Elisabeth's right (see her comment on the next post down). It's hilarious, it's silly, it's even a little bit camp - it's a game, ferchrissakes.

Okay, so let's have some fun with this.

I'm throwing it open to you lot. [adopts Geordie accent] You decide!

If you think I should enter Troubled Diva into the Guardian "Best Weblog" competition, then leave the word YES in the comment box below.

If you think I should steer well clear of such pernicious frippery, then leave the word NO in the comment box below.

If you are currently shaking your head, and thinking "But this is Mike's decision, not mine", then you are in danger of missing the point. I'm doing this for a laugh! Come on, make your choice!

If you are still shaking your head, and thinking "But I don't care!", then you are an eminently sensible person with an entirely rational perspective on the whole daft shebang. But I would still like you to vote, please.

I shall tot up the votes on Monday evening, and will abide by the majority decision. In the event of a tie, I'll just hang on until someone posts a casting vote one way or the other.

No repeat voting. I can tell!

You can vote anonymously - though I'd prefer some sort of imaginative pseudonym, rather than just "anon".

Yes, I know I am being very, very silly indeed. And your point is?

Vote now!

P.S. If I should win (which so isn't going to happen), I shall dispose of the moolah in some imaginative and unexpected way.

Next week on Troubled Diva: What cereal should Mike have for breakfast? Which checked shirt should Mike wear to work? Can Mike go to the toilet, please? Yay! Democracy!

That Guardian “Best Weblog” Competition – A Socratic Dialogue. Of sorts.

I don’t see what the big deal is here.

Well sure – in the grand scale of things, it isn’t a big deal. Just a daft little competition, with a grand’s worth of prize money at the end of it.

And yet some people are getting so worked up about it…

I know, I know. Storm in a teacup, right? The longer my sojourn in Blogland, the more I realise that it can be an awfully inward-looking, self-referential place to dwell.

Indeed. Oh, hang on – this is no good. We’re reaching consensus far too quickly here. This was supposed to be a Socratic Dialogue, wasn’t it? With me arguing one way, and you arguing the other, in the hope of achieving some sort of enlightenment?

Oh yeah. Well, you go first.

Thank you. OK, so what’s the problem here? The competition will help raise the profile of UK weblogs, stimulating increased interest from the non-blogging world. And it will be fun. And someone will win a thousand quid. And it might be you. So stop fannying around, and stick your name down for it.

But I don’t want to win a thousand quid.

Why not? Are you mad?

No, but I’m comfortably off, thanks. You know, second home in the country and all that. You have been reading me, haven’t you?

Er…yes. Of course I have. Religiously, since day one. Every word. You set the agenda for my day. When I’m reading you, I find that my consciousness somehow melds into yours. Why, sometimes I just want to be you.

You’re scaring me now. I’m sorry I asked.

Hey, you wanted readers – now you got ‘em. Deal.

Can we get back to the point? I don’t need the money. I would feel funny about winning it. What’s more, I don’t think I could handle the stigma of winning.

Graybo said that yesterday. At least try and be original. What do you mean, “stigma”? It would be an honour, wouldn’t it?

Well, no. It would be an arbitrary decision, made by a bunch of strangers, most of which have no connection with weblogging culture…

“Weblogging culture?” Oh, please. Get over yourself!

Don’t interrupt. Look, who are these judges? How will they be judging, and using what criteria?

It says quite clearly in the rules, doesn’t it? They will carefully read every submitted entry…

It’s my turn to interrupt. How will they read them? Will they just go in, take one look around and come out again? That’s not how you’re supposed to read weblogs! You’re supposed to develop a relationship with them, over time. That’s the whole point. You come back at regular intervals, monitoring the progress of the weblogger in question, getting to know them, maybe dipping into their archives for a bit of background, maybe leaving some comments and initiating a dialogue. It’s a gradual, iterative, interactive process. It’s not like reading a book.

Can I continue now? They will read every entry and will judge them on the following criteria…

I know, I know. The design, the quality and personality of the writing, and the originality of the links. Notice how “design” comes first? How superficial is that?

