Sunday, May 27, 2007


Yesterday, the GrAUniAD Weekend magazine published the definitive critical overview of every decade since the 1950's, with contributions from distinguished writers who came of age during each decade.

If you didn't read it, don't worry. I've precised every thoughtful and original insight here. None of which have ever been written about before, ever. Honestly. No, really.

THE 1950'S

Tommy Steele - wild man of the coffee houses

Decade began with shadow of postwar austerity hanging over Britain like giant albatross. Rationing until mid '50s. Sir Edmund Hillary climbs Everest. Roger Bannister runs four minute mile. Coronation ushers in exciting REAL 1950's and attracts millions to watch television for first time. Young people cast aside shackles of postwar austerity by slashing seats at West Bromwich Trocadero during performance of Little White Bull by Tommy Steele. Hallellujah!!! Rock And Roll is born!!!

THE 1960'S


Space race begins. Cold War. Bay Of Pigs. The Quarrymen play at Herr Flick's Knocking Shop And Massage Parlour, The High Strasse, Hamburg. Social revolution! Mary Quant. Skirt hemlines rise. Twiggy. Carnaby Street. Flower children. The Pill! Women are free at last to be shagged by sweaty hippies at festivals. Patrick Moore takes acid live on television and really sees the stars at night. Vietnam. Student protests. Matt Monro records song about the flower children and how we should all get hip to the exciting young generation because they've got something to say. First man on moon.

THE 1970'S


Jackie magazine. Big platform shoes. Hostess trolleys. Black Forest gateau. Swingers parties. Endless strikes. Power cuts. Mike Yarwood. More strikes. OPEC. Sheikh Yamani. More strikes. People reduced to setting fire to disgusting Brutus brushed denim elephant flares as way of keeping warm. Rubbish piles up on streets. Angry young new wave sounds of The Boomtown Rats, Pleaser, Rachel Sweet, Tonight and The Rich Kids kick down the doors of the establishment and stop rubbish piling up on the streets.

THE 1980'S


M. Thatcher's Thousand Year Reich. Arrival of the yuppie. Unemployment levels rise and rise. Rioting on inner city streets. Falklands War. Boys From The Black Stuff. Boy George. Duran fucking Duran. Miami Vice. Dallas. Shoulder pads. Mobile phones. City boys. Stock market crash. Matt black furnishings. Michael Fish sez "some bint reckons there's a hurricane on the way! Silly moo!". Danny Rampling, Paul Oakenfold and that other bloke invent "Acid Drop" music. Berlin Wall comes down.

THE 1990'S

Top one, nice one, get sauteed

Young folk are all "on one", standing around in fields and waving their arms about to the exciting "rave" sounds of Jesus Jones and Candy Flip. New age of former yuppies being nice to each other and discovering healing powers of crystal. Thatcher booted out at last. Traffic Cones Hotline. Edwina Currie has torrid affair with "big blue man in big blue y-fronts" John Major. This Life. Friends. Rise of New Labour coincides with rise of Britpop, therefore ensuring that John Harris (that bloke who looks like a woman) can go on and on about the era forever. Bootleg trousers. Rachel off of Friends haircuts. People getting wooden flooring (indoors) and decking (outdoors) after watching makeover shows.

There you have it. I'm thinking of flogging this "retro" idea to some papers and television programmes. After all, it's never been done before and I think I could be on to an earner!!

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Wednesday, May 23, 2007


I'm doing an exhaustive study of the different blogging cliques that have formed during the past few years. Now that everyone in the world has seven blogs, we can safely assume that a revolution has taken place, so it's time to start putting everything into categories.

Here are a few that I've invented ... um ... observed in their natural habitat.

Dr Who bloggers.

Green Wing bloggers.

A list bloggers. All know each other, and haven't updated their blogroll since 2003 because "frankly, everyone who was anyone had already started blogging by then daahhling".

