londonmark searching for intelligent life in camden town (the search now continues in new york city)
Friday, March 14, 2003
Cleaning out my c:\loset Should I be worried that I've just managed to delete non-essential and unwanted files off my C drive to the tune of over 1Gb worth?
Your Troubled-Diva Needs YOU! Patriotic? Keen to do your bit for the continued privileges of a free and democratic world? Well, hie thee over to this comments box, read comment #38 and sign up to the project. Now. Go on, over you go…
Munch munch Went to the Hare and Tortoise last night, followed by a quick pint or two of Bombardier in the Lord John Russell with my friend who studies at Trinity College, Dublin. All very pleasant, though I reeled back just a leedle bit drunk.
How true Now this is brilliant (via exit zero). While I'm here, I might as well mention a few other finds I've made this afternoon while perusing the www. Firstly, there's the anti-bloggies, the awards ceremony for people who don't care. Of particular note is the way that the categories have such appropriate prizes. Also good is zero sex life(via diamond geezer via rise), the story of a self-confessed 'pathetic loser' named Mike. It makes me laugh. Also wandered across open brackets, which is very enjoyable and contains a link to the manual, a PDF containing some very entertaining articles.
So… … boring. I really despise training. On the plus side, I am eating a rather nice sandwich from M&S at the moment: Fresh Scottish poached salmon with a dill mayonnaise and watercress on oatmeal bread.
Casanova + Valentino + Romeo ÷ 2003 = ? Over at nerve-wracking, GI Jane posts about her friend who has been on matchmaker.com. He has written what is possibly the most romantic sentence ever committed to paper, email, website, song or theatrical production: "Well, she's legal. That's all that matters." Be still your beating hearts, ladies.
Hygiene I was accused over the weekend of 'washing my hands too much'. Surely that's impossible? I was standing at the sink in the pub toilet when a chap looked over at me and asked whether I was 'infectious' because I washed my hands too much after using the toilet. He then left without washing his hands.
Saturday night's alright for fighting And indeed, that's what we got. Though loath to visit The Good Mixer on a Saturday night because it's usually Freak Night (and I know that any readers who have been there will snort with derision that this means other nights are normal), we duly trotted along there and were on the 'wrong' side of the bar. A friend of mine who studies at Trinity College, Dublin, had come back to the UK for about 10 days so we had a nice chat. I returned to our little group by the stage and just chatted for a bit. And then the fight.
There had been a rather inebriated fellow sitting by us who had bothered my friend L by simply staring at her for a while. Two of us, myself and N, had already asked the bar staff if they could get rid of him for being (a) too drunk (b) too creepy and (c) too annoying (and I do realise that reason (c) is not enough on its own to bar someone from a pub) and so Alan, the glass collector/bouncer/door guard/token Rangers fan, went over to get him to leave the premises. Some words were exchanged and suddenly, mélee. There was some pushing, shoving, fists flying and glasses breaking and then it was over.
Which begs the question: what exactly is the point of a pub fight? Is it testosterone, enhanced by alcohol, nicotine and (bearing in mind this is Camden) other substances? Is it a desire to prove that I am the alpha male and therefore will subjugate all potential competitors? Is it the product of society's collective desensitisation, due to an excess of violence in the media? Is it a form of mental imbalance which is triggered by being close to beer and pool tables? Or is it just that we drink in the wrong damn pub?
Ich bin ein Berliner? Just an aside, but found this in a secondhand bookstore on Sunday and really couldn't resist it for £2.50:
Here We all have a dream of a place we belong The fire is burning and the radio's on Somebody smiles and it means 'I love you' but sometimes we don’t notice when the dream has come true
You've got a home here Call it what you want You've got a home here to return to when you can't face the world and you need some support to succeed You've got a home
We all make a mess of our lives from time to time It's part of the process that you stumble as you climb And if you ever feel the pain is far too big a deal I say with pride I'll be on your side
You've got a home here Call it what you want You've got a home here You're gonna want it when you can't face the world and you need some support to succeed You've got a home
Caffeine Ninja I have worked out my role in life, what I was put on God's green earth to do, how I should spend the rest of my days: I am going to be the Caffeine Ninja. Armed only with the soothing and melodic taste of coffee (and/or tea), I will fight crime in a ninja-style while sipping mocha and generally doing right by the world. Evil-doers will fear my martial arts skills and be wowed by my aromatic blend of java. They will rush from the steely arc of my samurai sword, yet rush to my Earl Grey infusions. Miscreants and ne'er-do-wells will bow down before my Darjeeling of Justice. For I am…
Progress? According to The Guardian, someone's been arrested in connection with Margaret's murder:
Police hunting for the killer of American artist Margaret Muller today arrested a 19-year-old man in east London. Scotland Yard said the man was being questioned at an East London police station after his arrest at 6.20am at his home in Hackney.
