Until recently my only association of the name "Lola" was with two songs: the tranvestite Lola from the song by the Kinks, and the ageing and demented showgirl Lola courtesy of Barry Manilow.
Not now!
I've been so taken with the colourful life of one Lola Montez that I've "scrapped" her (created a scrapbook page) and have ordered a new biography from Amazon.
I first discovered Lola in December when Giz and I, in Munich, went to the Schloss-Nymphenburg palace on a guided tour. We were spell bound by the "Schonheitsgalerie" of King Ludwig 1: basically, a room with dozens of portraits of beautiful women on the walls, all his previous conquests. The guide told us that one of the women, Lola Montez, was unique in that she has two paintings because she didn't like the first one.
Lola was originally born in Ireland and changed her name when she went to Spain, trained as a Spanish dancer, and reinvented herself. She was one of the first celebrity wannabees. After bringing down the throne of Ludwig 1, she emigrated to the US and was the wealthy mistress of several high profile suitors.
Anyway, check out Lola for yourself - I was amazed to see a full page review in the Sunday Times on a new book about her!
She's the latest in a long line of "obsessions" of mine. I hear about an idea, a person, a painting or whatever, and I have to know all about it. It started when I was very young. The internet has been a godsend for helping me to get a quick fix! Over the years I've become quite an expert on such things as the sloth, Cro Magnons v Neanderthals, Imperial Topaz (not the nasty blue ones), Wilheim Reich, Rasputin, Paul Verlaine and Rimbaud and British bats.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
British Airways: fast becoming the world's least favourite airline?
An empty terminal 4 at Heathrow spoke volumes today. British Airways was unexpectedly running a full service, having finally sorted out the industrial dispute with its cabin crew that should have been resolved weeks ago, but the passengers had shown their displeasure by offloading themselves onto other flights.
And predictably BA wasn't going to reimburse people who had to pay for more expensive flights, or cover hire car or hotel cancellations.
This most incompetent and arrogant of airlines will soon be renamed the world's least favourite airline, particularly if its lucrative business passengers discover that actually the other airlines considerably outperform BA.
Both John and myself never choose to fly BA. I'm going to the US later this week on business, and I chose to travel on United. My second choice would have been Virgin.
BA has forgotten what good customer service is about. It still has warehouses full of baggage dating back to November which have little prospect of being returned to their owners. BA claimed at the time it was caused by the fog and breakdowns in the carousels at Heathrow. The truth however was that BA has systematically got rid of baggage handlers over the last few months and doesn't have enough to clear the backlog.
Until BA rediscovers the brand values that won it acccolades over 10 years ago, I'll be continuing to fly with other carriers - and if today is anything to go by, I'm not the only one.
And predictably BA wasn't going to reimburse people who had to pay for more expensive flights, or cover hire car or hotel cancellations.
This most incompetent and arrogant of airlines will soon be renamed the world's least favourite airline, particularly if its lucrative business passengers discover that actually the other airlines considerably outperform BA.
Both John and myself never choose to fly BA. I'm going to the US later this week on business, and I chose to travel on United. My second choice would have been Virgin.
BA has forgotten what good customer service is about. It still has warehouses full of baggage dating back to November which have little prospect of being returned to their owners. BA claimed at the time it was caused by the fog and breakdowns in the carousels at Heathrow. The truth however was that BA has systematically got rid of baggage handlers over the last few months and doesn't have enough to clear the backlog.
Until BA rediscovers the brand values that won it acccolades over 10 years ago, I'll be continuing to fly with other carriers - and if today is anything to go by, I'm not the only one.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Fuzzy Felt and Loony Links
Fuzzy Felt and Loony Links. They sound like a couple of characters from a Disney film, but those of my vintage will remember them as children's games. What they have in common is that I requested both of them on Christmas lists, years ago, but didn't get either of them.
So this is jokingly brought up, every now and then, along with "and I never got a go on the boating lake in Goodrington."
What a hard done by child!
If that's all I can think of, I'm clearly never going to be reprising "Mommie Dearest," the story of how Joan Crawford used to beat her adopted children with wire coat hangers.
I had a very happy childhood. We weren't very well off and we weren't spoilt with masses of presents or holidays abroad. Life of course was more simple. I had to wear hand-me-down clothes, and occasionally got called "Second hand Rose," but it never bothered me.
At Christmas I usually asked for an arty gift. One year it was Spiromatic, another year it was Spirofoil. These were spin-offs from Spirograph, which I never really liked all that much (too mathematical looking). Spiromatic was more fun: it was a battery controlled wheel with acrylic paints. As the wheel revolved, you squirted paint and the result was a geometric design of sorts. Spirofoil was similar to Spirograph but included sheets of foil so that you produced embossed creations.
I loved those paper cut-out dolls with costumes that had little tabs all round them. Some of the girls' comics included these.
I never had a bike on my own, I always had my brother Andrew's old one. That is, until the day I entered the Cycling Proficiency exam. I must have been about 10 or 11. The police constable officiating said there were a lot of things wrong with my bike, which got me worried because I didn't think I'd be able to take the test.
Giz and Stamps must have mulled this over, because in a very uncharacteristic "out of cycle" happening we went to Halfords and they bought me a brand new bike of my own. I wanted a Chopper but ended up with a Golden Arrow, an elegant little blue bike (fortunately the words "Tri Ang" were very small).
So I entered the cycling proficiency and wobbled my way to a pass - just.
In another out of cycle happening Stamps took me to Smiths and bought me a typewriter. A real one. I'd had a children's typewriter, a Lilliput, for Christmas, but it barely lasted beyond February with the way I typed. All the letters had fallen off. I spent hours creating stories and magazines. So I was overcome with joy when Stamps bought me a real grown-up typewriter, a Smith-Corona.
It lasted about five years until I bought my own replacement when I entered my journalism apprenticeship.
So this is jokingly brought up, every now and then, along with "and I never got a go on the boating lake in Goodrington."
What a hard done by child!
If that's all I can think of, I'm clearly never going to be reprising "Mommie Dearest," the story of how Joan Crawford used to beat her adopted children with wire coat hangers.
I had a very happy childhood. We weren't very well off and we weren't spoilt with masses of presents or holidays abroad. Life of course was more simple. I had to wear hand-me-down clothes, and occasionally got called "Second hand Rose," but it never bothered me.
At Christmas I usually asked for an arty gift. One year it was Spiromatic, another year it was Spirofoil. These were spin-offs from Spirograph, which I never really liked all that much (too mathematical looking). Spiromatic was more fun: it was a battery controlled wheel with acrylic paints. As the wheel revolved, you squirted paint and the result was a geometric design of sorts. Spirofoil was similar to Spirograph but included sheets of foil so that you produced embossed creations.
I loved those paper cut-out dolls with costumes that had little tabs all round them. Some of the girls' comics included these.
I never had a bike on my own, I always had my brother Andrew's old one. That is, until the day I entered the Cycling Proficiency exam. I must have been about 10 or 11. The police constable officiating said there were a lot of things wrong with my bike, which got me worried because I didn't think I'd be able to take the test.
Giz and Stamps must have mulled this over, because in a very uncharacteristic "out of cycle" happening we went to Halfords and they bought me a brand new bike of my own. I wanted a Chopper but ended up with a Golden Arrow, an elegant little blue bike (fortunately the words "Tri Ang" were very small).
So I entered the cycling proficiency and wobbled my way to a pass - just.
In another out of cycle happening Stamps took me to Smiths and bought me a typewriter. A real one. I'd had a children's typewriter, a Lilliput, for Christmas, but it barely lasted beyond February with the way I typed. All the letters had fallen off. I spent hours creating stories and magazines. So I was overcome with joy when Stamps bought me a real grown-up typewriter, a Smith-Corona.
