Stone lasts
Brick crumbles and wood burns, he told me. For something that lasts, choose stone. I told him that I thought paper wrapped stone but he didn't laugh. Callum wasn't a great one for the jokes and tended to look unkindly on those who used humour as a crutch. He spoke plainly, always. He indulged me because … well, I don't think I know why he indulged me, but he did.

Quiet and serious is how a young man should be, he said, quiet and serious. It's the fool who laughs through life, and the silent man who prospers. I knew that I laughed a good deal more than he thought was proper, but he was trying to teach me the world and I was grateful for it. His was a rough kindness, an unwillingness to compromise his own standards, blended with small, opaque indulgences.

Since my grandmother had passed on, Callum was the only adult in my life that I knew I could trust. He was an 'uncle', in the way that non-relatives can be when they spend more time with you than your own flesh and blood. He had known my father as a young man, and had seen me grow from a baby in soft white blankets to the twentysomething sitting in front of him, trying to listen to his didactic pearls.

I'll try to be serious, I said. See that you do, he replied sternly, but he slid a small piece of paper across the table to me and his eyes lit with a soft smile that never reached his lips. I'll not make you promise me, because you'll feel bad when you break it, he continued, his outstretched fingers still in contact with the paper slip. I knew he was teasing me. What's that, I asked. Two things, he said. It's the number of Mr Farrelly, who's said he'll take you on. Nothing fancy, mind, but he'll take you for a month and see how you do. The other's the number for the man at your bank. We've had words and he'll lend you more, but only until your first pay.

And that's how Callum worked. He'd ring around and call in favours from years back to set me on my feet, or pull me back up from any mess I'd worked my way into. He had obviously badgered the man from the bank until he would say anything, do anything to get Callum off the phone. Or, more likely, he'd just walked in to see him. It was what he did. When the butcher's boy arrived with off-cuts instead of the braising beef, or when the milk soured after only a day, he would walk straight into the shop, regardless of who was there, and settle the matter.

Thanks, Callum, I said. I knew you'd never have gone there yourself, he said, so I thought it was best, spoken with a little impatient nod of the head acknowledging me. Do you need anything to tide you over, he offered. I thought for a second, but said no. He shook his head like a horse flicking out its mane angrily, his own silver hair spilling across the broad forehead with the two little scars.

Don't play the funny man with me, he said. If you need it, I'll give it you. You've only to ask, but you have to ask. I'm not psychic and can spend my time better than trying to read your mind. Sorry, I said, I don't think I need anything right now, and if you've spoken to the bank man then I should be alright. I'll give you forty, he said, closing the matter. Whether I said I wanted money or whether I turned him down, he always gave me what he could spare that day, ignoring my protests.

Thanks, Callum, I said, I mean it, thanks. You're a rock.

Elephant
Although small, the elephant was still taking up a surprisingly large amount of the bedroom, and the chest of drawers it had sat on was completely ruined. It was looking over at me with what I took to be an apologetic manner. I stared levelly back at it, or rather at its blurry greyness, while I felt around for my glasses amongst the débris of my bedside table.

To say that the morning was shaping up to be a disaster was something of an understatement. My flatmate had woken me up at half past five, calling to ask if I could let her in because she had lost her keys and was standing outside our front door. I made some general grunting noises, got up, wrapped a towel around myself and opened the door, turning immediately back to my bedroom. There's no way that I'm going to make small talk in the small hours. I clambered into bed for the two hours of remaining sleep before work.

Just over an hour later, I was woken again, this time to some crashing noises in my room. Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I looked over to the corner of my room to see a medium-sized baby elephant sitting in a pile of jumpers, underwear and broken Swedish self-assembly furniture. Because the manufacturer had kindly omitted several of the important screws, and because I'm hopeless at DIY, it had taken me the best part of an hour to build the damn thing and now some random Dumbo had sat all over it.

Once I had my glasses on, I confirmed that it was indeed a baby elephant and it was indeed sitting in my bedroom. Its ears had drooped slightly and it was wearing a sheepish look, its trunk dragging along the floor slightly in semicircles, as though sweeping up the various screws and strips of wood which were all over my carpet. I turned over to my girlfriend Emma to see that she was still asleep. Never one to suffer in silence, I shook her awake and just pointed over at our new flatmate. Emma stared for a moment, then looked at me, lay back down and put the pillow over her head. Thanks for the help, honey.

I got up, dressed and went to wake up Cassie, my flatmate. Navigating around a contrite baby elephant is not easy but after a few minutes we reached an unspoken agreement that if it budged up out of its own private timber yard, I could pull the door open just enough to sidle through. I went to Cassie's room, knocked on the door and went straight in to see her collapsed on her bed, fully clothed, snoring so loud that you didn't need elephant ears to hear it from a few miles away. I put my hand over her mouth, pinched her nose and waited for the inevitable.

"Wha? What the … Charlie? Uh?"
"Cass, you need to wake up and come to my room."
"Not this again, Charlie."
"No, not that, you idiot, I need to show you something."
"Wait til morning."
"No, right now."
"Okay, okay."

She reluctantly slid down off the bed and stood up, shaking her hair out. We walked down the hallway and I started pushing at the door. When there was just enough room, I got Cassie to go in first, then followed her.

"Charlie, there's an elephant in your room."
"Thank you, Sherlock, you can go back to bed now. I only needed you here for your zoology skills."
"What's it doing here?"
"Right now? Well, it appears to be looking for an Allen key to put the bloody dresser back together for me."
"Where did it come from?"
"Christ, Cass, I don't know. What are we going to do?"
"Do? Look, it's your room. Your elephant."
"My elephant? I didn't order one, it's not like they get delivered by Amazon, is it?"
"Amazon? That might explain whether it's African or Asian."
"What? Why do you … oh, I'll just ask it for its passport, shall I?"
"Perhaps it's that White Stripes limited edition you were after?"
"Don't start, Cass, not funny."
"I don't understand how it got in."

The baby elephant was following this with some interest, swishing its trunk from side to side like it was conducting our conversation. Having a 300lb grey wrinkly big-eared Herbert von Karajan in the room wasn't improving my already shitty mood, and I was damned if I was just going to let it sit there and screw up the feng shui or whatever it is.

"It does look quite sweet, though. Aren't you? Yes, aren't you sweet?"
"Cass, stop chatting up the sodding elephant. Where did you go last night?"
"Clubbing, why? Does the little elephant want to go tonight?"
"Stop talking to it! It can't understand you and even if it could, it doesn't need to hear your pick-up lines. I want to know exactly where you went."
"Cirque in Leicester Square."
"How did you get back?"
"Night bus."

Okay, even I knew that a baby elephant couldn't get the night bus. Not that the driver would notice, but the elephant wouldn't have either the correct change or a Saver ticket. Plus the obvious difficulty of getting on.

Our non-bussing elephant was now moving over towards the bed. I thought about warning Emma and then remembered her earlier helpfulness. Hey, waking up to an elephant couldn't be all that bad; she'd been going out with me for the best part of two years.

"And there was nothing strange about the night?"
"No. Went to a club, got pissed, no talent, many lechs, danced like a fool, lost my house keys. Standard night, really."
"No ringmasters, clowns, liontamers?"
"Ringmasters and liontamers, no. Clowns, plenty."
"Ha. Bloody. Ha."
"Charlie, are you seriously suggesting that just because I go to a club called Cirque, it is my fault that you have an elephant, however cute, in your bedroom?"
"That, Cass, is exactly what I am suggesting. I remember the time you brought back those twins."
"Not my fault."
"They were three years old, Cass, and their mother was not happy."
"Blame Tesco. They gave me the wrong bags."
"Anyway, what are we going to do?"
"I'm going back to bed. I recommend you put the elephant in the living room and give it some warm milk to help it sleep."
"Maternal advice from you, Cass? God, that's the funniest thing I've heard all day."
"Please yourself."

Cassie departed in what could only be regarded as an Olympic-class huff. Meanwhile, our trunked friend was playing with the pillow currently covering Emma's face and she appeared to be slowly reawakening. I stood behind the elephant and tried to push it towards the bed so that I could get the door open wide enough to shepherd it into the living room. It was not being totally co-operative but eventually shifted over long enough for me to get the door fully open.

By this time, Emma was wide awake and playing with its ears. Of the two women in the flat, one I directly blamed for bringing the damn thing back (though as yet without any evidence, I admit) and the other was just laying in bed, petting the animal instead of helping.

Fifteen minutes later, and the elephant was sitting, apparently happily, in the living room. Emma, comedienne that she is, had switched the TV to the Discovery Animal Planet channel in a move that I know was designed expressly to annoy me, and our houseguest was waving its trunk around the place. I dreaded to think what would happen when it learned how to use the remote.

It had already eaten the niçoise salad I had been saving for lunch, plus a bag of apples which I don't remember having bought. I knew it would have regarded all this as an amusing little starter, and would be getting really hungry soon. A quick check of my watch confirmed that I should have left the house half an hour earlier, so I gave my housekeys to Emma, promised I'd call her and ran for the tube, hearing her swear loudly at me while I did so.

And that is why – no word of lie – I was late into work this morning, sir.

Pop Art Redux: Art
Well, after all 1 hour 13 minutes 37 seconds of Pop, it's time for the 1 hour 13 minutes 37 seconds of Art. Hang on, they're the same. Oh. Well, you learn something new every day, eh? Art is my preferred CD out of the two (three if you count the Mix disc), so this may be slightly biased. In fact, the whole thing's biased (but just don't tell anyone. Shhh).

1. Left To My Devices
One of my favourite songs, and also one of the few songs by them which was popular with my year group at school, which meant that I would wander around and hear someone humming the orchestral parts; a very strange experience and one that has never been repeated. I think I had learned all the lyrics to this within about two days of buying it (Introspective). I have the 12" single and am still undecided as to whether I prefer the longer album version or the single edit. It peaked at #4, which for some reason surprised me at the time, knowing what the charts were like in 1988 (released a fortnight before my birthday).
Memorable point: "I could love you, if I tried, and I could. And left to my own devices, I probably would". Ah, Englishness.
Irritation point: The Sound Of The Atom Splitting. It's not a good B-side. Really not good.

