Friday 12 March 2010
It's a (Love)Rat Trap
Hmm, seems that, judging by this week's somewhat shock news, it shouldn't be Howard from Take That who I'm worrying about in my nocturnal hours...
Wednesday 10 March 2010
A celeb-packed nightlife
What's wrong with my subconscious? I only ask because lately, my dreams have been positively plagued by famous people. As was noted in my previous blog, I recently had a dream in which I was sharing a flat with Mark Kermode. Having lived on my own for over 3 years, it was slightly odd to be returning to what seemed very much like a student flatshare, but I woke up thinking, 'Aww, that was fun!' Then had a momentary worry about who was going to clear up after the party. And then a realisation that there was no party, and ergo no clearing up. It's a lot to pack in before 7.30am, is all I can say.
I then had a dream about Howard from Take That. Yeah, I know, Howard, the one who everyone forgets about. In the dream, I was standing about like a spare part next to various members of Take That at a party (this, at least, would be true, given my previous form when trying to converse with celebs), and then sharing a cab home with Howard because we lived near each other. Neither of us had said anything for ages, at which point I asked him if he was OK because I suddenly noticed he was looking a bit teary. He was worried that all the new TT success was going to go away and he’d be left back in the wilderness, so I started giving him career ideas, including being the new judge on X-Factor. I also cheered him up by putting my arm around him.
So, thus far, my subconscious is telling me I should go to a party, possibly accompanied by a man in drag, and be kind, supportive and give advice. Well, that's OK.
But then the other day I had a dream in which I had apparently told Steve Merchant (of The Office, Extras and other TV BAFTA-accumulating comedy projects) that he had a fat arse - I came in at the point where I was apologising profusely and he was gazing at me, aghast. I spent the rest of the day feeling a bit guilty for having been so rude, in the way you do when you've had such a vivid dream that you can't quite shake the feeling that it's actually happened.
The nocturnal version of me seems to have eclectic acquaintances, but also to be a bit of a liability, frankly. Still, it'll be interesting to see who turns up next. My money's on Stephen Hawking, whom I shall berate for not being interested enough in pop culture. I shall be shoving a copy of Heat in his face and offering to phone up and say that I've seen him wheeling his way through Westfield for the 'Spotted' column, in order to boost his popularity among the Twilight generation.
I then had a dream about Howard from Take That. Yeah, I know, Howard, the one who everyone forgets about. In the dream, I was standing about like a spare part next to various members of Take That at a party (this, at least, would be true, given my previous form when trying to converse with celebs), and then sharing a cab home with Howard because we lived near each other. Neither of us had said anything for ages, at which point I asked him if he was OK because I suddenly noticed he was looking a bit teary. He was worried that all the new TT success was going to go away and he’d be left back in the wilderness, so I started giving him career ideas, including being the new judge on X-Factor. I also cheered him up by putting my arm around him.
So, thus far, my subconscious is telling me I should go to a party, possibly accompanied by a man in drag, and be kind, supportive and give advice. Well, that's OK.
But then the other day I had a dream in which I had apparently told Steve Merchant (of The Office, Extras and other TV BAFTA-accumulating comedy projects) that he had a fat arse - I came in at the point where I was apologising profusely and he was gazing at me, aghast. I spent the rest of the day feeling a bit guilty for having been so rude, in the way you do when you've had such a vivid dream that you can't quite shake the feeling that it's actually happened.
The nocturnal version of me seems to have eclectic acquaintances, but also to be a bit of a liability, frankly. Still, it'll be interesting to see who turns up next. My money's on Stephen Hawking, whom I shall berate for not being interested enough in pop culture. I shall be shoving a copy of Heat in his face and offering to phone up and say that I've seen him wheeling his way through Westfield for the 'Spotted' column, in order to boost his popularity among the Twilight generation.
Monday 8 March 2010
All bets are off
So here's the thing - I very rarely gamble. I don't really understand odds, as it's MATHS - I just scraped through an O-level, more by luck than judgement. Never ask me to split a bill; as my chum Luthfa will attest from a lunch outing on Friday, it leads to brain-bursting levels of frustration as I try to add, take away and divide. Really, I'd be safer playing with plutonium than numbers. I'm also too mean to offload the money into someone else's pockets - apart from my weekly travails with the lottery, which I look on not so much as 'gambling' as 'giving my money to good causes and the arts every Saturday'. I am also lacking in luck - I've so far been greyhound racing twice and succeeded in not winning a single penny on either occasion. There are only 6 dogs per race! How is that even statistically possible? (Maths fans - that's not a question you need answer).