It lasted about five years until I bought my own replacement when I entered my journalism apprenticeship.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Celebrity Big Brother limps to its boring conclusion
Another fine mess as Channel 4 cancel the voting so far because of an on-screen mistake which said "Save Shilpa" instead of "to evict Shilpa."
It's all a foregone conclusion because I'm sure Shilpa will win, either through the public vote (ideally) or simply through some deft manipulation of the figures by C4.
I don't normally vote but this week I was so determined to see the back of the evil Jo that I voted to evict her. And now my vote doesn't count!
It will be very interesting to see the response of Jo and Danielle when they're evicted and confronted with the foul footage of their bullying. In the case of Jo, she bullied Dirk as much as Shilpa.
I know people sneer at Celebrity BB, but to me it's still an interesting exercise in seeing the unravelling of the celebrities' personalities. Only the 'true' people, those with depth and emotion, come out of this unscathed. The 3-week scrutiny of the cameras never fails to expose the superficial, the selfish, the cowards and the bullies.
So as we limp to the end, we can see that Jermaine has scarcely changed since we first met him. Solid, dependable, dignified. Shilpa has also emerged as strong, consistent and genuine. For the rest, Ian "H" is shown to us as nervy, submissive and needy; Dirk as moody, self-pitying and misogynistic; Cleo as lonely, deluded (she thinks those characters are funny?) but basically well meaning, and Jo and Danielle as dull, boring, empty-headed, poorly educated and coarse. It doesn't always follow that celebrities exposed for negative personality aspects fall from grace. Jan Leeming seems to be doing OK, for example, because although she came across as needy and whiny, she also rose to the challenge of the trials with fortitude. But there's no positive take out for Jo and Danielle. Danielle has already lost her modelling contracts apparently, and been dumped by Teddy. Jo has less to lose and will presumably slip back into the obscurity from whence she came.
It's all a foregone conclusion because I'm sure Shilpa will win, either through the public vote (ideally) or simply through some deft manipulation of the figures by C4.
I don't normally vote but this week I was so determined to see the back of the evil Jo that I voted to evict her. And now my vote doesn't count!
It will be very interesting to see the response of Jo and Danielle when they're evicted and confronted with the foul footage of their bullying. In the case of Jo, she bullied Dirk as much as Shilpa.
I know people sneer at Celebrity BB, but to me it's still an interesting exercise in seeing the unravelling of the celebrities' personalities. Only the 'true' people, those with depth and emotion, come out of this unscathed. The 3-week scrutiny of the cameras never fails to expose the superficial, the selfish, the cowards and the bullies.
So as we limp to the end, we can see that Jermaine has scarcely changed since we first met him. Solid, dependable, dignified. Shilpa has also emerged as strong, consistent and genuine. For the rest, Ian "H" is shown to us as nervy, submissive and needy; Dirk as moody, self-pitying and misogynistic; Cleo as lonely, deluded (she thinks those characters are funny?) but basically well meaning, and Jo and Danielle as dull, boring, empty-headed, poorly educated and coarse. It doesn't always follow that celebrities exposed for negative personality aspects fall from grace. Jan Leeming seems to be doing OK, for example, because although she came across as needy and whiny, she also rose to the challenge of the trials with fortitude. But there's no positive take out for Jo and Danielle. Danielle has already lost her modelling contracts apparently, and been dumped by Teddy. Jo has less to lose and will presumably slip back into the obscurity from whence she came.
Faith in human nature restored
According to the papers today, the young men seen on TV ransacking the possessions of a Swedish family washed ashore from the Napoli (see yesterday's blog)have now apologised and presumably returned the goods, which included a china tea set. Hoorah! This was very big of them - I hope some of the other looters take note and do the same thing.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Change the archaic salvage laws
How heartbreaking for a Swedish family to see their possessions being stolen and ransacked on a Devon beach. Instead, our archaic and ridiculous salvage laws mean that looters and thieves (they are no more than that) drove from miles around to see what they could drag away, some of them taking bags of dog food even though they don't have dogs.
The rules state that as long as you complete a piece of paper issued by Customs & Excise, you can take what you like from a ship wreck; although there may later be a claim against what you've taken (and indeed, as recounted in the film "Whisky Galore," in the case of alcohol, Customs & Excise can seize the whole lot).
Far better in my mind to have had a proper salvage operation to rescue the containers and return them to their rightful owners, and to have had armed police on standby on the beaches.
Then the world will have been spared yet more pictures of the UK acting like animals.
The rules state that as long as you complete a piece of paper issued by Customs & Excise, you can take what you like from a ship wreck; although there may later be a claim against what you've taken (and indeed, as recounted in the film "Whisky Galore," in the case of alcohol, Customs & Excise can seize the whole lot).
Far better in my mind to have had a proper salvage operation to rescue the containers and return them to their rightful owners, and to have had armed police on standby on the beaches.
Then the world will have been spared yet more pictures of the UK acting like animals.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Tales from the terraces
My footballing anecdotes always go down very well at dinner parties, as do my stories of the Eurovision song contest or the minor European royals.
Back in the early eighties, when I was a reporter at BBC Radio Devon, they needed someone to cover Plymouth Argyle. The radio station was based in Exeter and the sports producer was not very inclined to come to Home Park for mid week games, lowly Third Division minnows that they were then.
So I started covering them, which meant going to Home Park every Thursday and getting the team news from the manager (has so-and-so recovered from his groin strain? What do you think of your chances against xxx?) and then providing commentary on the matches.
I was something of a novelty then - there were no women football reporters. When I first appeared nervously in the Home Park press box, there was an audible groan and negative body language from the male hacks present.
They were ruled by Harley Lawer, the undisputed expert on PAFC and writer for the Sunday Independent. So when Harley kindly gave me some feedback on my first commentary, which had rendered the others silent, they treated that as a signal to be nicer to me and let me share the bag of broken biscuits that appeared at half time.
I was doing quite nicely in my new set-up. When Bobby Moncur resigned as manager, I was the first to get the story, and even though he wouldn't tell me on tape why he was resigning, it made me sound very Jeremy Paxman-like as I kept repeating the question.
Another time, I was on duty in the Exeter newsroom on a Sunday when the call came to interview the new manager of Torquay United, Dave Webb, formerly of Chelsea. I wasn't very pleased about this; it was near the end of my shift and it meant a journey to Torquay. When I got there, Webb kept me waiting for an hour. The first thing he said, when seeing there was a "bird" waiting for him, was: "Do you know much about football, love?" I gave him a steady look, and, mindful of Chelsea and Torquay's positions in the league - both very poor at that time - replied: "Yes, do you?" One of my press box cronies liked the anecdote so much it appeared in the diary column of the Western Morning News with the headline "Gail's pointed question."
Back to Plymouth Argyle and the death of my footballing ambitions. The team was thrust into the spotlight when they found themselves in the semi finals of the FA Cup. They were suddenly giant killers, and their star striker Tommy Tynan started asking for money for interviews (not that Radio Devon had any money). I had reported on their progress in all the matches running up to the semi-final. I'd travelled to West Brom, I'd been to St Mellion to cover the team's training, I'd interviewed some of their wives. But then the powers that be at Radio Devon decided they needed male talent (or otherwise) to cover the semi final, so I was relegated to the supporters' train.
