I was wined and dined last night (though mainly wined) and perhaps it was my finally-receding hangover that led me to think that venturing into Camden Town at 6pm on a Saturday evening would be a Good Idea. For some reason it reminded me of the fairground in Ribblesdale Baths carpark, though I think this is mainly because of the strong smell of cheap fast food and the fact that it was drizzling. Either way, I ended up seeking solace in Fopp, and then, inexplicably, buying a Nelly Furtado CD, and, worse, breaking my rule that I never spend more than £9.99 on a CD. (I spent £10, because Fopp doesn't piss about with its pricing.) I'm listening to it now, and thus ends my brief flirtation with almost-contemporary music. (It's worth pointing out that the only other thing I bought was Mojo, because it had a picture of Joe Strummer on the front.)

If any of you were disturbed by the whole Grace post, the last couple of weeks have rather straightened things out of the whole grace front. Having missed my train last Friday by only 2 minutes, just before every screen in Waterloo went blank, resulting in a rush of polite men in suits proclaiming "but I MUST get back to Esher!" I came back on Monday night to find Julia, the only neighbour who ever speaks to me, panicking over her leaking ceiling, which, having soaked through her bed, sofa and carpet, now seemed to be threatening to fall through altogether. The upshot was that, in order to solve the problem (or maybe redress the balance, so the rest of us knew what it felt like) I came home to find a huge hole in my bedroom wall, pieces of the plaster that used to fill it in my sock drawer and recycling bin (though none in the real bin), and evidence that whoever was responsible had helped themselves to tea and toast and finished our bog roll. The hole is still there.

In other news, the Sinner or a Winner guy has got an ASBO, and consequently is no longer hanging around Oxford Circus telling us in his sweetly deadpan manner that we're all going to hell. I am slightly miffed about this: the Home Office sees fit to let loose onto our streets a not insubstantial number of rapists, murderers and paedophiles, but hey, as long as they managed to silence the bastard who's exercising his right to freedom of speech, we're all happy, right? Even more annoyingly, they hanen't ASBOed the dickheads who are standing metres away from my office window dressed in unsettlingly bright colours (black will always be the new black, as far as I'm concerned) shrieking "Come to Debenhams!" into a megaphone and thrusting fliers into your face if you have the audacity to walk past them. Assuming these guys don't have a deep-seated faith in the power of retail therapy at middle-of-the-road department stores, I don't quite see how their right to piss me off overides his. At least the Sinner or a Winner guy (who I'm sure has a real name, though I'm not sure what it is) allowed you to ignore him if you wanted to. And most did, quite happily.

Is it me, or do all Nelly Furtado's songs sound the same?

Rock Hallelujah

For once I am proud of this great nation. Not because of its football prowess. Not even anything to do witht he cricket. And certainly not because of our impressive achievements in the field of international diplomacy. No, I am proud of us for voting for Lithuania in last night's televote for the Eurovision Song Contest. That nation produced the greatest entry I have seen since Guildo and his Orthopaedic Stockings climbed up the scaffolding some time in the late '90s, producing these fine lyrics, set to pretty much the tune kids used when singing "I know something you don't know". Add to this a few middle aged blokes in suits and glasses who looked they were dancing to the karaoke at the works Christmas party and an imposter who looked a bit like Harry Hill's older brother doing a bit of impro in the middle, and you have what I think Eurovision should be all about. Balls to all the women in short skirts and knee-high boots giving their best impressions of Celine Dion and Bonnie Tyler - we want old blokes.

And monsters.

The winning entry was about the only one (well, maybe except Denmark, who actually had quite a good tune and,on account of this and not bordering lots of countries was beaten to almost bottom place) that gave Lithuania any kind of run for their money on the basis of being a bit random AND having costumes. Finland's Lordi looked like a cross between Roy Wood and extras from the Lord of the Rings, and won by miles.

Surprisingly, Britain got a handful of points, too, perhaps on account of not having invaded anyone so far this year.

