OK then, so where is it?

Three different fortune cookies from three different places this week:

You will be awarded some great honour.
You will receive some high prize or award.
Your skill and judgment will lead you to an award.

The last one is bullshit, as we all know, but seriously I am waiting for my enormous great big trophy, peoples. I deserve it. And I want it in the form of a man.

Neil Labute: 10 reasons why making cheap plays beats the movies:

"Rehearsal carries the day

In film, one often gets a few days' rehearsal and that's it. Figure it out on the run and, above all else, make that day's schedule. In the theatre, we still put emphasis on the elements that mean the most to me: actors and script. There is nothing more pleasurable than being in an empty rehearsal room with a group of actors and working on a scene. No technicians waiting around for lunch, no hair and makeup wanting to get done and go home. Just you and your actors, digging in and hunting for the truth. Spend a few hours watching Liev Schreiber work his way through a monologue or Rachel Weisz as she wrestles with a scene and you've found yourself at the gates of artistic heaven. "

Apparently he has a new play coming out Spring 2005. Excellent. Can't wait.

I think if I was a cockroach I would have got the hint by now

If you want to know what it really looks like close up when you stab someone with a great big knife and the blood goes all over the place, then go and see Bug at Barrow Street Theater.  It’s an amazing play and the acting is incredible, I have never seen anyone act an epileptic fit before.  I also found myself obsessed with Michael Shannon's shrinking penis size once the clothes came off and then again when it was covered in water.  Shannon Cochran who plays Agnes is entirely sympathetic as a lonely drunk living and working in a shithole, but it is not until the second act that her control of her role becomes apparent.  I only took one tiny leap if faith in the script – I am not entirely sure that she would have turned so very quickly against her only friend, but hey.

Towards the end of the play the ex-husband returns, prompting my question to the scientist, “Why do you think he came back?  Do you think he loves her?”  No is the only answer.  Apparently, “In his own way he does, even if it is totally fucked up, he does.  Love after all is entirely selfish” is not a logical conclusion I was told. 

Read the New York Times Review here

Amazon halts tit-for-tat critics

Bastards! All my fun spoiled. I love leaving multiple reviews on friends' books. Also, that's another item crossed off my top ten methods of revenge list.

"After mounting concern about abuse of its open door policy regarding feedback, Amazon has begun a new system, Real Names, which requires reviewers to provide their credit card details before posting a comment. "

Via the Newton that is Maud

In which I redefine Universal Laws

Him:  So as you can see, you can keep drawing the triangles, using the third of the distance, forever.  I love that this game just continues.  That is infinity.
Me:  Well I am bored of this game and it stops right here.  That’s your infinity.  It’s whatever I say it is.

Next stop: My anus.

Christ why did no one warn me how much teeth bleaching actually hurts. It is agony, like constant electric shocks. They will be “sensitive” for the next 48 hours, apparently. Sensitive my arse – I think my lady dentist trained at Abu Ghraib. It is the single most horrific procedure I have had – and that includes root canal. I think this time I needed the injection through the roof of my mouth and mainly to overcome the humiliation of the before and after photo taken by my dentist which I thought I would get to keep. Alas no, it’s gone on the wall in the waiting room. Like fucking great guys, what do you think I am? A text book freak case? Look how nice the third world-dentisted English girl looks now! Actually I was quite proud of that picture, my teeth are so straight and white that they look fake. How fab is that?

Dear Fucking New York Weather

I came here for you. Oh yes I did. I left England because it was cold and miserable and dumped all its crap on me regularly and 2 and a half years away from it had taught me that there was greener grass to be had elsewhere. So I left. I branched out and went for a radical change of scene, the baked out crispness of the southern Caribbean. That was ok for a while, but like most things which shimmer on the surface and wrap you up in instant warmth, it started to get on my tits, as it were. Heat heat heat. Same bloody shit day in day out. Sundowners always at 6.30. I craved variety, as I am human and a slutty one at that. And so I ventured north to you and your distinct seasons, to your sky of permablue, skirtlifting wind and a sun so bright it made my teeth look yellow. And what have you done? You have gone and changed on me. I thought you were never supposed to do that. Fucker. I am here and as miserable as a Londoner. I have invested in you emotionally and financially. I have wardrobes [note the use of the plural] of summer skimp, silky dresses that cling to the sweat on ones thighs, for which one must constantly moan about legwaxing and which offer easy access for hazy summer night back alley shags with underage boys. Today I am forced to wear wool trousers. Do you hear me? Wool. These are Winter 2003/2004. Not Summer. Not July fucking 28th. They are, however, noticeably baggier than when I last wore them and so as ever I am having to make my own fun. Anyway, I am warning you, get your act together or I am packing my bags and leaving. I am sick of your shite and life is too short for wet shoes. Life is for regular wearing of very expensive shoes in conditions one can be sure will not render them sodden lumps of leather.

