Lanterne Rouge

The first day of the week - alphabetically?

…was the easiest question in tonight’s pub quiz, attended by me and (forgive the twitterism, but since this is being published on Twitter and is probably where most of my readers come from) @breekom, @golfpunkgirl, @benbenbenbenben and @leewinter.

It took place at the Stinging Nettle in Shepherds Bush - Bree and I had been having a quiet drink there a month or so ago and had overheard a decent pub quiz in the background, and thought we’d give it a go. So, us five brave interrogatees took up the challenge, and, calling ourselves “eight million, eight thousand, one hundred and thirty-five” (work it out), stepped up to the plate.

It’s a pretty trad affair, with 40 questions, 10 of which are a picture round featuring, among others, Rob Lowe, Cheryl Cole,  Whitney Houston and the word “blowjob”. Charmingly amateurish, we did have cause to complain on a couple of questions: we answered “Congo” instead of “Zaire” (since the latter no longer exists, our gamesmanship actually provided the more accurate answer), and when a question asked us to name a decade, apparently “60s” is not sufficient when the required answer is “1860s”. But we’re magnanimous; as it turned out, we could afford to be.

Among the usual suspects were a couple of genuinely interesting posers. The one that had us thinking for longest was the following: which three London Underground stations do the following clues apply to?

a) Mountain of farms

b) Coal-miner’s coppice

c) Layers of our envious prince

Please answer in the comments section, below. Show working :)

Everyone conributed meaningfully, from Ben’s Derek and Clive nous, to Bree’s pointless pop culture perfection, to Lee’s slightly worrying Barbra Streisand secret. I filled in a few blanks here and there, and somehow we managed to win the bloody thing - I’m a perpetual pub quiz podium chap, but I almost never reach the top step. And a prize of £64! Last time I won a pub quiz, it was at Warwick University and the prize was a crate of truly nasty beer (which, I’m sure, was way more valuable then than £64 is now). Liana kept pointing out what a smug fucker I looked. I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations.

Size does matter?

My friend Liv suggested this addendum to yesterday’s post. Some see the popularity of exhibitions such as Anish Kapoor as a renaissance in the public appreciation of art; but as Liv pointed out, how many of the punters who queue to see Kapoor’s Big Art are actually interested in the more standard formats?

I blame the Tate Modern’s Turbine Gallery. It DEMANDS Big Art. It also provides a space that hundreds of visitors can experience at once, and indeed their presence and experience of the work becomes part of the work in itself.

Of course, size per se makes the unremarkable extraordinary in almost any context. Most things can be made big; if they are made massive, absurdly so, they also become exponentially more viewable. I think on balance I’m more awed by enormous things with a purpose; massive mining machinery, aircraft carriers, the Pentagon, the Goliath beetle, all much more impressive than, say, a 50-metre-high white horse (yours for £2m, great views, must like Kent).

But having said that, the double whammy of something that is both great art and oversized is one that squares its own attractiveness factor; the art lovers won’t (usually) be put off, but the casual observers will get off their fat-arsed Sunday sofas and make the effort to better themselves when they wouldn’t even consider popping down to the poor, old-fashioned Tate Britain for a bit of oil on canvas.

Conversely, Tiny Art has an equal magnetic attraction to the non-conventional art consumer. The classic example is Willard Wigan, whose learning difficulties made expressing himself an issue which he overcame by making ever-smaller sculptures, often framed by the eye of an ordinary needle. The quality of the sculpture, the subject and content of it is irrelevant; it’s the mere fact that someone has done something which appears impossible that makes it so fascinating.

In this instance, it’s almost the pure weirdness of the subject that makes the audience take note - I can’t imagine many real connoisseurs appreciating the beauty and depth of a teeny tiny Homer Simpson or Marilyn Monroe, minute skirt a-flutter - but in public interest terms, it’s gold. Quite literally for Wigan, who has sold his life’s work for a not-miniscule $20 million.

Kapoor or Caravaggio?

This isn’t a discussion on the merits of two very different forms of art. This is a “wot I done on my weekend” post, less interesting but undoubtedly less long-winded and pretentious than the former would have been.

Yesterday afternoon, B and I (having allowed ourselves the luxury of waiting for the torrential rain to subside) trundled into town to see the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Academy. Having watched the documentary on the artist last week (and what a lovely chap he seems!), we were both very much up for it, and only the sanctity of Sunday evenings flopped on the sofa prevented us from choosing the Rather Good Idea of attending the limited-numbers, complimentary-booze evening viewing.