For Your Enjoyment

While trawling for stuff to enter into yet more competitions from which I shall hear nothing, I came across this, from last year's Soho Script Slam. As it's already been in the slam and as such is a "previously produced" work and thus ineligible for pretty much everything else for evermore, here it is, for your eyes only... (Incidentally, I'm not sure, looking back, why I chose those particular names for the lecturers. I think I found it mildly amusing at the time, though it's irrelevent as they never address each other by name, so I could simply have called them A and B.)

A university lecturer's office. Two university professors are seated on chairs looking through some papers. Both are male. They are discussing candidates for the Theology course at their university.

PROFESSOR POPE: So, that’s all the interviews done. Let’s have a look. Now this one we said no, didn’t we? (puts one piece of paper aside) Right, and this one we said…yes..
PROFESSOR CHALICE: Who was that? Was that the dyke or the psycho?
PROFESSOR POPE: I think she was a woman of homosexual persuasion who has experienced emotional problems.
CHALICE: Ah. Yes. I know who you mean.
POPE: now, this one…I wasn’t sure. A Mr…er… Jesus of Nazareth.
CHALICE: Chap in the loin cloth and sandals?
POPE: That’s the one
CHALICE: I wasn’t impressed. Strange chap, I thought.
POPE: Well, I thought he had some potential. I mean, he is Jewish, and we are trying to widen participation on this course to encompass students from a variety of backgrounds.
CHALICE: Hmm. True. Well, what impressed you?
POPE: Well, I think it’s impressive that he’s fluent in Aramaic, and I thought his arguments were quite interesting. I liked the way he used examples to illustrate his points. And some of what he was saying – questioning the status quo et cetera – quite bold.
CHALICE: you see, I didn’t get that. I felt he was a bit confused. He did tend to contradict himself. And he did come across as a bit of a know-it-all.
POPE: That example he gave about the lost sheep, for example. Very imaginative, I thought. Really helped to get his point across.
CHALICE: I suppose.
POPE: Well, what was it you didn’t like about him?
CHALICE: I just feel…. I feel that perhaps he’s only applying to study Theology because of parental pressure. Towing the family line. I mean, he’s the son of God. He’ll’ve been trained up to do Theology since he was so high. I think we want a student who has shown true commitment by getting there off his own back.
POPE: Well, true. But I do feel he’s not had an easy ride of it. I mean, he’s from a broken home.
CHALICE: Is he?
POPE: Well, he mentions his stepfather on the form. And he’s from a decidedly non-traditional background. His stepfather is a carpenter.
CHALICE: And his mother?
POPE: I think he might have misunderstood the question. Under “mother’s occupation” he’s put “Virgin”.
CHALICE: Hmm. Not helpful.
POPE: Well, like I said, he has potential. We only have one place left to award. What did you think of the other candidate?
CHALICE: that was… Judas Iscariot? Interesting chap. Also fluent in Aramaic. Quiet sort of chap, I thought. Bit creepy, perhaps, but I get the feeling he had a lot of doubt about the concept of Christianity. Might lead to some thought-provoking essays. And he doesn’t come from the sort of background one might expect of a Theology student. It’s a toss-up between the two, really.
POPE: well, which would you go for?
CHALICE: Judas, I think. I don’t know why, I just have a hunch.
POPE: Judas it is, then.

Amazing Grace

Once again we come to that rare moment where I post something sentimental on my blog. I promise this will not become a regular occurance, and if you don't want to see the result, look away now.

Spent the weekend thinking about God. I'll admit this isn't something I do very often (spend a whole weekend doing it, I mean.) Maybe I should. If nothing else, I'm sure it's good for your health, in that it must surely boost your immune system. I'm sure you will all disprove that theory, and await the statistics gathered by the University of East Accrington (I'm sure there is one, or if not, there will be soon,) but anyway, I am currently one chilled out little blogger.

