What's a-happenin' in Hollywood? First Mel Gibson tumbles spectacularly off and ill-advisedly into the wagon, now Robin Williams enters rehab for alcoholism.
There must be something in the water over there.
Or rather, just not enough water in the something.
"Paranoia strikes deep, into your life it will creep..."
Smart, sexy, and sassy, both the press and other staffers know not to mess with Claudia Jean. A natural at her job, the press secretary is sensitive toward women's issues and stands up for 'the Sisterhood'. Her wit and one-liners along with her lip synching ability are known across the land.
So am I, so says just another "Which etcetcetc character are you?", in this case the wonderful "The West Wing".
Hmm, well I might have preferred to have "been" the mumbling-wise-crackin' Josh Lyman (so much better in "The West Wing" than in "Billy Madison"), rather than the poacher-turned-Press-gamekeeper CJ (not that my recent journalistic efforts have been very, er, poach-y - more like mere bird-watching...)
Have been stuck somewhere in series four for too, too long (thanks to my Chinese-imported boxsets, thankfully without such distracting subtitling oddities as elsewhere), and so have done my best to avoid the recent show's-end eulogies.
It is great entertainment, though, and even enough to have me idly hankering after not only a career in backroom political intrigues, but a helpful hinterland in (splutter) law...
A favourite moment, after a rather harrowing little self-harm (then swift recovery) sequence:
Leo: "What are you doing?"
Josh: "I thought you wanted to hug me...?"
Leo: "Boy, did you read that wrong...!"
"Two of us, riding nowhere, spending someone's hard-earned pay..."
It looks like next season could be a long and winding road for West Ham, since they just couldn't let it be but instead scoured all across the universe before signing both McCartney and Spector this summer...
These two have history, right...?
Just so long as the East End eel-munchers keep well away from Lennon...
These two have history, right...?
Just so long as the East End eel-munchers keep well away from Lennon...
"The bigger they are..."
Cricket is a game of grace and balance, delicacy and dignity.
Well, maybe not always...
Inzy's ill-fated impression of a hurdling elephant aside, the highlight of the Third Test so far has been Ian Bell's third successive century, hit not only with welcome force and confidence, but even more surprising swiftness.
And the reason for such form? Well, it can only be down to the Warwickshire batsman having just joined the blogging brigade.
Some superb "banter" there from the boy Belly/Bellie (you'll see he's ambivalent on the precise, "proper" spelling.)
Almost enough to forgive the suggestion a series average of 17 meant he "played my part in last summer's defeat of Australia in the Ashes", when he might of course have been justifiably confined to a downstairs seat on that open-top bus...
Well, maybe not always...
Inzy's ill-fated impression of a hurdling elephant aside, the highlight of the Third Test so far has been Ian Bell's third successive century, hit not only with welcome force and confidence, but even more surprising swiftness.
And the reason for such form? Well, it can only be down to the Warwickshire batsman having just joined the blogging brigade.
Some superb "banter" there from the boy Belly/Bellie (you'll see he's ambivalent on the precise, "proper" spelling.)
Almost enough to forgive the suggestion a series average of 17 meant he "played my part in last summer's defeat of Australia in the Ashes", when he might of course have been justifiably confined to a downstairs seat on that open-top bus...
"That'll be cash on the barrelhead, son..."
Several things worry me intensely.
Rats, for one.
Nogbad The Bad, for another.
Witchy Fiona Phillips, above all.
But perhaps the most anxious experience of the last few days was the 100-yard, two-minute stride down Kensington High Street with a couple of thousand pounds clutched tightly to my thigh like a war wound. It was a simple transaction, literally from one bank to another, to hopefully help finally finalise my long-delayed first flat (half-)purchase. After all, a sudden hefty cash injection should, surely, be enough to inspire my solicitors into showing slightly more than the merest smattering of a scintilla of a sprinkling of an inkling of interest in the deal...
Well, anyway, I reached the second cashier without being mugged, run over, blown up or blown away, and having handed over the relevant readies, that’s me flushed out for the foreseeable, and condemned to a schedule of at least six-day weeks here, there and wherever’ll take (and pay) me.
But there are other money-making means – and, yes, thy name is eBay. Can’t quite see myself matching in Machiavellian entrepreneurship the friend who leapt early onto the charity-wristband bandwagon, by buying up batches and selling at (marginally) higher prices than the often-out-of-stock charities – before realising the buyers’ desperation was such, he could simply sell them a link to the relevant website for the same cost, only occasionally receiving angry feedback from the few who felt duped and not abashed enough to keep quiet.
