipping sauce, maple syrup, lemon juice, blueberries and ice cream. All of this is piled aplenty onto their pre-fast pancake drive, and the surplus is left to rot in the cupboard, possibly for an entire year until the cycle repeats itself.

But my own eating patterns don't possess the same historico-religious importance, and they certainly aren't high-brow enough to use phrases such as 'historico-religious'. No, I started by saying that this week's "To Do" list was a busy one, but the main task is to beat the bulge of the fast food enticement. Currently, I have a craving. Even after coming off the worse in a greasy battle between myself and a Sausage Egg McMuffin last Sunday, I still craved a quarter pounder on Tuesday, and gleefully ate one. But this has got to stop, pancake day is only six months away, and I shall have to start stocking up on Nutella any day now. Not to mention the twelve grapes at new years, both Novemeber and December turkeys, and all of that bread and wine in the meantime. Yes, if there is anything "To Do" this week, it's to make sure that my diary knows of the important food cycles.

To Do: Eat less fast food.