We lost 1-0 to Watford at Villa Park; robbed as it were; and there were many tears on the trains back to Plymouth from Smethwick. I was even more gutted to learn that one of the male reporters who covered the match, David Willis, had missed the goal. He asked his colleague, Allan Urry, what it was like. "Bit scrappy" was the reply. Willis later asked Watford manager Graeme Taylor about the goal. "Bit scrappy I heard," said Willis, and was promptly put in his place by Taylor. "Absolutely ridiculous comment. Absolutely superb corner crossed by Barnes...." etc. The comment made its way to the annual Christmas tape of bloopers.
Back in the studio the following day, I carefully put together a 3 minute package, using "You'll never walk alone," and lots of wailing fan inputs, and put my football career behind me.
Back in the early eighties, when I was a reporter at BBC Radio Devon, they needed someone to cover Plymouth Argyle. The radio station was based in Exeter and the sports producer was not very inclined to come to Home Park for mid week games, lowly Third Division minnows that they were then.
So I started covering them, which meant going to Home Park every Thursday and getting the team news from the manager (has so-and-so recovered from his groin strain? What do you think of your chances against xxx?) and then providing commentary on the matches.
I was something of a novelty then - there were no women football reporters. When I first appeared nervously in the Home Park press box, there was an audible groan and negative body language from the male hacks present.
They were ruled by Harley Lawer, the undisputed expert on PAFC and writer for the Sunday Independent. So when Harley kindly gave me some feedback on my first commentary, which had rendered the others silent, they treated that as a signal to be nicer to me and let me share the bag of broken biscuits that appeared at half time.
I was doing quite nicely in my new set-up. When Bobby Moncur resigned as manager, I was the first to get the story, and even though he wouldn't tell me on tape why he was resigning, it made me sound very Jeremy Paxman-like as I kept repeating the question.
Another time, I was on duty in the Exeter newsroom on a Sunday when the call came to interview the new manager of Torquay United, Dave Webb, formerly of Chelsea. I wasn't very pleased about this; it was near the end of my shift and it meant a journey to Torquay. When I got there, Webb kept me waiting for an hour. The first thing he said, when seeing there was a "bird" waiting for him, was: "Do you know much about football, love?" I gave him a steady look, and, mindful of Chelsea and Torquay's positions in the league - both very poor at that time - replied: "Yes, do you?" One of my press box cronies liked the anecdote so much it appeared in the diary column of the Western Morning News with the headline "Gail's pointed question."
Back to Plymouth Argyle and the death of my footballing ambitions. The team was thrust into the spotlight when they found themselves in the semi finals of the FA Cup. They were suddenly giant killers, and their star striker Tommy Tynan started asking for money for interviews (not that Radio Devon had any money). I had reported on their progress in all the matches running up to the semi-final. I'd travelled to West Brom, I'd been to St Mellion to cover the team's training, I'd interviewed some of their wives. But then the powers that be at Radio Devon decided they needed male talent (or otherwise) to cover the semi final, so I was relegated to the supporters' train.
We lost 1-0 to Watford at Villa Park; robbed as it were; and there were many tears on the trains back to Plymouth from Smethwick. I was even more gutted to learn that one of the male reporters who covered the match, David Willis, had missed the goal. He asked his colleague, Allan Urry, what it was like. "Bit scrappy" was the reply. Willis later asked Watford manager Graeme Taylor about the goal. "Bit scrappy I heard," said Willis, and was promptly put in his place by Taylor. "Absolutely ridiculous comment. Absolutely superb corner crossed by Barnes...." etc. The comment made its way to the annual Christmas tape of bloopers.
Back in the studio the following day, I carefully put together a 3 minute package, using "You'll never walk alone," and lots of wailing fan inputs, and put my football career behind me.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Get Jade out
I sincerely hope the UK public will do the right thing tonight and vote out Jade Goody from Celebrity Big Brother.
I always had a soft spot for Jade. She was very funny in the BB series she was in ("am I an escape goat?")and since went on to do quite well. Better than the winners of most of the BB series.
But fame has gone to her head, and her warped sense of morals has come to the fore this week with her bullying of Shilpa.
I don't believe however that Jade is racist: she doesn't fit the demographic at all and is mixed race.
The worst protagonist of the whole sorry business is Danielle. Easily led by Jade, this ridiculous dimwit has made the most appalling statements and has been stirring things up. She deliberately misinterprets the situation to get Jade riled. For example, she told Shilpa that she didn't agree with some of the things she had said to Jade - but also she didn't agree with what Jade told Shilpa. This was repeated back to Jade as "I told her I didn't agree with some of the things she said to you." She also keeps repeating the incorrect statement that Shilpa accused Jade of being famous only for arguing with her. What Shilpa meant was that she was only famous because of a reality TV show. That's true enough.
When asked by BB about one of her outrageous statements, Danielle denied saying it, but then quickly back tracked, so she clearly realised the implications of what she had said as racist.
My assessment is that the three witches and Jack - the evil quartet - are all jealous of Shilpa and intimidated by her. They're all unemployed when all is said and done. Jade might boast about her achievements but lately they have become tarnished. Her beauty salon went bust; her recent fitness video was apparently a sham because she used liposuction, not diet or exercise, to deal with her weight problem, and then there was the London Marathon where she claimed she hadn't done any training.
Danielle claims to be a model, but she's a former beauty queen who takes her clothes off for Nuts and Zoo. Hardly a model.
Jo O'Meara used to be in a band but hasn't done anything since, and buys all her clothes in Primark.
Jack I believe is a full-time house husband.
So there you have it. Shilpa is beautiful, confident, successful. She is a degree controlling, but in the CBB house somebody needs to take control. It's a big disappointment that the "adults," Jermaine, Cleo and Dirk, have all shirked responsibility for getting the evil quartet in line. Jermaine came up with some pyschobabble about loving everyone, a shade too subtle for the likes of Jade and Danielle. Carole Malone would have sorted it.
I hope there's a rousing cry of "Get Jade Out" tonight, and I hope Danielle is next to go. Shilpa to win!
Oh, and I won't be watching it next year. Well past its sell by.
I always had a soft spot for Jade. She was very funny in the BB series she was in ("am I an escape goat?")and since went on to do quite well. Better than the winners of most of the BB series.
But fame has gone to her head, and her warped sense of morals has come to the fore this week with her bullying of Shilpa.
I don't believe however that Jade is racist: she doesn't fit the demographic at all and is mixed race.
The worst protagonist of the whole sorry business is Danielle. Easily led by Jade, this ridiculous dimwit has made the most appalling statements and has been stirring things up. She deliberately misinterprets the situation to get Jade riled. For example, she told Shilpa that she didn't agree with some of the things she had said to Jade - but also she didn't agree with what Jade told Shilpa. This was repeated back to Jade as "I told her I didn't agree with some of the things she said to you." She also keeps repeating the incorrect statement that Shilpa accused Jade of being famous only for arguing with her. What Shilpa meant was that she was only famous because of a reality TV show. That's true enough.
When asked by BB about one of her outrageous statements, Danielle denied saying it, but then quickly back tracked, so she clearly realised the implications of what she had said as racist.
My assessment is that the three witches and Jack - the evil quartet - are all jealous of Shilpa and intimidated by her. They're all unemployed when all is said and done. Jade might boast about her achievements but lately they have become tarnished. Her beauty salon went bust; her recent fitness video was apparently a sham because she used liposuction, not diet or exercise, to deal with her weight problem, and then there was the London Marathon where she claimed she hadn't done any training.
Danielle claims to be a model, but she's a former beauty queen who takes her clothes off for Nuts and Zoo. Hardly a model.
Jo O'Meara used to be in a band but hasn't done anything since, and buys all her clothes in Primark.
Jack I believe is a full-time house husband.
