Don’t make those Minimise Eyes at me!

I’ve been trying to come up with a term to describe that particular wide-eyed look of false innocence that co-workers flash at you when you approach their desks. It also tries to say: look how cheerfully I am dealing with your unexpected interruption, even though I was just in the middle of a particularly difficult task.

Of course - as you well know - this is actually a hopelessly transparent attempt to cover up the fact that they were happily pissing about on the Internet until you showed up. There is always something just a little bit too innocent, and just a little bit too cheerful about that look. The underlying guilt can’t help but seep out. And you weren’t born yesterday, either.

So, what to call this look? I’m thinking of calling it Minimise Eyes, in tribute to the action which immediately precedes it. Any other suggestions?

Celebrity blogging.

Jonathan reports back from Madonna’s debut on the West End stage, in the comedy Up For Grabs.

Meanwhile, Chig tries to convince top boyband A1 that they need a fifth member, whilst simultaneously schmoozing with Jessica and Korben from Pop Idol. I don't know, that boy is such a starf*cker...

Incidentally, Chig is hoping to be blogging from Tallinn during the coming week, as he once again has press accreditation for this year’s Eurovision. We’re hoping for the full lowdown from all the rehearsals, press conferences and parties, starting from Monday. It all depends on how easily he can get his hands on a computer over there…

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box – Item 14.
Nick Cave - Disco 2000 (2002)

This slipped out very quietly a few weeks ago, as an extra track on Pulp's "Bad Cover Version" single. It sounds more or less exactly as you would expect it to sound, i.e. dark, brooding, melodic and quite lovely.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

No time, no time at all. Bad diva. When exactly did my dinky little job mutate into a "career", anyway? And why wasn't I consulted?

This office has been positively crawling with clients this week, as well. You know how it is.

Add this to three nights out on the trot (a play, a gig and a meal), and a mild case of Blogger's Block (BlogBlock?). Result - no content, no content at all.

I have plenty lined up for you, though. We'll be coining a new behavioural term, we'll be giving all those Travis Fimmel Googlers something to think about, and we'll be talking about clitorises. Or is that clitori?

Back soonish.

K (ominously) - Hey, what were you up to late last night?

Me (defensively) - Nothing. Why?

K – Well, when I came downstairs this morning, I noticed you had closed the curtains in the study.

Me – Yeah, and?

K – Well, you never close the curtains in the study. What were you doing that was so secretive? Were you having a w@nk in front of the computer or something?

Me – God, no. If I was having a w@nk, then I wouldn’t have bothered closing the curtains. Give them all a bit of a show, you know what I mean?

K – Yeah, that would be typical. So come on – out with it. What were you up to?

Me (groaning) – Oh, it was far worse than that. Far, far worse.

K – Go on…

Me – I was…I was…I was dancing. Dancing on my own, to my new Eurovision mix CDs.

K (triumphantly) – You sad bastard!

Me (quietly) – I know, I know…

As I said before: sometimes our conversations are pure sitcom.

Have you visited Hydragenic recently? If not, then I really think you should. Because Hydragenic is quite possibly the best weblog in the whole world. Ever.

Hydragenic is the blog you can trust.

Hydragenic is the smart choice of a new generation.

Hydragenic sets new standards in blogging, which other weblogs can only dream of achieving.

In fact, Hydragenic is very the future of blogging itself.

Yes, I am easily bought. Probity be damned!

A couple of "blogging about blogging" pieces for you. Click on the quote to be magically transported to the entire article.

From Peter (that's Naked Blog Peter, not Secret Kings Peter) :A tad overstated, you say? Arguably - but striking none the less, and I think I know what he's getting at.

And from the prolific, consistently interesting and highly recommended Sashinka, at the end of a disturbing little tale of recently breached privacy:

Oh God, I'm slowly developing jowls. The horror!
[adopts Dame Edith Evans voice]
I used to be a great beauty in my day, I'll have you know...

Considering that Eurovision is now less than two weeks away, I think I have been remarkably restrained so far this year. Normally by this time, this year’s songs would be on heavy rotation in my Discman, and I would be devouring every last little snippet of information via the fan sites and the mailing lists. So consider yourselves spared.

I have deliberately taken a more laid back approach to the proceedings this year. Over-familiarity can breed – well, maybe not contempt (the very idea!), but let’s face it: there aren’t exactly any hidden depths to be plumbed here.

So, at this comparatively late stage, I am only just beginning to rev up. I have started playing the songs again, after a long gap, and am beginning to form a few tentative opinions.

My initial wild enthusiasm for the Finnish entry has abated somewhat, although I have invented a nifty little set of hand movements to accompany the chorus. (“If you were a drug, I’d be addicted to you.”) Puff, puff, swallow, swallow, snort, snort, jab, jab. All in time to the music. I wish I could show you, then we could all do it together.