Ouch: update M@'s off work today with a stomach bug. This does not bode well. I am hoping that the origins of the stomach bug were in his curry dish or a different source, rather than just the horror of the restaurant. More stomach news later. Bet you can't wait.
Ouch: update: update M@ has texted his progress through:
"Let us not even speak of [the curry house] again. I have seen my curry again a few times today, and am not happy about it. Rough and dog spring to mind."
Time for bland foods, I think. Prevention better than cure, and all that.
My phone An occasional series where Londonmark whinges about stuff he's bought. No. 1: The Sony Ericsson J70e mobile telephone.
Well, it's just rubbish really, isn't it? Absolute trash. Battery power doesn't last, the screen's not too good, the buttons aren't handy and the ringtones are like the sound of fingernails scratching down a blackboard magnified twenty thousand times. Rubbish.
Ouch Never, ever go to the Victoria Curry House. Please, I beg you, never go there. It hurts your head and your innards. M@ had the king prawn biryani which was sadly lacking in prawns, I had the lamb korma where the meat could not be readily identified as lamb, and J-Man can't remember what he had, but remembers it wasn't good. We're still feeling the effects this morning. This is the problem with drinking slightly too much at the Wetherspoons near work.
By contrast, the meal I had with Mike in a Camden curry house (I think it's called Rahsheed) on Saturday night was as close to perfect as non-home-cooked Indian food can get. The service was impeccable (though slightly smile-light), they had a choice of Cobra or Kingfisher, and the food was absolutely delicious, even though I did order too much in an "eyes bigger than belly" scenario.
These are the things A pint of milk A loaf of bread A magazine on special offer Check the weather forecast Buy a new umbrella Send a text message Take a shower Meet me in the park in half an hour
Make the bed Wash the sheets Iron a shirt Try to eat Check for e-mail Send replies Set the video Catch the headlines Write a get well card Have a cup of tea Think of you again I think of you
15,724,800 seconds to go Londonmark is six months old today. Looking back at my first day's posts (yes, that's right, two of the little beauties), I am concerned that I have not changed at all. The posts mention how I can't work the template (I still can't), football (check), the pub (yup), my flatmate (affirmative) and I use stupid English schoolboy vocabulary (what-ho!). So, not much has altered, then. And, one day short of my one month anniversary, I received my first comment, from the man with more records than shirts, and that's saying something: step up, none other than Troubled-Diva. So, let's do a little retrospective, shall we, children?
The post on my two month anniversary doesn't exist because I simply didn't post. Shame on me. Apparently, according to the succeeding entry, I was having a "I'm on holiday and I'm not looking at a computer screen" day. Obviously, I was not thinking of posterity at the time and hence have already buggered up this little retrospective.
The post on my five month anniversary was from a rather small internet café in South Devon, enjoying a well-earned break which unfortunately was due to be curtailed for the saddest of reasons.
Which brings us bang up to date. To my fabulous cast and crew, and to an adoring public (ahem), I raise a glass. Cheers.
Guess that ISBN Yes, it's time for another quiz. You have to guess which books carry the following ISBN codes:
0-340-73395-0
0-571-20329-9
1-85723-146-5
0-14-029799-5
0-571-15491-3
Cheating, though frowned upon, will probably be necessary. Prizes will be awarded for the most inventive and amusing incorrect answers. Your time starts… now.
Reconstruction The police staged a reconstruction of the events that led to Margaret's murder this morning. It's hard to believe that a month has gone by. We all still miss you.
The Sound of Radio Free Londonmark Well, back by popular demand, here on negative seventeen point oh one fm, it's the RFL weekend crew bringing you the beats and teats, the hits and nits, the slap-bang-jump-around solid golden short-players. And there's music as well:
More Radio Free Londonmark … Central Line train eaten by giant vole. And that's the news at eleven minutes past banana.
