Blogging Clichés

1. It is doing my head in - I am bringing it down.

Relax, breath deeply, it will pass. You have probably just started - in the honeymoon period; your head is spinning around filled with too many ideas; it is all you think about; it is all you about talk about. Just take it easy - it will be ok.

2. Oh my god! My family/work colleges/people I know in real life have started to read it - I am bringing it down.

So what? Maybe it is about time they found out what you are really like. This is a brave new world. How many problems in the world wouldn't have been problems if people actually knew what people were thinking? The only victim is deceit.

3. I can't think of anything to blog about - I am bringing it down.

Relax fella - put your feet up - it is all good. Maybe you have been spending too much time in front of a computer screen. Take a break: go out, have some fun, meet some new people, do something interesting. You never know - it may give you something to blog about. Anyway there is always 6 and 7 to fall back on.

4. My stat counter says I read my own blog 800 times more often than anyone else.

That is because your blog is more important to you than anyone else. Deal with it.

5. I check my stat counter every 30 seconds but it still says I have no fans in Outer Mongolia.

This is the blogging equivalent of checking your phone messages every 5 minutes when you are expecting a call. The only way to get Mongolian fans is to post comments on Mongolian blogs.

6. I think I'll do a blog post about my cat.

Go on then, if you have to - but make it funny and no pictures - ok maybe one.

7. I think I'll do a blog post about blogging

{cough}

8. My blog is an outlet for my creativity.

Yeah right! Come on! I can't believe there are any bloggers out there, especially single bloggers, who haven't given even a precursory thought to how damn sexy their blog makes them.

9. Ok I admit it - it is just a shallow vessel to pull. I want to find a new boyfriend/girlfriend so I'll write about how miserable, boring, lonely and unattractive I am. That's sure to drive 'em wild with desire.

False modesty may work in the real world but this is the internet - the land of the ego. You are more sexy than you think you are. Tell people about it.

10. So.. I think I'll start every post with "So".

So let me get this straight, the thing is, don't get me started on this and for another thing I am sure, at the end of the day, you get the picture.

So so bored

Someone once said the factory of the future will be run by one man and a dog. The man will be there to feed the dog. The dog will be there to make sure the man doesn’t touch anything.

Well the future is nearly here but not quite. I have stupidly volunteered to nearly be that proto man or dog today (still not sure which) and baby-sit the Frankenstein automated electronic trading system I build for a living. But today not much is going on in the markets so the artificial beast isn’t doing much.

“What was that? The monster has gone insane and started shorting gilt futures?… Oh no wait… it was just complaining that it couldn’t because the market is shut”

“Be still my silicon beauty. Tomorrow will be yours.”

Oh well… I thought I might have something to do for a bit there.

Severe Weather Warning

On the BBC radio news this morning the Met Office gave a severe weather warning. Apparently heavy snow is predicted in the South East of England and in places it could get as deep as 5 cm. The temperature may plummet to -2 C. The usual warnings to travellers were given.

So there you have it - be careful out there kids. I, personally, will not be taking any risks and will be putting a scarf on.

The kindness of strangers.

A couple of months ago I was looking down the barrel of the very real possibility that I might end up spending Christmas alone. Luckily brother W came to the rescue. W begat Aussie girlfriend; Aussie girlfriend begat foxy Aussie cousin; foxy Aussie cousin begat millionaire cockney lock baron sugar daddy; millionaire cockney lock baron sugar daddy begat CID detective golf buddy; CID detective golf buddy begat hard as nails WPC wife who beats up villains for living; hard as nails WPC wife who beats up villains for living begat the best Christmas lunch I have ever had.

What an interesting, friendly, fun lot they were. Even got drunk and had an argument about the Criminal Justice system and W got the hint and bought me a toaster. What more could you ask for?

oh and merry mother fucking christmas to you all

South London

Your heart pumps blood of broken bottles though your brain's veins. A slimy poisonous moss has grown over your teeth that you numbly probe with a swollen tongue; dry and cracked like a turtles head. A fat, sweaty, obnoxious pig connects with a solid kick to the back of your eyes before starting on your temples. He then relieves himself, leaving a seething, stinking pile of filth behind.