A lot of people seem to think that Belgium’s Tom Jones soundalike pub singer is in with a big chance this year. I think this is largely based on the fact that for the last couple of years, the contest has been won by chunky, sweaty, strangely loveable geezers who are no longer in the first flush of youth. My view is that these patterns have a habit of being broken fairly quickly, and that the song is nowhere near good enough.

My money would currently go on Germany’s I Can’t Live Without Music. It’s a big, ballsy, Bassey-esque belter of a tune, with a fag-friendly disco beat, and a singer (Corinna May) who has been blind since birth. This song, we are told, “describes her philosophy of life”. Drawn 18th out of the 24, it is perfectly positioned to clean up on the night.

I spent most of last night updating and reworking my now legendary annual “Eurovision Disco Party” double mix CD, to include the pick of this year’s tunes (as always, using dance remix versions wherever possible). Of course, the only way to check these things work properly is to road test them in situ, and so I had a jolly old time flinging myself round the study, mouthing the words and dancing in the sort of “expressive” way that you only do when no-one is watching. Nirvana through shallowness, indeed!

When I started reading the long awaited Chapter 5 of the Naked Novel, I was perplexed. All the characters – and there are quite a lot of them – were brand new. Was this actually part of the same novel, I wondered?

By the end of the chapter, everything had become clear. Jeeem has thrown a massive curve ball into the narrative – no, make that a boomerang. For eventually, the plot curves back into familiar territory, and you realise what he has been up to all along. He has deftly advanced the plot by way of an unexpected interlude, which sets things up for the author of Chapter 6 in an intriguing, suspenseful way.

Jeeem has also introduced an exciting little time bomb into the story – a dramatic coincidence which has not yet been recognised by any of the protagonists. Clever stuff. I’m all excited again now.

Bucolic bliss - it just can't be beat. After the punishment we inflicted upon ourselves over the Bank Holiday weekend (a whole heap of fun at the time, but we didn't feel properly recovered until the end of the week), it was a relief to turn our backs on the tempting hotspots and fleshpots of Nottingham, and to Get Ourselves Back To The Garden - complete with cute fluffy ickle baa-lambs gambolling in the field opposite the cottage. We really do lead the most bizarrely schizophrenic existence these days.

Oh, but doesn't village life automatically consign you to a cultural desert? Well, no. In the village church last night, a packed house enjoyed a stunning concert of unaccompanied choral music from the Soloists Of Saint Petersburg, who are currently in the middle of a two month tour round the UK. The music was almost entirely Russian in origin, with the first half dedicated to sacred music, and the second half to arrangements of folk songs (including my old favourite Kalinka, which I have sung myself at a concert in Kiev, almost exactly twenty years ago). The six singers (three male, three female) were of world class standard, blending technical accomplishment with character and passion. In particular, the bass soloist had a voice which seemed to rumble from the very bowels of the earth.

The soloists arranged much of their UK tour simply by contacting various churches through their websites and asking whether they could come and perform. With the best part of a lifetime's rigorous, dedicated training behind each one of them, their economic worth in their native country is now quite insultingly low. You had to admire their determination as well as their skill. World class performers, just down the road in our ordinary little village church - a rare privilege indeed.

The evening before, we travelled two miles away to Tissington to look at this year's well dressings. Never having seen such things before, I was expecting a few ribbons and a couple of bunches of flowers round each well. Far from it. The six wells in the village were completely transformed, with elaborate constructions of wood, clay and flower petals depicting biblical scenes, Disney characters, and of course our own dear Betty Windsor on the occasion of her Golden Jubilee (Gawd bless yer, ma'am!). My jaw dropped - repeatedly. This was true folk art, of the highest order of accomplishment.

Want to know how it's done? Well, here's how.

The new Felix Da Housecat Excursions mix CD is great. But if I hear that bloody refrain from Silver Screen - Shower Sceneone more time, on one more CD compilation, then I'll - I'll - well, I don't know what I'll do. But it won't be pretty, and you'll all be very sorry.

It's tough being a Eurovision fan in the UK. Unlike in the rest of Europe, where the contest is given the respect it deserves, we British Eurovision fans are a beleagured minority, mocked at every turn.

It's particularly tough being a Eurovision fan when one's own boyfriend loathes and despises the event, and everything it stands for. One's own boyfriend being an impeccably high-minded connoisseur of serious music: Steve Reich, Morton Feldman, Arvo Pärt and the like.

It is therefore immensely cheering to read the following news snippet on the official Estonian Eurovision site:STOP PRESS: This just in from the aforementioned high-minded boyfriend: