It’s the first June since we moved to London that the Mista hasn’t imitated the Brits at Wimbledon. With the retirement of England’s perennial favourite tennis son, the Mista assumed that the chant had come to an end, “‘Com on, Tim! ‘Com on son!”
Centre Court teaches me that the chant hasn’t gone away. It’s just evolved.
“Com’ on, Ana. Com on!”
“Com’ on Andy! Com on!”
Tim Henman’s retirement hasn’t spelt the end for the myth of the hometown hero. Others have stepped into his shoes and ignited the imagination of the supporters in their union jack shirts. Most notably British hopes are pinned upon the young Andrew Murray.
Not as highly recognised as her male counterpart, Anne Keothavong, also gets the hoots and hollers.
The chant doesn’t sound very tennis-like; it doesn’t sound like it’s aimed at someone all in white; rather, it’s resonates with working class tones; it sounds as if good ol’ Andy or sweet little Ana need encouragement to climb out of a quarry or reach for a rope to be pulled out of a mine.
“Com’ on Andy! Com’ on son!”
“Com’ on Ana! Com’ on!”
Anne gave it a good go against Venus, but didn’t have the stamina to sustain her challenge. Andy gave the Brits what they wanted.
“Awright, son!”
Coming back from procuring a round of Pimms, my hands full and hoping the wind doesn’t whip around the wrong way and catch my skirt resulting in overly public viewing of my butt, I have a celebrity sighting! Not any old celebrity sighting but a double sighting. The inspiration for the chant himself, Mr. Tim Henman decked out in his commentating uniform, walks by me, surrounded by tough looking folk – his protection, no more than 3 feet away from me, my Pimms, and my perilously risque skirt. I’m busy making myself chuckle with the sound of my Mista shouting out, “Com’ on Tim” when I suddenly notice right behind Tim, now right next to me is Roger Federer. Oh boy!
I recently read somewhere – where, I don’t remember – a one sentence encapsulation of Big Brother. I do remember that the somewhere I don’t remember was a UK-centric somewhere because the Big Brother assessment was perfectly apt for UK Big Brother. It was, however, not applicable to its US sibling. UK Big Brother has degenerated into an opportunity to showcase freakshows and surreptitious wanking (mildly plagiarised from the somewhere I don’t remember). Americans don’t have the British appetite for forcing a seemingly diverse group of characters under one roof. Americans especially don’t tolerate displays of a sexual nature. Masturbation is too inflammatory a subject to be aired on mainstream TV. This is what I deem to be a weakness in the American psyche: parochial prudishness.
This weakness, however, has saved the American version of Big Brother from the same degeneration as it’s British counterpart.
The Mista and I have never really watched UK Big Brother. We’ve seen an episode here or there. I recognised Sandy from Series 3 (?) in St. Christopher’s Place a few years back. He was the one who woke up every morning and walked around the swimming pool for exercise. Other than that, we’ve not really gotten engaged. Over the past few years as the contestants have gotten ‘more diverse’ we have been more alienated from the show. Those people, the contestants, don’t seem real. They seem like actors. Even if they are real (and not acting), the do not represent real diversity because they’re all over-the-top caricatures of aberrations.
The US audience would screw up their lips in distaste (or possibly be inclined to kick the asses of those freaks). No, about as weird as the US contestants can get is to be not-too-campy (or not-too-butch) homosexual.
The US Big Brother is all about strategy, games, backstabbing and alliances. This aligns to the impression a British friend of mine has about Americans. She sees us at the park and comments, “Americans like to play games. You’ve always got a ball or a stick or if not you make up some sort of game.” This tendency permeates US Big Brother — or at least permeated the series we saw about 3 or 4 years back. We loved it, and were disappointed when it was never re-aired.
Then, this year, out of nowhere, the British TV People decided it might again be time for US Big Brother!
This momentous occasion happened to coincide with the upgrade in technology in our home.
The Mista, who is generally not very gadgety, broke his mould by buying a mysterious box that he plugged into the wall. This box is called the Slingbox. (I always call it Slingblade. Billy Bob would be chuffed). Slingbox lets us watch our TV on our computers — whether we’re in the comfort of our bed, or at the pub, or in another city, far far way. Technology is a baffling and wondrous thing.
Slingbox enabled the Mista and I to watch US Big Brother from the comfort of our bed (using our laptop).
Whilst the US version hasn’t degenerated in the same way as the the UK version, it is still not as good as we remember. Maybe it’s not that it’s not as good, but it’s just far more annoying. Those accents had us writhing in discomfort. American Big Brother doesn’t go in for diversity — it goes for loud, flat, nasal, annoying accents.
I don’t think we’ll be watching again.
On the subject of Bad TV, we’re both very glad (as I’m sure Mr. Trousers is as well) that the writers in Hollywood went on strike. The resulting gap in the current series of Lost is a welcome reprieve to our idiot box addiction.
I get a letter! From someone I don’t know! The Internet has made me famous! I’m invited to visit a website and provide my input! I’m special! All because I write about music ….
Do I?
and celebrities …
When I can!
and London.
Well, yes, but …
The nice lady who wrote to invite me to visit www.showclix.com (I won’t give her name because because she might want to remain anonymous) seemed to have actually read my blog! She even knew that I sometimes write about Right Said Fred*, and that seems to have impressed her! She said she’d even put a link to me if I wrote a little something about www.showclix.com.
Really?
Being a glutton for attention, this nice lady’s attention appeals to me. I decide to click over to www.showclix.com to see how my humble site melds with something that sounds so … so … contemporary.
I don’t see it.
Showclix is cool and modern and neat and clean. It radiates hip.
Ilovethesmoke makes seeing Sandy from Cycle X of Big Brother the pinnacle of excitement. I’ve not been to a music event since Adam Ant played the Orange Bowl in Miami (NB: an example of hyperbole). How do I come to deserve any kind of association with something so definitely not me? That’s my first impression.
I decide not to ask that question again.
You see, on reflection, I may not be the hippest chick in town, maybe I’m not a groupie, maybe I don’t know who Sponge Cake Bob is, maybe I don’t sleep with superstars, but I just might frequent a certain scene that just might hold a certain appeal to the type of folks who just might visit www.showclix.com.
For example, I did once have tickets to see Gnarls Barkley in Brixton. Never mind I didn’t see the show …
That’s something to blog about!
And, I have tickets to see Unkle! (Note the ‘k’. ‘K’s always konnote kool.)
And tickets to Henry Rollins too! He’s cool! (0ld sckool cool. Not kool.)
Yeah, and you’ve only just heard of him.
I’ve written about celebrities: about seeing Amy Winehouse in her panties, about Mohammad Al Fayed, and Prince Charles, and the Queen! Don’t forget the Queen!
Surely those aren’t the types of celebrities they’re interested in …. oh … a sleb’s a sleb!
So I convince myself that maybe I do fit in with those nice people at www.showclix.com. I decide I will give their site a test drive and maybe even write a review. I decide I need to write more about celebrities to increase my traffic, I need to go to more concerts, and write about those concerts, and heck, maybe even start a band!
But, for now, It’s 10 o’clock, and I’ve got to get to bed.
*Alas! I fear he may have moved from the neighbourhood; didn’t he like me peering over his hedges?
Filed under: blogging, Celebrity, going out, London places, observations London, present
We returned to our world, which, as it turns out, was Bar Solona. Right where we had started. The time that had passed had cleared the dancefloor of diners and their dinner tables. Coats and scarves and excess baggage were trustfully thrown into a corner. Petunia and I cut through the crowd and ordered ourselves Drink 8. A self-financed mojito does wonders for a girl’s spirits.
Spanish to the left of me. Spanish to the right of me. Spanish in front of me and in back of me.
Ole!
Before I know it, Petunia and I are engaged on the dancefloor. A Colombian man flings me out and twirls me in like he’s walking the dog with a yo-yo. On the in-twirl he asks me a question in faltering English. When I respond in drunken, slurred Spanish, he looks relieved.
Blahblahblahablahblahblahblah blah blah blah si de acuerdo te quiero mucho mi amor?
I did a lot of smiling and nodding.
He did a lot of hand grabbing and twirling.
Petunia and I caught up at the bar.
“I don’t know what he’s saying to me!”
“Me either. It doesn’t matter! But check it out … I’m dancing with Legolas’ fucked up little brother!”
My salsa-loving dancefloor partner had long straight hair like Legolas and Disneyesque Dumbo ears behind which his hair was tucked.
“You are! Shit! You are! But check it out: I’m chatting up Pablo!”
Holy fuck. She’s chatting up Pablo! What the fuck is he doing in London anyway?
And I think back to Pablo who broke our hearts with lies about attending school and doing well on exams when really he was out checking out the Brixton gigs. The little fucker was supposed to be getting his Spanish high school diploma – random in London, I know.
Petunia focused in on this Pablo look alike. Other than his height, he was a spitting image. We took him under our wings as if he were our kid brother. He probably thought he was going to score. His name, he claimed, was Alex. Petunia and I told him that we were going to call him Pablo whether he liked it or not. He shrugged his shoulders and put up no more fuss. He seemed happy to be a Pablo instead of an Alex as long as we danced with him.
Filed under: blogging, Celebrity, going out, London places, observations London, present
We returned to our world, which, as it turns out, was Bar Solona. Right where we had started. The time that had passed had cleared the dancefloor of diners and their dinner tables. Coats and scarves and excess baggage were trustfully thrown into a corner. Petunia and I cut through the crowd and ordered ourselves Drink 8. A self-financed mojito does wonders for a girl’s spirits.
