1000 Seconds Long

I have no sympathy for Tracy Temple. This is the woman who claims she sold her story to the Daily Mail "to get her side of the story heard." So, it had nothing to do with the "six-figure sum" they paid you, then? Apparently she has "had to live with the lies and the misinformation that was actually written about me, causing damage to my reputation and possibly my future career". There was an easy way to avoid all that, Flower: don't commit adultery in the first place.

Silly bint.

On the recommendation of someone whose blog I play on occasionally, I went to HMV the other day and bought the Secret Machines album "Ten Silver Drops". I am aware that buying music on the basis of recommendations from people I've only ever met over the internet doesn't bode well for my bank balance (incidentally, I have since discovered that it's two quid cheaper in Fopp, so if you're going to take the recommendation of this person you've only ever met over the internet, I suggest getting it there.) As a fellow blogger pointed out, it doesn't bode well for my social life either.

It's a good album. Slightly Eels-esque with a hint of Michael Stipe here and there. The first song in particular - aside from its rather fine title "Alone, Jealous and Stoned" is especially good, and puts you in the mood for what follows.

Nothing much to report for the rest of the week, really. First New Year's Reolution has gone somewhat tits-up with rejections from Granta and Soho on the same day; the second has gone rather better, with me clocking up 30 lengths of the pool yesterday, walking into work daily and doing yoga on Tuesdays. Today I seem to be inadvertantly focussing my attentions on being as middle-class as possible, having eaten lunch from Fresh and Wild, made a pot of Earl Grey Tea (NB POT, not cup - I do these things properly) and am about to go running on Primrose Hill.

Many thanks, by the way, to Tim R-P who has proved himself to be the only person who actually reads this blog/has any money/actually likes me (or a combination of all three) and has sponsored me a generous tenner for my foray into middle-distance running. Cheers!

Labour In Meltdown

"Labour in Meltdown" was perhaps not the most appropriate of yesterday's headlines given it was 20 years to the day that the Chernobyl accident happened, but I appreciate the sentiment, and wait with bated breath for them to self-destruct altogether.

As none of you have sponsored me yet, I am going to have to go for the hard-sell: SPONSOR ME YOU BASTARDS!!

(And now you see why I'm a student adviser and not a salesperson...)

I Am a Freeman Born

I got a hug from Liam Clancy last night. I also got a free ticket to his show at the Bloomsbury (because it was at the Bloomsbury). The show was amazing,, although, on the downside, the audience was sober, so didn't sing as loudly as they should have done. Worryingly I knew all the words to the likes of "Wild Rover" and "Finnegan's Wake", which doesn't do much to improve my reputation re: tastes in music. Afterwards I asked him to sign my programme for my dad, who might have come had it not been for the fact that he is waiting for a hip operation, and if he sits down for more than 10 minutes he can't get up again.

I've just realised that, quite unintentionally, I am still sticking to my two main New Year's resolutions. On the health-kick front, I've started walking into work again, am still doing yoga at least once a week, and running once or twice a week. Must renew my swimming pool membership tonight...

On the running front in particular, I have, inexplicably, signed up for three charity runs this year, for Cancer Research UK, the Alzheimer's Society, and the MS Society. I am still waiting for fundraising info from the last two, but if you want to sponsor me for Race for Life, my very corny webpage is here I realise I could never be a salseman (ooh, this reminds me, much watch "The Apprentice" tonight) as I feel bad even asking people for sponsorship. If you like one of the charities, then please do pick the one you like and sponsor me, even if it's just a fiver. And if you can't spare any money, you can always come to Regents Park/Battersea Park/Hyde Park and laugh at me instead! For anyone who remembers them, I am running Race for Life in memory of Kirsty McPhee, who died in 1999, and the Hydro Challenge in memory of my granny, who died last year.

But enough soppy stuff.

Jogging on Primrose Hill and wandering to work through Regents Park has made me think twice about moving, and that, coupled with the fact that I don't enjoy hauling heavy boxes down three flights of stairs, means that for the time being I will probably stay put.