My one moment of gambling glory was when a load of friends and I went to Ascot a few years back. I seemed to be the only person in the group who even knew what an each way bet meant. I posited an idea that we should pool our cash and put an each way bet on three horses with good form (blank looks all round) - the theory being that said horses would come in first, second and third, and we would be millionaires. I said this with great authority, so everyone agreed, handed me their money and left it to me to choose three suitable equines topped with small, silk-clad men. We then watched, with mounting excitement, as the field turned the final bend. I went almost doolally with excitement as my trio came romping home to victory. I was shrieking like a banshee. The others all congratulated me - this is, after all, what I said would happen. I wanted them to be more over-excitable - the result was, after all, highly unlikely. Which I then went on to prove as I tried to replicate our results for the rest of the afternoon with diminishing success.
Anyway, this is all by the by. For this weekend, I decided that I would place a bet. And I was going to win big. I placed this bet because of Mark Kermode, whom I have both worshipped and adored for many a long year (a friend told me he'd summed up Avatar as 'Dances With Smurfs', which made my year). And he has recently figured in my world a disproportionate amount, such that I felt that perhaps the universe was telling me something. Let's examine the evidence:
1/ A while back, I found myself standing next to Mr Kermode on a tube platform. He was examining the tube map in a way that suggested he was confused as to how to get to his destination. I contemplated offering assistance, then bottled it for fear that I'd just shout, 'OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU I THINK YOU'RE BRILLIANT, CAN I HELP YOU OR MAYBE MARRY YOU?'
2/ I read his book, which is utterly fabulous and if you haven't read it, then leave off reading this and go and order a copy from Amazon. If his verdict on Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia doesn't make you spit out your tea with glee, then I don't think we should be friends any more.
3/ I had a dream in which he and I were sharing a flat. We were having a party, and he was in full drag. It wasn’t a fancy dress party, he just fancied wearing a dress. I was, however, fine about it.
4/ I saw him not long ago by the lifts in our building. He stared right at me. I like to think we shared a moment.
His publicist says he is lovely and adores his wife. Which gladdens my heart, but probably means we won't be sharing a flat and having a random drag party, which is a shame.
Anyway, I was catching up with Mr K's reviews on the 5Live site, and came across his predictions for the Oscars. He told a very funny story about how he'd had a bet one year, and had successfully predicted all the major categories and was chuffed with the results. Then someone on the radio show said, 'You put on an accumulator bet, right?' To which the answer was, 'No, I don't know what that is'. Listeners spent the rest of the show emailing and phoning in to tell him how much he could have won. Which he took as God's way of telling him he shouldn't bet.
As this year's winners seemed totally sewn up, I decided that I would put a bet on in his honour. One of his video blogs told me who would win. I bravely went into Ladbroke's yesterday, with a friend. (Me: 'Hello! Do you do bets on the Oscars?' Two gormless young lads behind the glass: 'Um, I dunno, do we?' Oh God, this was going to take a while...) I filled out a tiny piece of paper with an even tinier biro (what is it with bookies and undersized pens?) I bellowed the word 'accumulator'. Odds were scribbled on the scrap. Ooh, this was EXCITING. 'Are you sure about Avatar for best movie?' asked my friend Mel, 'the odds on that are rubbish.' 'Yes!' I shrieked, 'Mark Kermode says Hollywood are MAD FOR MONEY and that film's made more money than practically anything else ever invented! I'm more sure about that than about any of the others.'
I went home, secure in the knowledge that Mark Kermode is a visionary genius and I was going to be rich as Croesus.
Those of you who have seen the news will know that whilst I couldn't be happier for Kathryn Bigelow in a feminist sense - and is it just me who thinks that in quite a few pictures she looks like Elizabeth Hurley's unBotoxed Dorian Grey portrait? - from a pecuniary viewpoint, I am very, very narked. I am choosing, however, to believe it was the new '10 runners and riders for best film' Oscars system that is at fault, rather than Mark Kermode. Or perhaps it is the universe's way of telling me that I shouldn't bet either.
