‘Days of Our Lives’ which has, of late, stuck to the mainstream storylines, has suddenly once more veered off into weirder territory.
Stefano Dimera is allegedly dead, since his ashes have been posted back to his mansion, packed neatly into a pound-shop holographic urn. His long-lost son, Tony, has arrived back with him, having somehow avoided his much publicised death some years ago. There was an explanation for this, but to be honest it was very very complicated and didn’t make a lot of sense. Suffice to say, Tony has been in a convenient soap-coma and is now back with us, albeit with a new tendency to go into catatonic states.
Everyone was getting nervous about the imminent arrival of the Gemini meteors, which were scheduled to provide a cheap firework display over Salem. John Black’s eyebrows in particular got very twitchy over the meteors, and threatened to leave his face altogether and do a rumba on top of his mullet. He is also now in possession of a mysterious blue key which he stole from the Dimera mansion.
As it turned out, the meteors were larger than expected and one at least contained two naked humanoid aliens who must have evolved on a planet with identical conditions to the white areas of North America.
Thursday, 13 November 2008
Wednesday, 12 November 2008
Saturday 8 November 2008
My Saturday mornings are generally spent in quiet contemplation with a cigarette, a large mug of coffee, and a couple of episodes of ‘Days of Our Lives’. This morning, however, I was engrossed in a dream wherein my entire flat was four feet deep in water. However, we were endeavouring to carry out life as normal and ignoring the (rather clear) water which was lapping around our mid-regions.
The X-Factor is going in an odd direction in many ways. For reasons unfathomable to those of us with any real musical taste, the producers (or perhaps just Simon Cowell) decided that this week would be Mariah Carey week.
Mariah insisted on opening the show with her new single which she screeched in her usual ‘why use one note when thirty-seven will do perfectly well’ style of singing.
Had she been an unknown, there is no doubt that she would not even have reached boot camp.
The contestants were suitably awe-struck, and were forced to sing individually in front of Ms Carey while she stood, face fixed in a permanent botoxpression of mild and pleasant surprise.
My opinion of Cowell, which has never been very high, sank even lower when he announced, in all seriousness, that we were very lucky to have Mariah with us, as she is ‘the biggest voice in the world.’
Even on the X-Factor, which is a show famous for flinging unjustified superlatives around like Mariah Carey’s marbles, this was going way, way beyond a joke.
To add insult to injury, Laura, who was my favourite for at least the final three, and could out-perform Mariah Carey with her tongue tied behind her back, was thrown out of the show.
The announcement at the outset should have been ‘The show’s theme this week is madness, which is why we’ve invited Mariah Carey to perform.’
The X-Factor is going in an odd direction in many ways. For reasons unfathomable to those of us with any real musical taste, the producers (or perhaps just Simon Cowell) decided that this week would be Mariah Carey week.
Mariah insisted on opening the show with her new single which she screeched in her usual ‘why use one note when thirty-seven will do perfectly well’ style of singing.
Had she been an unknown, there is no doubt that she would not even have reached boot camp.
The contestants were suitably awe-struck, and were forced to sing individually in front of Ms Carey while she stood, face fixed in a permanent botoxpression of mild and pleasant surprise.
My opinion of Cowell, which has never been very high, sank even lower when he announced, in all seriousness, that we were very lucky to have Mariah with us, as she is ‘the biggest voice in the world.’
Even on the X-Factor, which is a show famous for flinging unjustified superlatives around like Mariah Carey’s marbles, this was going way, way beyond a joke.
To add insult to injury, Laura, who was my favourite for at least the final three, and could out-perform Mariah Carey with her tongue tied behind her back, was thrown out of the show.
The announcement at the outset should have been ‘The show’s theme this week is madness, which is why we’ve invited Mariah Carey to perform.’
Friday 7 November 2008
I had a day off today, thinking that I might have a quiet weekend, catching up with the random ‘things’ I should have done long before now.
I ended up doing a bit of painting and trying to work out how to use my new Photoshop. My last Photoshop is so old it’s written in Aramaic. Now Photoshop have brought out a CS range which is both stunning to use and a little scary, since it features lots of options that are currently beyond my ability to comprehend.
However, I will persevere and will eventually conquer the histograms, paths and adjustment layers just in time for a whole new range of Photoshop to emerge and baffle me further.
Tonight I cooked Thai Chicken Fried Rice, which came out lovely, and will be put on my list of things to cook on a regular basis.
I ended up doing a bit of painting and trying to work out how to use my new Photoshop. My last Photoshop is so old it’s written in Aramaic. Now Photoshop have brought out a CS range which is both stunning to use and a little scary, since it features lots of options that are currently beyond my ability to comprehend.
However, I will persevere and will eventually conquer the histograms, paths and adjustment layers just in time for a whole new range of Photoshop to emerge and baffle me further.