Keeping me cheerful today is the possibility that Charles Clarke, the MP who looks like he used to nick other kids' dinner money, is likely to get sacked.

Kitchen politics

As the new convenor of the Equal Opportunities subcommittee on Sexual Orientation, I was asked to send an all-staff email out today advertising our first meeting. This is all very well, except that it is the holidays, and, being an institution made up of five colleges, we have a lot of staff. Consequently my inbox is now clogged up with "I am out of the office.." auto-replies, which is annoying.

The kitchen also seems to be the cause for much contention up here at UA's pseudo-headquarters. I have already been told off this week for inadvertantly queue jumping, by a woman who waited until I had filled two cups with water before giving me a look that said "I think you'll find I was first, but I will pointedly refrain from commenting." When I apologised she replied, martyr-like, "It's FINE. I don't mind WAITING a bit longer." Due to "health and safety" regs we have also been deemed too stupid to use either a microwave or toaster, which is a shame as I have spent the last couple of weeks at my beloved Elephant, and Chelsea, taking in pitta bread and heating it in their respective toasters (the likes of Health and Safety never venturing to the likes of Chelsea College and LCC frequently enough to admonish them.) This is all part of a half-hearted health kick of mine where I have been bringing in an array of carrot sticks and celery, pitta bread, fruit and soya yoghurts in an attempt to stop my body bombarding me with colds and migraines. I haven't had a cold since February, and I haven't had a migraine since I was poisoned by the National Blood Service (still bitter), so it seems to be working. However, I am going to blow it all tonight by going to Belgos.

It has occurred to me, actually, that the lack of a Belgos anywhere close to Vauxhall or Battersea has dampened my desire to move there. This is possibly just as well, since we hve had no luck with estate agents so far. We haven't handed in our notice, in the hope that something comes up with a two-month-til-move-in period, then, when somewhere nice came up, or when the Roundhouse opens in June and we realise we can't stand Chalk Farm any longer (whichever happens first) we will leave. In theory, anyway, this seemed possible, and we immediately found two nice properties. The first agent we contacted said the property had gone (though two weeks later it is still on their website, which leads me to believe it simply isn't theirs to let), but they had another great property "just down the road" available at the same time. We agreed to go and see it, but when we got there, there was no car available for the agent to take us in. He arranged another viewing. It turned out that, despite his insistences that the property was in Vauxhall, it is actually in Camberwell. It is behind Camberwell College, i.e., it is just off Peckham Road. So it's either Peckham or Camberwell, presumably whichever you think sounds better when telling your mates where you live (it's a toss-up, really), but it isn't in Vauxhall.

The second property we still haven't seen. It has the benefit of being in Wandsworth, which has minimal Council Tax, but I have a feeling that for some reason they don't want us to have it. First of all I was told I couldn't see it straight away as there were not enough staff to take me (how many do I need?!) as they were on holiday for Easter. So I arranged a booking for Tuesday. On Tuesday morning they phoned and said I couldn't see it as there was work being done on the property. I rang to make another appointment and they apologised and said that the landlord didn't want viewings until next week. Then today they called and asked me if I wanted to see it next Tuesday, and apologised again, this time for the fact that the tenant was pregnant and didn't want too many people coming in and viewing her home.

Which has all kind of put me off, really.

Have a good day.

Scaramouche, scaramouche

You have GOT to be kidding me! "Bohemian Rhapsody" is one of the greatest lyrics ever written?

You, The Public have been at it again, failing to understand that picking the best song lyric doesn't necessarily mean you pick the song you sing along to loudest when it comes on the jukebox. But perhaps that's how You've managed to come up with Queen and Abba - yes, you heard me right, Abba - in your list of Great Lyrics.

I will grudgingly agree with you on The Smiths (though I wouldn't necessarily have picked that one) and on Radiohead and, actually, "I predict a Riot" has pretty fine lyrics, as lyrics go. But "Every Breath You Take"? Now those lyrics are just plain creepy.