So there you have it. Shilpa is beautiful, confident, successful. She is a degree controlling, but in the CBB house somebody needs to take control. It's a big disappointment that the "adults," Jermaine, Cleo and Dirk, have all shirked responsibility for getting the evil quartet in line. Jermaine came up with some pyschobabble about loving everyone, a shade too subtle for the likes of Jade and Danielle. Carole Malone would have sorted it.
I hope there's a rousing cry of "Get Jade Out" tonight, and I hope Danielle is next to go. Shilpa to win!
Oh, and I won't be watching it next year. Well past its sell by.
Happy scrapping
I've been keen on card making for a year now, and recently turned my attention to scrapbooking. Years ago scrapbooking meant sticking receipts, cuttings and photos into scrapbooks bought from WH Smith - and because nothing was known then about the dangerous properties of acids in paper and ink, if you dig out those scrapbooks now you'll find them in a poor condition. Nowadays, scrapbooking refers to mainly using photographs and creating big bold displays, centrepiecing outstanding photos, on acid and lignin free papers and featuring themed flowers, vellum phrases, stickers, brads, buttons and so on.
There's a whole industry devoted to scrapbooking, numerous public exhibitions and local "crops" where scrapbookers meet up and scrap for the day.
When I started scrapbooking I didn't really have the right idea. I was using some of my cardmaking supplies, but they didn't really scale to the 12 x 12 scrapbook format. There was no perspective; the pages didn't look complete or pleasing.
I've been studying Scrapbook Magazine and various websites for inspiration, and have started buying the right accessories, and my latest spreads are much better. I have two scrapbooks which I bought from Lakeland: one which records current activities, and the other which is for "vintage" memories. In the latter, I've just prepared two pages on my old cat Teddy, who died in 2005.
The key thing for scrapbooking, apart from having great photographs, is to identify the subject for your next project and then buy the necessary accessories, co-ordinating them with your paper and cardstock. I'm going to prepare three pages on my dad, so I'm busily gathering photographs of him in uniform from my mum; the Royal Marines insignia on the web, and the right coloured papers, brads, tags and so on, mainly from http://happyscrapper.co.uk and http://lakelandlimited.co.uk
I've also just done a spread on....me, showing the passport booth photos that I used to have taken annually, to document the ageing process!
It's a very absorbing and fulfilling hobby, but very expensive!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Victoria goes to America
It was only a matter of time. The Beckhams have been flouncing round America quite a lot recently; Real Madrid were getting fed up with David and now he's out of the England side, blighty wasn't such an attractive prospect.
Still, VB in LA. The mind boggles. I bet you £10 she'll come back in a few years time looking extremely weird. At least she's the right size (zero) but she hasn't got the prerequisite wind tunnel and surprised look that ladies in LA have to have.
Good luck to them; there's plenty of opportunities to make money out there. We might even see VB as a judge on Pop Idol. If the likes of Cat Deeley, Sheena Easton and the Duchess of York can make a success out of America, you obviously don't need too much talent.
Still, VB in LA. The mind boggles. I bet you £10 she'll come back in a few years time looking extremely weird. At least she's the right size (zero) but she hasn't got the prerequisite wind tunnel and surprised look that ladies in LA have to have.
Good luck to them; there's plenty of opportunities to make money out there. We might even see VB as a judge on Pop Idol. If the likes of Cat Deeley, Sheena Easton and the Duchess of York can make a success out of America, you obviously don't need too much talent.
Songs in the key of life
I've now got my dream iPod library. It's taken a long time to compile; transferring songs from CDs and identifying and searching for various tracks, some which were unavailable on iTunes (I got them from Limewire instead).
It's funny how the passing years make you kinder to certain artists and songs you despised in their heyday.
As a teenager, I was passionate for David Bowie, Iggy Pop and new wave music, and despised the pop idols like David Cassidy, David Essex, Donny Osmond, etc. I didn't care much for Tamla Motown, soul, disco or C&W, and loathed heavy metal and heavy rock (still do, as far as the latter are concerned). Yet my dream library has quite a few songs covering most of these artists and genres. And I seem to have a peculiar soft spot for Slade, Wizzard and the Rubettes.
Songs are so evocative. I can listen to a song - for example Peter Frampton's Show Me The Way - and be instantly transported to the Emperor Rosko Radio 1 roadshow on Plymouth Hoe in 1975.
I remember hearing "Dancing Queen" by Abba on the morning we left for a summer caravan holiday in Hayle in 1976. The DJ said he was the first to play it, and I shouted to my mum that it was the new Abba single and it was really different.
"Amateur Hour" by Sparks reminds me of our holiday in Bournemouth two years earlier where we stayed in a hotel for the first time ever. That was the single I bought while we were there.
"My Sharona" by The Knack takes me back to the sausage factory where I had to spend the summer after finishing my A Levels. I'd cheerfully gone to the dole office thinking I'd have an easy time of it, and was sent to Bowyers where quite a few of my schoolfriends were already slaving over the hogs puddings. The radio was always on but it was difficult to hear above the noise of the machinery.
The first concert I saw, when I was 15, was Andy Fairweather-Low (who?) at the Fiesta Suite in Plymouth. He came on quite late so I only saw him sing two songs because I had to catch the last bus. But I have "Reggae Tune" and his biggest hit as a solo artist, "Wide eyed and legless," to remind me of what I missed. (I wasn't wide eyed and legless - I only had my pocket money so I probably had a Britvic Orange and made it last all night).
Jump forward to punk, and I was one of only three people at Plympton Grammar School who liked punk. We would take our punk records to Mr Glyn's record club every Friday, and he would dutifully play Devo, Wire, Iggy Pop and Stiff Little Fingers etc among the Rush, Led Zeppelin and Supertramp that dominated proceedings. We would duly get heckled for our selections.
Occasionally I'd go to Devonport on two buses to the Metro club to see a live gig.The first time I went, it was a bank holiday and on the bus I saw the two other punk admirers. I didn't actually know them then (Dave and Gary), but I remember scampering up to them and asking if I could walk with them to the Metro, as I guessed that's where they were going.
I saw UK Subs (I was nearly flattened against the stage) and X Ray Spex at the Metro to name two. Before the acts, the DJ played a wide variety of music: mostly punk but sometimes a song he particularly liked. "Never Let Her Slip Away" by Andrew Gold was one of them.
Mind you, it's not all oldies on my play list. There's nothing cutting edge but I do have some modern stuff from the likes of the Kaiser Chiefs, John Legend, Amy Winehouse, the Ordinary Boys, Keane, Coldplay.
Some songs remind me of other people. Recently, a shuffle sequence brought me two in a row which brought a lump to my throat: "The folks who live on the hill" by Peggy Lee, much loved by my dad, and "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby, my grandma's favourite Christmas record. I also have a few Andy Williams' tracks. He was one of my mum's favourites back in the 70s.
It's funny how the passing years make you kinder to certain artists and songs you despised in their heyday.
As a teenager, I was passionate for David Bowie, Iggy Pop and new wave music, and despised the pop idols like David Cassidy, David Essex, Donny Osmond, etc. I didn't care much for Tamla Motown, soul, disco or C&W, and loathed heavy metal and heavy rock (still do, as far as the latter are concerned). Yet my dream library has quite a few songs covering most of these artists and genres. And I seem to have a peculiar soft spot for Slade, Wizzard and the Rubettes.
Songs are so evocative. I can listen to a song - for example Peter Frampton's Show Me The Way - and be instantly transported to the Emperor Rosko Radio 1 roadshow on Plymouth Hoe in 1975.