Actually we were there to explore the theme of the Grace of God. As most of you have probably stopped reading at this point, I won't go into some deep theological examination of what that might be (er, actually I wasn't planning on doing that anyway.) But, whatever you believe, there are wonderful, often everyday things that pass us by or happen to us all the time without us even noticing, because we don't have time, or we don't think they're there, or because we're simply not looking. Think of the bloke filming the plastic bag in "American Beauty" and you get some idea of what I'm uneloquently babbling about. These things can be anything from a wren trying to pick up a tiny twig as I march past it on Regents Park on my trek to work, to someone smiling at you on public transport (actually you usually do notice that, either because it's such a rare occurence, or because the owner of the smile is a bit creepy.) I'm sure one of the reasons everyone's so bloody miserable these days is that we're always waiting for big things to happen to excite us and stimulate us, be at an exotic holiday or a lottery win. In real life, however, until I win the lottery and can afford an exotic holiday, I'm enjoying the small pleasures of walking down Marylebone High Street with the Clash pounding through my MP3 player, my boss laughing at my jokes (yeah, he's a nice guy), people posting interesting things on my blog, experimenting in the kitchen, writing "Home" (the follow-up to the first book, neither of which will ever be published), reading new books, quiet drinks with friends (well, "quiet" is a relative term. Generally any gathering that involves me, and especially me and beer, is not quiet.) Basically, I am so, so happy to be alive - this is what some call the Grace of God.

Not impressed? I scrawled down a few less mundane ones:
- a friend of mine's sister who went into hospital last Thursday with encephalitis and came out on Sunday pretty much well again.
- the guy in the homeless shelter who came in with a big smile on his face waving a copy of "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" and exclaiming "fucking brilliant, man! There's a fucking three-foot mouse in this with a fucking sword! Fucking brilliant!"
- the guy on the train with us on Friday who, unprompted, started an interesting conversation with us that lasted for most of the journey.
- the binman in Manchester who was on "Home Truths" a few weeks ago who collects discarded wallets and handbags and goes to great pains - unrewarded - to return them to their owners.
- Francesca Martinez, the fantastic ex-Grange Hill (but don't let that put you off) Comedienne who did a set for us at our Diversity Day. (If you get a chance, you must go and see her.)
- the beauty of the natural world - all the trees and birds and flowers and everything else (except maybe pigeons.)
...on a semi-related note, with the TV buzzing away in the background, I couldn't help but overhear Jeremy Clarkson say "God could probably not help but feel proud of North Yorkshire when he'd finished it." OK. Whatever turns you on.

I could go on.
I won't, and to change the tone, all of you, especially Rachel (and anyone else who wants/has a kitten) go to this website.

My life has not enlivened since the weekend - I am sitting on the sofa writing short stories and listening to REM - but it's still great.

(OK, I'm back to normal again. That's enough sentimentalism for now. It's safe to start reading again.)

You've Got Everything Now

I can't help feeling that "Friends Reunited" is something of an oxymoron. For the most part, if you actually had "friends" at school, chances are you are united with them already, and the few that you might want to meet up with for one reason or another are generally not sad enough to play around on a website in some sort of misguided nostalgia-induced hazed. Generally I find that school reunions, and the likes of Friends Reunited, serve only as a reminder as to why you chose not to keep in contact with certain people in the first place.

As I said, it's fairly useless. The majority of people who have screwed up don't admit it on Friends Reunited, those who have done anything interesting are too busy being interesting to go on the website, and the rest - like, for example, university welfare advisers - are not going to set the world on fire with their personal profiles. Of the three schools I went to, as far as my primary school is concerned I would (as Peter Kay remarked) be better off watching Crimewatch to find out what became of my contemporaries; of my sixth form, the revelation that most of my friends are still travelling the world on Daddy's credit card is not actually all that much of a revelation; and I don't give a rat's arse about the people in between.

Its only redeeming feature, really, is the opportunities it presents to gloat at people who treated you like something on the bottom of their shoe at secondary school who are now, surprise, surprise, doing fairly ordinary things, just like everyone else. The Smiths song "You've Got Everything Now" spring to mind, with said acquaintances as the lamenting Morrissey. Take, for example, the folowing illuminating profile of the Cambridge graduate who got the Prix D'Exellence in Year 9 (which means the Swots Prize, which they invariably gave to the smarmiest students rather than the smartest) - someone who once told me my stupidity "amuses me so much!" and used to mimic some of my pronunciations. Said student is now a teacher in Bedford: "Rediscovering life as a singleton and trying not to bump into the sixth form in the local pubs. Intending to come to London more often... Will be lodging with a great mate next year so team marking with wine can become a new pastime! "

Wild.