This has led me to consider the many other fine contributions there have been over the years to Pop Lyricdom (Lyricdom? Lyricity?) Consider, if you will (in no particular order) the good, the bad, and the downright depressing:

1. I don't want to see a ghost, it's the sight that I fear most, I'd rather have a piece of toast and watch the evening news (Des'ree. No comment.)
2. Pink it was love at first sight/pink when I turn out the light/pink it's like red but not quite (Aerosmith)
3.Now we end up takin' the long way home/Lookin' overdressed wearin' buckets of stale cologne (Scissor Sisters)
4.Someone left the cake out in the rain/I don't think that I can take it/'cause it took so long to bake it/And I'll never have that recipe again... Oh, no (Donna Summer)
5.The entire lyrics of "Three is a Magic Number" which largely consists of Danny Macnamara singing the Three Thimes Table.
6. I don't have any skin, but that's just the way it goes (Morrissey, so the jury's still out on that one...)
7. I'm gonna run away somewhere and learn to speak Spanish and start over again. (The Mariachis. I rather like that.)
8.Heaven bend to take my hand/And lead me through the fire/Be the long awaited answer/To a long and painful fight (Sarah McLachlan. Actually the whole thing's pretty good. Less impressed by the notion of One's Love being Better than Ice Cream, though. Particularly as I can't even eat ice cream.)
9. As soon as you're born they make you feel small/by giving you no time instead of it all/til the pain is so big you feel nothing at all. (John Lennon. In his cheerful days.)
10. Where'er we go we celebrate/the land that makes us refugees/for fear of priests with empty plates/from guilt and weeping effigies. (The Pogues. Hmm. Spot the Ex-Catholic.)
11. London Calling (All of it. Now THERE'S a good lyric.)
12. Don't it always seem to go/that you don't know what you've got til it's gone (Joni Mitchell)
13.Mmm bop, ba duba dop - Ba du bop (Hanson. Need I say more?)
14.To either cut down on beer or the kids' new gear/It's a big decision in a town called malice. (The Jam.)
15. The more you ignore me/the closer I get (Morrissey again.)
16. (And while we're at it...) I have forgiven Jesus (again, all of it.)
17. I said Charles, don't you ever crave/To appear on the front of the Daily Mail/Dressed in your Mother's bridal veil? (The Smiths. What a lovely image.)
18.Sometimes it seems like lately - I just don't know/The rest of my life's been - just a show (Queen. With apologies.)
19. My breath smells of a thousand fags/and when I'm drunk I dance like me dad" (Robbie Williams)
20. City Dweller, successful feller/thought to himself "Whoops! I've got a lot of money" (Blur)
21. Everybody's Free to Wear Sunscreen (All of it. At least, it was good first time round.)
22. I said pretend you've got no money, she just laughed and said oh you're so funny/I said yeah (Pulp. It helps that one of the colleges I work at is Saint Martins)

So, You the Public, there you have it. Any contributions to the list most welcome.

Do you remember when we used to sing,
Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da

Everybody's doing just what they're told to

Kat Fletcher, bless her, in her passionate defence of the British Student Protester, is simply wrong. British students, where they do care, and care passionately, about all kinds of things of varying importance, they're not about to get themselves dirty or arrested defending them. Take students marches, for example, of which I am something of an expert. During my time as a student I attended 4 marches against top-up fees. The usual turn-out for our 19,000-strong student population was around 300, and of these there was always a strong contingent who brought up the rear shouting "Free Tibet!" and waving Save the Rhino banners. The most daring we ever got was to sit down - 100 or so of us - on Waterloo Bridge, thus holding up all the traffic, and even then a first-year Law Student acquaintance of mine got very agitated and refused to actually sit down with us for fear it would destroy his future legal career. Admittedly, we did once stage an all-night sit-in in our library to protest against library opening hours (i.e., the fact that it often didn't), but only after we'd got the agreement of the Head of Library Services and the Academic Registrar. We did redeem ourselves once when the College closed down one of its departments, standing outside the College Council bedecked in labcoats, waving placards and loudly squawking Christmas Carols with the words cleverly altered to make our point. Ah, how cutting edge we were.