I remember hearing "Dancing Queen" by Abba on the morning we left for a summer caravan holiday in Hayle in 1976. The DJ said he was the first to play it, and I shouted to my mum that it was the new Abba single and it was really different.
"Amateur Hour" by Sparks reminds me of our holiday in Bournemouth two years earlier where we stayed in a hotel for the first time ever. That was the single I bought while we were there.
"My Sharona" by The Knack takes me back to the sausage factory where I had to spend the summer after finishing my A Levels. I'd cheerfully gone to the dole office thinking I'd have an easy time of it, and was sent to Bowyers where quite a few of my schoolfriends were already slaving over the hogs puddings. The radio was always on but it was difficult to hear above the noise of the machinery.
The first concert I saw, when I was 15, was Andy Fairweather-Low (who?) at the Fiesta Suite in Plymouth. He came on quite late so I only saw him sing two songs because I had to catch the last bus. But I have "Reggae Tune" and his biggest hit as a solo artist, "Wide eyed and legless," to remind me of what I missed. (I wasn't wide eyed and legless - I only had my pocket money so I probably had a Britvic Orange and made it last all night).
Jump forward to punk, and I was one of only three people at Plympton Grammar School who liked punk. We would take our punk records to Mr Glyn's record club every Friday, and he would dutifully play Devo, Wire, Iggy Pop and Stiff Little Fingers etc among the Rush, Led Zeppelin and Supertramp that dominated proceedings. We would duly get heckled for our selections.
Occasionally I'd go to Devonport on two buses to the Metro club to see a live gig.The first time I went, it was a bank holiday and on the bus I saw the two other punk admirers. I didn't actually know them then (Dave and Gary), but I remember scampering up to them and asking if I could walk with them to the Metro, as I guessed that's where they were going.
I saw UK Subs (I was nearly flattened against the stage) and X Ray Spex at the Metro to name two. Before the acts, the DJ played a wide variety of music: mostly punk but sometimes a song he particularly liked. "Never Let Her Slip Away" by Andrew Gold was one of them.
Mind you, it's not all oldies on my play list. There's nothing cutting edge but I do have some modern stuff from the likes of the Kaiser Chiefs, John Legend, Amy Winehouse, the Ordinary Boys, Keane, Coldplay.
Some songs remind me of other people. Recently, a shuffle sequence brought me two in a row which brought a lump to my throat: "The folks who live on the hill" by Peggy Lee, much loved by my dad, and "White Christmas" by Bing Crosby, my grandma's favourite Christmas record. I also have a few Andy Williams' tracks. He was one of my mum's favourites back in the 70s.
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Those darned resolutions
I made a resolution to myself that there wouldn't be any resolutions this year, but somehow a few random thoughts were committed to a Word document, and before I knew it, I had a full page including "measured by" and "due date." Talk about making life hard for yourself!
The fist resolution, which I'm sure applies to most of us, is losing the Christmas ballast. Linked to that is being seen more than once a week at the gym (I sternly suggested at least twice a week), and only having crisps once a week, as a treat (and not after gym visits).
The next was to cut down on magazine expenditure. John accused me of spending £150 a month on magazines, which I pooh-poohed at the time, but it might be too close to the mark. I wrote in an earlier post about my magazine obsession, and how it's now extended to card & craft making titles (there are LOTS). So what I've decided to do is stop some of the women's monthlies and only have one weekly gossip rag; and select five of the best papercraft magazines.
Now on Tuesday, three of my chosen publications all came out on the same day, and I resolved to buy them individually on separate days, not all at once which is what I normally do. It was a bit like going cold turkey: I had to force myself to select one title, and when I went today to collect the second, I was terrified they may have sold out (they hadn't).
Then I have some resolutions around boring things like calendaring certain chores on a monthly basis. Cleaning the lean-to, for example, which is a chore that gets postponed until it's like dealing with Miss Havisham's house. I can't say I will relish the reminder when it pops up on a Friday to tell me that the lean-to tidying is scheduled for the next day.
Anyway, let's hope 2007 is a peaceful and prosperous New Year with plenty of challenges and lots of fun. I've already booked our June holiday (Cyprus) and John has organised four days in Boston for the marathon in April. I now want to book one of those "Strictly Come Dancing" weekends I've seen advertised, where you learn four ball room dances. So plenty to look forward to - and maybe even a new cat!
The fist resolution, which I'm sure applies to most of us, is losing the Christmas ballast. Linked to that is being seen more than once a week at the gym (I sternly suggested at least twice a week), and only having crisps once a week, as a treat (and not after gym visits).
The next was to cut down on magazine expenditure. John accused me of spending £150 a month on magazines, which I pooh-poohed at the time, but it might be too close to the mark. I wrote in an earlier post about my magazine obsession, and how it's now extended to card & craft making titles (there are LOTS). So what I've decided to do is stop some of the women's monthlies and only have one weekly gossip rag; and select five of the best papercraft magazines.
Now on Tuesday, three of my chosen publications all came out on the same day, and I resolved to buy them individually on separate days, not all at once which is what I normally do. It was a bit like going cold turkey: I had to force myself to select one title, and when I went today to collect the second, I was terrified they may have sold out (they hadn't).
Then I have some resolutions around boring things like calendaring certain chores on a monthly basis. Cleaning the lean-to, for example, which is a chore that gets postponed until it's like dealing with Miss Havisham's house. I can't say I will relish the reminder when it pops up on a Friday to tell me that the lean-to tidying is scheduled for the next day.
Anyway, let's hope 2007 is a peaceful and prosperous New Year with plenty of challenges and lots of fun. I've already booked our June holiday (Cyprus) and John has organised four days in Boston for the marathon in April. I now want to book one of those "Strictly Come Dancing" weekends I've seen advertised, where you learn four ball room dances. So plenty to look forward to - and maybe even a new cat!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Christmas greetings
Yes a merry Christmas to each and every one of us! I don't go in for this nonsense of "happy holidays" or "let's not mention the C word in case it upsets other religions."
The Magwich has been consumed (the pork pie: pay attention at the back!), the crackers pulled, the paper hats worn, the Da Vinci Code viewed and the Trivial Pursuit DVD untouched (grrr).
Now we're in what I call "the hiatus," when Christmas is over but not quite finished. You're fed up with leftovers and anything involving raisins or icing; the dustmen aren't coming for days and the bin is overflowing, and the nation doesn't return to work for days. The only sport seems to be fighting at the sales, which used to be called January Sales but now start on Boxing Day (an apt word, given the nature of the scrum, according to some of the papers today).
Oh well, better make the most of a few days off. Plenty of time to make some cards. I have enough trimmings now, thanks to some of my Christmas presents and a visit to Hobbycraft, Romford, today, to produce all my birthday cards for 07. I will be experimenting with resist stamping, shaker cards and Twinkling H20s. And now I've finally got the addresses of John's relatives in Ireland, I will need to get started!
The Magwich has been consumed (the pork pie: pay attention at the back!), the crackers pulled, the paper hats worn, the Da Vinci Code viewed and the Trivial Pursuit DVD untouched (grrr).
Now we're in what I call "the hiatus," when Christmas is over but not quite finished. You're fed up with leftovers and anything involving raisins or icing; the dustmen aren't coming for days and the bin is overflowing, and the nation doesn't return to work for days. The only sport seems to be fighting at the sales, which used to be called January Sales but now start on Boxing Day (an apt word, given the nature of the scrum, according to some of the papers today).
Oh well, better make the most of a few days off. Plenty of time to make some cards. I have enough trimmings now, thanks to some of my Christmas presents and a visit to Hobbycraft, Romford, today, to produce all my birthday cards for 07. I will be experimenting with resist stamping, shaker cards and Twinkling H20s. And now I've finally got the addresses of John's relatives in Ireland, I will need to get started!