This is, admittedly, one of the more adventurous examples: most have gone back to Guernsey and are now working in banks or insurance, which makes my job feel positively energising. More amusing, though, is the Lancashire contemporary who claims to be "an acter in America" (sic). I have it on good authority he is actually in prison for armed robbery.

Of my friends from school, one is an archaeologist, another teaching.lay ministering in Southampton, a third in stage management, and the fourth a novelist. None is on Friends Reunited. There are only two people - Kizzie and Era - who I have genuinely lost contact with and would love to see again. As predicated, they are not on Friends Reunited.

My running totals are edging towards my targets slowly but surely. Have now put a soppy photo up on the second website in the hope this will encourage people to donate. Worked out that running round the entire edge of Regents Park is almost exactly 5K. It's just that when you put it like that, it feels like a heck of a long way.

My faith in humanity dropped to an all-time low last week when, from the window of a bus, I watched a young bloke pickpocketing a blind woman.

Watched "Confetti" on Sunday, which I would highly recommend if you have nothing better to do with your afternoon. Also, for anyone interested in what my old boss was actually like, Vivien, the magazine editor in the film, is like her in every way. This might explain a lot to those of you who knew me when I worked at LSE.

Ran a measley 3K at the weekend, but in a time of just under 20 minutes, which is ok given I am racing exactly two months today. Also I have finally received information from the Alzheimer's Society and set up a website with them, so if you would rather give money to them than to Cancer Research UK (or indeed if you would like to give money to both), then this is the website.

Update!

Ha! He's gone! According to the Guardian the MP who looks like he used to nick other kids' dinner money has gone!

(Picture me dancing round my beautiful Elephant office!)

Good for Blackburn with Darwen for not voting in any of the 7 BNP candidates. Shame on Pendle for voting in one.

Lbour has lost its hold on Camden for the first time in 30 years. We are now a NOC Council, so the councillors will now have to cooperate with one another (chance'll be a fine thing.)

A strange thing happened on Wednesday when I almost collided with a cyclist crossing Tottenham Court Road. This happens all the time, usually because cyclists seem to think they are exempt from any kind of road rules, particularly crossings. In this instance, it was my fault, and the cyclist clearly felt this very strongly when he stopped his bike in order to call me a "stupid fucking idiot". As he wasn't wearing a helmet, I am reassurred by the fact that at some point he will be lying at the side of the road with his head smashed in surrounded by a pool of his own blood. Who'll be the idiot then?

Interesting theory aired on Sky Far-Fetched or some such channel, namely that Jesus is the reincarnation of Buddha. This notion is based on the fact that the three blokes who visited him were actually looking for Buddha, and they found Jesus. Fair enough - I guess you would need a good excuse if you're going to go all that way. The theory then goes (and this is where it lost me) that Jesus didn't actually die on the cross but was taken down before he died and revived by Joseph of Arimethea (OK, the alternative is rising from the dead, so I'm prepared to entertain this for a bit - tell me more) and THEN, fresh from his Crucifixion experience, he went to Kashmir. Just like that. And carried on his ministry as the reincarnation of Buddha.
This website explains it all a little less cynically.

Call me a cynic, but what it doesn't address is the lack of a good public transportation system between Galilee and the Indian Subcontinent in 33 or so AD.

Jesus: Is this the stop for the number 19 bus?
Annoying Galilean Transport Official: Yeah, mate, but you just missed it. There'll be another one along on about 2000 years.

And that would put me off going, quite frankly.

Off to Battersea Park to compete in a sack race. As one does.

Charles Clarke is STILL still here, but I am keeping my eye on the Guardian website.

Charles Clarke (the MP who used to nick other kids' dinner money) is still in office.

Why?