2. I Don't Know What You Want But I Can't Give It Any More
The pre-album song for Release, this has one of the best videos the Pets have made. Also, you've can only love the title and the fact that most of the song consists of questions. Any of the PSB songs concerning jealousy (no pun intended), suspicion or treachery have always appealed to me, and I may well have to submit to psychological evaluation to explain why. I particularly like the idea that the narrator is trying to analyse why someone begun that relationship: "Was it cracking the code, or just filling in time? Was that all?" Oooh, sounds of bitterness from the Mark corner? Pas du tout.
Memorable point: The video. It's wonderful. Oh, and Silver Age, the B-side.
Irritation point: Can't think of one right now, actually.

3. Flamboyant
Currently the best song in the known universe for me. I've been listening to this way, way too much over the past three months and that shows no signs of abating now that it is due for release. If it doesn't go Top Ten, I may have to into the TOTP studios with an automatic weapon. Sample bitchy line: "Well just crossing the street, it's almost heroic". Having only seen the video once or twice, I'm fairly confident that it is brilliant: Tennant and Lowe only appear in adverts, during the breaks in an improbable Japanese game show. Watching them both wear utterly false grins, gaze lovingly at mobile phones, and say 'Konichiwa' at each other is far funnier than I have made it appear.
Memorable point: Namechecking Issey Miyake. How good is that? (Answer: excellent)
Irritation point: That they remixed it for the single version. I thought it was good enough already.

4. Being Boring
What to say about this? Well written. Good melody. Poignant. Cautiously optimistic. Excellent guitar (Johnny Marr, or it could be J.J. Belle, I haven't checked). The obvious points of Pet Shop Boys releasing a song called Being Boring have been used against me so many times now, when I say that they're my favourite band, that I can't be bothered to address anything like that. Curiously, I see that it only reached #20 in the charts. Perhaps a little too downbeat for the public? Don't know, don't care. I think it's rather fine.
Memorable point: "We dressed up in thoughts and thoughts make amends."
Irritation point: The video. Rubbish.

5. Can You Forgive Her?
This was bought on the day of release from a small shop in Torquay when I was on holiday in Devon. For some reason, I bought it on cassette. Strange. As was becoming a habit, I disliked it intensely when I first heard it, and then within a space of about six or so listens, I realised that I loved it. Hey, Headmaster is an excellent B-side, and the song inaugurates my favourite era in their videos: the 'dressing up in incredibly stupid costumes' phase. Ostriches wander round a computer-generated world, with the Pets boating on a lake in, I think, Hyde Park. There is also a fantastic big band swing version of this as a B-side on a later single.
Memorable point: The video. It's great silly fun.
Irritation point: The fact that I bought it on tape. Admittedly, it's hardly Tennant and Lowe's fault, that one.

6. West End Girls
Still most people's favourite PSB track. For some reason when I was younger, I always equated this with my parents. My father was born and grew up in the East End of London, whereas my mother worked in the West End. When I first saw the video, I was incredibly jealous because Neil Tennant was wearing a long coat which I really wanted. I was surprised and pleased to find a pop group that simply stood there impassively, singing along to the tune and sometimes not even looking at the camera. It just seemed really, well, cool.
Memorable point: Finding out what "From Lake Geneva to the Finland Station" actually referred to.
Irritation point: None at all.

7. I Get Along
I was surprised that this was released as a single, and not at all surprised that it only reached #18. I really like it, especially the pure love story/Blair-Mandelson double meaning. The harmonies in the chorus are excellent also. Somehow I don't think it will ever really rival I Will Survive as a defiance song, as it's a bit too repressed: "I get along without you very well". Goodness, pass the cucumber sandwiches. I have to confess that I can't even remember the video for this one, so it can't be all that good. I wasn't as opposed as some people I have read to the whole PSB-go-guitary shift in direction, though Release isn't a wonderfully strong album, suffering in comparison to its successor Disco 3, which has a much fuller feel to it.
Memorable point: "While making sudden plans that don't include you" I just think it's well phrased is all.
Irritation point: Well, the video can't be that good, eh?

8. So Hard
Innuendo a-go-go again. From the initial orchestra hits (available on the 'effects' part of the keyboards in our school music room, as I was endlessly reminded) through to the deadpan lyrics and background sampled vocals, this is a great song. It always puts me in mind of the video I saw of their Performance tour where Neil Tennant has developed a 'dance' to the chorus, which mainly involves moving his hands into various different positions, depending on which line he's singing. It's possibly the antithesis of boy band dancing and, as such, marvellous. The lyrics are excellent also: "We've both given up smoking, 'cause it's fatal, so whose matches are those?"
Memorable point: The Pets flanked by bouncers in the video, standing impassively. Chris Lowe is looking at something doubtless fascinating just off camera.
Irritation point: None.

9. Rent
Inevitably when listening to this, I remember an interview which they both gave where the interviewer asked them about the conjunction between "I love you" and "You pay my rent". Neil Tennant mused aloud as to whether it would be a comma, a semi-colon, a colon or a plain period, and what the varying meanings would be, dependent on the punctuation. That's the kind of pop band I want to listen to. Credit to Chris Lowe for the programming in this song, by the way. It could very easily be taken over by the sentiments of the vocals, or the more obvious melody lines, but the beat which anchors the whole thing is incredibly well done, without being flashy or threatening to take over the show.
Memorable point: Chris Lowe looking uncomfortable when he kisses Margi Clarke on the lips in the video. Ahahaha.
Irritation point: Only #8? Come on, British public, more of you should have bought it.

10. Jealousy
One of the first songs they wrote, yet it took around 11 years to appear on an album. Personally, I think it was worth the wait. You can hear the development of Tennant's voice if you listen to the songs in chronological order and I would rather have heard this song in the later period of singing than the early one, so this is fairly close to perfect. Note to others: don't listen to this song when your night out with your girlfriend has been cancelled and you suspect that she might be cheating on you. Not that I've ever done that. Or that you realised she was fantasising about a friend of yours. It will put you in a bad mood and will result in the fact that you don't listen to the song for quite some time because you will still feel bitter about it. Not that I've done that either. Okay, enough said.
Memorable point: "Could I have tried to see your point of view? Could not hear or see for jealousy, I never knew until I met you?"
Irritation point: My ex ruining the song for me. Thanks.

11. DJ Culture
Attention! Attention! To be honest, I'm not too mad keen on this song, even though I recognise that it's quite good. It's just that it always felt as though it was tacked onto Discography and then it bombed (well, not actually bombed, and not as badly as Was It Worth It? reaching #24, which by PSB standards is damn close to bombing). I also got the feeling that they were just trying to take on too many topics in one song: the first Gulf War, plastic surgery, New Age values, the satellite television revolution, the emphasis away from songwriting and onto DJing, etc, etc. It just seems a bit much for a pop song, even for them. Spreading too thinly, in my opinion.
Memorable point: The Oscar Wilde trial quotation. And the little "Turn up the music" sample near the end.
Irritation point: Well, I hardly ever listen to it, so there's nothing really irritating there.

12. You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk
One of my favourites and a surprise hit during their more recent chart career. Tennant's vocals are pitch perfect with Lowe's music and the lyrics are as bittersweet as ever. I like the fact that the rhymes are a little bit clunky (monk/drunk/punk), and probably some of the success is owed to the fact that this is a sentiment which has been shared by virtually everyone, everywhere. The principal attraction of the song is evidently the lyrics: "What's the meaning when you speak with so much feeling? Is it over when you're sober? Is it junk?" Also, one of the better endings to a PSB song, being short and sharp.
Memorable point: The video is filmed beautifully.
Irritation point: Neil Tennant should not be singing the word "dissing". It's just not right.

13. Liberation
I never really liked this song, although it always reminds me of the most perfect Valentine's Day ever: I was with my girlfriend at a friend's house (her friend and my friend were dating as well; sickbags will be provided at the end). We had been out for dinner and we went back to the guest room, which was her friend's brother's old room. We were sharing the top bunk of a double bunk bed underneath a skylight. When we awoke the next morning, it was to see that it had been snowing gently, the small crystals falling onto the skylight. The song seems to fit that sort of mood. The B-side Decadence is better, but neither are outstanding, and the video is the weakest out of the Howard Greenhalgh series of CG videos.
Memorable point: I hate to say it, but none really.
Irritation point: Just a bit too saccharine for my taste.

14. Paninaro '95
This is something to listen to when you're preparing to go out. It always puts a smile on my face, even though it occasionally makes me fold my arms and try to do the Neil Tennant pose from the video. Also, when I watched this video for the first time, I realised that Chris Lowe always wears the lighter colour. Watch a few PSB videos (certainly the later ones) and you'll see that Lowe always wears white or light colours, whereas Tennant inevitably gets black or dark clothes. Oh, the song? I think this is the third version of Paninaro I had heard, and the extended Chris rap isn't exactly wonderful, but the additional production certainly makes it single-worthy. My handy liner notes tell me that it reached #15, which is quite a respectable showing.
Memorable point: "But what I do like, I love passionately."
Irritation point: They should have released the version from Disco years ago.

15. Opportunities (Let's Make Lot's Of Money)
Another of my favourite singles, and one of the better B-sides in Was That What It Was?. Until I bought the PopArt DVD, I had been unaware that there were two different promo videos for this; the one included on Videography is the UK version, whereas the second one included on PopArt is their American promo and, well, it's utter tosh. Even they don't like it, according to the commentary. The lyrics for the song are perfectly nauseating and acquisitive. Unfortunately, however, it has served to reinforce the 'Neil = brains, Chris = looks' comparison for the rest of the career. Still, I suppose there are worse things than being a brawny millionaire with over twenty Top 20 hits. I suppose.
Memorable point: The backing vocalists singing "Oooh … money!" near the end; sublimely awful 80s.
Irritation point: Nothing whatsoever.