Ah, come on. Cheap point, and you’re reading too much into one sentence. Anyway, design is important.

Only for those who choose to make it important. Yeah, I like a good site design – but some of my favourite blogs are just bog standard Blogger templates, and they still rock. It’s the writing which matters.

OK, so let’s talk about the writing. You’re a good writer…

Oh, stop it. You’re embarrassing me.

Well, you are. When you can be bothered, that is. I mean, some of the pop gossip you insist on indulging in drives me to distraction, quite frankly…

Oy! I write about what I like! This is my personal site. If I want to be shallow, then I have every…

Whatever. We’re drifting again. Look, you don’t have to be part of some precious “weblogging community” to judge good writing. Good writing stands or falls on its own merits.

Yeah, but I don’t want my writing to be judged comparatively against other people’s. Besides which, a lot of the stuff on this site is highly personal. It doesn’t feel right that somebody should be taking my life and evaluating it in that way. It’s not like books, or journalism, or poetry. There’s far less of a distance between the blogger and the blog. They wouldn’t just be judging my writing – they would be judging me. The idea makes me feel vaguely queasy.

Goodness me, you’re even more sensitive than I thought you were. Well, what about the third criteria? “Originality of links?”

That’s the worst one of the lot. Where do I begin? Look – some weblogs are entirely based around links, maybe with a short piece of commentary attached. Other weblogs have almost no links at all. Some operate like directories of the web – others read like online diaries. Some of them mix the two up. Personally, I like the online diaries the best, with a few carefully selected links thrown into the stew. But how can you compare one with the other? It’s a false comparision.

That’s for the judges to worry about, not you. Like I said before – lighten up. It’s just a bit of fun.

Is it? Don’t you think that a lot of people are going to start taking the competition very seriously? Don’t you think that they’re going to start changing their style to suck up to the judges, and The Guardian in general?

Tom said that yesterday. Yeah – maybe, a little. But you’re making too big a deal about that, as if the whole existence of the competition is somehow going to corrupt the purity of the genre. The weblogs that are worth bothering with aren’t going to change their essence.

Oh, but what about when The Bloggies were being judged? “Vote for me!” God, the whole thing was sickening.

That’s just because nobody had heard of you, so you could never have been nominated yourself. You can be a bitter old queen at times, do you know that?

And you can be more than a little harsh. I thought you loved me!

Stop it. People will think we’re weird.

Let them think what they like. I will not be judged!

Clearly. But what about other people who might want to enter? Are you going to be all haughty and superior and pooh-poohing about them?

Of course not. It’s a personal decision. I wish them all the very best of luck.

Me too. Hey, look! Consensus!

A shaky consensus, if you ask me. Come on – let’s quit while we’re ahead. By the way, you haven’t told me what you think about my latest writing project, Stations Of The Diva…

It’s fabulous. Let’s do lunch. I know a little place…

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 31.
Class Action featuring Chris Wiltshire - Weekend (1983)

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 32.
Millie Jackson - Go Out And Get Some (Get It Out 'Cha System) (1978)

We might still be a day early, but here are two funny, sassy, feel-good songs which are guaranteed to get you in a weekend mood. If you're planning to go out on Friday or Saturday night - with your "best" undies on, an optimistic twinkle in your eye, and clean sheets on the bed back home - then these two are especially dedicated to you. Happy hunting, d'ya hear!

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!

Ha ha ha.

On the other hand: it might be patronising, it might be meaningless, it might be an irredeemably naff and altogether dodgy concept, but it's still a thousand quid...

Nope. Not doing it. Against the free and pioneering spirit of blah blah blah. Get thee behind me, Satan!

Sherwood Hall, University Of Nottingham. 1980-1981.
Unclassified

After my brief spell in the outside world of regular employment, residence hall immediately felt like a step backwards. For most of my fellow first-year students, who had never lived away from home before, this was an exciting new environment. For me, it felt like being back at school again – except this time, my study door had a lock on it.