Which turned out to be a shame. We arrived at about 1.30 to see the queue virtually snaking into the road, and after 5 minutes of desultory queuing, we hightailed it over the road to lust after Fortnums’ fancies before lunching at the nearby FishWorks, which was exactly what we needed. I don’t tend to go to fish restaurants very much, and almost never order it when there’s meat on the menu, but the mixed grill, oysters and breadboard were all flawless. The spontaneity of the meal was the icing on the cake - it was a wonderful lunch.

Fortified, we re-entered the cultural metasphere and walked over to the National Gallery to look at a Caravaggio or two. And that was, indeed, the number of Caravaggios we found. Very nice - and luckily there are one or two other decent sketches in the National to keep us occupied as it got steadily colder outside.

So, hardly a groundbreaking day, but it’s worth noting in the context that I almost never go into town on the weekend, and never never for culturally proactive fun. I know it’s not quite new year, but I Must Do This Again very soon.

Unnecessary question mark?

Tumblr’s bizarre thinking means if I want people to respond to my blog posts, I need to put a question mark in the title. I’m an attention whore, so of course I do, which is why I’ll likely be moving to Wordpress just as soon as I can work out the baffling complex set of things I can do to customise my blogging experience. As long as I get dozens of witty response, and thousands of unique visitors, I’ll be happy to churn out any old crap.

Last night I went to see excellent band Royal Treatment Plant play a charity do at the Cobden Club. They were great, of course - it’s such a rush when you hear a band you like play new songs and they’re brilliant. Some of the newies were quite understated, softer and more mournful than usual, but there were also a couple of anthemic tunes, which would be equally at home on Match of the Day and over the climactic scene of a mid-budget Hollywood movie (starring, let’s say, Hugh Jackman). Very exciting.

On the downside… the charity event was woefully, embarrassingly underattended - there probably weren’t two dozen paying punters, and most of them (including me) left after RTP came off stage. They still had a charity auction to go, which included some genuinely top lots, but I couldn’t face it. I get so sad for people in that situation. I’m cringing just thinking about it.

There were also two tolerable singer-songwriter chaps, and one dreadful comedienne. I won’t name her but while she seemed likeable enough, she just wasn’t funny. Deathly silence from the audience for most of her set, and a good 15 minutes without as much as a snicker. I was sitting there just wanting it to end, and was pathetically grateful whenever there was anything to even chuckle about. At least she had a group of friends to look after her when she came off stage. I think I now understand why clowns are so sad.

So, if you’ve got some spare cash you’d like to give to a good cause, but don’t know which one, can I recommend actionaid - they’ll be feeling pretty low today, I reckon, and they seem to do genuinely excellent things.

Fancy an Argentinian?

As part of an attempt to eat well of as many different cuisines as possible, I got to experience real Argentinian food last night at Buen Ayre. There was no question it would be all about the steak, but fortunately they do several mixed grills (part of a thankfully short and simple menu - when we did Korean a couple of months ago we all gratefully and, somewhat pathetically, put ourselves in the manager’s hands. Which turned out to be the right decision, as we ate superbly), which meant four of us tucked into (deep breath) a 14oz sirloin steak, an 11oz rib-eye steak, black pudding, two Argentinian sausages and a generous slab of melty, salty provolone cheese.

And my god, was it good. The larger of the two steaks was the only disappointment - much less flavoured than the other, thicker, less crisp on the outside - but the smaller was one of the most wonderful cuts of meat I’ve ever had. I was a bit of a wuss and went for medium-medium-rare, but it was just right.

The sausages were excellent, spicy and flavoursome, but the black pudding was the most fascinating of all. Softer and wetter than its sturdy British counterpart, it was a savoury delight, subtly yet powerfully flavoured and, to my palate at least, incredibly reminiscent of Dr Pepper. And it went fantastically well with the cheese.

We also had chips, because we’re greedy buggers, though most went uneaten, despite being superb, crusty and crispy, and served with an aioli which was, as far as I could tells, garlic and parsley crushed together with a little oil. Delicious but quite full on. Finally, we went for the cheapest hourse red, which was spot on, which is always a good sign in places like this.