No regards

Maccers

TVR, the British maker of wildly styled and fiendishly fast cars, has been sold to Nikolai Smolensky, 23, one of Russia's youngest millionaires and the son of a controversial tycoon whose banking empire collapsed during the 1998 financial crisis.

Ah, the British motor industry. I was somewhat involved in the sale of Lotus in the mid 1990s. Personally I think all sports car manufacturers should be Italian. Just cos.

"TVR fans will be relieved that Mr Wheeler will be staying on to oversee styling and engineering. He and his deceased spaniel, Ned, have become industry legends: Mr Wheeler for styling the best-selling TVR Tuscan on the back of a Marlboro cigarette pack; Ned for biting a chunk out of a foam model prototype, creating what became the front light apertures of the TVR Chimaera."

The Elephant Vanishes

"In the show's haunting final image he celebrates the idea of unity of function in the perfect kitchen. By a fine irony, McBurney's achievement in this brilliant show is to have embodied the unifying theme of Murakami's imaginative world: where individuals are at permanent odds with their external, daily selves. "

I saw this on Friday night. It is truly brilliant. Go and see it.

If you should leave before I wake, check my pulse.

1pm Sunday. Fuck I feel like total shit. Total. Shit. Staggering into the living room I see my clothes piled up on the sofa. Ah ha. That usually indicates I was “helped out of them”. Mmm however no sign of any other living being in the apartment (and I barely am) unless you count the yoghurt made out of the half glass of milk I left out for 2 days now.

Picking up my voicemail, the first one is Eurotrash. She’s concerned since she last saw me leaving with a strange man. Ah fuck. What is it with me? Why can I never keep a man? Why do they always leave?

Second and third calls are from said man. He’s very concerned to establish that I am indeed living since when he left I was in a coma. No visible signs of life, apparently. No reflexes. Some test you do with hands came through negative for a functioning life form. That’s scientists for you. I was Talk to Her. Excellent. I have become the eternal mystery of woman.

From Popbitch

Fuck I am so doing this.

"At the party Usher was wearing a t-shirt with a
picture of, er, Usher, on the front."

I got this from someone brainier than you, so it must be true

"Here's the bad news: Cow brains may be an ingredient in your lipstick.

The good news? The FDA is banning it.

The Food and Drug Administration has told cosmetics makers they can no longer use brain and spinal cord tissue from older cattle in lipstick, hair sprays, and other products, reports The Associated Press. The fact that they were used at all will likely surprise millions of women who use these products daily. And that's not the only surprise: The new FDA regulations still allow use of these animal tissues in cosmetics as long as they come from younger cattle.

The ban on cow brains and spinal cord tissue from cosmetics is aimed at preventing a fatal human variant of mad cow disease, called Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, from reaching people. Also known as bovine spongiform encephalopathy, mad cow disease causes the brains of infected animals to waste away. There is no cure for animals or humans.

"While the risk is small, if there does happen to be an ingredient from a BSE-infected cow, the consequences would be incredibly drastic," Rachel Weintraub, assistant general counsel of the Consumer Federation of America, told AP. She noted, for example, that sprays could contain animal protein that could be inhaled.

The Center for Science in the Public Interest warns consumers that it's virtually impossible to tell from reading the label if cow brains or spinal cord tissue are included in the ingredients. Caroline Smith DeWaal, head of food safety for CSPI, urged the FDA and cosmetics' manufacturers to publish a list of ingredients that could contain bovine material so consumers will know whether they should throw out older cosmetics that could be harmful.

AP reports that cosmetic manufacturers insist they already require their suppliers to certify that the cattle-derived ingredients sold to them are free of materials that carry BSE."

Daddy I want a shag phone

From Wired.

Shag Phones

"Prepaid cell phones used by a couple involved in an illicit affair, to keep damning evidence from showing up on caller logs, caller ID or phone bills."