Like so many teenage would-be intellectuals over the years, I had expected university to thrust me straight into the vanguard of progressive thought. Instead, it dropped me straight into a puddle of subsidised booze. In my imagination, I had anticipated earnest late-night discussions on literature, philosophy, politics and art. In reality, I found myself bopping around to Baggy Trousers and Enola Gay three times a week, minimum. It was an easy adjustment to make. I didn’t give it a second thought.

Eager to make friends, I cheerfully hooked up with anybody I happened to sit next to at dinner. Soon, I was part of a large - but fixed - circle of acquaintances, who did everything together. We quite happily referred to ourselves as “The Clique”, as we sat around in each other’s rooms over endless cups of coffee, or danced in a large circle at hall discos, or played croquet together on the quad, or organised expeditions into “town” for shopping, drinking, or gigs at the newly opened Rock City. Like the first couple of weeks of every series of Big Brother, residence hall life was fun, fun, fun – laughter, games and mucking around with my new circle of friends.

In the second term, I ditched the drab chain-store clothes, hennaed my hair and trendied myself up. As you do, in your first year at university. We were dabbling our little toes in the shallowest waters of the New Romantic Movement – that safest, most suburban youth cult of them all. It didn’t extend much beyond a touch of kohl round the eyes, hair dye, a floppy scarf or two, a long green mac and a second hand dinner suit – but at least it felt like an expression of “individuality” at the time.

I made the most of hall life, enjoying its easy cosiness while it lasted. It was a hermetically sealed bubble of still very innocent pleasures. After the rocky road of boarding school, I had been given a fresh start. I had consciously sought popularity, and had found it, and it felt entirely wonderful.

Jump to next station.

Labels: stations

The meagre fruits of yet another morning's idle clicking. My links may be second, third or fourth hand, but they're still worthy of investigation.

As always, hover your cursor over the links for more info. I introduced this as a site standard on all my postings some time ago, and you know that I'd hate for any of you to miss out...

she.speaks.good.english - save karyn - meaningless pissing contest - time travel fund - "confident but not arrogant", says TV's Tim - "comprende?"

You know what I hate? Posting an article - then coming back a few minutes later to proof read it on the site proper (as, for some strange reason, it's the only way that works for me) - making the final adjustments - then checking my stats - and then finding that some of my most loyal and valued readers have already visited me since I made the original posting.

I want to ring them all up. No, no, you were too early! I know all about that punctuation error, or that sentence that didn't quite flow properly, or that lame phrase that needing reworking. Come back! Read me again! Look, it's all better now! Don't judge me!

I should learn to let go, right?

Via Dave, the Infinite Wheel Dub Selector. Turn those speakers up, light up a big fat one, and mash it up one time with some interactive skanking, strictly inna rub-a-dub stylee. Sweet!

I'm not usually much of a one for gimmicky Flash game thingies, but this really is quality.

Pet Shop Boys, Nottingham Royal Concert Hall, July 16 2002.

Home And Dry

The first thought: Yes! One of my favourites!

This is a single that ranks right up there with Chris and Neil’s very best work. Earlier in the year, it was the first signal that the Pet Shop Boys were once again back on top form. The song also has a specific personal relevance which makes me all warm and gooey inside. A good way to start.

The second thought: Blimey, the sound’s a bit ropey tonight!

As with last month’s Brian Wilson concert at the same venue, the speakers had been mounted high above the stage, rather than resting on it in their normal position. Maybe this creates better sound for the people up in the circle and the gallery. However, on row F of the stalls, it made for a distant, echoey acoustic.

The main casualty of this was Neil Tennant’s singing voice, which was buried in reverb for most of the set. Although (as with Brian) the general acoustic improved as the night wore on, Tennant’s vocals never quite came into focus. A great shame, as I like his voice a lot. Others may find it thin and devoid of passion, but there’s something in his unique timbre that just resonates for me. I can’t explain what it is. It’s just – there, pure and simple.

The third thought: But I can’t see them!

After seeing them three times before from a much greater distance, I was looking forward to seeing Neil and Chris properly this time round. You know – in the flesh, whites of their eyes, wrinkles and all. Unfortunately, they had opted for a lighting rig at the back of the stage which largely pointed straight out into the audience, thus merely back-lighting the performers on stage. For the first couple of numbers, I could barely make out any facial expressions at all – indeed, the audience were better lit than the act. This did improve as the show went on, however.