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Trial by Media
The Suffolk police chief revealed that a man held for questioning re Ipswich murders was being released, and his name wouldn't be disclosed at this time.
Splutter!
In the words of a Monty Python skit, well his real name is xxx, he is xx years old, he lives at xxxx and he works at Tesco. The minute he was arrested, the stable doors opened and the horse bolted: photos from his website, his mother's house, the man himself talking innocently to the BBC. Maybe the rules have changed, but when I was a trainee reporter, you didn't name a suspect until they had been charged. Once charged, you are still innocent until proved otherwise at trial.
But now, even though this man has been released, the old adage "no smoke without fire" will no doubt apply in a formerly quiet rural town which is now looking over its shoulder; he has been made out to be odd, by the press; a loner, someone we can all look down on (whereas in an earlier, kinder time, he may have been regarded as a philanthropist for trying to ease lives ravaged by drugs and prostitution).
My biggest worry is miscarriage of justice. We seem to have more of them these days. I have always firmly believed that Barry George is wrongly incarcerated, that he does not posssess the skill and intellectual ability needed to have murdered Jill Dando. But he was an easy target and once the media had carried out their trial, the jury was easy to convince, with nothing more than circumstantial evidence. Remember Colin Stagg? The killer of Rachel Nickell still walks free. Then there were the tragedies of Derek Bentley, hanged for shouting "let him have it," and later exonerated for the murder of a policeman; and Stefan Kiszko, who died not long after being released from prison for a murder he didn't commit.
So credit to Suffolk police for the strides they are making in the investigation -- another man is now charged with the murders -- but isn't it time the press and TV took a step backwards and examined their consciences?
Splutter!
In the words of a Monty Python skit, well his real name is xxx, he is xx years old, he lives at xxxx and he works at Tesco. The minute he was arrested, the stable doors opened and the horse bolted: photos from his website, his mother's house, the man himself talking innocently to the BBC. Maybe the rules have changed, but when I was a trainee reporter, you didn't name a suspect until they had been charged. Once charged, you are still innocent until proved otherwise at trial.
But now, even though this man has been released, the old adage "no smoke without fire" will no doubt apply in a formerly quiet rural town which is now looking over its shoulder; he has been made out to be odd, by the press; a loner, someone we can all look down on (whereas in an earlier, kinder time, he may have been regarded as a philanthropist for trying to ease lives ravaged by drugs and prostitution).
My biggest worry is miscarriage of justice. We seem to have more of them these days. I have always firmly believed that Barry George is wrongly incarcerated, that he does not posssess the skill and intellectual ability needed to have murdered Jill Dando. But he was an easy target and once the media had carried out their trial, the jury was easy to convince, with nothing more than circumstantial evidence. Remember Colin Stagg? The killer of Rachel Nickell still walks free. Then there were the tragedies of Derek Bentley, hanged for shouting "let him have it," and later exonerated for the murder of a policeman; and Stefan Kiszko, who died not long after being released from prison for a murder he didn't commit.
So credit to Suffolk police for the strides they are making in the investigation -- another man is now charged with the murders -- but isn't it time the press and TV took a step backwards and examined their consciences?
Thursday, December 21, 2006
The path to old gitdom
I sometimes see John's teenage children looking at me in That Way...you know, that somewhat bemused, occasionally exasperated way that teenagers have of looking at you as if you're a historical relic. Not surprisingly, it's a look you see more often when you're trying to be young and trendy and you're maybe talking about your other self on Second Life, or the latest musical offering from the Towers of London.
I've never been reticient about revealing my age (look at the title of my blog) or saying that I'm middle aged, although I always secretly hope I don't look my age. I remember thinking n my teens and early 20s that someone who was 37 was well past it. I remember Giz lamenting the fact that a divorced friend of hers never met any new men. I thought scathingly, "well she's 37 - no wonder!" I used to think that having a mortgage was the absolute epitome of Old Git-Dom, meaning you had conformed and sold out big time.
Of course over the years more and more symbols of Old Git Dom get added to your arsenal. Slippers, for example, and not the frou fou marabou trimmed type either. The desire to wear comfortable shoes when out on a shopping expedition. The embarrassing retention of facts from the 70s. One's partiality to a scooner of sherry (try telling everyone it's actually trendy to drink sherry chilled....). The strange discussion held over the Sunday roast, over what type of joint it is ("silverside" "British?" "No, Irish".)
But the most important thing that comes with age is confidence. I'm confident enough to wear slippers and tell you all, and not give a stuff. When you're young, you think you're cutting edge and trendy but really you're just following everyone else like a sheep, wearing the same outfits, using the same phrases.
I shudder at the tyranny of being young and trying to avoid the agony of being an outsider, an eccentric, old-fashioned, square or whatever. As you get older, you don't worry about what people think of you. You're proud to be different. And the great thing is that everything always comes back into fashion. So the high waisted jeans that I've had for five years, and kept wearing when everyone else's were showing their knickers and muffin tops (not a very flattering look, but that's sheep for you), are now high fashion again. Cool, huh? I won't hold my breath about the slippers though.
I've never been reticient about revealing my age (look at the title of my blog) or saying that I'm middle aged, although I always secretly hope I don't look my age. I remember thinking n my teens and early 20s that someone who was 37 was well past it. I remember Giz lamenting the fact that a divorced friend of hers never met any new men. I thought scathingly, "well she's 37 - no wonder!" I used to think that having a mortgage was the absolute epitome of Old Git-Dom, meaning you had conformed and sold out big time.
Of course over the years more and more symbols of Old Git Dom get added to your arsenal. Slippers, for example, and not the frou fou marabou trimmed type either. The desire to wear comfortable shoes when out on a shopping expedition. The embarrassing retention of facts from the 70s. One's partiality to a scooner of sherry (try telling everyone it's actually trendy to drink sherry chilled....). The strange discussion held over the Sunday roast, over what type of joint it is ("silverside" "British?" "No, Irish".)
But the most important thing that comes with age is confidence. I'm confident enough to wear slippers and tell you all, and not give a stuff. When you're young, you think you're cutting edge and trendy but really you're just following everyone else like a sheep, wearing the same outfits, using the same phrases.
I shudder at the tyranny of being young and trying to avoid the agony of being an outsider, an eccentric, old-fashioned, square or whatever. As you get older, you don't worry about what people think of you. You're proud to be different. And the great thing is that everything always comes back into fashion. So the high waisted jeans that I've had for five years, and kept wearing when everyone else's were showing their knickers and muffin tops (not a very flattering look, but that's sheep for you), are now high fashion again. Cool, huh? I won't hold my breath about the slippers though.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Arthur Cushing
I had sad news yesterday. My first boss, the former editor of the South Devon Times, Arthur Cushing, died at the weekend. I had sent him the annual Christmas card & letter, and received an email from his daughter Katy telling me Arthur had had cancer for six months and died peacefully in St Luke's Hospice, Plymouth.
I told Ms Julie (Julie Skentelbery, my pal since our Mirror Group Training Scheme days) who recalled how Arthur had sent us to the shops to get his tobacco, and how once, in a rare rage, he had impaled himself on the spike (where all the used copy was placed) when shouting at Chris Bartlett.
Arthur was a very mild-mannered man usually. Goodness knows how he managed to stay so patient, when his beloved newspaper was staffed only by hapless trainees straight from their six week induction course. He was an old school, old style editor, with attention to integrity, grammar and building relationships with the local community and police to collect stories. How I hated being sent on a "prowl," where I had to befriend the local undertaker amongst others. I was always puzzled about the etiquette of this; should I enquire "how's business?" or beat around the bush over a cup of tea for half an hour?