16. Yesterday, When I Was Mad
A pure comedy song, composed from the various comments they received while touring, and what an excellent way to get back at sniping critics; turning their words into a #13 hit. This is the single which has the Can You Forgive Her? swing version on it, as well as a wonderful cover of Noel Coward's If Love Were All, with CD2 containing another top B-side Some Speculation. This is a different version from the slower album track, remixed (if memory serves) a little by Jam & Spoon, who then produced a longer full remix on CD1. The video is, well, faintly disturbing with all the madness imagery and metaphors. Particular amusement can be derived from Neil Tennant's rictus grin during the "posed for pictures with the competition winners" section.
Memorable point: "Someone said it's fabulous you're still around today. You've both made such a little go a very long way."
Irritation point: Some of the bite is taken out by the "and changed my mind" sections. Not as cutting as it could/should have been.

17. Single-Bilingual
My favourite PSB video, and one of the most literal they've produced (as Chris Heath, their biographer, points out in the audio commentary). SheBoom do a marvellous job with the driving drums throughout the song, reminding you of the transition between Discoteca and Single on the album. The remixes on the CD aren't particularly noteworthy, but the real treasure is their demo for Tina Turner, Confidential. This was released during the first term of my second year at university while I was living in an especially horrible student house. The case for CD2 is now slightly warped, probably due to the fact that the large bay window in my first-floor room was subsiding throughout the year, at one point letting in rainwater which drenched a good many of my CDs.
Memorable point: The entire video; it's marvellous.
Irritation point: The remixes just aren't that good.

18. Somewhere
Pet Shop Boys do West Side Story. It's a musical theatre camp-fest, really, and I must confess to being surprised that it reached #9, good though it undoubtedly is. I seem to remember there being a slight fracas over the added elements which they brought to the song: the "when the riots stopped, the drugs started" sample from Menace II Society being a particular point between Messrs Tennant and Lowe and the estate of Leonard Bernstein. The main B-side, The View From Your Balcony is a fantastic addition to the CD, a gentle paean to London love: "But look at the view from your balcony, the sunset is searing the sky, how proudly you are pointing out to me, London through your eyes."
Memorable point: Tennant's whispered and tentatively seedy "I feel pretty, oh so pretty."
Irritation point: The video. Too much of the director, not enough of the Pets.

Pop Art Redux: Pop
I listen to music all day long (or as long as I can ignore my phone ringing, anyway), but I would never class myself as a person who knew much about music, apart from a few selected artists. As an exercise for myself, though, I'm going to listen to PopArt and only write about each song for the duration of that track. I might have to cheat a little but look: my gaff, my rules.

1. Go West
Recalling that this was kept off the #1 spot by Will Smith's awful Boom! Shake The Room earns me no brownie points, neither does the obviousness of pointing out that it's a cover. I bought this at the Woolworth's on Mill Hill Broadway, and bought a separate copy of the US CD single when I visited New Jersey (for the extra B-sides). Sad, I know.
Memorable points: the hats in the video and when the entire male voice choir sings "I want you", Neil Tennant half-fey, half-knowingly shrugs when he sings, "How could I disagree?".
Irritation point: Sylvia Mason-James' squealing at the end of the song. Do be quiet, lady.

2. Suburbia
I'm too young (darlings) to have bought this when it was released, instead hearing it when I started buying the back catalogue. I have the 12" vinyl at home with the rather wonderful B-side Jack the Lad, which namechecks more historical figures than I learned about in GCSE History. "Where the suburbs meet utopia" has now also entered my mind as the standard comment whenever anyone mentions the word 'suburbia', to the extreme irritation of people who have known me longer than, say, a year. Official Longest-Serving Friend (Mike) rolls his eyes whenever I say this.
Memorable points: dogs barking. Why not?
Irritation point: none really, though the video is hardly one of their best.

3. Se A Vida E (That's The Way Life Is)
I didn't buy this single because even when I heard the album (Bilingual), I thought it was rubbish. Further listens have persuaded me that it isn't, in fact, complete rubbish, but still one of my least favourite songs by them.
Memorable point: SheBoom.
Irritation point: a soft, fluffy song with little humour, little bite, a bland vocal line, and the way Neil Tennant sings the word 'love' as 'laaaahve'. Grr. I really can't think of anything else that justifies me writing for the further 1m53s of this song, so I'm going to turn it off.

4. What Have I Done To Deserve This?
When listening to my PSB compilation tape in the car with my father, he was completely uninterested in any of the songs until he heard this one, and then immediately produced his Springfield tape: Dusty on Side A, Dusty & The Springfields on the other. This may have been the first point in my life at which my father and I had a conversation about music. Similarly, when Son Of A Preacher Man became popular through the Pulp Fiction soundtrack, my father was bemused at the fact that all my friends were listening to it.
Memorable point: In the commentary on the PopArt DVD, Chris Lowe comments that "what more did she want, you bought her drinks and flowers?". Cue hysterical laughter from both Pets. Also: Dusty Springfield's hair in the video; it's amazing.
Irritation point: none, it's perfect.

5. Always On My Mind
I don't enter the pantheon of true fandom as I have not seen "It Couldn't Happen Here", the apparently awful PSB film from which excerpts are taken to make the video for this. Also, I'm not likely to buy it as (quick Amazon check) it's not available on DVD, only video, and even Tennant and Lowe have said that it's not all that good. The song however is wonderful, and sits next to the original Elvis track on a compilation tape which, from memory, I think I've lost. Also, it has the excellent B-side Do I Have To?: "Do I have to / Don't say / That I need to / Love you".
Memorable point: well, all of it, really. A deserved #1.
Irritation point: that they couldn't have done a better video.

6. I Wouldn't Normally Do This Kind Of Thing
This was bought during my "I must have this on all formats from as many countries as possible" phase, with the result that I own perhaps nine remixes of this song (some of which are, to be honest, completely rubbish). Also, the Pets themselves assisted me in my completism by making the single version different from the album version, and in my mind, better. "I feel like taking all my clothes off, dancing to the Rite of Spring" is, depending on your opinion, inspired lyrical genius or merely ridiculous. Either way, I love it. The video is wonderfully funny also, with both of them in wigs dancing stupidly as part of a video game.
Memorable point: Neil hitting Chris with a baseball bat in the video.
Irritation point: That they didn't like their costumes. What's wrong with you? They're hilarious.

7. Home And Dry
Ah, the guitar-led comeback. Upon first hearing this song, I didn't like it at all, then grew to tolerate it, then listened a bit more and thought it was actually okay, and (of course) now, I love it. I believe that I first heard it on Xfm, which was a bit of a surprise. OLSF told me that he had heard it that day at work and quite liked it. This naturally worried me until I heard it myself at which point I abandoned all hope that they would ever produce a good song again. I should really be shot for my lack of musical judgement. OLSF did inform me that the vocals used the same effect as that irritating Cher song, to depress me further.
Memorable point: "Your baby waits tonight" lyric near the end.
Irritation point: the video. Come on, following a mouse running around an Underground station? No, no, no.

8. Heart
Beat. Beat. Beat. H-heartbeat. One of the Pet's finest moments, surely, with the swirling violin sounds at the beginning inspiring a level of expectation which is more than met throughout. "I'm in love with you, and you don't know what it means to be with you." This is one of the singles I didn't buy, having got to the Actually album a bit late, but later bought on 7" for their best B-side: I get excited (You get excited too).
Memorable point: Sir Ian McKellen as a vampire singing along in the video.
Irritation point: none.

9. Miracles
First heard in a scratchy version through the sample on petshopboys.co.uk on an iMac in San Diego, prior to the release of PopArt, it was the perfect summation of my mood at the time. It's just teeming with wonderful lyrics: "Roses bloom more to adore you too" being just one of them. It reached #10 in the charts in the UK (though #1 in the dance chart) and CD1 contains a great B-side called We're The Pet Shop Boys. The video, sadly not on the PopArt DVD, is pretty good in a watery kind of way.
Memorable point: the build-up of strings through the first verse.
Irritation point: the omission of the video from the DVD. How can I be a completist when they scupper me this way?

10. Love Comes Quickly
Apparently, Chris Lowe sniggers every time he hears the title, so it's good to know that childish innuendo isn't dead. This is one of my favourite songs, especially with the falsetto "ooh-ooh-ooh" bit in the chorus. The video isn't much cop, I think, even though they seem to like it still. I bought the 7" vinyl of this for £2 in the Music and Video Exchange in Notting Hill in the summer of 1994 (I think) for the B-side That's My Impression, and the "You can't stop falling" lyric seemed particularly apposite at the time, having spent most of the rather warm and pleasant summer falling for someone.
Memorable point: "I know it sounds ridiculous, but speaking from experience, love will always get to you".
Irritation point: none.

11. It's A Sin
Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. It's the Catholic Guilt song, yay! It's A Sin, along with This Must Be The Place I Waited Years To Leave, remind me most of half-asleep Sunday mornings, getting into horrible jumpers or having to wear a tie to church, then spending another hour and a half doing Sunday school. It's ever so slightly difficult to stay upbeat at quarter past ten in the morning when you're being told that eternal damnation is yours. "Father forgive me, I tried not to do it" is particularly true, especially when you consider that the "it" encompasses pretty much the entirety of human activity for which I'm guilt-ridden.
Memorable point: "Father you fought me, cause I didn't care, and I still don't understand".
Irritation point: I still can't make out what the sampled bit at the beginning is saying.

12. Domino Dancing
The "all day, all day" chorus is worth the admission price alone. In the DVD audio commentary, Chris Lowe mentions that this is where they invented the cult of the DJ. I heard this on the Introspective LP, borrowed from my neighbour (also called Mark), before going out to buy my own copy on vinyl, to be played on my incredibly unreliable record player or, assuming everyone else was out, on the ancient hi-fi in our living room which was hardly ever used by my parents and where a few Elvis records and one Beatles record were gathering dust over the years before I discovered music. I still have the vinyl copy, scratched to hell and practically unlistenable. Not entirely sure why I haven't thrown it out yet.
Memorable point: "When you look around you wonder, do you play to win or are you just a bad loser?"
Irritation point: A rubbish sleeve cover for the 7".