First up, I've had a message in from a 'bel, who wants to say hi to everyone who knows her (long-time listener, first-time caller) and a request for some INXS which we'll be playing later in the show. Another message in from a Mrs Kennedy who'd like to hear some Black Sabbath. Not on my watch, soldier. Now, lie back, slip off your shoes and put on your favourite otter for the soothing sounds of our "Lend us a tenner?" extravaganza bonanza:
The Heart's Filthy Lesson / David Bowie
The View From Here / Dubstar
American Dream / Jakarta
Your Woman / White Town
Lost In TV / Suede
Let Me Love You Up / Sophie B Hawkins
Southern Sun / Paul Oakenfold
One Step Too Far / Faithless feat. Dido
Catch / Kosheen
Face To Face / Siouxie and the Banshees
Feeling better already? Good. Keep tuning in, folks.
Radio Free Londonmark It's a quarter past half and you're listening to the grounds of the undersound here at one million point nine seven recurring FM, that's Radio Free Londonmark. Here's what we've got coming up in the next hour, after the news and the traffic cull:
Somebody Else's Business / Pet Shop Boys
Gin Soaked Boy / The Divine Comedy
Electrical Storm (William Orbit mix) / U2
Born Again / Badly Drawn Boy
Disappointed / Electronic
Music Gets The Best Of Me / Sophie Ellis Bextor
Kids / Robbie Williams with Kylie Minogue
Eple / Röyksopp
The Ascent Of Stan / Ben Folds
F.E.A.R. / Ian Brown
The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get / Morrissey
Three is the magic number Many congratulations to Mr Alan Shearer for his 15th career hat-trick, his third hat-trick for Newcastle and only Newcastle's second Champions League hat-trick (Tino Asprilla's three goals against Barcelona being the previous) which allowed Newcastle United to trounce Bundesliga relegation contenders Bayer Leverkusen by the grand total of 3-1. Quote of the night? Well, no surprises there, it has to be Sir Bobby Robson:
“The job was to do a job and we did the job.”
I sometimes wonder whether even he knows what he's saying. Ah well, he's old, mad and brilliant, so who needs grammar or sense?
I know about your kind Last night, after having to divide my time between the Good Mixer for the first half and the Oxford Arms for the second half (believe me, negotiating which Champs League game goes on the TV at the Mixer makes the Northern Ireland peace process look like a doddle), I returned to the local whereupon I again took on my (unofficial) role as establishment head-doctor. I've been dabbling in dream interpretation for a friend who seems to think that my translations have some validity rather than merely being inspired guesswork.
However, this was the usual low self-esteem and "can't get over my ex-" issues, which is not really what you want to be taken outside to discuss at 10.30pm after watching the footie and being quite relaxed and ready for a few drinks then home. Is there a polite way of saying "Look, you're just nuts. Get over it. I'm going off to get drunk now"? I don't think there is, but I'll listen to offers.
Rant Execution is imminent. For the past couple of months, I've helped E at work out with small computer problems, graphics, Powerpoint and generally anything she can't work out on a computer (which, given her level of IT knowledge, is really quite a lot). In fact, I finished something for her very quickly yesterday so she would have it for her meeting, even though there are a billion things going on at the moment I should have completed before coming to her request.
She's organised a dinner tonight for the research team and a few stragglers (I count among the latter group). I had to decline this for several reasons:
I have no money to go out dining in Bond Street, because I'm generally poor and also it's two days before pay-day and better money managers than me are poor that close to month-end
She sent out the invitation a while ago which I thought I had declined and then she went round checking that we could all make it. Excluding me, AP and about two other people. It was not exactly hard to work out who were the non-essential diners in this group
She claimed that she had checked there was no football on and thus was the perfect evening for everybody. There is football on. It's Newcastle United. In the Champions League. She had clearly not checked. And she clearly did not care. I'm not going to get excessively rah-rah and blokey about this, but the Toon are not Man Utd and qualify every year – this is a big deal for NUFC fans and the players, and I really want them to do well. Also, it does smack of "well, this time suits me, so sod the rest of you…"
Although this is a group dinner, she is acting as the hostess rather than simply the person who sent round one email and made one phone call. Delusions of grandeur? Definitely.