So, another success for the dining club. We’re 4 for 4 in the meals I’ve managed to attend (Ethiopian, Korean, Argentinian and Mexican), and I’m pushing for Caribbean next, despite that cheerful chap on the telly making it look a bit, well, bland. No doubt I’ll write about it when it happens…

Scammed?

I’m wondering if I try and write an entry every day whether the blog will become vital and coherent, or  I’ll just end up typing rubbish (incl. meta rubbish, like a post wondering about itself, for example). Can’t hurt to try.

I’m thinking at the moment about identity theft, being hacked on the internets, that kind of thing. There must be a massive trail of me all over the web, and it wouldn’t take much for some shady rascal to extrapolate passwords and the like and go on a spending spree. Leaving aside the worst case scenario of my laptop, and all my lovely, tempting saved passwords, getting stolen (I almost never take it out of the house, so burglary’s about the only opportunity), someone with time and certain skillz in both IT and lateral thinking could do someone like me a lot of damage. I think.

I agreed to some identity theft insurance last year, and I have a suspicion it’s one of those things that isn’t actually a scam, but is probably not worth the paper it’s written on. I must take a look at the small print (something I’m bad enough at in my work life, let alone at home). Be very interesting to see exactly what’s covered, and in what scenario.

I think part of the scamminess is that the losses through identity theft are often covered by law in any case. While banks are cocks most of the time, it does seem that if your account is defrauded, you do usually get reimbursed. Credit cards are famous for the security they offer, and even things like Paypal have (as I understand it, bureacratic, inefficient and frustrating) safety measures as a matter of course.

Having said all that, I wouldn’t have a clue where to begin if I did get ripped off. Do the police even care? For example, if someone clones your card and buys goods with it online, do they track down the delivery address and pounce on the wrongdoer? And what about insurance? I’m coming out in hives just thinking about it.

I guess this blog is just a series of questions, rather than anything enlightening. If it makes me get off my arse and look into the answers, then writing it won’t have been the usual waste of time.

Personal training c/d?

This morning I just had my 3rd personal training session (my 4th if you count my hardcore free weights hour in the gym with Harry, which I probably should as I hope it’s not going to be a one-off). Bree and I are paying a delightful Serb (who, despite being straight, male and in his late 20s, loves the Backstreet Boys and JLS) a staggering sum of money to make us sweat and suffer.

And it’s fun! Sort of. We’ve been lucky with the weather so far - 3 times it’s been sunny and mild, and one time it was so foul we postponed, which is also fine. Vojin, I feel, is going fairly easy on us at this stage - I don’t feel destroyed after my beasting, but I guess he’s got to get us used to the activities before he can rip us to shreds, otherwise it would all be too literal.

He’s making me run quite a lot, and I Don’t Do Running. When I say quite a lot, I mean I probably don’t even cover 1km during a session, but when you Don’t Do Running that’s sort of a big deal. I’ve even wondered if, sometime in the future, I might Do Running. But don’t tell anyone I said that.

The worst bit of the session is a wee bit of circuit work he makes us do almost as an extended warm-up. The best bit has to be the boxing. Why has no-one made me do this before? I feel slightly foolish raising my dukes and dancing around the notional ring, but such foolishness is swamped by the macho Rocky-ness of it all. I’m in a park! Wearing boxing gloves! I’m a real man!

Add in some core and leg exercises, and some rubber rope-pulling shoulder and arm stuff, and that’s pretty much a session. I’m not totally convinced it’s worth [staggering sum] but if it inspires us to keep it up - which may be optimistic considering we’ll have 3 months of deep winter to plough through - then I reckon it’ll be worth it.

Comments?

The photo of me at the top of this blog is woefully out of date. I’m ten pounds heavier, and have been rocking some kind of varying-length stubble for the last 9 months. I like to think I look cosier. More cuddly maybe?

I nudged a friend about why she wasn’t blogging any more earlier today, so rather than be a filthy hypocrite, here’s a wee update on things in and around me (hmm that’s slightly more unsavoury than I intended).

1) I had lunch today at Cha Cha Moon off Carnaby Street with Christian and we were chagrined to be kept waiting for quite a while, first for our jasmin tea (so sensible yet metrosexual) and then for our meal. After 20 minutes or so, the waitress* came over and whispered apologetically that they were having problems with the “chicken machine”. We had both ordered seafood dishes.