Being Boring

My all time favourite PSB track, thankfully performed “straight” this time round, in contrast to the dancey remixed version from the Nightlife tour. Glorious, soaring, emotional stuff. There are four other musicians on stage besides Tennant & Lowe: two guitarists, a keyboardist and a live drummer. This more acoustic, soft-rock instrumentation suits the song very well indeed.

A Red Letter Day

Be still my beating heart! Is tonight’s set going to be composed entirely from my All Time PSB Top 20? Another subdued, midtempo arrangement, consistent in mood with the first two numbers – we are a million miles away from that wonderful, stonking Motiv8 remix which I used to love so much five years ago. A song as strong as this can be treated in any number of different ways, and still work.

I Get Along

The new single, out this week, supposedly inspired by the relationship between disgraced cabinet minister Peter Mandelson and our beloved leader, Tony Blair. How many of the audience even recognise this song? They’re largely an over-thirties, surprisingly staid bunch – even down the front, where we are – who have probably come along to hear all the old hits. This is selling quite well, as Pet Shop Boys singles go in this day and age, with decent radio airplay and a midweek chart position of #8. There’s life in them yet!

Love Comes Quickly

You know what? I was never that fussed about most of their early stuff, and this is a case in point. The audience cheer up visibly, mind you. Why, heads are beginning to nod, fingers are beginning to tap, and mouths are starting to, er, mouth. There’s life in them yet!

London

Uh-oh. First album track of the night. How will this play? It turns out to be a good ‘un, and is warmly received.

You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You’re Drunk

Somebody said: “Listen, don't you know what you're missing? You should be kissing him, instead of dissing him like a punk” - but you only tell me you love me when you're drunk.

Who else but the PSBs could get away with clunking rhymes like these, and still create such a great, great song? One of only two tracks from 1999’s disappointing Nightlife album, which says it all really.

Domino Dancing

Back in my DJ-ing days, and to my absolute amazement and horror, this song once cleared an entire dancefloor. Even though it was in the Top 20 at the time. I never spun it again, and have never been able to enjoy it properly since.

How ironic, then, that Domino Dancing is the song which gets the Nottingham audience up on its feet, bopping away with shy little smiles on their faces. Mmm, Pet Shop Boys, irony, not a dead concept after all then…

New York City Boy

The final example of what I now regard as the PSB’s “Gay With A Capital G” phase, which started so brilliantly with Go West a few years earlier. Although I loved it instantly at the time, it soon felt like one piece of tacky, rainbow-flagged campery too many, its initial appeal wearing off like stale poppers. Tonight, all that is forgotten – it’s a groovy little number to bop along to, especially since I have an empty seat to my right. More room to, um, express myself freely…

Always On My Mind

Oh, kill me now and I shall die happy! The venue is electric, the crowd are ecstatic, and I’m remembering the time this suddenly came on one Saturday night in Heaven, towards the end of my Mad-Fer-It Hardcore Clubbing Phase. E’d off my tits, I remember listening to the words as if for the first time, and thinking to myself, with a calm smile on my face: don’t worry, K. This is all behind me now. I am coming home. Disco redemption and all that. And you thought it was just a big fat party tune…?

Sexy Northerner

Classic B-side alert! They were selling Sexy Northerner T-shirts in the foyer, and I was going to buy one, despite not being a T-shirt person, except they were scarlet, and scarlet is just not my colour.

I really need to go for a pee now. Could we have another mood-killing mid-tempo album track, please? You know, just like you guys always do halfway through your sets? Please?

Where The Streets Have No Name (I Can’t Take My Eyes Off You)

No such luck. I bloody love this one. So does everybody else. Mass hysteria, and much finger pointing during the Boystown Gang sections. Whoop whoop!

Birthday Boy

Thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my heart, and the depths of my bladder.

West End Girls

Having sat down en masse for the last number, we are now all back on our feet. For me, it’s Christmas 1985 all over again – hearing this on the jukebox in the village pub, during one of my very last Christmas breaks en famille. Funny how little memories stick like that.