Spanish to the left of me. Spanish to the right of me. Spanish in front of me and in back of me.
Ole!
Before I know it, Petunia and I are engaged on the dancefloor. A Colombian man flings me out and twirls me in like he’s walking the dog with a yo-yo. On the in-twirl he asks me a question in faltering English. When I respond in drunken, slurred Spanish, he looks relieved.
Blahblahblahablahblahblahblah blah blah blah si de acuerdo te quiero mucho mi amor?
I did a lot of smiling and nodding.
He did a lot of hand grabbing and twirling.
Petunia and I caught up at the bar.
“I don’t know what he’s saying to me!”
“Me either. It doesn’t matter! But check it out … I’m dancing with Legolas’ fucked up little brother!”
My salsa-loving dancefloor partner had long straight hair like Legolas and Disneyesque Dumbo ears behind which his hair was tucked.
“You are! Shit! You are! But check it out: I’m chatting up Pablo!”
Holy fuck. She’s chatting up Pablo! What the fuck is he doing in London anyway?
And I think back to Pablo who broke our hearts with lies about attending school and doing well on exams when really he was out checking out the Brixton gigs. The little fucker was supposed to be getting his Spanish high school diploma – random in London, I know.
Petunia focused in on this Pablo look alike. Other than his height, he was a spitting image. We took him under our wings as if he were our kid brother. He probably thought he was going to score. His name, he claimed, was Alex. Petunia and I told him that we were going to call him Pablo whether he liked it or not. He shrugged his shoulders and put up no more fuss. He seemed happy to be a Pablo instead of an Alex as long as we danced with him.
I have something special with Mohammed al Fayed: an affinity. One of those bonds resulting from a multitude of coincidences that in their entirety make you question the whole coincidental nature of coincidences.
Mr. al Fayed owns the Fulham Football team; I support Fulham.
Mr. al Fayed is a foreigner scratching out a living in the UK. Me too!
Mr. al Fayed is bald. As is the Mista.
Then someone told me to check out the sphynx’s heads in the Egyptian hall at Harrod’s.
Now I’m not so sure about that special something we had. He’s either a cheekier monkey than I gave him credit for and is having a damn good laugh at his own boldness and put-on cockiness (in which case, I’m smitten); or he’s just another utterly self-obsessed twat.
There is a Celebrity Sighting, and then there is Royal Watching. Not the same thing. I am not a Royal Watcher in any sense of the word. My knowledge of the goings-on of the Royals is largely driven by headlines walked by*.
The Royals do, however, figure prominently in my list of celebrity sightings: they are famous, they are in the media, they are part of history, but most importantly they are occasionally whisking about town thereby making themselves “accessible” to me.
To me!
How they excite my penchant to stutter and stammer and go all gangly by the mere prospect of proximity to greatness (fame).
My first Royal Celebrity Sighting was the Grand Dame of them all, and it wouldn’t have been possible without September 11**.
You guessed it: it was the queen herself.
Oh! Dilemma! Should ‘queen’ be capitalised? I am referring to THE queen after all? If in my head I capitalise all three little letters of the definite article … T … H …. E … then I should surely capitalise the q of Queen. Ah bugger it. I’ve not got research facilities (ie internet access ) at my immediate disposable so THE queen will have to do.
After the Twin Towers fell, and the Pentagon burned, and a commercial airline hit a field in Pennsylvania, a dazed grief seemed to spread across the globe (or at least trans-Atlantic-ally) – not unlike the grief expressed for the People’s Princess when she got mowed down.
You didn’t have any hesitation in capitalising the P’s in People’s Princess. Hmmmf. You are not consistent, my dear. Oh Bullshit! When would you ever refer to yourself has ‘my dear’: you, you who just used ‘mowed down’ in a most crude and insensitive way.
I don’t consider myself a joiner. When I go to the gym, I don’t go to classes. I work out individually on a treadmill or bike or any machine I can operate without involvement from others. I don’t go in for all those activities my university puts on for alumni. I can hardly be bothered to join a family reunion. Needless to say, I don’t consider myself the type to get involved in hyped-up-global grief. I didn’t for Diana, and I liked her. Really, I did.
It was different with the 11 September. Maybe I had too much time on my hands. I was living in a hotel, looking for work, walking around a lot, and haemorrhaging. I accidentally found myself in Grosvenor Square at a moment of silence for the victims. I was surrounded by a crowd, a crowd full of people whom I imagined were purposefully there to grieve. Little bastard tears escaped from somewhere behind my eyes. I struggled to suppress hiccupy gulps.
Sobs! Sobs! What the hell are you getting so worked up about. It’s just another global event!