13. Before
For me, this belongs in the Se A Vida E category: not much good. You can hardly even hear Neil Tennant's voice in the chorus above his backing singers, and the falsetto tone throughout verges on the massively annoying. The lyrics are bad, as well. In fact, I'm only 1m38s in, and I'm going to skip it.

14. New York City Boy
This sounds like another Village People cover. It's good enough, but I can't say that I ever fully warmed to it, as it seemed to me as though Neil Tennant was trying a little bit too hard to be 'hip, like the kidz'. I do like the fact that they rerecorded this as Paris City Boy for the French edition of PopArt, sung entirely in French. A nice touch, gentlemen, well done. The video itself is fairly standard, not displaying much of their humour.
Memorable point: the a capella bit at the end.
Irritation point: ah, it's just not my cup of tea. Let's leave it at that.

15. It's Alright
PSB as eco-warriors? Unlikely, as is the fact that this song concentrates mainly on catastrophe and cataclysm and then moves into the upbeat sentiment. Notable mainly for the Chris Lowe spoken line "It's gonna be alright", delivered in the video with trademark monotony. Also nice is the fact that you don't hear the word "dissipating" in many pop songs these days. Ah, princes of pop with a vocabulary that stretches beyond "ooh", "baby", "yeah" – how nice.
Memorable point: "The year 3000 may still come to pass, but the music shall last".
Irritation point: after a while, watching babies crawl along a board in the video becomes very, very boring.

16. Where The Streets Have No Name (I Can't Take My Eyes Off You)
They should have released How Can You Expect To Be Taken Seriously instead of this U2/Valli combo. That's my gripe. The song is listenable enough and the segue between the two songs is done brilliantly well, but it's just not very compelling. The video understandably focuses on Americana a lot, but Neil Tennant looks ridiculous in a cowboy hat and shouldn't have been allowed to wear it. Most famously, Bono and The Edge heard this and sent the Pets a message, saying "What have we done to deserve this?". Snaps to you, lads.
Memorable point: the transition from one song to the other.
Irritation point: well, it's not a classic, is it? Nothing really irritating, but nothing really magical either.

17. A Red Letter Day
This always struck me as an odd choice for a single, even though I really like the song. Discussions of Waiting for Godot and modern time seem ill-suited for the Top 40, and I'm quite surprised (when I look this up) that it got to #9. They remixed the original, more wistful, version to make it more dance-friendly for the radio edit and it seems strange to have the words "veneer of self-control" sung over a thumping bass-line. Or maybe that's just me.
Memorable point: "Admit you love me and you always did".
Irritation point: the video of people queuing. They don't like it, and I'm not surprised.

Eight one five, one nine four
It's your number, scribbled on the back of a receipt for some video games I bought four months ago, left in my wallet with business cards and validation forms from topping up my mobile phone credit.

I was out with some friends from work, having a few drinks and bitching about office politics. We had lost six quid in the quiz machine at the previous pub and Jon suggested that we all go for cocktails to improve our brainpower. I wasn't too comfortable in the bar, as everyone else in our group was wearing suits, whereas I don't need to dress up for work; they never let me near anything important anyway.

You were standing by the bar with a friend. She was tall and blonde with bee-stung lips and a pin-up's figure. Rich and Jon could barely take their eyes off her. She looked like an airhead to me, as I made my snap judgements. I thought her clothes were tarty, and I disliked the way in which her eyes roamed the room while you talked to her. I was trying to read your lips, to see what you were saying. I was looking at the way in which your olive vest top highlighted your shoulders and the delicate grace of your arm as you angled your glass to drink.

Nicky stood up from our table to get the next round in and deliberately walked straight up to your companion. As she moved back to accommodate him, he turned in towards her, beginning a conversation with some stupid chat up line or an inane comment, as only he can. In a few seconds, he managed to isolate you completely from her, with you staring at his back momentarily before turning to the bar and contemplating your drink. I felt sorry for you.

It had been nearly five more minutes and Nicky wasn't back with our drinks. Rich wanted to go up, but Jon told him to back off and leave Nicky to 'seal the deal'. What corporate bullshit. You seemed to have given up any pretences of continuing a conversation with your friend and were searching in your handbag for something.

I left the table and approached you, not sure what I could say. As I got to within two feet of where you were standing, you somehow knew I was there. You turned and looked at me. I stopped and looked back. Ricky and your friend didn't notice anything, and my senses were closing in on you, erasing the rest of the bar, the other people, the sounds, vibrations and smells.

"Do you have a pen?"

I nodded, dumbly, and gave you a biro, the plastic cap worn and scarred by my teeth grinding it.

"Do you have a piece of paper?"

Again, I nodded, removing any scrap of paper from my wallet. You didn't bother to read what was on the paper, but turned over to the blank side and wrote down six digits carefully, re-inking the strokes which were faint. You handed the paper back to me, slung your handbag over your shoulder and left, without saying goodbye to your friend.

815 194. I'll call you.

Sweetness soon
"You're fooling yourself."

Sara sits opposite Matthew in the café and watches him play with the sugar cubes. She sighs and lights a new cigarette – stolen from Matthew's crumpled soft pack – from the dying ashes of her previous one. She sips the unspeakably bad coffee from her polystyrene cup, where she has carved shapes into the side with one of her few unbitten fingernails.

The sugar cubes are crumbling slowly in Matthew's hands, the individual granules dropping onto the table, where he traces shapes and figures of eight in the grains, staring down at the plastic red-and-white checked tablecloth, clipped to the formica with small metal tags.

"Am I?"
"You are. I wouldn't make it up."
"I know."
"Look at me."

His eyes raise slowly from the table and he stares at Sara, though the eyes are dulled.

"Oh, Matt, come on. You know I'm right."
"Yes, I suppose. I just preferred it before."
"Of course you did. Everyone prefers the fantasy rather than being in the now."
"You're right."
"Don't just say that to shut me up."
"I'm not."
"I know you, Matthew Tate. You're hoping that if you agree with me enough, I'll leave you alone."

Matthew laughs briefly and runs his hand through his hair, shaking his head as he does so. It feels good. His hand drops down where he softly massages the side and back of his neck.

"That's the first time you've laughed since we got here."
"Okay, okay."

Her eyes are still focused on him, even though he is now looking around the café, at the other people there, up at the counter and the badly spelled chalkboard menu, the plastic sauce bottles with dried ketchup and mustard congealing at the nozzles, at tea spills and stains on other tables, at the ancient cash register.

"So, you're over her."
"Are you asking?"
"You told me that."
"I know."
"Jesus, Matt, then why are we here?"
"I mean, I know I told you that. I don't know about the rest."
"Let me guess. You've been thinking."
"It's what I do."

He laughs shortly again, at the absurdity of his position and this conversation. Sara laughs along with him, but stops before him.

"And don't think that gets you out of it, either."
"Right, well, I think I'm over her. But then just when I start feeling good about myself and focusing on my life, something happens."
"What?"
"I see something, I hear something and then I just feel, well, down."
"And?"
"And? And that's it."

Sara sighs. You had it bad, she thinks. If only she could accuse him of wallowing or being self-indulgent, then it would be a lot easier to get him to snap out of it. And sometimes that worked with other friends, but not Matthew. She couldn't do that.

"There's not much I can say to that."
"Don't worry. I think I needed to say it out loud rather than get advice."
"If I had any advice, I'd give it."
"I know you would, honey, but I think that this one I've got to work out on my own."

She reaches out across the table and takes his hand away from the sugar pile, and grasps it firmly in both her own hands, softly stroking the back of his hand with her thumbs. She looks up at him and wonders whether he's realised yet.

He looks down at her.

"Thanks, Sara. I know I keep dragging you out here to talk about things you don't care about."
"Don't be stupid. If it affects you, then of course I care."
"Well, thanks. It means a lot to me."
"That's okay."

There is a silence between them, while newspaper pages are turned, knives and forks are clattered against cheap china plates and machines bubble and splutter behind the high counter.

"Why does everything have to be so difficult, so complex?"

Sara glances down at the table for a splitsecond, her cheeks reddening slightly.

"I don't know, Matt. I just don't know."

Working in a coalmine, going down, down, down
Negotiating for a new job – a post being created for you – in the same company where you have worked for over three years, is not an easy task.

Nor is it enhanced by repeated swearing, cynical comments, the use of the words "pan-fried weasel" or constantly interrupting your potential new manager with the phrase "yeah, yeah, whatever".

These are the things I have been trying to avoid this week, as well as the sinking feeling that I am no longer able to escape the clutches of The Man, but instead have committed a good deal of my future to walking around my building wearing a sandwich board saying, "The Man: he's really quite fluffy and nice, you know".

We haven't settled on a job title yet, but 'corporate monkey' or 'you there, stop it' have not so far been ruled out.

Review
When told that "some of the senior staff aren't entirely sure what you do", the incorrect response is "Hell, I don't know either". Your line manager will not like this.

Also, "resolving headcount discrepancy issues" can never, ever sound like a good thing. Especially not when your line manager is shaking her head slightly while saying it.

On the plus side, no-one seems to care that I turn up late or flout the dress code.

No surprise
I have lost my security pass. I don't get a new one until tomorrow, so it's official: I'm insecure.

Camden lives

Paul • JP • Toni • Laurent • Amanda • Julian • Mariko • Caitlin • Nathan

Paul

Paul is leaning against the railings outside Camden Town station, holding his mobile phone before him as a votive offering. While he scans over the faces of the people leaving the station, his eyes flick back to the small green screen, checking that he isn't missing a call or a text message. He can see the power indicator showing that the phone will die any moment now.

Dressed head to toe in black, predominantly black denim, Paul is the guitarist in his band, Sonic Death Monkey. He got the name from High Fidelity and thinks it's a cool pop culture reference. In his fading black record bag, slung high over his shoulder, are most of this month's music magazines, including the NME with the crossword nearly finished. He needs to go home and check his copy of the new Scissor Sisters album in order to complete it.