So, basically, we're not really very good at it. Where the French burn cars (incidentally, why do they do that? Why cars?) we write slightly miffed letters to the Times Higher Educational Supplement, daringly giving our real name and institution underneath the "Yours Faithfully" (or "yours sincerely", if we happen to know the editor's name.) The only time I remember any actual damage being caused was when LSE rampaged through my department, setting off the fire alarms and bringing down half the ceiling, and this was not some inflamed act of spontenaity in reaction to bad lecturers' pay or any kind of human rights violation, but because they were pissed.

She's right, perhaps, about the wider concerns, and I'm glad about that. I was up in Edinburgh for Make Poverty History and (much to my dad's consternation) on the first of the big anti-war marches. But when it comes to students standing shoulder to shoulder as students, well, British students simply haven't got the time any more.

Odd day yesterday. Paraded twice through the streets of Camden waving palm leaves, the second time in pouring rain with a donkey singing "When the Saints Go Marching In" (as in we had a donkey with us, and we were singing, not that the donkey was singing. That would just be weird.) Where this was perhaps a nice example of harmless English evangelism, complete with Salvation Army brass band, I can't help feeling it was rather lost on the usual suspects of Camden Town, most of whom probably just assumed that what they were witnessing was the result of yet another hallucination. Fuelled by my Inner Christian, I then bought a kebab for a homeless person on the basis that he was from Preston (well, not his fault) and it made me feel nostalgic.

Shock news: Prince Harry seen in lap dancing club! Er... the guy is in the army. Not that I'm saying that all soldiers frequent the likes of Spearmint Rhino, but would the headline "Soldiers seen in sex shop" (apart from having, I feel, rather fine alliteration) have made the news? I think not. Of course, we'd much rather have a prince who sat on his arse in his barracks while his mates went out and had fun. Which would really help the image the palace seems to be trying to create of Harry being treated just the same as everyone else.

Trying to get back into the habit of being at work following my extended (well, 10 days, which is the longest period of leave I've ever taken) holiday. Trouble is, all our students are on holiday too, and it's tough being a student adviser when there are no students to advise. To fill my time I am looking into mortgages. This makes me feel old, yet I still don't feel mature. Tell me, Older Readers, will there ever be a point when I wake up and think "Ah. I've grown up." I hope not.

Rome

Haven't posted for a few days as was busy being robbed and pretending I was still a Catholic in Rome. This has reminded me that I really must look into photo hosting as I have taken a few photos which are not only identifiable, but actually good!

Rome is one of the few cities I would actually live in, despite the fact that the average life expectancy of the Roman citizen must be significantly reduced by the apparent lack of any kind of traffic regulations. Romans seem to ignore zebra crossings, which I think are there to give the roads a bit of variety rather than help unwitting pedestrians reach the other side. Even where green men crossings exist, which they do, intermittently, they seem to be there as a warning to drivers that they may have to swerve on their way through to avoid killing someone, rather than as an order to them to stop.

If Russian Roulette is not your game of choice it is, however, a great city in many other respects. For example, you can turn a corner and there right in front of you is the Colosseum, or the plinth on which Antony was meant to have given his "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" speech (despite the fact it was written over a thousand years later by Shakespeare) or a group of nuns crossing the road (OK, so not quite in the same vein as ancient wonders of the world, but it amuses me neverthelses, and they have the benefit of not being followed by street vendors trying to sell you luminous pink plaster models of San Pietro for 2 euros.) I also managed to use one of my six lines of Italian ("Il conto, per favore", which means "The bill, please") on a total of 12 occasions, which gives you an idea of what we spent most of our time in Rome doing. It was, in my defence, 24 degrees on the Sunday, and I even have a suntan to prove it.

The only downside was, as I said, getting robbed, and (ooh, this really rankles) being robbed by a kid who can't have been more than 8 years old, and on our first night there.

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Got a letter back from the Blood Service thanking me for my letter(!) and saying that my comments have been noted (whatever that means.) If I want any more information I can apparently contact Ameena on their local-rate number. Lucky me.

Right, am off to buy the new Moz album and revel in my still-unpublished state.