No,, my more modest eBay exploits extend simply to flogging my used tickets from some recent kickabout in Germany. Quite why so many people want to clamour for souvenirs of an experience they didn’t actually, er, experience remains beyond me. Yet there were always armies of ticket-collectors crowding the exits at the end of each match, and still they keep coming, this time online instead of in-yer-face. Perhaps even more baffling was the person, hours after the final whistle and Italy’s departure with the trophy perched precariously in hand, hanging around at the media exit of Berlin’s Olympic Stadium and begging for each departing hack’s Press accreditation badge. With which to do what, to impress whom? After all, the pass he wanted bore not only my name, but my (predictably-vacant-looking) photo, for Zizou’s sake... I’m not sure who he’d have been fooling... Besides, I needed it to wangle the following day’s final few hours of free train travel.
That souvenir I will keep. But the used tickets now can go to a more appreciative anorak, especially since I no longer need post-match proof of attendance should there be a summons from one of Fifa’s over-cautious and actually-incorrect ticket inspectors.
Even more oddly, some of the higher bids at the moment seem devoted to the France-Switzerland game, one game best-avoided by any stretch of the imagination. Unless the ticket will be brandished as a symbol of heroic endurance...
Still, eBay – its Press officers may be among the most unnecessarily eager and persistent PR people on the planet. But it is indeed addictive.
Did you know Jarvis Cocker is a keen eBayer?
He will, of course, only carry out transactions using common Paypal.
Ask nicely, though, and you might just find him sorted for Visa and Switch.
Rats, for one. 
Nogbad The Bad, for another. 
Witchy Fiona Phillips, above all. But perhaps the most anxious experience of the last few days was the 100-yard, two-minute stride down Kensington High Street with a couple of thousand pounds clutched tightly to my thigh like a war wound. It was a simple transaction, literally from one bank to another, to hopefully help finally finalise my long-delayed first flat (half-)purchase. After all, a sudden hefty cash injection should, surely, be enough to inspire my solicitors into showing slightly more than the merest smattering of a scintilla of a sprinkling of an inkling of interest in the deal...
Well, anyway, I reached the second cashier without being mugged, run over, blown up or blown away, and having handed over the relevant readies, that’s me flushed out for the foreseeable, and condemned to a schedule of at least six-day weeks here, there and wherever’ll take (and pay) me.
But there are other money-making means – and, yes, thy name is eBay. Can’t quite see myself matching in Machiavellian entrepreneurship the friend who leapt early onto the charity-wristband bandwagon, by buying up batches and selling at (marginally) higher prices than the often-out-of-stock charities – before realising the buyers’ desperation was such, he could simply sell them a link to the relevant website for the same cost, only occasionally receiving angry feedback from the few who felt duped and not abashed enough to keep quiet.
No,, my more modest eBay exploits extend simply to flogging my used tickets from some recent kickabout in Germany. Quite why so many people want to clamour for souvenirs of an experience they didn’t actually, er, experience remains beyond me. Yet there were always armies of ticket-collectors crowding the exits at the end of each match, and still they keep coming, this time online instead of in-yer-face. Perhaps even more baffling was the person, hours after the final whistle and Italy’s departure with the trophy perched precariously in hand, hanging around at the media exit of Berlin’s Olympic Stadium and begging for each departing hack’s Press accreditation badge. With which to do what, to impress whom? After all, the pass he wanted bore not only my name, but my (predictably-vacant-looking) photo, for Zizou’s sake... I’m not sure who he’d have been fooling... Besides, I needed it to wangle the following day’s final few hours of free train travel.
That souvenir I will keep. But the used tickets now can go to a more appreciative anorak, especially since I no longer need post-match proof of attendance should there be a summons from one of Fifa’s over-cautious and actually-incorrect ticket inspectors.
Even more oddly, some of the higher bids at the moment seem devoted to the France-Switzerland game, one game best-avoided by any stretch of the imagination. Unless the ticket will be brandished as a symbol of heroic endurance...
Still, eBay – its Press officers may be among the most unnecessarily eager and persistent PR people on the planet. But it is indeed addictive.
Did you know Jarvis Cocker is a keen eBayer?
He will, of course, only carry out transactions using common Paypal.Ask nicely, though, and you might just find him sorted for Visa and Switch.
"Sunrise, sunset, swiftly flow the days..."
Hmm, the generation game takes another twist and turn. After an enthralling evening simply cradling, molly-coddling and camera-snapping young nephew Harry when he came to call the other night, just a few hours into the early morning came the news my Great-Uncle Reg had, yes, this time actually died, having been knocked down and yet got up again so many times, and so many times indeed since I unfortunately, prematurely wrote him off a few months ago... only for a little more respite. My mum's was onto the M1 to the Midlands almost within minutes of that unwanted phone call - I assume the rest of us shall follow in the next week or so for what should be a quirky yet grand old soldier's funeral.
And I do hope Harry comes too...
And I do hope Harry comes too...
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