Or maybe just the illicit affair. Everyone knows the sex is crap if it's part of a consensual, monogamous, loving relationship, right?

Reuters



"PARIS (Reuters) - French crooner Sacha Distel, whose seductive good looks won him millions of female fans around the world, died on Thursday, his record company said.
Distel, 71, who worked with some of the biggest names in music, including Liza Minelli, Quincy Jones and Dionne Warwick, had been ill for some time.
Universal Music France said on its Web site Distel would be buried in private, in line with his last wishes."

My first love. I am devastated beyond belief. I will mourn him forever.

Flamenco Vivo




If you have the chance, you really should go and see this at The Joyce. Flamenco is, I think anyway, the only dance where the guys are the main attraction. Despite the fabulous outfits (I really need to start wearing more red and black) the male dancers just blow my mind. They just float across the stage stamping into a blur. And it's just so macho. So macho. All that testosterone. My god, I was so worked up I had to grab cock.

I have decided to take up flamenco lessons because I think I would be good at it. I excel at foot stamping. I just need someone to stop me from yelling "I want a pony" at the same time.

The Sun


"A HOSPITAL gave a girl aged 14 her miscarried baby in a BOTTLE and told her to take it home.
Anguished Stacey Storey was instructed to put the 3in foetus in her fridge and return it to medics the following day.
The horrific blunder came only hours after the teenager had miscarried at 11 weeks pregnant.
And it happened at the SAME hospital which her mum Clare, 32, blamed for the death of HER unborn baby a few weeks earlier.
Stacey, from Shildon, Co Durham, said last night: "The hospital didn't kill my baby, but they might as well have done, the way I feel. The only memory I have now is of it in a specimen jar in our fridge. "

I really don't know where to start or finish this one. Mainly because Shildon is 5 minutes away from where I grew up and because nothing in this report shocked me at all, not even the fact that I am older than the grandmother.

Bellini time, I think.

Link via Tmuffle.

The gorgeous Stephanie

She takes the photos so I don't have to go. Hermes last night. I had to miss it because of some last minute shit I couldn't sort.

My new boyfriend - Joaquin Cortes



And he's coming here in September - 16, 17, 18 and 19 at NY City Center. Ladies get ready to throw your knickers on stage. Oh yeah, just so as you know though, I saw him first.

BBC NEWS | UK | Diana ex-lover held in drug arrest

"James Hewitt, ex-lover of Diana, Princess of Wales, has been arrested on suspicion of being in possession of a Class A drug, Scotland Yard have said. "

See, he's definitely Harry's dad. Not only is Harry the spitting image of Hewitt, but he also has his habits. Name one other ginger in the royal family.

Duke to Provide Freshmen With iPods

So not fair. I didn't even get a free quill.

"Schauman isn't worried that students will start listening to music in class.
'If you're in a class so boring you need to do that, then I encourage you to do so,' Schauman said. 'Or if your need to learn is so low, you shouldn't be here in the first place.'"

My dentist is an incredibly beautiful woman. Really stunning. This has never given me any confidence in her dentistry skills since I am inherently sexist. I felt a lot more comfortable when my previous dentist would lean over me and peer into my mouth and I stared at the sweat stains from his armpits down to his three hundred-pound stomach and listen to his heavy and shallow breathing. I could almost drift off to sleep as I counted the fresh stains which had accumulated since my last visit on his obviously only pair of trousers.

I find myself in a permanent sense of alert with new lady dentist. She is the only dentist who has ever injected me through the roof of my mouth, a procedure which I find, in my considerable expertise learnt from trips to the dentist in my youth in the land of good dentistry, to be wholly unnecessary. Jesus, I had root canal and I never had an injection through the roof of my mouth. I thought today that I was only getting an impression made in preparation for the crown, but no that injection told me that we were also to be preparing the tooth. Warning lady! Give me a warning!

I find no consolation staring through the pink gauze of her diaphanous overalls to her silk camisole underneath. Looking at the remarkable skin on the side of her neck, I almost want to touch it. And it is thoughts like these that make me always, always close my eyes in her presence. Today, as she drilled away at my tooth to make it into the requisite pirate stump, her long dark hair fell onto my bare arm and it felt so exquisite that I opened my eyes to see her mask and scientist glasses covered in splashes of blood. My blood to be precise and let’s face it, on a scale of one to ten of things you don’t need to see that’s at least a six.