Oh dear god. The pale blue/grey dawn light pours from the window mocking you. A blurry image of a near empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table sternly reminds you of your folly. Your back is an excruciating, gnarly knot; twisted by the fully clothed night on a lumpy sofa. What have you done?

You make the painful crawl to the bathroom looking for pills, any pills - oh sweet Jesus, please let there be Nurofen. There are none. You suck water from the tap.

See what happens when you go to South London?

Now Time Out are always trying to stir up racial hatred between North and South London but I am not having any part of it. I live in North London so I am clearly culturally, financially, morally and genetically superior to anyone from the South but unlike most North Londoners, especially cab drivers, at least I am prepared to actually go there.

North London is superior to South London in every way so there is no real need to talk about it. Let's face it South London is only there because North London looks after it, like a retarded sibling - similar to Tom Cruise in "Rain Man".

But I was needy and desperate last night and the only offer was drinks down South so what could I do? A taxi is obviously out of the question - so I get the tube. But this is London so the tube is broken and the train stops at Warren Street. London may have the biggest, oldest, most used underground transport system in the world but that is no comfort when it breaks - which it does - all the fucking time. Sometimes they announce excuses, sometimes they don't.

It did mean I saw a heart warming scene that you would only ever see in London. A 30 something yuppie from Moscow, sat on a bench, helping a 21 year old goth from Illinois with her face make up, discussing the various public transport options to get to Brixton. Just think, there was a cold war 20 years ago.

After various transport shenanigans I get close to my destination and the final leg is by taxi where I have interesting discussion about the impending tube strikes with the Jamaican driver.

"Da ting abot Tatcher - aldo was she was a tough woman, at least she sorted oot de unions."

"True." I say.

I finally get there but now I am in South London - there is no way out. I have no choice but to stay at a friend's and drink whiskey until the early hours, discussing the numerous spelling mistakes and grammatical errors on my blog.

In the morning I have nothing but the long, dark trek north listening to my iPod, realising that Black Heart by Calexico isn't about a broken heart at all but the worst hangover ever - a world record I have just shattered into a thousand small sharp shards.

Don't do it kids.

Fucking hell - I am internationally famous.

I have fans from: (in no particular order)

United Kingdom

Canada

United States

Australia

Belgium

Brazil

Republic of Korea

Sweden

Venezuela

Argentina

And they have all read at least one post. So there you go - I am internationally famous to err.. about 50 people. I have a global reach that multinational companies would have died for 20 years ago - just little old me.

Hey this sounds like a swap game *and* a tag game.

So Sadia, Ant and Stella over to you - where do your fans come from?

Ps I have 2 Belgiums want to swap?

Absent Fathers

Hmm.. well my Egypt part II post is trudging along into a poetic travel epic - a bit like Geoff Dyer. It will be ok eventually but it needs to be culled - a bit like Geoff Dyer. So to fill the space until I find the time even though I promised myself I wouldn't I am going to do a cat post.

I know, I know, blogging about cats is a bit like blogging about blogging. It is easy and everyone does it - but come on you know you love them. And it won't be long I promise - and if I don't it will just linger at the back of my mind getting dusty and cat hairs all over it.

So a bit of background: Yes ladies, it is all true. I am intelligent, charming and witty; I am very cute, I have fucking fine ass and well... lets not go there again; I am moderately loaded and live in fantastic pad that it so great I should really put a basket by the door for female visitors to drop their knickers into when they come around. And don't get me started on how incredibly modest I am.

However I am, sadly, damaged goods. I now check the "separated" box on insurance forms. But actually is not so bad. We are both happier now - all is forgiven. We still get on very well - in fact in some ways better than we did before. There is no bitterness and no arguments about who got what. The actual wedding and the impending divorce are the only two things we seemed to get right.