Love Is A Catastrophe

For this number, the black backdrop behind the stage is suddenly raised to its full height, and is illuminated up with thousands of tiny pinpoints of light. If they’re going to make us all sit through another recent album track so soon after the last one, then at least they’re going to reward us with pretty lighting.

All that trouble and expense, just for one song. It’s the only piece of extravagance on show here tonight, what with the bare stage set and soberly clad performers (Neil in black shirt and trousers, Chris in something completely anonymous). Pet Shop Boys Unplugged, or something.

Go West

A beautiful, slow, sparse, almost cabaret-like first verse, with the crowd still seated – then BAM! The hall erupts once again, with even more feeling. Yet more emphatic arm-waving and finger-pointing. Oh, I’m far too old to care…

The main set is over. What can we expect as an encore? I have to reluctantly concede that we may well never hear them perform What Have I Done To Deserve This? ever again. With Dusty gone, and after that beautiful tribute version on the last tour (with Miss Springfield duetting from beyond the grave, on a giant video backdrop), it just wouldn’t seem right.

And I bet they won’t play Heart, either. I happen to love Heart, but they never play it, not ever. It’s almost as if it never existed. I mean, it did get to Number One, you know? Have they forgotten that? Such a shame.

So, what’s it to be then?

Left To My Own Devices

Hooray! One of “my” PSB songs! In contrast to Domino Dancing, LTMOD always reminds me of possibly my greatest night as a DJ. The Thursday before Christmas 1988, and my “Fever” night was jam-packed and pumping like never before. It was the culmination of everything I had ever wanted the night to be. Everyone there was up for a major dance session, and the whole shebang flowed like a dream. There are three tunes which I always associate with this: Stop! by Erasure, A Day In The Life by Black Riot (a.k.a. Todd Terry), and this one. The full 12” mix. Ah, such sweet memories – like so many of the greatest PSB songs, which seem to have soundtracked almost my entire adult life.

It’s A Sin

No longer one of my favourites – a tad over-played over the years maybe? – but you couldn’t put on a PSB show and not play this one. A good, solid way to finish.

But there’s one more – and heavens! It’s an album track!

Here

Next to Home And Dry, this is my favourite song off the current album. Mellow, heart-warming and full of love. I smile one of my beatific smiles throughout, and leave happy.

Good show, boys. Good show!

Years and years and years ago, I remember watching an episode of Mork & Mindy, in which Mork was looking after a couple of kids for a few days. These kids longed for a certain sort of freedom, which was essentially to do whatever they wanted, rather than doing all the usual boring things which were supposed to be "good for them". To this end, lovable old Mork gave them a special dispensation to goof around all day, consuming as many crisps, chocolates and fizzy drinks as they liked. The kids trotted gleefully upstairs to their room – only to return a few hours later, feeling a little bit sick and a little bit fed up. Having gorged themselves on idle self-indulgence, they had discovered that it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

At which point, wise old Mork gave one of his annoyingly cutesy little smiles, and you realised that he had been teaching those kids a Valuable Life Lesson all along. Bleurgh. How did we ever tolerate Robin Williams, I wonder? When did we think he was a good idea? Were we all mad?

Anyway. The point is: this week, I’ll be danged if I don’t feel a bit like those goshdarned kids myself.

Have you ever been in the middle of a massive piece of work which is soaking up all your time and energy, and have you ever found yourself longing to be rid of it, free to do what you please all day? Well, of course you have – every single one of you, I should imagine.

Be careful what you wish for, kids…

Your Duty To Phone In Sick:

I can scarcely credit this. Someone has decided to visit every branch of Starbucks in North America, logging his progress on the web.

Now, I can understand obsessions when they are grounded in something intrinsically worthwhile. Following your favourite band on tour round the world. Viewing every work by your favourite painter. Collecting rollercoaster rides. Visiting every capital city. But collecting virtually identical temples of soulless corporate mediocrity, in order to drink indifferently prepared hot beverages? It’s a crazy, mixed-up world, I’m tellin’ ya!