Cynical fiftysomething ex-hippy bloggers. "Dropping acid at the Isle Of Wight festival was a gas, man, and the war in Iraq is some heavy shit. I'm earning 90 grand now, but I'm being subversive from within the machine, right?"

Cyber ex-philosophy student bloggers. Have been lurking on these blogs in awe since before I was a blogger, actually, and not quite understanding the stuff about Ballard and hauntology.

West country bloggers. Crossover with previous category. Have been lurking in awe, etc., and not quite understanding the stuff about Psychic TV.

East Angular bloggers. No particular shared characteristics, but, as I've said before, 98 per cent of the population of East Angular blogs.

Canadian bloggers. There are only ten people who live in Canada, and they all live two thousand miles apart from each other. Therefore, they blog because there's nothing else to do.

American bloggers who leave mystifying comments about obscure 1950's senators on your site, and you don't know how to reply to them because you're completely in the dark.

Sexy thirtysomething media whore bloggers who work hard, play hard, live life in a booze and coke haze and shag everything that moves at the weekend.

London pub rock bloggers.

Bloomsbury Set "creative writing" bloggers. Typical comment response: "What can I say? Just beautiful. Astonishing writing. I'm going to nominate you for Post Of The Week. Again."

Stressed out bloggers who work in the public sector and are very disillusioned with their jobs and what's happening in the workplace.

Earnest political bloggers.

People who have a blog which runs alongside and puffs up their rubbish *fiction* blog ... which they hope to flog to a publisher. *beats head against wall*

Ranting bloggers.

Mommy bloggers. "Hey, I did some baking for the chapel's fundraising fayre at the weekend :-) You wanna see some pictures of the seventy cakes I baked?????? And have all the recipes??????????? Right, here goes!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Sanctimonious parent bloggers. "Poppy is an unusually bright, beautiful, deep, observant and sensitive three year old. I'm worried that she's not being stretched at her sixteenth century Italian poetry class. The other children are a few years older than her and some of them are rather rough. Gosh, being a parent is extremely difficult at times, isn't it?"

Anyway, obviously some of these categories overlap and this is nowhere near the definitive list. In years to come, I hope to compile a field study of bloggers, rather like that bloke with the long chin and pointy beard who kept an archive of the different folk musics of America.

Or something like the Ladybird Book Of Garden And Heathland Birds, at least.

If you feel that you belong to a category that I haven't mentioned, or are aware of a blogging cllique that I've missed out, do let me know.

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Saturday, May 19, 2007


Being a common person, I was stood in a long queue in a common person's shop yesterday. I was shocked, stunned and amazed to see that three of the women in front of me had pobs. This hairstyle is sweeping the nation. Well, the streets around where I live, and that's good enough for me.

The pob is the hairdo which seems to have been decreed fashionable about a year ago, but really took off when it appeared on the bonce of Victoria Beckham - trained dancer, former Spice Girl, social X-ray, **fashion designer**, wife of multi millionaire-but-well-past-his-best-but-why-should-he-care-when-he's-that-loaded footballer David Beckham and loving mother to Romeo, Alfa and Nissan Micra.

The hair is cropped in at the nape, and sweeps into a longer length at the front, with a few choppy bits to differentiate it from the sort of hairstyle created by Vidal Sassoon in the mid 1960's.

In the case of all the women I see wearing the new look, their formerly long, ironed hair, with the side parting and the stripey ash blonde, champagne and beige blonde highlights and toffee, honey, caramel, chestnut and bitter chocolate lowlights now looks more or less the same but shorn of length.

It looks as though a little hobgoblin gardener with a little hobgoblin gardener's lawnmower has run amuck in their hair overnight while they were sleeping.

In the worst cases, it also has the effect of making the wearer look like a medieval simpleton.

Oh dear.

Another post about bobs along shortly.

Back to the Atwood.

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Thursday, May 17, 2007


A woman who is a chief executive in a City investment firm has apparently had her eighth child.