I had two impressions taken today. The second one was that disgusting purple sticky stuff which sealed a mini-mouth within my mouth and so ten minutes later when it was removed, I sprayed her with accumulated sputum. Ha. [Note the lack of exclamation mark indicating a shallow victory]. So I am now the proud possessor of a temporary crown – it is opaque and rough unlike the new porcelain one I get to pick up in 2 weeks’ time. I have to be careful with this one – no nuts, no sticky candy, no flossing and, she leant forward and whispered in my ear since we have obviously become intimate after my eightieth visit there, no blow jobs. “Ha!” I laughed, “I wonder if he’ll buy that one!” I tried to say but the remaining novocaine turned this into a gob of spit which landed on her neck. Ha!

After wiping herself down, she got all serious and told me that she needed to know if I wanted the bleaching before she gave instructions to the place that was going to make my crown. She needed to know right then. Apparently I have good enamel and could do with some sprucing up. I like my teeth tea-stained I wanted to shout. It gives me a sense of identity in this oh so foreign of lands. But alas no, it was not to be. So I said “Yebf, yebf. I shwill buyf the Amewican Dwream! Take me up to B1 baby!” So that’s it, I’m going whiter. Will y’all be happy now? Can I have my Green Card now please?

Argh

I have the magic porridge pot of zits on my forehead. No matter how many times I have a go at it, it keeps bubbling up a new head. Of course I only dare tackle it at night after about 2 pints of Sancerre since it scares the living shit out of me during sober hours. It’s only when I am drunk that I appreciate the 2 pints of blood lost to zit squeezing and feel like I have actually achieved something, only to wake the next morning with a fresh head on my head. I think I will need plastic surgery to remove the scar – shame I’m not in the US Armed forces then really.

What the fuck is going on? I have tried everything, even yelling “stop little spot stop!”. I think it’s time for the potato trick. Just don’t tell anyone – ok?

Aujourd’hui, c’est pour Julio

Co-worker J: Maccers what the fuck is that?
M: That, J, is the fucking masterful Julio Iglesias.
J: But it’s French.
M: Ay. Are you not in awe of his repertoire and ability?
J: It’s fucking awful.
M: It is masterful.
J: What the fuck are you thinking?
M: The Riviera, a yacht and the popping of champagne corks. Yes, it shall be mine.
J: Oh christ.

Je n’ai pas changé
Je suis toulours ce jeune homme étranger…………….

I went to see Imani Winds tonight as part of the River to River Festival down at Pace. Never seen so much sputum (and that was just the 80 year old guy behind me sucking on his dentures) or such a funky bassoonist in my life. They were actually so good I bought a cd for the rip off price of bucks 20. It's $17.99 on amazon. I got ripped off by the guys at Chanticleer as well one time after one of their concerts- it's never 20 clear, you thieving eunuch bastards. More cheek than my ex. Anyway, I decided to forgive the Imani Winds guys mainly because they introduced me to Astor Piazzola and Gyorgy Ligeti and he's Hungarian. Nice.

Just as an aside, I checked out the River to River schedule and noticed that the bleeding Neville Brothers and Lila Downs are playing this week. Will have to miss both of them by the looks of things which is a real pisser.

Miner in Guinea Digs Up 182-Carat Gem

"'It's a quite brilliant diamond, of good enough quality despite having numerous veins. One thing is certain � it's worth millions of dollars,' a top official with the Aredor mining company, Guinea's biggest diamond operation, told The Associated Press.
The Guinea gem is four inches by 1.2 inches high - roughly the size and shape of your average computer mouse. "

It's MINE! Give it back. I lost it when I was on hols there a few years back. Honest.

Le pont Mirabeau  - Guillaume Apollinaire
 
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Et nos amours

Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne

La joie venait toujours après la peine

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face

Tandis que sous

Le pont de nos bras passe

Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante

L'amour s'en va

Comme la vie est lente

Et comme l'Espérance est violente

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure

 

Passent les jours et passent les semaines

Ni temps passé

Ni les amours reviennent

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

 

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure

Les jours s'en vont je demeure
 
 
THE PONT MIRABEAU
 
Under the Pont Mirabeau the Seine          

Flows with our loves  

Must I recall again?