In other news, prolonged lack of gainful employment is causing my brain to melt. There’s no work to do, but I still have to come into the office each day and look vaguely busy. I’m starting to think that even the hollow, repetitive, claustrophobic existence of the Big Brother house would be intellectually stimulating by comparison.

Oh, hark at me moaning on...

A Totally Subjective And Non-Definitive List Of Mike’s Twenty Favourite Recordings By The One, The Only, Ladies And Gentlemen I Give You – The Pet Shop Boys.

1. Being Boring
2. Go West
3. What Have I Done To Deserve This?
4. Home And Dry
5. Too Many People
6. So Hard
7. Se A Vida E (That’s The Way Life Is)
8. A Red Letter Day
9. Always On My Mind
10. It’s Alright
11. The Boy Who Couldn’t Keep His Clothes On
12. Heart
13. Can You Forgive Her?
14. Shameless
15. I Wouldn’t Normally Do This Kind Of Thing
16. Left To My Own Devices
17. Rent
18. The Truck Driver And His Mate
19. Sexy Northerner
20. West End Girls

Runners-up: Here, You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You’re Drunk, It’s A Sin, Where The Streets Have No Name (I Can’t Take My Eyes Off You).

Today's hot, you-read-it-here-FIRST Popbitch gossip:

1) The House Of Love are reforming, with vocalist Guy Chadwick and guitarist Terry Bickers already writing songs together. To some late 80s indie kids, this will seem like nothing less than the second coming. I have to say that I always thought that they were overrated, but that "She She She Shine On" thingy was quite a nice little tune...

2) The Fischerspooner hype - it's all over. Their re-issued debut album has sold a mere 348 copies, giving it a chart position of 111. With "Emerge" entering the charts at #25 last week, Ministry Of Sound may now be questioning their million pound investement. Never mind - I still like them. Scant comfort, I know...

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box - Item 30.
Special Mystery MP3!

Hurry, hurry, hurry! This is only going to be available for the next 24 hours or so. You'll all know the singer, you'll all know the song - but you will never have heard the singer do a song like this before, and you will never have heard this song done in this way before. The combination may be bizarre, but it is also quite fantastic.

Even if you don't normally download my MP3s, I strongly urge you to grab this one. You'll love it. Yes, even you...

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. This MP3 is 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!

Praise the Lord! The Pet Shop Boys are back on form!

Evidence:
1) The current album is ace.
2) They've started putting out consistently great B-sides once again. As if Sexy Northerner wasn't enough, the two new tracks on CD1 of I Get Along (released today) are also top quality.
3) Elisabeth enjoyed them in Sheffield last week, and I trust her judgement implicitly.

This is all boding very well indeed for their Nottingham gig tomorrow night...

18 Txxxhurst Hill, Loughton, Essex. 1980.
Wealthy Suburbs, Large Detached Houses

After living at 18 Txxxhurst Hill, no game of croquet would ever be the same again.

What on earth was the point of playing the game on a regular flat surface, when one had experienced the sheer thrill of playing it on my aunt and uncle’s sloped lawn? There was so much more to think about. If hitting the ball uphill, you had to calculate how far back downhill it would roll, and at what angle. If hitting the ball downhill, then only the slightest tap would suffice; anything more would send your ball careering into the flower beds. Croquet at 18 Txxxhurst Hill was a complex game, requiring immense skill and subtlety.

I shall always be profoundly grateful to my aunt and uncle, for inviting me to live with them for seven months between school and university. Seven months back at Y0rk House would have been more than I could have coped with. Instead, here I was, with a full time job selling toys at Hamleys of Regent Street, commuting up to Oxford Circus every day on the Central Line, and coming home each night to a domestic environment that didn’t feel like a constant war zone.

