Thursday, January 31, 2008


I thought this blogging malaise was a symptom of the usual January blues, but it's just going on and on.

It's not even just a problem with finding things to post about, which is bad enough.  

I find it difficult to leave comments on other blogs, which means people probably think I'm a stuck up bitch, but in reality every time I visit other comments boxes I'm suddenly overcome with inertia and can't think of anything to write.

Still, at least this means that my awful, dad-like Norman Wisdom/Robbie Williams puns are not lowering the tone of other sites among all the sophisticated exchanges about Web 2.0, Zizek, fusion cuisine and the impending recession.  

I even seem to be ignoring my regulars, let alone the famous, glamorous, winsome bloggers who are now writers with modelling contracts for Marc Jacobs and Paul Smith, or those frighteningly cool bloggers who I'm normally so in awe of that I very rarely converse with them in the comments box, if ever.

So, basically, after a few minutes of looking through new blog posts in the morning I come over all fey, dizzy and in need of a lie down on the chaise longue and with a desire to be fed grapes by a Roman slave. 

All I can do is apologise to you.  

Please, have a heart for someone who is obviously sick, sick, sick.

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Saturday, January 26, 2008


I have been collared by Doppelganger to list Ten Songs That No Man Who Can Call Himself A Man Would Hide Anywhere In His Record Collection.

Kid Shirt, Dom Zero and Sir Anthony Eden have all been in the confession box, so now it's my turn. In that company, I feel like a confused auntie who has turned up at a Throbbing Gristle aftershow party. Help.

Once I got into thinking about it, I ended up with more than ten songs. That's what happens, I suppose, when you start confessing. Suddenly, people start looking at their shoes, coughing politely and muttering "too much information" under their breaths.

Here goes ...

Oh My God - The Kaiser Chiefs (oh my gaaahd, the shame, the shame. I thought I'd kick off with the most embarrassing one first).

Forever And Ever - Demis Roussos (The Roussos Phenomenon! Of course, it is perfectly alright to love and worship Aphrodite's Child, whose music is as mad as f*ck).

Step Inside Love - Cilla Black

Conversations - Cilla Black (is Cilla a real guilty pleasure? I'm not sure. Still ...).

Fade To Grey - Visage

Vienna - Ultravox (I can see a prototype New Romantic pattern emerging here ...).

Can U Dig It? - Mock Turtles

Dragging Me Down - Inspiral Carpets (Gulp. I can see a medieval haircut, second division Madchester pattern emerging here ...).

King Rocker - Generation X (when Billy was still quite fanciable, hem hem hem, and before he buggered off to the US. See also - Valley Of The Dolls. That one is pretty good too).

Never Ending Song Of Love - New Seekers (feat. dreamy eyed Marty Kristian. The first single my parents bought for me. Beg, Steal Or Borrow, with its pseudo-George Harrison guitar bits, is quite good too).

Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley (the singing teaboy whose big, hollow voice evoked the ghosts of the Delta blues singers).

Wishing (If I Had A Photograph Of You) - A Flock Of Seagulls ("gee! I, like, rilly seriously lerve English alternative music! Psychedelic Furs! Bauhaus! Those guys are way cute! I'm trying to, like, get my bangs to go like Susanah Hoffs! She is, like, way cool!!!!" etc.).

Mad World - Tears For Fears ("gee, I, like, rilly seriously lerve English alternative music!")
(HELP! Save us from Glenda!).

Rat Trap - The Boomtown Rats (right, that's enough confessional stuff. I should feel purged but I just feel dirty, cheap and in need of a stiff drink, even though it's Saturday morning).

Okay, I won't tag anybody but if you fancy having a go at this, be my guest. Your reputation will be ruined forever, but ...

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Tuesday, January 22, 2008


Here is an interview conducted by some bloke who writes for the Nottingham Evening Post with singer Alison Moyet (she was the original Adele, for any younger people who may be reading).