Tonight I cooked Thai Chicken Fried Rice, which came out lovely, and will be put on my list of things to cook on a regular basis.
Thursday, 6 November 2008
Thursday 6 November 2008
Two weeks ago (or so) I saw an article in the Daily Mirror in which Simon Cowell ‘lashed out’ as they say, something along the lines of ‘Cowell Lashes Out At Kay Spoof’. This referred of course, to Peter Kay’s brilliant and masterly Sunday night spoof ‘Britain’s Got The Pop Factor And Possibly A New Celebrity Jesus Christ Soapstar Superstar Strictly On Ice’ which presented the final of a Cowell-esque show, complete with the judges’ corny comments, the inevitable sob stories and the opening of the golden envelope to reveal the winner.
I’m not spoiling anything by telling you that Geraldine (a Northern Ireland transsexual, played consummately by Peter Kay) was the winner, having earlier worked with one of her mentors, Sir Paul McCartney, by singing the theme from ‘Home and Away’.
Gerladine’s winning song was released as a single and went into the charts ahead of Simon Cowell’s protege from last year, Leon, who came back to the X-factor still crap and still dancing like a horse. They’ve had a year to teach him how to move about, but the boy still can’t move his legs properly, or stop a pig in an alleyway.
‘It was completely stupid and a waste of time!’ snapped Cowell icily and allegedly. This was not only due to the ‘Pop Factor’ programme itself, but to the fact that Kay has teamed up again with Gary Barlow (who co-wrote the winning song) to produce a charity single for Christmas in aid of the NSPCC.
Isn’t it curious then that two weeks ago, X-Factor suddenly decided to produce an X-Factor charity single, featuring all the finalists, even the ones who’d already been kicked out for being rubbish?
I’m not spoiling anything by telling you that Geraldine (a Northern Ireland transsexual, played consummately by Peter Kay) was the winner, having earlier worked with one of her mentors, Sir Paul McCartney, by singing the theme from ‘Home and Away’.
Gerladine’s winning song was released as a single and went into the charts ahead of Simon Cowell’s protege from last year, Leon, who came back to the X-factor still crap and still dancing like a horse. They’ve had a year to teach him how to move about, but the boy still can’t move his legs properly, or stop a pig in an alleyway.
‘It was completely stupid and a waste of time!’ snapped Cowell icily and allegedly. This was not only due to the ‘Pop Factor’ programme itself, but to the fact that Kay has teamed up again with Gary Barlow (who co-wrote the winning song) to produce a charity single for Christmas in aid of the NSPCC.
Isn’t it curious then that two weeks ago, X-Factor suddenly decided to produce an X-Factor charity single, featuring all the finalists, even the ones who’d already been kicked out for being rubbish?
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Wednesday 5 November 2008
For those of you unaware, Westfield, which has been built more or less in my back yard, is a vast shopping complex, purportedly the biggest in Europe, and was opened on Thursday by Boris Johnson (who grinned at me from the opposite seat on the tube) and Leona Lewis, who presumably didn’t come on the bus.
Westfield, as a building and a concept, is pretty impressive, although personally I feel there is rather too much of an emphasis on clothes, bags, bling, shoes and various accessories. There is one bookshop, Foyles, which is great, a branch of Jessops (Hoorah!), a disappointingly small HMV and a Waitrose.
Yesterday I bought some handmade soap from ‘Lush’ and some posh chicken and coconut samosas from Waitrose.
I am sure they could have fitted in an art shop and something that deals in kitchenware. I for one can live without additional branches of New Look and Paperchase.
‘What’s that you’ve bought?’ said the Ugly One, frowning at my multi-coloured selection of carrier bags.
‘Handmade soap, a book, and some samosas.’ I said.
‘How much was the soap?’
I told him.
‘They saw you coming!’ he snorted, although I later found him sniffing appreciatively at my citrus peel soap when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The effects of the Boris Johnson celebrity omen have not yet made themselves apparent. This worries me.
Westfield, as a building and a concept, is pretty impressive, although personally I feel there is rather too much of an emphasis on clothes, bags, bling, shoes and various accessories. There is one bookshop, Foyles, which is great, a branch of Jessops (Hoorah!), a disappointingly small HMV and a Waitrose.
Yesterday I bought some handmade soap from ‘Lush’ and some posh chicken and coconut samosas from Waitrose.
I am sure they could have fitted in an art shop and something that deals in kitchenware. I for one can live without additional branches of New Look and Paperchase.
‘What’s that you’ve bought?’ said the Ugly One, frowning at my multi-coloured selection of carrier bags.
‘Handmade soap, a book, and some samosas.’ I said.
‘How much was the soap?’
I told him.
‘They saw you coming!’ he snorted, although I later found him sniffing appreciatively at my citrus peel soap when he thought I wasn’t looking.
The effects of the Boris Johnson celebrity omen have not yet made themselves apparent. This worries me.