The only real point of contention was the cats...

"You have the stinking beasts!"
"No - you have them!"
"No you!"

No I jest we both love them dearly. Cats to childless couples can end up like surrogate children - furry, stinking, stupid kids but still aww...

They have been living with my ex for the last couple of months. The boy cat F has gone a bit off the rails or keeps forgetting that he has moved house as he keeps running away. The girl cat M doesn't have this problem because she doesn't like going out much and prefers to just shout at birds from the warmth and safety behind a window rather actually go out and catch one.

My ex's is away most of Christmas so I have custody of M (as F has done one of his disappearing acts - probably to the old lady at no 52 who feeds him cream) for the duration. I was slightly worried about spending the xmas period by myself but now I don't as I have my little friend to keep me company.

And what a joy she is - she spent the first few days settling in - you know - stinking up the place up just right, getting filth all over everything, making sure there was enough cat hair on every piece of furniture. But she has settled in now and spends her time following me around expectantly, nibbling my hair in the night or sometimes, if I am lucky, sinking her claws into my feet, and generally trying to help out - for example knocking incorrectly placed ornaments to the ground, endearingly lying across my pc keyboard when I trying to type something.

Aww... I will be sad when she finally goes.

It is music weekend here at YadaYada

So I think it is about time we see how the Mouse James Blunt is doing. Since we last saw him the lucky fucking mouse has landed a record contract with MM (musical mice) records and is doing rather well for himself. He has moved out of his hole in the skirting board and now lives in a fancy Perspex tubular house on Malibu Beach. But don't worry he is still keeping it real and does regular live gigs. So image if you can a little venue somewhere filled with the type of mice that go to Mouse James Blunt gigs. The dark stage is suddenly lit by a spot light and there he is - the cheese loving soulful genius sat on a stool. His shaggy mouse brown hair wistfully blown by the wind machine off stage. He adjusts his little mic with his paw, gives the crowd a knowing smile and a little wink and starts the melodious strumming of his tiny acoustic guitar to squeaky cheers from the audience....

Beautiful cheese - lights up the shore for me.
There is nothing else in the world,
I'd rather wake up and see (with you).
Beautiful cheese - I'm just chasing time again.
Thought I would die a hungry mouse, in cheeseless night.
But now I'm high; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

Beautiful cheese - melt by the fire again.
Do you remember the day when my meal began?
Will you remember the end (of time)?
Beautiful cheese - You're just blowing my mind again.
Thought I was born to cheeseless night, until you shine.
High; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

Will you put cheese on my tray when I'm old and grey?
Promise me tomorrow starts with cheese,
Getting high; running wild among all the stars above.
Sometimes it's hard to believe how it tasted to me.

It's all fucking yellow?

When I first moved to London after I left University I didn't have much money and for while I lived with my brother J in his scuzy flat on Camden Rd. It used to be either the home to the Clash or the headquarters of the Clash's fan club because we got fan mail for them - of course we always opened it. "Good day, This is Hans. I live in Frankfurt in Germany. I much love Clash and British PUNK ROCK! I ask when Clash coming for Germany is please?" things like that.

While I was there a band moved in upstairs. We thought they were yet another grungy brit pop boy band that were two a dozen in Camden at the time. One day there was a knock on the door and there they were looking all shy and sheepish so we invited them in and made them some tea.

"We just came to apologise for the noise" said the leader - Chris I think his name was.
"What noise?"
"Err.. the noise we make when we practice"
"We didn't actually notice"
"Hmm.. "

This seemed to irritate them slightly. Anyway we chatted away for a while, well, Chris and us chatted way - the others just stood quietly and nervously in the corner sipping their tea, nibbling biscuits. Like everyone who came they got told about the Clash and also as J was in a band too the conversation turned to music.

"We hear you practise - you guys are great!" said Chris.
"Thanks" said J
"Not at fucking 11 on a Sunday morning they are not" I said
"Really original, great tunes, love the piano - that is such a good idea" said Chris
"Yeah it works well" said J.