2) Christian ran a marathon last weekend, and I need to figure out my next big bike challenge, to go with riding to Paris (2008) and riding a 24-hour relay (2009). Harry keeps talking about étapes and mountains and the like. I don’t like hills and feel this may be unwise. But I do need to figure something out, especially as my commute is about all I seem to ride these days (though I’m going to a velodrome in a couple of weeks! So excited, you guys!). Any ideas more than welcome!

3) Xmas is almost upon us. I want a pony.

4) I think the internet is getting more patronising. Chief among the wrong ‘uns are all the websites -invariably spanking new and almost all social-networky (that’s Polish for “Facebook”) - who feel the need to have input boxes or buttons with ENORMOUS TEXT like you’re an enfeebled old duffer or a character in a early noughties www-based Hollywood feature film. But also sites that have embarced themes - I notice Yahoo! are aware that it’s autumn, but in case I’m not, here’s a little picture of some oak leaves and acorns next to my email.

Google may be many things, but although its homepage is ultra-simple, it has one big logo then lovely, reassuring normal-sized text. I don’t feel like I’m being treated like a 4-year-old, unlike, say, by the very page I’m typing this on:

That’s actual size. The logo, once again, I’m happy to forgive. But “Add a Text Post”? Okay already! No need to treat me like I’m deaf!

*we need a non-gender-specific term here, really, as Christian was convinced she was one of the intersexed people Thailand is well known for. If she was, then compliments on the hips, fella.

Parenting? Piece of cake...

Bree and I did twelve hours of babysitting on Saturday, a two and a half year old girl and a one year old lad. The girl is a bit of a minx but the boy is ultra-well behaved. It was a lovely day - we took them first to Sainsburys, where they sat in the trolley and were happy and cute and no trouble, and then to the park, where we spent half an hour in the playground then an hour or so walking and lounging on a lawn blowing bubbles.

We then drifted back to Harlesden (where the kids live) to make them their dinner (messy, as much for me as for them, as I had the little one on my watch and “eating” is pretty much a random experiment as far as I can tell), then give them a bath. Behaviour is still pretty good at this stage, even from the toddler (Bree had to put up with a bit more naughtiness than I did even though she was mainly in my charge, and was certainly the bad cop more often than I was), and bathtime is fun! though washing was fairly arbitrary.

The baby was put to bed after his bath, and I took the little girl downstairs to watch a DVD. It’s Angelina Ballerina - the very feature-length version I worked on! I remembered every bloody line, having script edited most of it. She wasn’t very focused, basically running backwards and forwards picking up each of her toys in turn, while wearing the DVD cover as a hat. It was this headware which, thanks to an enthusiastic and unexpected cuddle for uncle Marco, left me with a cut on my forehead to show for my efforts. War wounds always impress the ladies.

Eventually, I persuaded her it’s time for bed (Bree tells me I *tell* her it’s time for bed, there are no alternative options) and I read her a Paddington Bear book (The Tutti-Frutti Sundae, Paddy-fans). She was happy to listen, but really wanted to read the book herself, which she did as I wrangled her into approximate sleeping position and, thankfully, headed downstairs.

Bree and I watched Anchorman and eventually drifted off to sleep on the sofa, only to be woken at about midnight (when, incidentally, the parents were intending to return) by the little boy’s painful, agonising screams. Poor lad - we think he’s teething but we can’t really tell, and it takes a good 25 minutes to stop the caterwauling and even then, he’s still sobbing and occasionally screaming. Bree tended to him at first but then I seemed to have more luck, comforting him for the best part of an hour before he seemed ready for sleep. We got about half an hour’s peace, then the screaming started again. And at 1.45am, the householders arrived home and relieved us with the natural calm and confidence of experienced parents. I was quite pleased by this point.

Same as it ever was?

I went to pick up Bree from the airport last night. As I stood in terminal three checking out the new arrivals, I watched a muslim man, not looking where he was going, ram his trolley into the back of an orthodox jew. You could have cut the tension with a knife.

(actually you couldn’t, it was fine, he apologised, got a glare in return, and life continued. It tickled me for some reason, that reason probably being because I am a horrible racist)

As it’s the 7th July, this post is a metaphorical poured-40 for Liz, who I still miss terribly. My friends have been discussing visiting the Stelae in Hyde Park, and if I had my bike with me today I would have gone myself (both bikes currently out of action). Hopefully tomorrow. For now, I’ll just remember a wonderful, life-affirming friend.