L'apartament

I first saw this film at a Future Shorts night at 93 Feet East (I used to be Future Shorts interval DJ - I miss that actually.) Anyway, I believe the musicians and the film makers are Swedish and I think it's ace.

So good I went there twice

Last year I'd never set foot in America, despite many resolutions I was always too broke (shout out to the debt mountain). Now I have been to New York twice thanks to getting a job with lovely people who deem it essential for me to go there. Aw shucks. Sometimes life is hard, you know?
Based on this last visit I've decided I definately [heart] NYC much more in a mild December than in the insane heat of July, at least my co-workers now know that I don't smell of sunscreen on a permanent basis.
The beautiful:
I like having an office to go to - somewhere to go stops you feeling like a tourist. Plus I managed to navigate the subway system properly. And I tipped people. Even with my non-tipping accent.
And then being a tourist: I ate a hotdog in the park and took pictures of Grand Central Station and skyscrapers and NYPD cars and sad-looking horses hitched up to buggies.
I like their lo-fi bars, putting a happy end to bar-pub debates.
And I like casual-pass-the-mic-around-the-bar-kareoke arrangements, though I am increasingly gutted that I missed the oppertunity to do Fairy Tale of New York, in New York, in December.
The lack of buildings from pre-1900 feels highly surreal (for someone used to the Georgian and Victorian centres of Britain's cities), but I love the glut of 1920s architecture and the decco lettering on shop signs.
And I love the micca in the pavemnts that makes them sparkle at night.
The apple martini. Hello!

The damned:
Feeling like the token British character in ER every time I opened my mouth and heard my accent jar and sound prissy in comparison to evryone else.
The hotel which gave me an eye infection, fused my hair straighteners and gave me suspisious looks when I gave them my Metrocard instead of my room key to be let back in late at night. (Okay I see the point on the last one. I'd been awake for 26 hours and it had nothing at all to do with drinking gin followed by Kirin lager.)
"Where you from? Ireland I bet. I'm Irish myself!" (For starters, no you're not Irish, not talking like that, and neither am I. Have nothing against the Irish, some of my best friends etc, but I do have a healthy respect for getting the facts right.)
The croissandwich. (Colleague: "You actually ate one of those?")

Now I am listening to Gershwin and about to start baking a vanilla sponge cake with white chocolate icing for Tom's birthday. It's a surprise, but Tom is the least internet person I know. The chances of him reading this ever are just above nil.


(With thanks to Lee for getting up at ungodly hours to take me to/ fetch me from Heathrow; Lauren for Japanese food and girl talk and to Joe and Yancey for being lovely to work with and taking me out for drinks, pool, singing etc.)

Buy my mate's book!

This is a book that my lovely friend Paul wrote. It's about football, so not for me, but I'll read it anyway because he is lovely and I'm very proud of him.

Anyway - he's always been a good writer and if you like football or wish to purchase a Christams gift for someone who does, here you go: Prawns In The Game.


Blimey, it's like being Richard and/ or Judy.

What's *your* punchline?

Based on Flatmate Tom's assertion that any evening is over when people start telling jokes ("you know, jokes jokes") the three of us thought it would be better/ more fun/ an interesting conecptual experiment (riiiight) to try and come up with punchlines to random joke openings. We weren't very good at it. 'Best' one of mine:

Tom: What happened to the plane load of sheep that went to Ibiza?
[silence as three red-wine-fogged brains creak about a bit.]
Me: They had it laaaaarrrge.
[Dave packs up laughing. I think this says more about Dave/ the amount he'd drunk than my abilities as a comedian.]

So...

How many Samuri does it take to change a light bulb?

Did you hear about the woman who could only eat cake?

So, Zidane walks into a record shop...


Go on. There's a comments box waiting for you. Make me laugh bitches.

Tapes 'n' Tapes

"Did he just say 'I'll be your badger?"
"The name reminds me of stalker-ish indie boys."
"..."
"You know, how they'd try and win you over, mixtapes 'n' mixtapes 'n' mixtapes."

(I actually, on first listen, don't mind this album, but I'm currently failing to see what all the fuss is about.)

Purple hat

The man was standing near the bottom of the escalator at Warren Street Tube station and staring at the picture. He looked like a photograph himself: tall, but with stooped shoulders, dark black skin, a crumpled black suit - although he'd removed the jacket and was letting it droop onto the floor - and a glorious purple Fedora with a tarnished gold hatband. I had a quick scan, being certain I'd see a battered horn case too, but there was nothing.
He was staring and staring at a picture of Her Royal Highness Princess Diana as photographed by Mario Testino; a poster for an exhibition. There was Di, slightly bigger than life, in black and white with that come-hither-but-don't-hurt-me expression she was so good at. And he was transfixed, looking her bang in the eye and as still as the picture.
He looked so sad. I was transfixed myself, by him not her, and I watched him looking all the way up the escalator.

I heart the 90s (or drunken nostalgia)

"But the internet used to be the most facsinating thing!"
"I know. I had a holiday job working for the Drum 'n' Bass Arena and I felt so cool, trotting off to this internet start-up."
"I used to sit there with my orange clamshell i-Book..."
"Do you remember when lattes were actually cool?"

A small animated me, that looks very little like me.

In the last week I've been to New York and played at Truck festival and I'm too, too tired to write about any of it. Later perhaps.