I couldn’t persuade myself out of grief. Having resigned myself to it (and having nothing else to do), I decided to attend a special memorial service at St. Paul’s.
The streets were packed. There was no way I was getting near the church. I stood outside with all the other sundry commoners and listened to words now forgotten that were meant to give comfort to us ‘survivors’. Frankly, it wasn’t really worth it (for me). My feet started to hurt. The words were more religious than suit my agnostic character. I got bored.
But it was worth it!
At the end of it all I decided to walk back in the direction of wherever it was I was going and found myself on a small backstreet with a few other stragglers. Suddenly I realised I was being stared at …
Wha Wha What? What are you looking at?
After looking down at myself to ensure I wasn’t in one of those dreams where you’re naked in public, I had the presence of mind to look behind me.
There she was.
Like an angel.
In her special sedan with little flags attached to the bonnet.
The Queen.
With a capital Q.
*Oh, that mischievous Harry! Oh, that poor horse-faced Camilla!
**2001.
I ask myself which is better: Right Said Fred or Amy Winehouse.
Right Said Fred or Amy Winehouse?
Weighing the one then the other on my scale of impressiveness.
Right Said Fred or Amy Winehouse?
A one-hit wonder from more than a decade past or an present-day, other-timely rising star?
He’s on the tube almost daily thanks to his current endorsement of Daz.
She’s on the cover of tabloid magazines, the monthlies, the weeklies, the dailies.
He’s a frequent siting, so feeds my fantasy of rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous.
She was just in her bra and panties.
He’s endearing.
She scares me.
Which is the better celebrity siting?
I’m altering my routine and trying to convince myself to go to the gym after work instead of before since 6:00 to 6:30 is now predominantly taken up with playing with the ORGP*
So, I get to work early. I’m the first one here. According to my wristwatch, I’ll be here for 8.5 hours if I leave at 16:30 and don’t take lunch. I never take lunch. I feel guilty even just thinking about leaving before the general exodus. Consequently, the internal justifying works overtime.
I am working longer than I’m obliged to.
I get my work done.
I log on from home and respond to issues.
Fuck it.
I’m out of shape and making what I believe to be extraordinary efforts to make it to the treadmill. I pry myself away from my desk at 16:45, pull on my knapsack, and guiltily bid my colleagues an adieu. I sense my departure raises some eyebrows.
Bastards. Who was logged on and adding value before 8 this morning. Bastards.
I stroll toward my gym. My guilt evaporates somewhere near Covent Garden. I’m actually looking forward to the gym. It’s been a while.
I walk past the aisles of lockers until I reach the last, secluded row. I turn to go to my normal locker space and am stopped dead in my tracks by a bouffant hairdo and a horseshoe tattoo. I don’t believe it. I am quite literally gobsmacked: this is the lady who had graced the Style magazine of the previous days’ Sunday Times.
Holy Crap! Is that? Can it be? It is! It is! It’s a star! A musician! And she’s in her underwear!
Just me and the crooner. She’s getting dressed. I’m getting undressed. Her back is to me. I’m trying not to star, but heck, her back’s to me … she doesn’t know I’m transfixed. She’s on her mobile and talking to someone about an event, an event like a Bar Mitzvah and the press.
I stare unabashedly at her legs. I’m no expert, but the rumours appear to be true: she’s less than thin. I think of the holocaust.
Oh dear.
I want to ask for her autograph, but I’m afraid it might be intrusive.
*Our Rapidly Growing Puppy
I might have misled when I exuberantly intimated that — by virtue of my neighbourhood — I rub elbows with the likes of Right Said Fred.
The absolute truth is: I only rub elbows with 1/2 of Right Said Fred. If you must be a stickler about such things, it might be that I don’t actually “rub elbows with”, but occasionally spot a fraction of Right Said Fred from varying distances; the distances of which depend upon my luck at the given moment.
The fraction of Right Said Fred that I spot is either 1/3 or 1/2 depending upon your point of view. You see, Right Said Fred is not 1 man. Right Said Fred is the misinforming name of a musical group that may or may not be made up of three men. Fred isn’t even the name of the ‘front man’ of the group. It’s Richard; Richard’s brother is Fred. There seems to be a mysterious third (Bob) who has occasioned the group here and there. I didn’t know any of this in the early 1990′s (?) when the radio waves disseminated an arrogant message from a man whom I thought was called Fred and who considered himself to be too sexy for just about everything including his shirt, his cat, and his street, which just so happens to be my street also!
I only began researching Right Said Fred when proximity peaked my interest.
Hallelujah Internet! What a most friendly research tool!
The Internet informed me that the fraction of Right Said Fred with whom I “rub elbows”is the Front Man, Richard. Something the Internet might not disclose, but that I can state with a certain authority: Richard of Right Said Fred truly is too sexy for his street.