Joy always used to follow after pain
          

Let the night come: strike the hour          

The days go past while I stand here

 

Hands holding hands let us stay face to face          

While under this bridge    

Bridge our arms make slow race

Long looks in a tired wave at a wave's pace
          

Let the night come: strike the hour          

The days go past while I stand here

 

Love runs away like running water flows          

Love flows away

But oh how slow life goes

How violent hope is nobody knows
          

Let the night come: strike the hour          

The days go past while I stand here

The days pass and the weeks pass but in vain          

Neither time past    

Nor love comes back again

Under the Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine
          

Let the night come: strike the hour          

The days go past while I stand here 

 

 

Apollinaire (1880-1918)kept his origin secret, but he was probably born in Rome as the illegitimate son of a Polish adventurer called Angelica de Kostrowitzky, a rebellious Polish girl.  His father was possibly a Swiss-Italian aristocrat, Francesco Flugi d'Aspermont.  He disappeared early from Apollinaire's life, and the future poet was raised by his gambling mother in Italy, in Monaco, on the French Riviera, and in Paris.
In his youth Apollinaire assumed the identity of a Russian prince.  He received a French education at the Collège Saint-Charles in Monaco, and afterwards in schools in Cannes and Nice.
At the age of 20 Apollinaire settled in Paris where he worked for a time for a bank.  Among his friends were such artist as Pablo Picasso, André Derain, playwright Alfred Jarry, and the painter Marie Laurencin, who was his lover.  At the age of twenty-one he travelled in Germany, where he was introduced to German romantic poetry and to the torments of unrequited love.
Apollinaire edited a number of reviews, published satirical and semi-pornographical texts, and proclaimed that the writing of de Sade would dominate the 20th-century.  His first collection of poems, L'enchanteur Pourrissant, appeared in 1909, but it was in 1913 with the publication of Alcools when he gained fame as a major, highly original poet.  L'enchanteur pourrissant was illustrated by Derain.  The prose-poem depicted the entombment of Merlin the Enchanter by his love.  From his sufferings Merlin creates a new world of poetry.  Alcools combined classical verse forms with modern imagery, involving transcriptions of street conversations overheard by change and the absence of punctuation.  It opened with the poem Zone, in which the tormented poet wanders through streets after the loss of his mistress.  Among its other famous poems are 'Le pont Mirabeau' and 'La chanson du mal-aime.'

 

http://www.firstworldwar.com/poetsandprose/apollinaire.htm

 

Someone buy me this: http://www.moesbooks.com/cgi-bin/moe/36461.html

Schwarzenegger Calls Budget Opponents 'Girlie Men'

"Rob Stutzman, Mr. Schwarzenegger's spokesman, said the phrase was not intended to question the virility or sexual orientation of Democratic legislative leaders, who include some women. The governor was expressing his frustration with his opponents' refusal to pass his version of the budget, Mr. Stutzman said.
'It's his way of saying they're wimps, they're giving in to the special interests,' he said."

Sure.

Jesus. What happened to the dignity, peoples? Where is the love?

It's time for Bellinis.
 
This famous luxurious cocktail was invented at Harry's Bar, Venice, in 1934.

Ingredients
 
2 ripe white peaches, peeled, halved and stone removed
 
chilled prosecco
 
2 chilled champagne glasses

Method
1. Place the peaches in a small blender and purée until totally smooth. This can be done well in advance and kept in the fridge. Spoon half into the chilled champagne glasses and slowly top up with prosecco, stirring as you pour. You should ideally have one third peach purée to two thirds prosecco. Serve straight away as a pre-dinner drink with the Cupid's Caviar, leaving plenty of time for a second glass each.

Things that I cannot believe came out of my mouth last night.

Co-worker J: No Maccers, shots are great
Me: Ah J, you can take the boy out of the fraternity but you can't take the fraternity out of the boy
J: I want to go out with you one night and pound shots and drink you under the table.
My boss: J, Maccers goes to parties where there is booze booze everywhere and mountains of coke.
Me: Yup.

**********************
Me to my entire office: Well it's been nice hanging out with y'all but it's time to go get myself a nice piece of ass.