His Walkman is clipped to a Jack Daniels emblazoned belt, playing a compilation tape he made last night which interspersed some of his band's own demos along with the indie usual suspects and some off-beat B-sides and vinyl-only tracks. He likes doing this because it makes him think that he is better than all those poor saps who miss out by only buying the album on CD. It's his possession of the rarer tracks which make him more of a muso, and therefore better. He is a fervent believer in rock hierarchy and ranks himself quite high within it.

The phone beeps twice in his hand and shuts itself off. Paul swears loudly. He's waiting for the singer in his band to arrive, as well as a guy that they're trying out as a keyboards player. Neither have shown up, and now he can't find out where they are. He resolves to wait a few more minutes, or at least until Radiohead's 'Polyethylene' has finished, before calling either of them. He put the band together a few years ago and they've been through so many line-up changes and changes in musical direction that they now bear a dim resemblance to their origins.

There are at least four proper demos, many more discarded songs and scratchy, unproduced recordings of gigs knocking around Paul's bedroom on cassette. His room is a shrine to Marshall, with wires, cables and headphones all waiting to trip up an unsuspecting visitor, such as his mum. Although he doesn't have much money, it all goes to Richer Sounds for more pedals, more effects boards and new strings. Equipment catalogues are his lads mags, and they lie, circled and biroed, across the floor.

Although the song hasn't finished, Paul goes up to the phone box. There's someone already there, but he looks as though he's about to hang up. Paul's glad that he'll get to hear the end of the track, despite the fact that he has heard it hundreds of times. Every time he listens, he hears something new. That's the beauty of music, he thinks. If only there wasn't so much waiting and calling and waiting again. The phone box occupant leaves and Paul goes in to call up his singer.

JP

I've got an hour to kill before the interview, JP tells himself. He's glad that he took the time to call them to confirm the time, otherwise he would have been about two hours late. He passes some Goth guy as he leaves the phone box and lights a cigarette. What can I do for an hour? Damn, I shouldn't be smoking. Well, that's one thing to do: buy some chewing gum to hide the smoky smell.

JP has a room in a shared house just off Camden High Street and, since he got sacked two weeks ago, has been struggling to make the rent. He's borrowed money from almost everyone he knows and it still hasn't been enough. In order to borrow money from others, they must have the money in the first place, which most of them don't. He has joked with them that he needs to find richer friends, and they've all laughed. In his head, it isn't quite so funny.

He's been to the Music and Video Exchange and sold some of his limited edition CDs, but they didn't bring in as much as he thought they would. They're so stingy, there. He remembers his own advice: always take the exchange value, not the cash value. But he can hardly tell his landlord that instead of the rent, he has a forty quid tab at the Exchange. More's the pity.

His hair is clean and long, pulled back over his high forehead and tied up neatly in a ponytail with a black elastic band which passes for a scrunchy. He shaved yesterday but the stubble isn't too bad today, and JP thinks he can get away with it. He didn't bother to wear a tie, but is at least wearing a clean shirt, maroon with a button-down collar. It's what he calls his formal shirt. An hour to kill. He crosses the road and goes up to the newsagents past Inverness Street to get some chewing gum. This takes two minutes.

The interview is for a job in the Wetherspoon pub on Chalk Farm Road, although they have another pub by the Lock, which might need people as well. He wouldn't mind working there, because it's new and modern, and he's been in there before. Then he remembers what it was like and thinks again. I could hardly move, and the place was wall-to-wall townies, all Ben Sherman and New Look-ed up. He manages to overlook his own unjustified snobbery completely as he wonders whether he'll get a choice of where to work. At least the other one is a real ale pub, he thinks. I'd rather deal with the beardies than the slappers.

Stereotypes completed, he muses for a moment. If I get this job, then I'm going to treat myself. Time for a little window shopping. JP heads back down the street and into Virgin Megastore to see what new films are out, and to see if there is anything good in the sale. Before he starts to browse, however, his pessimistic side takes over. He goes up to the counter and asks for an job application form, which he then folds carefully and puts into his parka pocket. Just in case. He starts to browse, brushing against some dumb club blonde on the way to the Horror/Sci-Fi section.

Toni

Toni is tottering around Virgin Megastore on five inch heels, her tan fake leather boots sounding like horseshoes along the aisle. Hipster jeans with the legs rolled up above the bootline give off a vaguely piratical air, despite her – no kind way to put it – large bottom. Her pale blue and beige leather biker jacket has been artfully unzipped to the point where it emphasises her ample cleavage, itself shown off in a ripped V-neck Strokes T-shirt. The aviator shades which perch atop her expensively highlighted blonde hair complete this look.

Some hippie's bag knocks into her as she bends over to look at a DVD and she turns to see who it is. A scraggy-haired nobody. Her attention returns to the plot summary on the back of the packaging. She's not convinced and returns it to the rack. Toni is a living embodiment of the words 'puppy fat' and she doesn't particularly mind. She knows that if she wanted to exercise, then she could be slimmer, but she likes the curviness. True, her face is a little rounder than her idea of perfection, but if that means eating muesli and rabbit food for breakfast, lunch and dinner, then round is how she will stay.

She's in her last year at school and dreading her exams. The main way in which she prepares for her A levels and her choice of degree or future career is by shopping. Fortunately, her parents are well-off and give her a more than generous allowance, affording her a decent standard of living for an eighteen year old (she is one of the oldest in her year). She doesn't need to work and so she doesn't. Her main pursuits are taking the train from higher up the Northern line down to Camden Town, meeting her friends, drinking, clubbing and shopping. She is proficient at all these activities and would certainly pass them all to A level standard.

She gives up on the films section and wanders over to the Dance area, wondering whether the new Ministry compilation is out yet. Flicking through names both familiar and unknown, she makes her choice of albums based on the cover artwork rather than the sub-genre, artist, reputation or reviews. It's possible that some of the albums will eventually rest in her CD rack at home, unopened for months. She has an extensive music collection, but tires easily of any particular sound, moving immediately onto the next big thing instead. She thinks that one day, she might like to be a DJ, but this is mainly because she read an old interview with DJ Princess Julia and she sounded well cool.

Armed with her vinyl and CDs, and snagging some magazines from the rack, she clip-clop trots up to the counter to pay, and then heads out to Starbucks on Parkway to browse through pictures of DJs and dancing crowds, light-shows and vox pops. Paying for her large semi-skimmed vanilla latte, she looks around to find somewhere to sit. The only free place means sharing a table with some guy with a sketchbook. Looking at him critically, an experienced eye for a young girl, she decides that he's attractive, though could do with some work here and there, and moves over to sit with him.

Laurent

"What are you drawing?" Laurent looks up at the girl who has just sat opposite him. His first instinct is to snap the sketchbook shut, but she doesn't seem to be critical, more genuinely interested. Without saying anything, he rotates the book around to face her. While she looks down upon his sketches, he quickly appraises her and decides that, although young, she seems nice enough. He stirs his black coffee idly while waiting for her to finish.

"Are they cartoons?" He nods his head, wondering how he can explain what he does. I suppose the easiest thing to say would be 'art student', but that doesn't quite cover it. His day job is as an art student, but he draws and submits cartoons to newspapers and draws sketches for bands and for t-shirts, making his money that way. He isn't French, but has decided that if he is to labour under the name Laurent even though he comes from Muswell Hill, then he is going to embrace the caf… culture and couture. His distressed leather jacket and dark brown polo neck over dark blue corduroys and scuffed Chelsea boots suggest some Gallic influence, though only very faintly.

He smiles at the girl and then turns the sketchbook back around to continue drawing. While brushing the thick pencil across the page, his eyes occasionally flicker up to see what she's doing, watching her read a magazine and sip her coffee. He isn't very good with women, never knowing what to say or where to start, blurting out phrases and gabbling sentences, forgetting to breathe or pausing mid-explanation. I prefer pictures to words, he thinks, I know where I am and what I do with them. He turns the page of his sketchbook and, starting afresh with darted glances across the table, begins quickly to rough out a sketch of the girl.

As the portrait begins to take shape, his pencil moves faster and faster across the heavy cream paper. This is when Laurent is happiest. He is nearly done with the sketch when his mobile phone chirps at him. He glances at it, and switches the alarm off. Applying a few last marks here and there, he initials the bottom of the page, carefully extracts it from the sketchbook and begins to pack away his pencilbox and book, leaving the page face down on the table, carefully placed to avoid any coffee spills or sugar granules.

"Excuse me?" he says, and the girl looks up from her magazine and he turns the page over. "Something for you. I did. I mean, I drew."

She looks at it and her eyes widen, a smile forming then broadening. As he stands and grabs his satchel, she motions with her hand for him to pause for a moment while she withdraws a small pen and a scrap of paper. She scribbles quickly, then hands him the paper. "Something for you."

Laurent smiles again, pockets the scrap and walks out of the coffee shop, heading towards the market. He has to meet one of the stallholders to talk about some new sketches for T-shirts and he doesn't want to be late. He waits until he is crossing the bridge to unfold the paper and read the small number and the words, "Call me. Toni. x." He replaces it in his pocket, stops and stands for a moment, looking out over the canal.

Amanda

Amanda nearly walks straight into the guy in front of her who has stopped for no reason. She quickly adjusts her step and walks around him, looking back to see if he is a tourist, consulting a map or guide book. No, neither. Well, he's still an idiot. She shakes her head and continues walking on, slowing down to look around at the shop windows, vainly trying to find inspiration.

It's a housewarming, and I need to find something appropriate but funny and personal. And cheap. But not too cheap. She pulls up outside a shop with a bright pink display in the window and retro 50s postcards. This could be it, she wonders. Well, it's worth a look. Amanda has been invited to her friend's housewarming party in Kentish Town tonight and has to get a present for the three girls who have recently moved in together. She wonders whether she can get them just one gift, or whether three small individual presents are better. She's going to go home beforehand to hand-make a card, because it's a lot more personal to do it that way.

She went to college with Lydia and although they lost contact for a few years, they met by coincidence at the Monarch a few months ago and exchanged telephone numbers. Since then, they've discovered that the few years apart hasn't dulled their friendship at all. She's met Lydia's friends (and new flatmates) Cassie and Emma, and they've been out on girly nights together once or twice. The trouble is that although she knows the other two reasonably well, she isn't one hundred percent sure what kind of gift to buy them. Oh well, one big present it is, then.