Tuesday, 4 November 2008
Tuesday 4 November 2008
It seems incumbent upon me to bring my readers up to date with the events of the last three months, although very little has happened in the majority of it. The Ugly One and I went to Asturias for a wedding and had a very relaxing time, despite the fact that most negotiations in restaurants were carried out by the long held tradition of pointing at the menu and saying ‘para dos’ while simultaneously holding up two fingers.
Until last Thursday life was rather calm and idyllic. I’ve been painting portraits of people I know, staying up late watching ‘Boston Legal’ and focusing my binoculars on the shirtless crane-operator high above Westfield, sitting alone in his cabin in his cut-off denim shorts.
Westfield, as most people cannot fail to know, is the new mega-mall situated on the site of the White City Olympic Village.
It opened last Thursday, with something of a splash, and a celebrity omen.
Some years back, the UO and I lived in a bedsit near Shepherds Bush Roundabout where we had to share a toilet with two large South Africans and a Kiwi couple.
Directly upstairs was a grumpy gentleman who looked a little like Mr Filch from Harry Potter. Mr Filch complained that our TV was too loud. We duly turned it down in the interests of good neighbourliness. Mr Filch complained again, and we invited him in to demonstrate the volume, which was as low as we could go without having to employ ear-trumpets.
Mr Filch was not placated and, the next morning, decided to place his radio face down on his floor (i.e. our ceiling) and blast us with Radio 2 at five o’clock in the morning. The UO was not amused by this and threatened to put Mr Filch’s radio in a place where Terry Wogan might be somewhat more muffled. Mr Filch moved out shortly afterwards.
Thursday morning, I settled down with my coffee to watch the morning news on which a reporter was interviewing Shepherds Bush residents to get their views on the opening of Westfield.
Without any warning, the face of Mr Filch appeared, spread across my screen like an evil wrinkled logo.
‘We don’t want it here!’ said Mr Filch. ‘They should have put it outside the city somewhere where it won’t bother nobody.’
It’s nice to know that the years have mellowed him.
Still in shock from this vision of the past I stumbled onto the train and sat down, only to find myself looking straight into the gormless face of Boris Johnson, on his way to the Westfield opening ceremony. Boris gave me one of those bland political smiles. I pretended not to know who he was and returned to reading ‘The Kraken Wakes’.
I can’t see that an encounter with Boris, celebrity omen though it was, could portend anything but doom.
Until last Thursday life was rather calm and idyllic. I’ve been painting portraits of people I know, staying up late watching ‘Boston Legal’ and focusing my binoculars on the shirtless crane-operator high above Westfield, sitting alone in his cabin in his cut-off denim shorts.
Westfield, as most people cannot fail to know, is the new mega-mall situated on the site of the White City Olympic Village.
It opened last Thursday, with something of a splash, and a celebrity omen.
Some years back, the UO and I lived in a bedsit near Shepherds Bush Roundabout where we had to share a toilet with two large South Africans and a Kiwi couple.
Directly upstairs was a grumpy gentleman who looked a little like Mr Filch from Harry Potter. Mr Filch complained that our TV was too loud. We duly turned it down in the interests of good neighbourliness. Mr Filch complained again, and we invited him in to demonstrate the volume, which was as low as we could go without having to employ ear-trumpets.
Mr Filch was not placated and, the next morning, decided to place his radio face down on his floor (i.e. our ceiling) and blast us with Radio 2 at five o’clock in the morning. The UO was not amused by this and threatened to put Mr Filch’s radio in a place where Terry Wogan might be somewhat more muffled. Mr Filch moved out shortly afterwards.
Thursday morning, I settled down with my coffee to watch the morning news on which a reporter was interviewing Shepherds Bush residents to get their views on the opening of Westfield.
Without any warning, the face of Mr Filch appeared, spread across my screen like an evil wrinkled logo.
‘We don’t want it here!’ said Mr Filch. ‘They should have put it outside the city somewhere where it won’t bother nobody.’
It’s nice to know that the years have mellowed him.
Still in shock from this vision of the past I stumbled onto the train and sat down, only to find myself looking straight into the gormless face of Boris Johnson, on his way to the Westfield opening ceremony. Boris gave me one of those bland political smiles. I pretended not to know who he was and returned to reading ‘The Kraken Wakes’.
I can’t see that an encounter with Boris, celebrity omen though it was, could portend anything but doom.
Monday 11 August 2008
old david bowie
stalked me from the tube entrance
to the present day
Isaac Hayes is dead. That’s rather a shame, especially as he wasted a lot of his time recently with that ridiculous scientology nonsense.
Nonetheless, he will be missed.
stalked me from the tube entrance
to the present day
Isaac Hayes is dead. That’s rather a shame, especially as he wasted a lot of his time recently with that ridiculous scientology nonsense.
Nonetheless, he will be missed.
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