My one moment of gambling glory was when a load of friends and I went to Ascot a few years back. I seemed to be the only person in the group who even knew what an each way bet meant. I posited an idea that we should pool our cash and put an each way bet on three horses with good form (blank looks all round) - the theory being that said horses would come in first, second and third, and we would be millionaires. I said this with great authority, so everyone agreed, handed me their money and left it to me to choose three suitable equines topped with small, silk-clad men. We then watched, with mounting excitement, as the field turned the final bend. I went almost doolally with excitement as my trio came romping home to victory. I was shrieking like a banshee. The others all congratulated me - this is, after all, what I said would happen. I wanted them to be more over-excitable - the result was, after all, highly unlikely. Which I then went on to prove as I tried to replicate our results for the rest of the afternoon with diminishing success.
Anyway, this is all by the by. For this weekend, I decided that I would place a bet. And I was going to win big. I placed this bet because of Mark Kermode, whom I have both worshipped and adored for many a long year (a friend told me he'd summed up Avatar as 'Dances With Smurfs', which made my year). And he has recently figured in my world a disproportionate amount, such that I felt that perhaps the universe was telling me something. Let's examine the evidence:
1/ A while back, I found myself standing next to Mr Kermode on a tube platform. He was examining the tube map in a way that suggested he was confused as to how to get to his destination. I contemplated offering assistance, then bottled it for fear that I'd just shout, 'OH MY GOD I LOVE YOU I THINK YOU'RE BRILLIANT, CAN I HELP YOU OR MAYBE MARRY YOU?'
2/ I read his book, which is utterly fabulous and if you haven't read it, then leave off reading this and go and order a copy from Amazon. If his verdict on Pierce Brosnan in Mamma Mia doesn't make you spit out your tea with glee, then I don't think we should be friends any more.
3/ I had a dream in which he and I were sharing a flat. We were having a party, and he was in full drag. It wasn’t a fancy dress party, he just fancied wearing a dress. I was, however, fine about it.
4/ I saw him not long ago by the lifts in our building. He stared right at me. I like to think we shared a moment.
His publicist says he is lovely and adores his wife. Which gladdens my heart, but probably means we won't be sharing a flat and having a random drag party, which is a shame.
Anyway, I was catching up with Mr K's reviews on the 5Live site, and came across his predictions for the Oscars. He told a very funny story about how he'd had a bet one year, and had successfully predicted all the major categories and was chuffed with the results. Then someone on the radio show said, 'You put on an accumulator bet, right?' To which the answer was, 'No, I don't know what that is'. Listeners spent the rest of the show emailing and phoning in to tell him how much he could have won. Which he took as God's way of telling him he shouldn't bet.
As this year's winners seemed totally sewn up, I decided that I would put a bet on in his honour. One of his video blogs told me who would win. I bravely went into Ladbroke's yesterday, with a friend. (Me: 'Hello! Do you do bets on the Oscars?' Two gormless young lads behind the glass: 'Um, I dunno, do we?' Oh God, this was going to take a while...) I filled out a tiny piece of paper with an even tinier biro (what is it with bookies and undersized pens?) I bellowed the word 'accumulator'. Odds were scribbled on the scrap. Ooh, this was EXCITING. 'Are you sure about Avatar for best movie?' asked my friend Mel, 'the odds on that are rubbish.' 'Yes!' I shrieked, 'Mark Kermode says Hollywood are MAD FOR MONEY and that film's made more money than practically anything else ever invented! I'm more sure about that than about any of the others.'
I went home, secure in the knowledge that Mark Kermode is a visionary genius and I was going to be rich as Croesus.
Those of you who have seen the news will know that whilst I couldn't be happier for Kathryn Bigelow in a feminist sense - and is it just me who thinks that in quite a few pictures she looks like Elizabeth Hurley's unBotoxed Dorian Grey portrait? - from a pecuniary viewpoint, I am very, very narked. I am choosing, however, to believe it was the new '10 runners and riders for best film' Oscars system that is at fault, rather than Mark Kermode. Or perhaps it is the universe's way of telling me that I shouldn't bet either.
Quote of the day
Me (emailing my friend Dan): God, I’m really bored. I want a year off, I’ve decided. Shall I go and find myself in India?
Dan: What if it turns out you're not there?
Dan: What if it turns out you're not there?
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