Browsing around the shop, there are plenty of options for Amanda to choose from. Fluffy dice, fluffy handcuffs, shot glasses with amusing slogans, 1950s style highball glasses, picture frames, wall clocks with Elvis or Marilyn Monroe as the hour hand. And while Amanda loves all this kitsch, she's not so sure that Emma and Cassie will be quite so keen. Leopardskin tissues? No. Rude fridge poetry? Possibly. An inflatable pink chair? Definitely not. She is partly shopping for them, and partly looking at things wondering if perhaps there is a small present she can buy herself, to reward her for shopping.

Amanda reminds herself that she has to text the address to Martin so that he has no excuse for not showing up. Lydia has been single for a while and although she's met some nice men, none of them have been quite right. Amanda thinks that Martin might be the one, and has invited him (while warning Lydia that a guest is coming along) in the hope that she will be able to do a little matchmaking between the two. Matchmaking, such a wonderful word for meddling. So non-judgmental.

She eventually finds some Martini glasses with some sort of spirit level bubble in the stem that moves up and down as you angle the glass. The glass is faintly tinted in different colours, so picks three faint pink ones and goes up to the counter. The guy behind the counter seems sullen and doesn't speak to her as she hands over the glasses, watches them be wrapped and then pays for them. It can't be that fun working here, Amanda thinks, but there's no need to take it out on me. As she takes the carrier bag and her change back, she puts the coins in her handbag zipper pocket and withdraws her mobile. There are no missed calls, but she remembers that she should text Martin. Matchmaker, matchmaker.

Julian

Yet another day in Julian's Boring Life. In the shop. Wishing I was at home. Wishing I hadn't had the second bottle of wine. Wishing I had got to bed before three. Wishing that I didn't have such a dull job in this rubbish shop with this rubbish stuff. Wishing I was paid decently. Wishing I had a boss who would actually turn up. Wishing there was someone else here to talk to. Wishing that the annoying kids would stop coming in when it's busy, trying to nick things. Wishing I actually cared whether they nicked things or not.

Julian is at a low, though if you remove the frown from his face and liven up his glazed look, you wouldn't notice. His short, light brown hair is waxed and styled, he is clean-shaven and dressed fashionably. He is tall, good-looking and lightly muscular. The girls who work in his local pub all fancy him but he hasn't noticed, even when they're flirting with an obviousness bordering on cannibalistic. When he's not behind the shop counter, he's generally sitting in the pub with the newspaper or a book or, on occasion, some friends, chatting and drinking. He's sociable, presentable, likeable and utterly depressed.

I need a challenge, he thinks. I need something to get me out of the rut and back into the race. Perhaps an evening course, or applying for a new job, or a holiday. Except that courses and holidays cost money, money that Julian doesn't have. He could apply for a new job, but working in a shop is all he knows and although he could learn more, he convinces himself that he doesn't have the time. He is encased in a little glass box, entirely of his own creation, where he can see out to the rest of the world and the opportunities stretching to the horizon, but can't break free to capture the chances, having persuaded himself that they are for other people.

Two girls walk up with some greetings cards. He flips them over and quickly adds up the total price. He knocks off a few quid because he wants to, and because there's no-one there to stop him, puts the cards in a bag and hands it over, collecting the money and tapping it into the till. They both smile and thank him. He nods his acknowledgement and returns to his former position, sitting on the stool, arms folded, eyes slowly dragging their way around the shop, between the display cases and the shelves, over the faces of the browsing clientele and then back again, a painstaking sweep.

One of the few things he likes about his job is the people-watching. It gives his day a thin veneer of endurability, being able to see all the different types of customer walk in, browse, perhaps buy and then wander out again. The styles and looks of Camden are many and varied, some dull, some outrageous, and at some point Julian sees them all. It's interesting to watch what they pick out, for themselves and for others, and sometimes funny. The six foot six Goth boy picking out Hello Kitty birthday cards, the punk with safety pins everywhere speaking in a BBC accent, the diminutive club kitten turning red when she hands over some risqué postcard. He checks his watch and there are over two more hours to go. He sighs.

Mariko

What a nice guy, Mariko thinks. It's not as though it's a lot of money, but what a nice thing to do. Especially nice because it was so random and unnecessary. I wonder whether it was because he liked one of us. I bet it was Ayame, though. She's always the first one that people notice. Mariko is not jealous, nor lamenting, but rather facing facts. Although she is the older sister by two years, people always pay Ayame more attention. It's something she's used to, so it doesn't bother her as much as it did when they were both little children.

She and Ayame leave the shop and wander back towards the Tube station. They're only in Camden for a few hours doing some shopping before they head home and get ready to go out tonight in the West End. They prefer Camden to other places in London because there's always something to do or see and because of the music scene. Ayame loves Soho but Mariko isn't as keen, because there are all the seedy shops. She seems to ignore the dirt and grime of Camden when she argues this, but she fell in love with the colours and smells when she first visited. Nevertheless, tonight it was Ayame's turn to decide, so down to Charlotte Street they go, meeting up with Kichi and her new boyfriend.

As the two walk slowly past the shops and chatter, they glance inside and look at the clothes to see if there is anything they can get to wear tonight, and anything they can get that the other one won't wear. They are roughly the same build, though Mariko is slightly taller. She prefers darker colours and more intriguing patterns whereas Ayame is bright colours and short skirts all the way. They share a flat in Wood Green with their brother Haru, who works in something to do with the internet, they're not sure what. He rolls his eyes when he sees the outfits which Ayame wears, but Mariko has given up criticising her sister. It's not worth it, and she doesn't listen anyway. It's better to just let her get what she wants and stay close to her.

Mariko spots a small fitted-looking jacket in the shop across the street, so they both cross, weaving through the slow-moving traffic, and get a better look. It's dark green with barely a button or a zip and Ayame holds it up on the hanger against Mariko to see if it's even close to the right fit. They look at the price and Mariko isn't sure. Ayame gets her wallet out and hands Mariko a twenty-pound note, as if to convince her that this is the right choice. The note gets passed from hand to hand for a few moments as the older sister refuses and the younger refuses the refusal, then eventually Mariko keeps it and they take the jacket into the shop.

This is where her sister is in her element, Mariko remembers. Ayame is the negotiator par excellence, with the guile of a snake and the innocent look of an archangel. Batting her eyelashes at the shopkeeper, she haggles over the price of the jacket while Mariko hangs back, waiting. She could never do this herself, she needs Ayame there, who has no shame and is utterly unabashed about bartering away. After a few minutes, a price is agreed and Mariko steps forward, purse in hand to finalise the deal. Change and carrier bags are produced, and with much thanking on all sides, they leave the shop.

Arm in arm, the sisters continue their walk back to the station, with Ayame pointing out a girl walking into the Tasty Corner food bar. They giggle to each other, remembering a very drunk night when they both went there and ate, later to complain at exactly the same time about how ill they felt. The girl hears them giggle and turns around to look, but they have walked past by then. Mariko knows what she will do. She will buy Ayame a T-shirt from the market just by the Electric Ballroom. They have some great ones with cartoon characters on them, and if the colours are bright and bold enough, she can wear it tonight. She hugs her sister's arm closer into her.

Caitlin

Although it's afternoon, Caitlin is still hungover from last night at the Dublin Castle. Thank God she had today off work, otherwise she's not sure she would have managed to live, never mind get into work on time or do anything productive. She knows that she needs some stodgy food to try and get some protein and lining back into her stomach, and she looks around at the various pizza slices at Tasty Corner. She hears some high-pitched laughing and turns around, wondering if there is anything funny going on in the street. No, nothing. Back to the pizzas, even though they look a bit grim. Perhaps I'll just have a sandwich, she thinks. She starts walking towards the junction and towards Boots.

It was her friend Gavin's birthday last night, so they all met up at the Dublin and things got a little messy. She's proud and relieved that she can remember the entire evening, but not quite so proud that she ended up kissing Jake in full view of all the others. She knows it was because she was drunk, but she's not completely sure that Gary realises this.

Caitlin and Jake went out together for a few months, the predominant characteristic of that time being arguments and misunderstandings. To say that there had been a power struggle for dominance in their relationship was an understatement, with Jake not understanding why she needed to spend so much time with the girls, and Caitlin wondering why he couldn't just sod off and do something on his own for a change. Commitment, yes. Total dependence on her, no. They split up a few weeks ago and had seen each other a few times since then, always in a big group.

And now I've gone and pulled him. Shit. Knowing him, he thinks that this means we're back on. I'm going to have to have a talk to him. Even as she says this to herself, Caitlin knows it is pointless. All previous attempts at heart-to-heart conversation have invariably been drawn back to a discussion of their relative faults. Jake says I'm too open, I say he's too tightly-wound, so why would it work this time, she realises. The only way to do this, she concludes, is to get someone else to have a word with him and burst that little imaginary bubble in his head before he starts really thinking that they have kissed and made up. Kissed, yes. Made up, no.

She doesn't need to call any of his friends, because she knows where they'll be: in the pub, having an all-day breakfast fry-up with Gavin. And perhaps some beer will sort out her own hangover as well. Turning the corner into Inverness Street, she walks past the various stalls selling football shirts, fruit and veg, handbags and hats and turns into the newsagents to get a pack of cigarettes. When she walks out, she continues along the street to the pub on the corner and walks in.

She can't see Gavin or any of the others on that side of the bar, so turns and walks into the other bar area, where she sees them all sitting at a large table at the back. The jukebox is blaring out a Johnny Cash song and she goes up to order her pint before sitting down with the others. There's only one bartender working and he's serving some guy on the other side of the bar who has that musiciany look about him. Well, what do you expect in this place? When she finally gets her drink, she goes over to the table, sits next to Gavin, steals a piece of his bacon and wonders how she's going to start her chat.