Architecturally, 18 Txxxhurst Hill was the very apotheosis of 1930s English suburbia - of variegated mock Tudor Metroland. Modest in aspect, sensible in design, with a gravel drive, stained glass in the front door, polished wooden floorboards, sliding French windows, a formica breakfast bar, and a reassuring domestic smell which still lingers in my memory. Brown, beige, magnolia and muted green prevailed. A piano in the dining room, a collection of corn dollies above the fireplace, old framed photos of my cousin (by then at University), reluctantly posing in her school uniform. Reassuringly ordinary, comfortably normal. It was a place where I no longer had to worry about the possible negative repercussions of my every word and deed. I could begin to relax. I could learn to relate. I could help clear the table and dry the dishes, and not be bawled out, and even be thanked for it.

I returned to Txxxhurst Hill for a few weeks in the Summer of 1981, after securing a temporary job at Debenhams of Oxford Street (selling toys once again). I loved being part of the madness of the rush hour commute – it made me feel in the swim, connected to the rest of the world, part of everyday society. I was eagerly embracing the normalcy of the mainstream, retreating from the solitary misery of the margins, imitating and blending in. A necessary process. Txxxhurst Hill was my staging post between schoolboy life and student life, where the last vestiges of teenage angst were flushed away by a healthy dose of Real Life.

Jump to next station.

Labels: stations

Those of you who with an obsessively microscopic attention to detail will by now have noticed that Sashinka has been promoted to the lofty ranks of the ”we know” section on my sidebar. K and I had a high old time meeting her last night, along with her three lovely cottaging buddies. Over dinner at The Gate in Brassington (best country pub in the world, ever), the six of us had a deliciously frank and wide-ranging discussion on all manner of scandalous and salacious topics. Honestly, the things I could tell you!

Sadly, our Bloggers’ Code Of Honour prevents me from repeating any of them here. That, coupled with the fact that my short term memory is completely f***ed these days (I blame The Trade Years). Very sensibly, Sasha carries a pocket notebook with her wherever she goes, to record anything which tickles her fancy. I should seriously think about doing the same thing.

But this isn't enough for you, is it? You want to know what Sasha is really like, don't you?

Well, okay then. I suppose I could let slip a couple of Funsized Sashfacts:

1) She has beautiful handwriting.
2) Her mother makes very nice biscuits.
3) She's a born entertainer, and an altogether lovely person to spend time with. But you'd already worked that out, right?

Earlier in the afternoon, K and I dipped our toes into the impeccably cultured waters of this year’s Buxton Festival, by attending a performance of William Walton & Edith Sitwell’s Façade, followed by a dramatised version of Stravinsky’s The Soldier’s Tale. As a boy of 11, I loved the nonsense verse of Façade, which I used to read whilst listening to Peggy Ashcroft and Paul Scofield’s recorded version. Yesterday’s reciter, Linda Ormiston, did a fine job of interpreting the high-speed, tongue-twisting prose, which she delivered in wonderfully imperious, slightly dotty, impeccably cut-glass tones – switching into a variety of dialects whenever necessary. It was a real delight to hear such long-forgotten favourites as “When Don Pasquito arrived at the seaside…” and the Hornpipe after so many years.

I was less enthused with The Soldier’s Tale (although I was seemingly in a minority of one – it was rapturously received). Well OK, I’ll admit it – I fell fast asleep. You can lead a whore to culture, but you can’t make him think. I couldn’t get on with the Grimm’s Fairy Tale aspect of the dramatisation, nor with the portrayal of the Devil (who tempts the soldier with false promises) as a sinister camp queen, barely able to conceal his lust. This characterisation wasn’t in the orginal story, and I found its glib equation (between importunate gay desire and pure evil) a little hard to take. The audience, which seemed to be almost entirely made up of retired schoolteachers (sharp elbows, frosty faces, crotchety demeanours, lifetimes of strictly rationed pleasures) lapped it up, though – a little too enthusiastically for my liking.

The culture is coming thick and fast now, just the way I like it. Coming up next (on Tuesday night) – the Pet Shop Boys! Hurrah!

Buni reviews Madonna in Up For Grabs at the Wyndhams Theatre. It's a fully-fledged, proper review as well, unlike my lazy freeform wibbling of last week. If you want to know what the play was really like, then this is where you'll find out.

The fruits of yet another idle morning:
death disco - Hamlet with a pint - the thirtieth birthday project - faceless drone - last words - blogwhore?