**********************
4 Commerical airconditioning salesmen in the Coffee Shop whilst waiting for date to show up: What is it about you? There's something about you.
Me: I'm English?
Them: No
Me: I have just started my period? (Obviously channelling Eurotrash at this point)
Them: No.
Me: I look like I'm easy?
Them: No that ain't it.
Me: I look like I have really great sex all the time?
Them: Well yeah but that's not it.
Me: I look like I drink sancerre.
Them: That could be it. Get this lady a glass of sancerre. There's plenty more where that came from.
Me: Yeah look a whole bottle.

*******************
Date: So I grew up near the Austrian border and my grandmother is half German.
Me: That's great. Can I just kiss you?

Oh Lance, now that I am carrying your child, tell me it isn't so.

Lemond accuses Armstrong


"The book 'L.A. Confidential: The Secrets of Lance Armstrong' by award-winning Sunday Times journalist David Walsh and Pierre Ballester, a cycling specialist formerly with French sports daily L'Equipe, alleges he used banned drugs.
The book focuses on statements attributed to Emma O'Reilly, a physiotherapist who worked with Armstrong from 1998-2000. O'Reilly claims Armstrong used the banned blood booster erythropoietin (EPO)."

See I told you. It's all about the cape.




















Mr. Murru, from La Scala, is a tall, lean dancer with good technique whose physique wipes out Nureyev's images. Drawn in by Ms. Guillem's complete performance, he worked gradually into the role. By the time he rushed in for the farewell, cape flying behind him, he had reached the same intensity as his ballerina.

[Methinks Ms. Guillem would rather like to do a guest stint in "Chicago" by the looks of things]

Just got back from seeing the Royal Ballet at the Lincoln Center for the Ashton Tribute. It actually made me feel quite patriotic for a change after our miserable showing in Euro 2004. We rock at choreographers and ballet companies. As the outfits got gayer, the dancing got better. We've managed to nick some of the best dancers in the world: Alina Cojocaru stole my heart tonight. And as for our Darcey, I only wish she'd been somewhat longer on the stage. How come she's the only one to get the flowers by the way? Is that because she is an OBE?

Go and see it if you can. There were actually a ton of seats left. I know this because the Lincoln Centre Festival organisers fucked up my seats. Yes, and as you can imagine I will be having words with them about that.

The “pine not dine” diet being officially over as of last night, (mmm braised rabbit), I dragged my hematomaed arse out of bed at 5.45 and made it to the gym for a spin class. Fuck of a rude awakening but at least my heart still works which is good news.

Today’s dilemma. Do I call the Ginger Midget who gave me his number? I haven’t been to that class for months and he was so excited to see me again he gave me his cell. He obviously belongs in an asylum as my face is still bright red and I’m developing a new head on my forehead to help me get ahead in advertising. I think the answer is, as always, no.

2 things

This CD is fucking excellent.

This is the best florist in NY. The flowers are out of this world and last at least 2 weeks.

Thanks. You daft bastard

This weather is disgusting. I need sunshine right now, not rain. Just as well then that I had 4 unseen episodes of The Office still left on my birthday pressie dvd. I seem to spend most of my time watching this show like I did watching Dr Who when I was a kid - half underneath my duvet and screaming No! Or maybe that was something else and I have drunk enough to forget what it was. I digress. Buy this dvd if just for the outtakes. I think I ruptured my spleen.

Whilst I agree with the lovely Fold Drop and CAAF as to Gareth's qualities and maybe because I am being dead molly at the moment, but I have fallen head over heels in love with Tim. Tim. The guy who still lives with his parents and turned down the promotion. Sums it up quite nicely that.

Because.

Ohmigod. I haven't laughed so much in years. Everyone I know is getting one of these.

How have I ever been able to live without it? I haven't. Obviously.

The Unlikeliest of Don Juans

Times being what they are, conversation around the Eurotrash birthday dinner table last night flitted occasionally to the topic of low down dirty arseholey men. We’ve all known them, unfortunately, and the one thing that struck me is that they just aren’t the type of man you are led to believe you should distrust.

I actually wouldn’t mind getting shat on by a tall dark handsome guy with a deep husky laugh resonant of tuscan hillsides at sunset and a PhD in Cunnilingus. And a cape. Always a cape. A guy whose sudden departure heralded by phone calls from confused and heart broken women left me with a drawer full of expensive crotchless underwear and memories of fabulous vacations to steamy tropical beaches and mini-breaks to major cities in Eastern Europe.