Nathan

It's Nathan's fourth pint in two hours, and he reckons that's not bad going. Richie behind the bar knows what he drinks (how hard is it to remember the word 'Kronenbourg'?), so he doesn't even have to say the word any more. He just nods over at him, waits and then goes up to pay. Maybe there will be some banter, maybe not. If the place isn't too busy, and the landlord isn't in, Richie might come around the bar and play a quick game of pool with him. Either way, he has a copy of the Standard, some rolling tobacco and a pint, so things aren't going so badly.

Nathan has been a regular here for about a year and a half and likes the place mainly for two reasons: it isn't pretentious and occasionally he can borrow a pint from the bar staff until his next money comes in. Often, there's no specific date attached to that event, but they're patient enough. He does the odd job here and there, sometimes working for one of the stallholders for a few days in Camden or Portobello Road, some removals work, roadie work with some of the more successful bands that drink there, painting and decorating, those sorts of things. It's a fairly up and down life, but that's what he's made for.

He's dressed in Camden standard, with jeans and trainers below a Brazil T-shirt and a secondhand faded pinstripe jacket. He's lanky rather than tall and striking rather than handsome. It when you reach the eyes that the difference is noted: they are very clear and a very pale blue which appears to reflect any other colours around wherever Nathan is. Currently, they are reflecting his rapidly-diminishing pint, and he wonders what he's going to do.

He's supposed to be doing some work in a band, but he still hasn't heard from them. If that falls through, then he can ask around for work, but more than anything else, he just wants to sit back and drink. It's an uncomplicated life, without commitments, ties or anchors. There is a part of him which recognises that he should probably grow up and settle down, but he can't imagine what he would be like doing it. He likes the fact that when the mood takes him, he can go off and visit friends in Stockholm or Amsterdam at a moment's notice. He can get part-time work at festivals or, during the summer, on the south coast beaches. With a wife or a kid, he'd be stuck in some suit and office nightmare. He's seen others do it and wonder how they cope.

He was serious about a woman some years ago. They lived together for quite a while and things seemed to go well, until Nathan felt that she was getting too clingy and they were becoming domesticated. The situation didn't improve when she broke the news that she was pregnant. There was the decent thing to do and the wrong thing to do. He went to Europe for some months and odd-jobbed his way around the place, some time in Barcelona, some time in France, a few months in Holland, just until the whole thing blew over. He doesn't often think about Joanne or about the kid. He doesn't even know whether it's a boy or a girl. It's not my life, he tells himself, doing that. I'm not supposed to be a provider. I can barely take care of myself. She's better off out of it.

Before he can get too maudlin, an unusual state for him, his mobile phone rings. It brings him back to the present with a start and he looks around briefly, as though to check he is still in the pub. When he looks at the phone's display, he doesn't recognise the number. He presses the green button anyway.

"Yeh? … oh, Paul, alright, mate. Where are you?"

Infantilism
Colleagues are intensely irritating and never more so than when you are collaborating with them on a project where they think they are in charge. I have requested some information from someone supposedly senior to myself, information which is well overdue. He has told me he will send it soon, but right now he is "just formatting it". Upon being told that it's not that important (it's a list, for God's sake), he has informed that "well, actually, it is".

In true part-childish, part-I'm-top-dog fashion, I have told the other colleague on this project that it doesn't matter what damned formatting he applies, because it's a list going into my master list. I found myself using the following words about this incredibly tedious and petty subject:

"Well, the formatting won't stay, because it's going into my list, and my list's longer."

It's official. Work has made me regress back to my playground years. And even more annoyingly, I have been suckered into playing some petty little game, the kind I normally despise watching other work people play. Which in turn has made me realise that, in fact, I really need to change job. All of this introspection inspired by one overdue list.

But I bet that my dad is bigger than his dad, too.

How your mood changes
Upon standing outside your building, having a cigarette, when something falls from the sky and lands directly on your head, you will immediately think the worst.

And then wonder if anyone saw.

And then be relieved that it is some drops of water.

And not bird 'product'.

And then wonder where the hell they came from.

And then be quite irritated.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #5
INT. An Antarctic base, in the Antarctic.

Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Mina.
Harker: Dorian.
Gray: Well, the scriptwriter did a great job on this.
Harker: You're supposed to be pining for our lost love, you moron.
Gray: Oh, right. Even though there is no sexual chemistry between us at all.
Harker: Yeah.
Gray: Okay.
Harker: But because you're bad, I now have to battle you.
Gray: Battle me?
Harker: With swords and knives.
Gray: Isn't that slightly pointless, as I'm immortal and you're already dead?
Harker: Yes, it's called 'delicious irony'.
Gray: Oh, a sort of climactic thingy?
Harker: That's it.
Gray: Let's play.

[They battle. With swords and knives]

Gray: This is going nowhere.
Harker: Just keep battling.
Gray: Even I'm bored, and I'm getting paid for this.
Harker: Battle, damn you.

[They continue to battle]

Gray: Bor-ing. Where are the others?
Harker: Mucking about in the rest of this badly disguised Antarctic-style evil hideaway.
Gray: Oh.
Harker: Why?
Gray: They didn't even say hello.
Harker: And?
Gray: Well, it is my hideaway too. It's a bit rude not to greet your host.
Harker: You're concerned with the manners of this?
Gray: Of course. If I have to be a foppish dandy, I might as well get into the part.
Harker: Do you want me to get them for you?
Gray: There's no point if they don't want to.
Harker: Stop sulking.
Gray: I'm not.
Harker: Yes, you are. Stop it.
Gray: Shan't. So there.
Harker: You're immortal, preserved in the fire of youthfulness and you're sulking because they didn't say hello.
Gray: Or get me a little present.
Harker: A present?
Gray: Just a little something, nothing too fancy. Perhaps a new cravat.
Harker: Sod this. Back to the battling.

[They again continue to battle]

Gray: Stop, stop, stop. You won't be able to kill me, you silly mare.
Harker: But there is a way to kill you.
Gray: Oh?
Harker: Bye-bye.

[Harker *SPOILER REMOVED* and *SPOILER REMOVED*]

Harker: Thank God that's over.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #4
INT. Control room, the Nautilus.

Nemo: Gentlemen, welcome to the Nautilus, my ship and submarine.
Jekyll: Nice boat.
Nemo: Don't touch anything. And don't let Hyde out.
Gray: Otherwise it's Hyde and seek.
Skinner: That makes no sense.
Gray: Blame the scriptwriter, I didn't come up with this drivel.
Quatermain: This is what happens when you parachute new characters in.
Gray: Pardon?
Quatermain: Oh, nothing. So, Captain, are we in Venice yet?
Nemo: Nearly.
Quatermain. Okay, kids, here's the deal. The Fantom is going to blow up an international conference in Venice. We've got to stop him, save the world leaders, capture Fantom and ensure that his hi-tech weapons can't be sold off, thus averting world war. Got it?
Nemo: Yes.
Skinner: Yup.
Gray: Very well.
Harker: Indeed.
Jekyll: Got it.
Sawyer: Uh?
Quatermain: Oh, for god's sake, Sawyer, don't make me repeat it. Just say yes.
Sawyer: Yes.
Quatermain: Good.
Jekyll: What happens if we can't stop the bombs going off?
Gray: Then it's goodnight Vienna.
Jekyll: Venice. You mean Venice.
Gray. Yes, that's what I meant. Damn you, scriptwriter.
Jekyll: Just checking.
Harker: Mr Quatermain, how on earth are we to stop these bombs?
Quatermain: Good point. We'll need to locate them and defuse them. If they start going off and the buildings fall like dominoes, we'll need to take out a key building to stop the effect. That means fast driving and accurate shooting.
Skinner: Question.
Quatermain: Go ahead.
Skinner: Driving and shooting?
Quatermain: Yes.
Skinner: So what's the point of this being in the Victoria era?
Harker: And why do you need a vampire for that sort of thing?
Skinner: Being invisible's handy, but not exactly required for driving and shooting.
Sawyer: I'm all for the plan. Let's go, Mr Q.
Gray: Quieten down, blondie. I'd like to hear Mr Quatermain's answer.
Quatermain: Well, I know it doesn't sound particularly extraordinary, but trust me, it is.
Skinner: How?
Quatermain: It just is.
Skinner: You suck at this.
Quatermain: Excuse me?
Skinner: And Harker is supposed to be the leader anyway.
Harker: Thank you.
Quatermain: Look, I'm the leader, we're going to go driving and shooting, and that's that. Get to the damn car.
Gray: Oh, the car again.
Jekyll: Car, what car?
Nemo: My car, the Nemomobile.
Harker: Please stop calling it that.
Nemo: We are onboard the Nemosub, why can't it be a Nemomobile?
Gray: (aside) Holy rip-off, Batman.
Nemo: What?
Gray: Nothing.
Quatermain: So, let's go to the car, then.
Harker: And do ordinary things.
Quatermain: It can't be the League of Ordinary Gentlemen, that makes it 'log'.
Harker: And I'm not a gentleman, I'm a lady.
Quatermain: Come on, vampy, just go to the car.
Harker: All right, all right.
Jekyll: Do you want me or Mr Hyde?
Quatermain: Either's good.
Skinner: Does anyone mind if I go back to being invisible and then snoop around suspiciously?
Quatermain: No, go right ahead.
Skinner: Ta.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #3
INT. Library, in the East End of London.