Before they leave they gave us a demo CD, told us that they are playing at the barfly and we should come. "Thanks" we said. After they had left we listened to the demo - it was shit. They were just another grungy brit pop boy band that were two a dozen in Camden at the time without a piano or any good tunes. The cd got thrown in the pile and we don't go to the barfly.

A couple of years later I have moved out and I got a phone call - it is J

"You remember the grungy brit pop boy band that used to live up stairs?"
"What the fuckers that threw a bucket of water over me?"
"No the other one - the ones we had tea with, gave us a cd."
"Oh yeah I remember - nice boys."
"They were only the fucking pop sensation Coldplay!!!!!!"
"Fuck off!!"
"Seriously - I have that cd here it says 'Coldplay' on it"
"No way!"
"Yeah way!"
"Hmm actually that Chris did look a bit like what his name.. Chris Martin!! Fuck!"
"Yeah that is the one"
"But they were shit."
"Yeah I know I reckon their songs now sound a bit like mine with the piano and everything."
"You're right well the good ones do a bit anyway."
"Fucking bastards!!!"
"Well they don't sound that similar - maybe you just inspired them."
"Inspired them!!!! Fuck that! Where is my cheque?"

Anyway it has been a chip on J's shoulder ever since. So when a friend asks if I want to see Coldplay at Earl's Court what can I say? I might as well go and see how Chris and the boys are getting along - apparently they are doing alright for themselves these days. Maybe it is time I had little "chat" with Chris "Oi Chris you fuck - remember me? I am the brother of that bloke you stole all your songs off and that witty anecdote about the clash fan club you like telling journalists from Rolling Stone. Come here!"

But when I got to Earl Court last night I couldn't get close enough - it wasn't the bouncers that were the problem who were, on the whole, a foppish lot but the nasty looking lawyers he had around him. Big burley scary mother fuckers with TORT LAW tattooed across their bulging brief cases. I really didn't feel like fucking with them especially as my evidence was somewhat subjective.

So I mingled into the crowd. The place is huge. "I wonder how many people are here?" I say out loud to no one in particular looking around and around at the thousands apon thousands of people sitting on terrace after terrace up the walls. "17,500" a geeky gay couple I am standing next to say in unison. "It is the second biggest venue in London" they say and give each other nerdy and adoring looks. It summed up the crowd really - you know... nice people, unassuming - I felt like giving them all a cuddle. The sort of people who could stop a war or move a mountain by their sheer collective weight of polite kindness.

As for Coldplay - well it was Coldplay wasn't it. I am sure you have heard them. The valium of the London music scene - pleasant, warm, cosy if somewhat numbing and un-stimulating. Good though - didn't sound much better live than they would on a quality stereo but still. It was hard to remain angry at them - they are just so nice. Awww...

Chris did say "It is good to be back." which was sweet.
"Well it's very nice to have you back Chris, and how is Gwyneth?" the 17,000 of us said in unison.

So if it is up to them to fly the flag for London, English, British music then well so be it - you really couldn't ask for nicer bunch. Does the world really need another group philandering, reckless rock stars? - Not really. The nice men have come and they *are* taking no for an answer. Bless.

Royal Hill

Well that was all a bit wonderful and beautiful but somehow I have just made things worse.

Anyway - Top Tips for visitors to Montreal.

1. When someone from Montreal tells you to bring good boots, a thick coat and long johns - bring good boots, a thick coat and long johns - seriously.

2. Handy vocab:

Montrealian - English
Warm - Fucking cold
Cold - Really fucking cold
Fucking Cold - Don't go outside

3. Montrealians mostly speak French and will try to initiate conversations with you in French but don't let this fool you - simply pretend you can't understand what they are saying, normally three "Huh?"s in a row will do it, finally they will crack and confess to speaking prefect English.