Arthur didn't drive so he was very appreciative when Julie and I took him to the Seven Stars or the Cherry Tree for lunch in her Morris 1000, which had a giant stone in the boot (for sentimental reasons) and a non-operational speedometer. The landlord of the Seven Stars, Mr Stout, was extremely generous with his portions and his name bore witness to that.
Initially when I started work at the South Devon Times we were based in West of England Newspapers' main building in Honicknowle, Plymouth. It had a state of the art printing press which barely gathered speed for the small run of the SDT. Arthur would get mildly stressed on press day as the proofs came back, more subbing was needed and the printers were getting difficult. Then, around 4pm, he would rush into the office beaming, holding some copies in his hand.
The Sunday Independent shared the same offices and the staff considered themselves much superior, so inevitably someone would be scathing about the headline. It's true that sometimes we struggled for news. I remember one of my more dubious stories was "Lettuce soon a luxury." A lot of the content was supplied by a network of old ladies who supplied stories about the Women's Institute, Townswomen's Guild and various religious groups. Some of these ladies were quite fanatical about the paper , particularly one Kathleen Luscombe in Ringwood, South Hams, who would ring up and shriek down the phone that the paper hadn't yet arrived there.
Arthur finally left the SDT and went to Muscat to edit the Times of Oman. He was thrilled to have a chauffeur driven car. After he retired, he would write occasionally with news of his travels.
I will raise a glass over Christmas in memory of Arthur, the man who launched my journalist career and that of many others, among them Val McDermid, Robert "Ned" Bowden, Nikki Slight, Henrietta Knight, Alan Nixon.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Christmas in Munich
It's such a beautiful place, probably my favourite city in the world. It turned out that Giz wasn't too impressed by the first Christmas market, at Marienplatz, as you can see, so I didn't force Tollwood on her (a huge market on the site of the Oktoberfest).
Instead she wanted to go to a museum so we went to the Deutsche Museum. I've never been there before. The boats and canoes were very interesting (not meant ironically).
We also went to the planetarium, though the commentary was entirely in German so we didn't understand any of it except occasional references to "Milch Strasse" and "Marz."
I had hoped to take Giz to a fabulous restaurant, the Bogenhauser Hof, but unfortunately it was fully booked. We did go to an Indian restaurant, newly named Ganesha (formerly Namaskar) not far from the Hilton where we were staying.
I had hoped to take Giz to a fabulous restaurant, the Bogenhauser Hof, but unfortunately it was fully booked. We did go to an Indian restaurant, newly named Ganesha (formerly Namaskar) not far from the Hilton where we were staying.
All in all a nice time; and on Saturday, back in London, we went to the Holbein exhibition at Tate Britain, which was marvellous (although sadly Anne of Cleves was not present), followed by The Nutcracker at the Coliseum with English National Ballet. This was a new version of a ballet we've seen several times before. It was very colourful and quite special.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Festive Fun
Went to the annual Intel marketing Christmas party last week. Held as always as Sudbury House Hotel, Faringdon, and a severe case of deja vu walking in and seeing the same Christmas tree, the same table laid out with glasses, and so on. It may have even been the same turkey - very hard to tell with that tough old bird!
We had a Ladeez Table and certainly made the most noise, particularly with our rendition of "and a partridge in a pear tree" which far outshone the other tables, who'd gone mute at the prospect of singing (that's engineers for you).
We Ladeez didn't do too well with the quiz though. The questions were quite hard, not so much about celebrities or shoes, or even how many transistors on a processor, but far too many about the EU and golf.
Despite being exhorted not to cheat, mobile phones were soon flashing around the room, querying Google or phoning a friend. How else would Rick's table have scored 39 out of 40? Not that the Internet is always very reliable. Our Internet-supplied answer to the question "which leader coined the phrase 'Iron Curtain' was Goebbels, which we didn't think was right, and it wasn't (the correct answer was Churchill).
Anyway, we still ended up with 50% of the prize, one of two bottles of Champagne, thanks to Peggy's extraordinary skill at liberating bottles from tables.
Ladeez Awards
1) Mario Testino award for Photography: Kirsty Hammond
2) Best face when blowing up a balloon: Laura Conger
3) "Got to pick a pocket or two" award: Peggy Van Nieuwenhove
4) Most generous boss award: Rick
5) Booby prize for first to bed.....the author...zzzz
Anyway, it was a great night and wonderful to see some of our friends who recently left.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
Princess Diana: when will it ever end?
At the risk of being controversial, I am extremely bored with all the hoo-ha surrounding the Princess Diana inquest, the ridiculous allegations about conspiracies and anything that Mohamnmed Al-Fayed has to say.
We should have had a complete and open inquest several years ago and drawn a line under the sorry business. There was clearly a lot of bungling between the British and French authorities, but that doesn't necessarily spell out "conspiracy." The word I would choose is "incompetence." Meanwhile the delays and prevarication about open or private inquest fuels the bonkers Daily Express which is obsessed with conspiracies and murder theories.
Without pre-empting the inquest, the facts seem to suggest that Diana died in a car crash. She wasn't wearing a seat belt. There was no reason to suggest any conspiracies. The driver was several times over the drink drive limit. Diana was divorced from Prince Charles and hardly a threat to the constitution. Some reports say she wasn't very seriously attached to Dodi Al Fayed. Then there's a report she was pregnant - but nothing suggests this was the case.
I was never a Diana fan, and since her death, a cult seems to have developed around her where she has taken on almost mystical qualities. "The princess of the people," warm and approachable. Well yes, but compared to the rest of the royal family, stiff and repressed, she couldn't be anything else. The charity work. Well sorry, but I never felt the same about it when I read that newspapers were always being tipped off about when to see her going about her secret charity work. Then there were the photo opportunities. The hang dog self-conscious pose at the Taj Mahal. The TV interview with the crazed eyeliner rimmed eyes. The behaviour. Throwing yourself down stairs is not a normal way to behave, nor is developing bulimia to attract attention.
I can understand why the royal family would drive anyone to despair, but she can't have been that naive that she didn't realise she was pre-destined for the role as bride because of her pure status and breeding stock potential. She knew about Camilla, and probably thought she would drive her older and less attractive rival away. But Charles likes pseudo intellectual debate, and surrounded himself with acolytes like Laurens Van Der Post. And he goes to dreary places like Balmoral, whereas Diana was a young woman who yearned for glamour and fun, not intellectual debate and trudging around Scotland in wellies.
Then there were the boyfriends. She certainly seemed to make up for lost time once she and Charles separated. Hewitt, Gilby, Will Carling, some doctor, an infatuation for Oliver Hoare (she made hundreds of calls to this married gentleman, and police were embarrassed when they investigated and found who was making them). And the various lurid writers of her life promise us there are many more romances with high-profile figures.
It's all as tawdry in retrospect as the sad little memorial in London and the even sadder little island when she is buried at her brother's estate, failing to draw the crowds. In my view, time to develop some proportion and perspective, and to move on.
We should have had a complete and open inquest several years ago and drawn a line under the sorry business. There was clearly a lot of bungling between the British and French authorities, but that doesn't necessarily spell out "conspiracy." The word I would choose is "incompetence." Meanwhile the delays and prevarication about open or private inquest fuels the bonkers Daily Express which is obsessed with conspiracies and murder theories.