Gray: Hello, everyone, I'm Dorian Gray.
Quatermain: I'm Allan Quatermain.
Nemo: I'm Captain Nemo.
Harker: I'm Mrs Mina Harker.
Skinner: I'm the Invisible Man.
Sawyer: I'm Tom Sawyer.
Quatermain: Back up there, pretty boy. Who are you?
Sawyer: Agent Tom Sawyer of the US Secret Service.
Quatermain: What are you doing here?
Sawyer: I'm here to help.
Quatermain: No, what are doing in the film?
Sawyer: Oh, I'm the token Yank, so we can sell this in the States.
Quatermain: What?
Sawyer: Box office, Mr Q. Just roll with it.
Gray: Well, I think it's ridiculous to just parachute a new League member in without so much as a 'by your leave'.
Harker: Like you can talk.
Gray: What?
Harker: You're not in the graphic novels, either.
Skinner: So what's he doing here?
Harker: He's a former lover and a current nemesis, dummy.
Skinner: Oh. What exactly are you, Gray?
Gray: I'm complicated.
Skinner: Like Avril?
Gray: No. Suffice to say that a little bit of reading Oscar Wilde might not go astray. Dorian Gray? Picture? Attic? Ringing bells yet?
Skinner: I only saw the Stephen Fry film.
Harker: Disappointing, wasn't it?
Skinner: Yeah, a bit.
Quatermain: Shut up. We're all here now. We should go to Paris and pick up the last member.
Fantom: I'm afraid not, Mister Quatermain.
Quatermain: What the … ?
Fantom: It is I, the Fantom. The man whom your League has assembled to stop.
Skinner: Shouldn't that be 'The man for whom the League has assembled to stop'?
Gray: No, no. 'The man why the League has stopped for assembly'.
Skinner: That makes no sense.
Gray: I know. I'm just screwing with you.
Harker: Oh hush down, Dorian.
Fantom: Anyway, I'm the one you've gotta stop.
Quatermain: Why do you have such a stupid accent?
Fantom: It's better than your 'Russian' one.
Quatermain: Piss off.
Fantom: Oh, oh. I'm so scared. You have a choice, though. Join me or die.
Quatermain: We'll never join your evil cabal, Fantom.
Skinner: Hang on, hang on. At least let me think about it.
Quatermain: Shut up, Skinner.
Fantom: Then you will die. Men with automatic guns, start firing them, aiming please for the League's soft, soft heads.

[Gun battle, Fantom escapes]

Quatermain: Goody, we've won. Is anyone hurt?
Gray: I'm immortal, you idiot.
Skinner: Still invisible.
Harker: Still a vampire.
Nemo: I'm good at kung fu.
Quatermain: Yeah, I'd been meaning to ask. How come you're good at that?
Harker: What does that have to do with being a pir … I mean, adventurer?
Nemo: Well, it was either kung fu or the 100 metres breaststroke.
Quatermain: Fair enough. Sawyer?
Sawyer: Oh yeah, still here. With a gun.
Harker: That's your "extraordinary" gift.
Sawyer: Yeah, I know. It's a bit crap.
Skinner: Yes. Yes it is.
Quatermain: Right then, to Paris.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #2
INT. Library, deep beneath London.

Quatermain: And who are you?
M: My underlings call me 'Sir'. My superiors call me 'M'.
Quatermain: M?
M: Yes. M.
Quatermain: That's bloody clever, you know.
M: Thanks.
Quatermain: 'Cause I used to be Bond, and I had to keep reporting to a guy called M.
M: Yes, the casting director did a bang-up job on that one.
Quatermain: Very good.

[Pause]

M: Anyway, Mr Quatermain, we need you to …
Quatermain: Skip it, I know the rest. Unique people, world in danger, la la la. Where are the others?
M: I see one arriving at the moment.
Nemo: Good afternoon. I am Captain Nemo.
Quatermain: I didn't think anyone could find you.
Nemo: Yes, it is quite difficult finding Nemo.
M: Not really, it just won an Oscar. Boom boom.
Quatermain: What?
Nemo: What?
M: You see it's a play on words. Finding Nemo is a Pixar film, and Captain Nemo has just been … never mind.
Quatermain: I understood you to be a pirate, Captain.
M: Like Jack Sparrow.
Quatermain: What?
M: Er, never mind.
Nemo: I prefer a less provocative term. Perhaps the more PC version is: ethically-challenged.
Quatermain: Really?
M: I believe some other members of the league are late.
Skinner: Good afternoon, gentlemen.
Quatermain: (looking around) What the hell?
M: May I introduce Rodney Skinner.
Skinner: Also known as the Invisible Man.
M: Like that film with Chevy Chase. Or the newer Kevin Bacon one.
Nemo: What?
M: Don't worry. I'll order it on DVD.
Skinner: (puts on his coat) Yes, I stole some invisible formula, turned invisible and then couldn't stop being invisible.
Quatermain: Okay, I get it. No need to go on.
Skinner: So what's Quatermain doing here, M?
M: Well, he's your principal, Skinner. Like the Simpsons.
Quatermain: What?
Nemo: What?
Skinner: What?
M: Oh, for fu … but here is our last member.
Harker: Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'll be the eye candy from here on in.
M: Gentlemen, Mrs Mina Harker.
Skinner: Rawr.
Quatermain: A woman?
Harker: Well done. You have a keen eye, sir.
M: And remember everyone, don't drop blood about the place otherwise things could get a little bit Interview with the Vampire.
Skinner: What?
M: You know, Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, Christian Slater, the girl from Spiderman.
Nemo: What?
M: Forget it.
Quatermain: Then the League is assembled.
M: Not quite. You still have two more members to recruit. One can be found in Paris, the other is resident in London.
Quatermain: Let's get going then.
Nemo: No hurry, Mr Quatermain. My car's parked outside.
Quatermain: Car?
Nemo: Yes, the Nemomobile. It's based on the old Ford Anglia, but I've made some upgrades. Fluffy dice, that sort of thing.
M: Take care in case you encounter the man we suspect is behind all this evil, the Fantom.
Quatermain: Don't worry, we will.
M: Godspeed, gentlemen. And at all costs, avoid the Fantom menace. You see what I did there? Eh? Eh?
Quatermain: Goodbye, M.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – Deleted scenes #1
INT. Gentlemen's club, Kenya.

Reed: Do I have the honour of addressing Mr Allan Quatermain?
Quatermain: Why not?
Reed: Sir, I am Sanderson Reed of Her Britannic Majesty's Foreign Service.
Quatermain: Okay.
Reed: Sir, the Empire is imperilled. Nation is striking against nation. We fear it may end in war.
Quatermain: Yup.
Reed: A World War.
Quatermain: Got it.
Reed: We need you to recruit and lead a team of unique individuals to combat this threat.
Quatermain: Sure.
Reed: What?
Quatermain: I said, "Sure"
Reed: Oh.

[Pause]

Reed: I thought it would be a lot harder than that.
Quatermain: Nah, I'll do it.
Reed: Are you certain?
Quatermain: Sounds interesting enough.
Reed: But didn't your son die on the last mission you undertook for the Empire?
Quatermain: Yes, yes he did.
Reed: And you're not bitter about that at all?
Quatermain: To tell the truth, I never really liked the annoying brat anyway.
Reed: Oh.

[Pause]

Reed: It's going to be quite dangerous, you know.
Quatermain: Not a problem.
Reed: I mean really, really dangerous.
Quatermain: Look, do you want me to do it or not?
Reed: Of course.
Quatermain: So let's go.
Reed: Well, I was told that you wouldn't accept.
Quatermain: But I have.
Reed: I know, it's really quite confusing.
Quatermain: Look, lad, don't get your bowler in a twist. Let's get out of here and save the Empire.
Reed: I'm not sure I want to any more.
Quatermain: Come again?
Reed: The only point of me being here is to convince you, and if you're already convinced then … that makes me redundant, really.
Quatermain: Look, nation is striking against nation.
Reed: (sniffles) I know.
Quatermain: It could end in a World War.
Reed: (sniffles) Mmm-hmm.
Quatermain: Don't you love the Empire?
Reed: (sniffles) 'Spose.
Quatermain: So let's get back to dear old Blighty and save the world.
Reed: (sniffles) Promise?
Quatermain: Promise.
Reed: (wipes nose) All right then.
Quatermain: Now, Reed, shall we go.
Reed: Oh, you're supposed to remember to pack for an English summer.
Quatermain: What?
Reed: It's supposed to be funny. It means it's pissing down.
Quatermain: What a surprise.

LondonMark: Access All Areas
Sunday

8.00pm
Rumbling tummy. What's good for a rumbling tummy? Ah yes, red wine. Mmm, red wine. Watch Meet The Parents. Phone rings. Phone ignored.

9.00pm
Maybe not mmm, red wine. Continue watching Meet The Parents. Ben Stiller. He funny man. Robert De Niro. He scary man. Other cast. They rubbish. Special features. Rubbish too.

10.00pm
Watch Mystery Men. Ben Stiller. He funny man. More red wine. William H. Macy. He funny too. Many funny people. Tummy starting to get drunk. Rest of Mark following tummy's lead.

11.00pm
Continue watching Mystery Men. Feel hungry. Consider snack. Consider cigarette. Snack. Cigarette. Light cigarette. Lungs wonder if possible to declare independence from rest of Mark. Drink more red wine.

Midnight
Switch to Oscars coverage. Laugh at silly dresses. Laugh at silly presenters. Wonder if any more red wine left. Remember second bottle. Light another cigarette. Lungs fill out passport application form.

1.00am
Wake up from red carpet attention fatigue. Spill some red wine on carpet. Freak out momentarily. Try to clean it up. Remember flatmate not back for few more days. Ignore stain. Billy Crystal. He funny man. Argue with TiVo. TiVo wins.

2.00am
Tim Robbins. Well done. Tummy pain gone. Replaced with slightly blurry vision. Ignore blurry vision. More cigarettes. More wine. Mmm. Lungs applying for Australian nationality.

3.00am
Crikey. Many geeky men get small statues. Hobbits. Hahahahaha. Oops, nearly spilled more wine. Criminal waste. Bad Mark. Lungs rallying other organs in rebellious alliance. Liver joins up.

4.00am
Much ceremony. Something in room beeping. Can't see where it is. Perhaps more wine help. Oh. No. More wine not help. Beeping stop. Hope not important. Jonathan Ross. He rubbish.

5.00am
Well done, thingy for getting thingy Oscar. No more wine. In house. At all. Bed. Set phone alarm for Horrible Loud setting at Stupid O'Clock time. Collapse in bed.

5.01am
Get up. Turn off TV. Turn off lights. Lock front door. Extinguish cigarette. Hope duvet not burned. Recollapse in bed.

5.10am
Get up. Get undressed. Collapse Take 3.

8.30am
Get up. Slap mobile phone. Alarm off. Late. Panic. Owwwww. Lungs exact revenge. Stupid Oscars.