Alas no. The major fucking bastard in everyone’s backyard always ends up being the needy pathetic geek. Needy for cash in particular. Or attention. Or a confirmation that he isn't a worthless cretin. Or a book deal. Or an older woman. A guy so utterly incapable of tying his shoes laces that it’s almost impossible to believe that he could ever orchestrate a deception on any kind of level. No candlelit dinners from him; just crappy excuses about work pressures and a slice of pizza. Where’s the breathtaking excitement?

Does this style of misogyny appeal to maternal instincts? I do wonder although I’d slap the arse off any child of mine who behaved so badly (Yeah so arrest me). Is it my fault for believing them? No. But I'm saying that mainly because I can’t be arsed to self analyse. Why, after all, the fuck should I have to?

I shall leave you with some quotes from a fabulous little book I have called “How to Spot a Bastard by Star Sign”.


The Aquarius Bastard

Aquarius is the most reasonable bastard you will ever encounter. He’ll even agree he is a bastard. If he was born out of wedlock then he is one by definition and if you want to call him a bastard for other, more personal, reasons he’ll certainly allow your opinion.

Spending his formative years as a weirdo has resulted in the adult Aquarius male holding radical beliefs. Being a radical is easy. He doesn’t have to stick to one system of thought as, say, the poor communists do. He can adopt an ideology to fit his mood and situation. And he’ll be happy as long as it allows him to oppose some commonly held belief – your belief in marriage for instance.

Taking the opposing stance is the foundation of all his beliefs. And once everybody else is a radical left wing feminist separatist greenie with a nose ring, he’ll become a conservative. The only thing he hates more than conservatism is to do what everybody else is doing. He prides himself on his otherness.

If He Dumps You

He’ll never really dump you. He’ll always value you as a person. He’ll just stop having sex with you – so the relationship will hardly change.


If You Dump Him

He’ll take it philosophically and figure it was for the best anyway. But he’ll ask you if he can still be friends and won’t be able to understand why you slam the door/hang up on the phone/shoot him in the kneecap.

A wise woman once told me that if I had to cry, I should do it in the shower. That way my eyes wouldn't get puffy. It's very good advice.

That's all I can be arsed to write today. You should go and read Eurotrash.

Or you could go here if you are a bloke.

NoMarriage.com - How women manipulate you.

Women are, for the most part, not well suited to accept reality or to think logically. they will approach a situation with their mind already made up, then they will twist and manipulate the information to validate what they're already thinking.
So their views on reality are usually messed up. and their process for arguing/interacting is not based on reality, instead it's based on whatever irrational tools will help them prove their point (screaming, personal attacks, red herrings, etc).


NoMarriage.com manual will teach you how to avoid being manipulated by women.


Hahahahha. The women who do this site have my eternal respect.

Buy it here

NoMarriage Manual

"Ah just the one ticket?" the David Amsden lookalike asked me from behind the Dance Theatre Workshop Will Call counter.

"Yes, yes. Only me. I find it's better that way."

I had gone to see the Raiford Rogers Modern Ballet, after having been totally sold by the picture on the front of the card sent to me through the mail. Ladies in full chasse and the one with the 45% discount I had totally forgotten to use. Still my seat was great, although perhaps too close to the stage. Close enough to be able to discern the thickness of the makeup on the men, the hairs on their legs and to be sprayed with their sweat. I could see the quivering of pale hamstrings as the ladies protracted their arabesques and the beauty of the sculptured shadows on their outstretched arms. Perhaps too close to see the whole picture. I found it impossible not to scan, pointlessly as it turned out, for signs of cellulite.

I've often wondered if choreographers pick parts for certain body types. New York Ballet appears to be populated by tall, very slender women who are almost indistinguishable from one another when en masse on stage. Modern dance will often feature a variety of different body types and as I watched it was as though each figure was projecting a different characteristic, adding to the sometimes disjointed effect of the music. The shorter, more muscular frame imparts a vigour and power I couldn't see in the languor of the taller, more slender dancers. Looking at them simultaneously perform the same movements on stage, I could see that they were synchronized and yet my mind was telling me that the shorter ladies were moving more rapidly. The taller ladies just seemed more graceful. I guess that dance, essentially, is all about bodies and what you can do with them.