4. Make sure you are shown around by a beautiful woman - not only will she show you the best places but if you ever tire of looking at the stylish and elegant city she will be something pleasant to look at. However in winter this may be harder than it sounds because she will be mostly obscured by snow flurries and the hood of her parker. Remember to feed her regularly with coffee and cake to keep her happy.

5. In the winter Montrealians go to live in a big underground cave. If you are invited down don't be scared - it is not a Morlockian underworld where they survive the winter by eating moss that grows on the walls but a rather pleasant anarchically laid out labyrinth of malls filled with chic and reasonably priced shops that goes on for miles.

6. Go to Rue Saint Denis - it is a bit like Camden High St but colder.

7. Go to Rue Sainte Catherine - it is a bit like Oxford St but colder.

8. The History of Montreal goes a bit like this: Iroquois turn up and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot" and build a village, the French turn up and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot", kick the Iroquois out and build a town, the British turn up with a big fuck off army and think "Hmm... this is a nice spot", say "You see all this shit here - this all belongs to us now. Got a problem with that?" and then ship in some Irish to run the pubs. But if you want to know more go to "Pointe-à-Callière, Montréal museum of archaeology and history"

9. Go to the Montréal botanical gardens they have lots of cacti that look like cocks.

10. Don't be put off if you go the only weekend of the year it is completely overcast - when the sun comes out Montreal is stunningly beautiful.

11. All Canadians love ice hockey don't try or pretend to understand.

12. Only Canadians understand the difference between Quebecois and Canadians don't try or pretend to understand.

13. Don't worry about a thing. Montreal is the least threatening big city in the world. Even the tramps arguing over a vial of crack in the red light district step aside to make room to let you pass.

Please fasten your seat belts.

"We are experience some severe mental turbulence. Hold on to your seats because it could be a bumpy ride. Please remain calm and keep breathing until we work out what the hell is going on."

Modern technology has led to many changes to the world. Businesses now have global reach and information across the planet is easy to access. Globalisation is here to stay, inevitable as the weather, whether it ends up being destructive or productive is up to us.

But there is something else that globalization is bringing that is less talked about. It doesn't involve big companies ripping up rain forests to make burgers or putting "Nike - just do it" logos and large price tags on shoes made in sweat shops in Asia.

People have started to play and socialise on a global scale. And when that happens it is inevitable that sometimes nature is going to take its course.

It has happened before and it will happen again but it is different when it is you a fairy has sprinkled her magic dust on.

It could all be an illusion but then so could everything else. But you know - if something that feels this good is a fantasy then I am not sure I want the real world.

So what to do.. well there only one logical course of action. Go and find out...

Normal services will be resumed etc....

Nurturing the inner wanker

I have been trying unsuccessfully to write about the err.. "hotel" or "resort" I was staying in in Egypt (neither word is seems appropriate - if you imagine a combination of telly tubby land, the island in "The Prisoner", the hotel in "The Shinning" and "Apocalypse Now" but in the desert then you are getting close) but the place was so mind-bendingly obscenely surreal I am not sure if I can just yet. Give me a few days to recover ok.

So rather than let the blog go dead I thought I would tell you about what a wanker I am.

When I say certain things to people I can see what they are thinking.

For example I say to someone "I live in Islington" "That's nice - expensive around there isn't it?" they say - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

I say to someone "I work for an Investment Bank" - they say "That's nice - must pay well" - but I know they are thinking "Hmm... wanker."

But really I am not. I am really not your typical Islington merchant banker. I love fury little kittens, honestly I do. But the other day I had a moment of self wankiness realisation - I found my inner wanker.

I have a open fire in my flat and it is getting a bit chilly recently so I decided to light a fire. Before anyone says anything - I know it is illegal but I have a valid environmentally sound reason for doing it. The 50 year or so old law was made back when most people heated their houses with coal and the resulting sulphur dioxide caused many health problems and the infamous pea soupers. So it really should not apply to wood fires as they produce far less sulphur dioxide plus wood is a renewable energy source and the carbon has already recently been taken out of the atmosphere so technically they are carbon neutral. Environmentally friendly and cosy - perfect.