It seems that Alison is among a plethora of famous people who have caught the blogging bug. She writes in what I would describe as The Ray Winstone In A Historical Drama Set In The Streets Of Early 19th Century London style. Here is an excerpt from one of her posts:

"... and verily, I did purchase a jumper from an establishment in Bermondsey. It did please me due to the visual aspect, and I was well happy. Alas, after the first wearing I did handwash it in cold water, as was advised on the label of said garment, whereupon it did shrink and become misshapen. Forsooth, I was not best pleased, and did tear the said garment to shreds".

Blimey! Everyone's getting in on the act these days, aren't they? I mean, the wonderful No Rock And Roll Fun advises us that James Blunt's Christmas Diary has formed the basis of an article in this month's Observer Music Monthly.

Blounty is my favourite poshoe rocker - even better than Prince William, whose attempts to *drop* some *bashment* *joints* (as they say nowadays) on Rob Da Bank's Radio One show ended in disaster after he started MC-ing in a cringeworthy Lenny Henry-style patois over a Maxi Priest track. I ask you!

Anyway, with his scintillating description of staying on a tourbus, and the fondue set apres-ski set   (????), it looks as if The Blounster could have a future as an A-list blogger to rank with his A-list music status! Come on Blounty! Get that Blogger account!

Of course, his dad has already contributed to the Utility Room's archives here.

I'll do anything to plug old posts.

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Saturday, January 19, 2008


I dunno, every time I switch on the TV these days there seems to be a cookery programme on.

I've genuinely never understood the appeal of cookery programmes, but then I've never really understood the appeal of cooking.

I don't do cooking. As I think I've said before, from the age of eight my mother was ill more or less most of the time, so I didn't learn anything beyond the basics in cookery. My domestic science teacher assured me that I'd *need* to learn how to bake cakes and prepare a roast for a family of twenty. She probably felt that it was a crime that my mother hadn't taught me these important facts, from her sickbed, so that I could grow up to be a real and fulfilled woman.

Anyway, her illness also meant that I had to endure the results of my dad's culinary skills. My dad was only good at two things: DIY and shouting at people. Hence I learned that mealtimes were almost as unpleasant as the school day I'd just put behind me. Watery, crunchy potatoes, salty black gravy and overboiled tinned peas were my dad's speciality.

I suppose I grew up thinking that any food that was vaguely edible was a treat. I marvel at the fact that I can actually, say, steam beans and new potatoes, and it's dead easy, and they don't taste like something from a Dickensian workhouse. My dad's meals have cast a long, long shadow. Bleurh.

I still don't cook anything from a recipe. I look at that long list of ingredients and a mist forms over my eyes. There's too much EFFORT involved.

I don't have the modern fetish for cooking everything from scratch, either. You want to spend two hours preparing a meal that you'll eat in five minutes? Fair enough. You genuinely think that eating fresh ingredients will make you live longer? Go ahead. I don't want to live until I'm a hundred.

Anyway, er ... cookery programmes and their presenters.

Gordon Ramsay? A bullying c*nt. Other bullying c*nts tend to say "you know, he talks a lot of sense" about people like him, so I can see why he's popular.

Nigella Lawson I can see the appeal of in a lesbian fantasy way, ahem. Yummers.

Of course I have to reserve the most bile for Jamie Oliver. I could just about cope with him as the gurning loveable Toploader moptop mockney with a scooter, but I hate the reborn Crusading Responsible Husband And Father Of Two Jamie.

As ene fule knoe, children should be crammed with E numbers and sugary drinks to the point where they go insane, and kittens should be battery farmed, just to annoy Jamie.

The only satisfaction that I get from seeing him on TV is from the knowledge that in ten years time he is going to look exactly like Michael Winner.

Happy days, geezer.

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Wednesday, January 16, 2008


My favourite bit of preposterous celebrity gossip from this week: Britney Spears will convert to Islam and will move to Birmingham (West Midlands rather than Alabama).

Britney: "Worro cocker, worrer we eatin' when we get back wumm? Faggits and grey pays?! Yoam jokin' aye yer, ah wuddn't guh near that stooff with a barge pole! It's fukkin' *Toxic* air kid! Car we stop off at the 'alal meat plehsse?"