Watching the dancers perform their pas de deux I marveled at the unreality of it all. There she is performing, beautiful, studied and rarely looking at her partner. He is always behind her, constantly watching, maneuvering her through her steps and silently guiding her. Such crap really. If this were a reflection of life, she'd be lucky if he stuck around after a couple of steps. He'd be too busy ogling one of the other dancers, the one with the pierced belly button, to remember he had to catch her as she let herself fall blindly backwards into his arms. Too busy signaling to his mates to get a round in to lift her up correctly. Ah, but then these women have perfect abs and perfect posture. Who couldn't fall in love with a dancer? Not me. I am entranced by the detail in their shoulder muscles and the way their calves split into two. And I suppose after all, it wouldn't be the first time a lady has unwittingly thrown herself into the arms of a guy who's gay.


Quit the dance from which is flowing
Wishes and turns, gestures and voices,
Angry desire and fallen tomorrow.
Quit the dance from which is flowing
Your blood and beauty; stand still with me."

Delmore Schwartz

Michael Moore may make Blair film

"A message posted on Moore's website last month stated that reports of his plans for a film on Blair were false.
But speaking on BBC Radio 4's Today programme, Moore left the possibility of a film based on the UK leader open.
'I wouldn't completely rule it out only because I find Blair a more fascinating character than Bush,' he said.
'Blair is not an idiot, Blair is smart, what's his excuse? He knows better,' said Moore. "

Call me, Michael. I have gossip on this geezer. Plus I wanna be innit, natch.

Police want an under-21 drink ban


"But John Hudson, president of the FLVA, and who runs the Crossways Hotel in Thornley, County Durham, said: 'This is very draconian. "

Ha. I've been there. I can't believe they are thinking about an under 21 ban just for the North East. That's just racist. We started drinking in pubs when we were 14: it kept us out of the mines. Drinking should be permitted to those who can. No more lager top drinking southern pufters. County Durham is the Land of the Prince Bishops for chrissakes.

Spot the obivous mistake

[Lyrics to a song ET and I were raving about in the cab from our beloved Montreal to the airport]

Je N'Ai Pas Changé
by Julio Iglesias


Je n'ai pas changé
Je suis toujours ce jeune homme étranger
Qui te chantait des romances
Qui t'inventait des dimanches
Qui te faisaient voyager
Je n'ai pas changé
Je suis toujours ce garçon un peu fou
Qui te parlait d'Amérique
Et n'était pas assez riche
Pour t'emmener à Corfou

[Refrain:]Et toi non plus tu n'as pas changé
Toujours le même parfum léger
Toujours le même petit sourire
Qui en dit long sans vraiment le dire
Non toi non plus tu n'as pas changé
J'avais envie de te protéger
De te garder de t'appartenir
J'avais envie de te revenir
Je n'ai pas changé
Je suis toujours l'apprenti baladin
Qui t'écrivait des poèmes
Qui commençaient par je t'aime
Et finissaient par aimer
Je n'ai pas changé
Je prends toujours le chemin qui me plaît
Un seul chemin sur la terre
A réussi à me plaire
Celui qu'ensemble on suivait[au Refrain, 2x]

PD Ports to float for 175m quid:

"A ports company with ambitions to lure luxury cruise ships to the industrial town of Hartlepool is to float with a market value of 175m, chaired by former Railtrack boss David Harding.

Mr Harding was the finance director of Railtrack when the government put it into administration in October 2001, and was briefly appointed chief executive while it was wound up."

Some how I just don't see this working. Much as I love Hartlepool and all that, it's just not a luxury cruise ship destination. Reminds me of some tulip fever ponzi scheme.

Kerry Selects Edwards as Running Mate

He'd get my vote. He's definitely shaggable.

dong resin's joint>>The enemy has many faces. We will need coffee.:

"I never had a dog growing up, so it hasn't really dawned on me until now just what a horrendously fucked up relationship the kids and pets dynamic is: the most needy thing on earth looked after by the most self-absorbed thing on earth. It's sort of like one of my past girlfriends became a sponsor for the other of my past girlfriends."

Dong is back. Thank fuck for that.

Tomorrow I shall be in Montreal for the weekend long. With Eurotrash. Is anyone having any good ideas for things to do amusing?

Merci. I kiss you.

Alcohol may protect women's bones:

"It is unlikely that alcohol consumption will be prescribed to female patients, according to Professor Tim Spector of St Thomas' Hospital, London. "

Well that's just daft.
My bones are rock hard. Like my men. Oh no, that's non-existent. Rock hard like a hard rocky type thing, then.