Without pre-empting the inquest, the facts seem to suggest that Diana died in a car crash. She wasn't wearing a seat belt. There was no reason to suggest any conspiracies. The driver was several times over the drink drive limit. Diana was divorced from Prince Charles and hardly a threat to the constitution. Some reports say she wasn't very seriously attached to Dodi Al Fayed. Then there's a report she was pregnant - but nothing suggests this was the case.
I was never a Diana fan, and since her death, a cult seems to have developed around her where she has taken on almost mystical qualities. "The princess of the people," warm and approachable. Well yes, but compared to the rest of the royal family, stiff and repressed, she couldn't be anything else. The charity work. Well sorry, but I never felt the same about it when I read that newspapers were always being tipped off about when to see her going about her secret charity work. Then there were the photo opportunities. The hang dog self-conscious pose at the Taj Mahal. The TV interview with the crazed eyeliner rimmed eyes. The behaviour. Throwing yourself down stairs is not a normal way to behave, nor is developing bulimia to attract attention.
I can understand why the royal family would drive anyone to despair, but she can't have been that naive that she didn't realise she was pre-destined for the role as bride because of her pure status and breeding stock potential. She knew about Camilla, and probably thought she would drive her older and less attractive rival away. But Charles likes pseudo intellectual debate, and surrounded himself with acolytes like Laurens Van Der Post. And he goes to dreary places like Balmoral, whereas Diana was a young woman who yearned for glamour and fun, not intellectual debate and trudging around Scotland in wellies.
Then there were the boyfriends. She certainly seemed to make up for lost time once she and Charles separated. Hewitt, Gilby, Will Carling, some doctor, an infatuation for Oliver Hoare (she made hundreds of calls to this married gentleman, and police were embarrassed when they investigated and found who was making them). And the various lurid writers of her life promise us there are many more romances with high-profile figures.
It's all as tawdry in retrospect as the sad little memorial in London and the even sadder little island when she is buried at her brother's estate, failing to draw the crowds. In my view, time to develop some proportion and perspective, and to move on.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Leaping salmon
Three days on the salmon diet and only one pound lost! That's weight-wise: financially of course, many more pounds. Salmon as prescribed by Dr Perricone, twice a day, doesn't come cheap.
I suppose the curry on day two didn't help, but John was most insistent on a Friday night curry. I made concessions by not having a Bombay aloo, but I couldn't switch from a Bombay chicken to the dieter's alleged friend, the chicken tandoori.
I do the three-day Perricone salmon diet every now and then. I'm not a fan of faddy low-cal diets but this one seems to work: it's delicious, fairly filling, and usually gets good results. The diet isn't sold as a weight loss diet. I added up the calories and it comes in at around 1200. The diet is billed as the "three day facelift in the fridge." Perricone believes that skin ageing is caused by inflammation and the sun. And the diet really does seem to improve the skin. Kim Cattrall is a big fan apparently. For breakfast you have an omelette made with one whole egg and two egg whites, and porridge. For lunch, salmon fillet with lots of lettuce doused in lemon juice and olive oil (surprisingly delicious); for dinner, the same, plus a green vegetable; for snacks, almonds and slices of turkey breast, and an apple or pear.
I was driven to the diet after trying on a few party frocks and finding the size 12s a little clipped.
I lost two and a half stone in 2004 and have successfully kept it off, except for three pounds that have crept on and doggedly refuse to go. What isn't so good is that I don't go to the gym anywhere near enough. So I went for a run yesterday, in the rain and wind, and even spent some time in the gym today (and not just on the sun bed).
The forcing function is two Christmas parties on Dec 7 and 8. As the magazines gleefully tell us in December, it's all about showing gleaming skin, wearing sparkly eyeshadows and bling, and buying the drop dead frock.
I think I managed to get hold of the latter in a rare trip to Newbury. I lived in Newbury from 1994 to 1998 and have very fond memories of the town, pre-bypass, and its quaint little department store Camp Hopson. Well, what a change, in all respects. Now by-passed, Newbury has a more up-and-coming town centre, and Camp Hopson has been totally remodelled. No longer a fusty Grace Brothers, it's a bright shop to rival any House of Fraser. And in the Kaliko concession I found my perfect frock, midnight blue with sequins. I then had to buy some shoes, and I'm still looking for the midnight blue evening bag, but with two trips to London this week, I'm sure I'll succeed.
No more salmon for me, but I'll keep up the good work in Gillian McKeith style (my guru): porridge for breakfast with blueberries ands flax seeds; home made soup with seeds for lunch and fish or chicken with veg for dinner. There's no magic formula to losing weight than simply eating less and exercising. Lots of people eagerly asked me how I did it, back in 2004, but that really was the answer. I've also bought diet books which promise miracles - F Plan, Atkins, South Beach, New York - but I've realised that just eating less, and not being tyrannised into giving up your favourite foods, is what works. So while I happily cook my way through Gillian's recipes and have developed quite a taste for spinach and quinoa, I still have the occasional bag of crisps and the odd jacket potato and glass of chardonnay.
I suppose the curry on day two didn't help, but John was most insistent on a Friday night curry. I made concessions by not having a Bombay aloo, but I couldn't switch from a Bombay chicken to the dieter's alleged friend, the chicken tandoori.
I do the three-day Perricone salmon diet every now and then. I'm not a fan of faddy low-cal diets but this one seems to work: it's delicious, fairly filling, and usually gets good results. The diet isn't sold as a weight loss diet. I added up the calories and it comes in at around 1200. The diet is billed as the "three day facelift in the fridge." Perricone believes that skin ageing is caused by inflammation and the sun. And the diet really does seem to improve the skin. Kim Cattrall is a big fan apparently. For breakfast you have an omelette made with one whole egg and two egg whites, and porridge. For lunch, salmon fillet with lots of lettuce doused in lemon juice and olive oil (surprisingly delicious); for dinner, the same, plus a green vegetable; for snacks, almonds and slices of turkey breast, and an apple or pear.
I was driven to the diet after trying on a few party frocks and finding the size 12s a little clipped.
I lost two and a half stone in 2004 and have successfully kept it off, except for three pounds that have crept on and doggedly refuse to go. What isn't so good is that I don't go to the gym anywhere near enough. So I went for a run yesterday, in the rain and wind, and even spent some time in the gym today (and not just on the sun bed).
The forcing function is two Christmas parties on Dec 7 and 8. As the magazines gleefully tell us in December, it's all about showing gleaming skin, wearing sparkly eyeshadows and bling, and buying the drop dead frock.
I think I managed to get hold of the latter in a rare trip to Newbury. I lived in Newbury from 1994 to 1998 and have very fond memories of the town, pre-bypass, and its quaint little department store Camp Hopson. Well, what a change, in all respects. Now by-passed, Newbury has a more up-and-coming town centre, and Camp Hopson has been totally remodelled. No longer a fusty Grace Brothers, it's a bright shop to rival any House of Fraser. And in the Kaliko concession I found my perfect frock, midnight blue with sequins. I then had to buy some shoes, and I'm still looking for the midnight blue evening bag, but with two trips to London this week, I'm sure I'll succeed.
No more salmon for me, but I'll keep up the good work in Gillian McKeith style (my guru): porridge for breakfast with blueberries ands flax seeds; home made soup with seeds for lunch and fish or chicken with veg for dinner. There's no magic formula to losing weight than simply eating less and exercising. Lots of people eagerly asked me how I did it, back in 2004, but that really was the answer. I've also bought diet books which promise miracles - F Plan, Atkins, South Beach, New York - but I've realised that just eating less, and not being tyrannised into giving up your favourite foods, is what works. So while I happily cook my way through Gillian's recipes and have developed quite a taste for spinach and quinoa, I still have the occasional bag of crisps and the odd jacket potato and glass of chardonnay.
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