... oh, and here is some more Brummie "comedy". Ah looooooove yah! Unfortunately, couldn't find the song Car 67 on YouTube to do a "compare and contrast", so this alone will have to do.

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Saturday, January 12, 2008


For the past four weeks, when we've done the weekly big shop in the supermarket and we've been about to head back to the car park with the trolley, we've seen a woman kneeling on the floor in exactly the same spot arranging stuff into carrier bags.

She bears an uncanny resemblance to Griff Rhys Jones.

Are we destined to live through our own Groundhog Day, forever and ever?

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Wednesday, January 09, 2008


Feeling out of sorts with blogging at the moment, as I tend to do every so often, so apologies for the lack of *pithy*, *witty* comments on other blogs, and Happy! New! Year! to anyone out there who I haven't said Happy! New! Year! to yet. Will that do?

One of the things I hate about January is the amount of Positive Bollocks that is foisted on us which tends to make the cynics among us feel guilty. All of those messages encouraging us to turn our lives around, have a satisfying new career, and generally "make things happen" keep being replayed until even the unambitious and chronically useless among us start to feel that there rilly is a chance we can have a rewarding life. Our dreams rilly can come true, apparently!

Hmm, the only dreams that I have that recur are the one about having to do my maths O-level exam without having done any revision, and the one where I get lost walking around a coastal Mediterranean town. Don't rilly want to make them come true.

Hopefully, all of the Positive Bollocksists will disappear again once February is here. I mean, I even saw one of those dreadful smug blonde Positive Bollocksist women on telly this morning who came out with the cliched advice to "ignore the opinions of negative people who always criticise others. The only reason they criticise others is because they have a very low opinion of themselves and it makes them feel better about their own insecurities". That old chestnut.

My advice as a Negative Bollocksist is to ignore the opinions of self satisfied patronising airheads who really should move to California where they'll feel more at home.

After all, there's nothing guaranteed to make you feel worse about yourself than being told that you should feel better about yourself, is there?

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Tuesday, January 01, 2008


Some things I'd like to see eliminated from the face of the earth in 2008.


Brats wearing heelies knocking you over in shopping malls.

Patronising five minute features about *the whole blogging/Facebook/MySpace phenomenon* on Radio Four or Radio Five Live.

Fourteen year old hobgoblins driving around towns at 80 mph after sunset and crashing into walls.

Reality TV shows where some Z-list celebrity tells you that they've been "on a journey" because they've had to spend four days in a kitchen with Gordon Ramsay, Jeremy Edwards and Jennifer Ellison. Fuck right off.

Formerly decent pubs being refurbished and made *child friendly*. Surely there has to be SOME refuge from children, somewhere in the world??? Pleeeease???

Steven and Alex Gerrard. I mean, their house was burgled recently, which made me annoyed about the fact that I should feel guilty about hating them, which made me hate them even more!

The woman with the horse dentures doing voice overs on three-for-two offers in Boots.

Danielle Lloyd.

The inability to buy anything but trainers, phones and toys in any reasonably large town centre.

People who include the words ch*v or p*key in their vocabulary. It's not big, clever or funny.


... and finally ...

Winehouse (24) and Blake, Fielder, Civil, Winehouse's distraught taxi driver dad (54), Blake, Fielder, Civil's distraught mum Georgette (49), Winehouse's heroin problem, Winehouse's eating disorder, Winehouse's bleeding toes, Winehouse's arguments with Blake, Fielder, Civil (24), Blake, Fielder, Civil being slung in the nick, Winehouse dedicating songs onstage to Blake, Fielder, Civil, Winehouse spiralling out of control, Winehouse being the most talented performer in the history of the world ever, no, really, even better than Aretha Franklin or Nina Simone or Marvin Gaye, no, honestly, Winehouse tragically losing out to The Klaxons at the Mercury Awards, Blake, Fielder, Civil taking acting lessons in the nick, Winehouse popping out to Spar to get some ice lollies and a copy of the TV Quick ....





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