Anyway I am merchant banker from Islington so I can do what the fuck I like. Laws don't apply to me.

Now I grew up in the country and going out to get wood generally meant a hearty and healthy trip to wood tooled with axe and saw. But this is London - there is only an urban jungle out there. But hey I am bright, resourceful and determined - how hard can it be? So off I trot.

After peering a in few skips, making a couple of inquires I get a lead - apparently there is a garage on the Holloway road that sells wood by the bag. So I jump on a bus and I am there in flash and sure enough it does - it has even been chopped up for you. I wait for the bus to take me back but it doesn't come - it probably got lost or broken. So I hail a passing black cab but being a black cab the driver is a cunt so it sails right on past. Behind the cab is a limo - one of the those bland black corporate ones that are usually seen driving important looking business people to airports. It pulls over - the driver is between jobs and toting for a bit of extra business - so I hop in.

So there I am returning from my "wooding" trip in my expensive designer shirt, my jeans made of the finest Japanese cotton with a bag of wood next to me for my genuine Edwardian fire place in a fucking leather clad limousine.

"Hen," I think to myself "you're a fucking wanker!"

Egypt - Part 1 Getting there

The sparsely populated and air conditioned bus trundled over the sand covered, pitted road through the desolate desert. The motley crew of e generation holiday makers inside were getting nervous - "What have we done?", "Where have we come?", "What the fuck is this place?", "There is nothing here - it is just fucking endless desert!".

The Evian had nearly run out, soon there would be only unbranded sparkling mineral water. A blond women looked desperately for her Evian face spay but she covered her face with her hands in despair as she realised she must have left it in her flat in Fulham.

The air con was struggling to compete with the blazing heat. Our fashionable London garb seemed ridiculously inappropriate for the Sahara. Some poor fool was still wearing a suede jacket. Occasionally one of us broke into a mild sweat. A women from Clapham held her baby to her chest as it squirmed and struggled looking like it was about cry. She fanatically searched in her Karimore back pack beneath the iPod and lonely planet guide for a dummy but it was too late. The people around her were slightly annoyed. She mouthed the word sorry but no one looked - we were all lost in our own personal hell.

As for me, well .. my ipod was nearly out of juice - it was never going to make it - i knew it, it knew it. I tried to forget its impending death and enjoy the last of the ambient tunes beating though my brain in time to the passing rolling waste land, turned from a glaring yellow to a relaxed amber by the tint of my oakleys.

I imagined a spot where a hundred years ago a young man, driven to the foreign legion by the shame of an inappropriate affair, took his last rasping breath through black cracked lips, his final thoughts realising he would never make to the coast where a boat waited to take him back to his one true love. But we speed on and past in our cool luxury - the wheels of the bus kicking up a cloud of dust and sand behind us.

The reps were getting worried too - the eta was 5 but it was already nearly 515.- surely it was around here somewhere. Then there it was - a shimmering gold mirage oasis in the desert heat. Before we got there the sun went down- darkness falling like a door slamming shut. So it was only two huge flood lit sand stone pillars that marked the entrance. There was no fence on either side and it seemed their sole purpose was to mark the point where the road went from the desert to desert owned by the hotel. A sign post would have been a more efficient and lighter solution but regardless we had arrived.

I am a man and have NEEDS!!!

Woo back from holiday - tanned and relaxed and healthy and looking damn fine but still it is good to be back.

But before I bore you with what is turning into an unnervingly long post about it. I'll squeeze one out about my google needs* as apparently I have been tagged.

I NEED:

a haircut,
a movie trailer,
tickets,
a new police chief,
a new pair of shoes,
to stay away from Madrid,
to "remain connected" to Beelzebub
and also I need and deeply appreciate several kinds of support.

All spookily accurate.

smenita: The off milk in the fridge when you get back from holiday.


* type in "your name needs" into google and see what comes up. Oh and it is a tag game so over to you stellastoria