This is not why I'm annoyed. I told her again that I wouldn't be able to come tonight and she started bitching at me about politeness and 'why did she bother to arrange this dinner', etc, etc. All because I wanted to double-check with her that she hadn't booked more people than were coming and that I wasn't going to be the one that screwed arrangements up. I don't know why I bothered – she clearly believes herself to be the social centre of the universe. I bloody hate people having a go at me when they're in the wrong.
Norf Lunnon I have to buy a flat/house this year. By November. So, I've started lazily looking at property prices around the NW1 area and I found, through the letting agents who arranged the flat I'm renting at the moment, that I could buy where I live (not actually where I live, but a flat in our block) for £195,000. Don't think so. A bit too much for way too little, but it's still nice to value these things, just so you know. Well, just so I know actually, but that's the general idea.
My father knows someone who's an interior designer and they recommended a lovely little two-bedroomed flat in Belsize Park. I then reminded my father that (a) I am not made of money and (b) it will cost the earth, my first-born child and the remortgaging of my sister to get near the deposit for a flat round there, never mind paying for the damn thing. He demurred. There are some lovely little places near Mornington Crescent though. Does that mean that I would then have to shift my search for intelligent life, though?
Funny you should say that Interesting article by Mark Lawson about whether humour can traverse the cultural divide between the UK and America. "Two nations divided by a common language" (which has been attributed to Oscar Wilde, George Bernard Shaw and Winston Churchill) may well be the most pertinent commentary here. I'm pleased that Mark Lawson hasn't relied on the very irritating and wrong-headed argument that 'Americans don't get irony' which seems to be the most characteristically and arrogantly English way of defending their failure to be successful in the States. Particularly apposite is his observation that:
This laughter gulf between two otherwise co-dependent cultures should not be thought surprising. The two most fundamental aspects of comedy are observation and speech rhythms and these are necessarily subject to local variation. The point has often been made that British jokes derive most often from class and puns, while US humour is rooted in gags.
Very true. The English preoccupation with wordplay, be it anagrams in crosswords or homophones in conversation, has been well-documented, as well as cross-cultural misunderstandings and deliberate linguistic errors. A good example of this was said by my boss in the pub last night, who proceeded to explain why saying "Ma valise fermer" in an exaggerated Geordie accent was funny for four reasons. I can't remember all four, but one of them was the simple fact that the phrase (a) doesn't exist in grammatical French and (b) is not a literal translation of "Case closed". Strangely enough, and not just because he's my boss, it was funny. Less so when he decided to explain it at length. I suppose some comedy will never ever translate.
Good boy, now roll over… fetch… I have been a very good boy today (awards himself a pat on the back). I have made phone calls that I needed to make, I have spoken with my Dad when he asked me to (I know that doesn't sound much of an achievement, but you don't know our family), I have tolerated a complete network systems failure at work with good grace and humour, I have fixed two people's computers when the network systems returned, and I have been called "a genius". And I'm even wearing clean underwear so that if I get run over on my way home tonight, my mother won't be shamed by me when she identifies the body. How about that for a day of achievement?
Glad rags I dressed in a hurry this morning (because I was running late, again) and, adhering to my strict non-dress-code policy, threw on the first things I could find in my chest of drawers. Here's an extract from our corporate dress code:
Business casual Shirts or blouses with a collar (polo style T-shirts are acceptable), Men should always wear a top that has a collar; Shirts tucked within men's trousers; Smart Trousers only; Skirts / dresses; Leather or leather-look shoes, not trainers/sneakers etc; In general an appropriately smart, reasonably well groomed look.
What is not Business-casual Perhaps it is also worth outlining what is unacceptable as business-casual: T-shirts or shirts adorned with printed material; Shirts not tucked in; Combat or unsmart trousers, jeans or denim of any kind; Lycra and crop-tops; Baseball caps; Trainers/sneakers, sports shoes or sandals; (for men) No socks; Anything crumpled, wrinkled, torn, or similarly unsightly; Shorts or sportswear.
And here's what I'm wearing: a blue T-shirt which was part of the induction pack from our Fitness First gym, a long-sleeved grey top which I bought when I saw Suede at the Kentish Town Forum on the Coming Up tour, a grey ribbed Punkyfish jumper, a pair of green corduroys (slightly baggy), a pair of Nike ACGtrainers (blue, with light blue swoosh and grey soles), a rather ancient M&S tweed jacket, and my old college scarf.