Helena Morrissey's previous children are called Fitz, Florence, Tuppy, Millie, Clara, Octavia and Theo. The new addition is called Cecily.

Not only does she have the family planning skills of someone from 1870, all of the children sound like characters from a disgustingly twee Victorian children's novel.



Jesus haitch.

Could I suggest Flopsy, Mopsy, Dropsy, Topsy, Turvey and Brer Rabbit for the next six burdens on a very crowded country ... ahem, sorry, I mean *joyful additions to the high flying family*?

Either that, or condoms.

Yeah, condoms. This advert sums it all up ...

... not that modom would ever be seen in a supermarket of course.

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Sunday, May 06, 2007


Why I'm married to a genius.

He pointed out that Johnny Logan is the Gram Parsons of Eurovision.

Enjoy your Bank Holiday, people.

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Thursday, May 03, 2007


As part of my new *part time blogging* regime there are going to be a lot more very short posts.

"Well, wouldn't it be better for you to get a Twitter account?" you may ask.

Here in sequential diary form is a demonstration of the reasons why I shouldn't have a Twitter account ...

*Had long and tedious dream last night in which nothing much happened except that Julian Lennon and Sean Lennon both left boring messages on my answerphone asking me to get back to them.

*Am now inflicted with terrible earworm - Julian Lennon's Too Late For Goodbyes, with that revolting toy mouth organ solo at about 1 min. 50 on the YouTube video**.

*Attempt to mow lawn as lawnmower falls apart. Main body of mower literally held together with bits of string.

*May starts, hay fever symptoms start. Oh, to be in England, in the summertime ...

*Am recovering from night of fitful, feverish sleep. Left leg was aching, so assumed that I must have deep vein thrombosis and would be quite dead within the hour.

*Last night's dream: managed to blag way into Oscar ceremonies, accompanied by "huge star" (a burly Robert Duvall lookalike with a Noo Joisey accent). "I have a man on a huge salary just so he can tell me what I want to hear," says Robert.

*Marvel at the fact that the area outside where the Academy Awards is held looks exactly like the street where my Auntie Joyce used to live.

*Earworm: still Julian Lennon, still the toy mouth organ. Someone shoot me.

*Buy some nuts and bolts at Robert Dyas to carry out emergency repair work on lawnmower.

*Comforted by the fact that the young Richard Attenborough (circa Brighton Rock) lookalike still works at Robert Dyas.

*Roots need touching up. Must lighten hair because, hey, it's the summer and I don't want to end up having what Grunhaus once described as "the Jim Kerr circa Promised You A Miracle" look**.

*New earworm ... Promised You A Miracle by Simple Minds.

*er ... "anything is possEEEEbull ... rhythm of LIFE" ...

**stares into middle distances, like Jim Kerr out of Simple Minds*

**twiddles thumbs*

** that's something else - I bet you can't link to things on Twitter. Not that I've looked into it mind ...

*** having made a big thing of the fact that I am in semi retirement, it really IS time to step away from the coalface of blogging and get back to me Margaret Atwood. See you all in a bit.

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Tuesday, May 01, 2007


Drugs're baaad - m'kay?

Hmm, so what was I doing around ten years ago to the day?

Well, didn't get to bed until about four thirty in the morning and was definitely in a state of delirium after seeing Michael Portillo and numerous Tory lights being dimmed all around Britain.

On waking, I was still in a state of delirium. The Conservative Thousand Year Reich was over - in my lifetime!

Geoff was off work so we decided to go on a long walk, directions for which were in a book of Kent countryside rambles. It was a lovely day.

Both of us were in a state of delirium.

The instructions for the walk appeared to have been written by someone in an even more advanced state of delirium, which meant we got lost and we ended up getting back home late, tired, aching and grumpy.

Things were back to normal.

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An exclusive look ...

At the new Kate Moss collection ...

Available in the toilets at Top Shop branches throughout Britain from today.

A limit of three people in each cubicle at any time please.

Not to be sniffed at.

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