I think that's a fairly comprehensive trouncing of the work dress code. Work 0 - Mark 3.
With power comes great responsibility And with alcohol comes great sleep. Except for the small detail that when I collapsed drunkenly and gratefully into bed last night, I did so fully clothed. And then woke up this morning, slightly late for work, a little bit hungover and still fully dressed. Aarggh. I felt very, very scummy. However, a cleansing shower and shave and very, very energetic toothbrushing has now resulted in me feeling bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and generally ready to "go get 'em, tiger". Which is a bit of a waste, because I'm only at work, rather than doing something a lot more interesting or productive.
Appeal No, not money (though if you have some spare, I wouldn't say no, if you catch my drift) but rather the coin of your mind. Bloggers are wonderful, kind, generous, intelligent, thoughtful and really rather attractive people. So prove it. Go to islandx and drop a little comment in the box to say "Yes, I'd love to help you out with your online etiquette questionnaire" (via Tales from the Mad Side).
A question of attribution Interesting, though somewhat ebullient, comments exchange here(via Orbyn), concerning the acknowledgement of sourcing links versus independent research of links. Seems safer just to credit everyone really. Though that may simply be my utter lack of originality – and dependence on the connectedness of the intersuperhighnetexpressway – speaking.
Fallibility Yesterday I skipped lunch because I was busy but still had a few cigarette breaks (yes, I know, a strange value system and not a healthy one at that) and during those breaks, plus Tube journey home and a while in the pub, I managed to complete the Times, Guardian, Telegraph and Financial Times cryptic crosswords. Not bad, I thought to myself, not bad at all for a keen cruciverbalist and logophile.
Ah, hubris. I then proceeded to take a look at the Independent cryptic. Did I complete it? No. Did I finish half of it? 'Fraid not. Did I even get one tiny little clue? Nada. Nothing doing. Zero. That'll teach me for thinking I had a brain, oh yes. Won't be assuming that in a hurry anymore.
You only fling when you're losing Well, there's only one winner when you consider the headline Raging Ferguson 'injures Beckham'. And it isn't Ferguson. Told you it was a nothing game – they saved the pyrotechnics for the dressing room, evidently. Also enjoyable in the BBC site is the Miss of the week which is, unsurprisingly, Giggs' ballooning the ball over an open goal.
On a separate note, Roy Keane might be interested to read a Telegraph news article claiming that people suffering from seafood allergies could soon be able to eat prawns without becoming ill. Perfect for all his reviled Man Utd fans who don't yet eat prawn sandwiches.
Music gets the best of me Or at least my stereo does. After owning my stereo for many, many years, and 'owning' my work laptop for many, many months, I only worked out (ie it only occurred to me) how to get it to play my MP3s through the stereo speakers over the weekend. With one cable. Which belongs to my flatmate. Which is ridiculously simple. And quick. And quite humiliating. Because I must really be very stupid. Ouch.
Friends replugged The continuation of an occasional series whereby I plug people who I know who are in the media and who really don't need (or probably want) me to plug them, but dammit I'll do it anyway. This time: Hadley Freeman in today's Guardian in an amusing article about singletons entitled Reader, don't marry him. Particular good (or do I mean huffy?) is this extract:
"Single people suffer 'massive amounts of loneliness' (Evening Standard) and spent New Year's Eve 'slump[ed] in the corner feeling like failures' (Mirror). Grumpier non-breeders than myself might suggest that much of the media's antipathy towards single home-dwellers comes from journalists in a huff because they have to finish their article in a rush to make the school run on time."
'Howling Mad' Murdoch I can't pretend that I agree with what an awful lot of Roy Greenslade writes, but his article about Rupert Murdoch seems to be pretty much spot-on.
25 things
i was born in 1977 and lived in mill hill until the tender age of 17, whereupon I went up to oxford for my degree. two years of varying success later, i left (degreeless) and wandered the tide of mediocre jobs while living in, variously, new marston, brixton, finsbury park, camden town, notting hill and greenwich village. i'm six foot tall, thin, i wear glasses, i work in an office, i drink in nyc and i live in hope.
