29 Jan 2003
27 Jan 2003
Quiet weekend. Barely left the house to nurse the end of this cold. Plenty of time to ponder the dire state of British television and do some reading. Shame, really. The weather appears to have been lovely.
Watched the second part of Stephen Poliakoff's The Lost Prince. The story of Prince John, the youngest son of George V and Queen Mary who, because of his epilepsy and various behavioural problems, was hidden from public view, deprived of royal life and the attention of his parents. It's typical Poliakoff -- slow, incidental, moving -- and a visual tour through Royal life in the early part of the last century. Miranda Richardson, as Queen Mary, was particularly stunning. One forgets the inter-breeding and familial broodings that meant that most of the monarchs of Europe were cousins: the Germans, Austrians, Greeks, Russians, and English -- all descendants of Queen Victoria.
Poliakoff is also responsible Almost Strangers, starring Matthew MacFayden.
Watched the second part of Stephen Poliakoff's The Lost Prince. The story of Prince John, the youngest son of George V and Queen Mary who, because of his epilepsy and various behavioural problems, was hidden from public view, deprived of royal life and the attention of his parents. It's typical Poliakoff -- slow, incidental, moving -- and a visual tour through Royal life in the early part of the last century. Miranda Richardson, as Queen Mary, was particularly stunning. One forgets the inter-breeding and familial broodings that meant that most of the monarchs of Europe were cousins: the Germans, Austrians, Greeks, Russians, and English -- all descendants of Queen Victoria.
Poliakoff is also responsible Almost Strangers, starring Matthew MacFayden.
23 Jan 2003
Welcome back. I let this thing go to pot -- forgot to renew the URL and the webspace and have just managed to get my act together. Apologies to anyone foolish (kind enough) to think I'd get my act together at all. I'm pleased you read this occasionally. This site's a work in progress so don't be too critical yet. Amused myself today reading through three years of archives. It's lovely to have a look back sometimes.
Last few months: Birthday at a hysterical, drunken murder mystery party in Norfolk. Weekend in Baroque Vienna experiencing the oddity of Oktoberfest in a gay bar. Braved renting a car and drove to Devon to celebrate Thanksgiving in a country house (baked a turkey and didn't poison anyone.) Trip to California for Christmas and lovely days lounging in my mom's flat. Home for New Year's and back at work.
Robert's moved to London for a semester in bucolic Runnymeade. Already I'm worn out from the bars, big dinners, and boozing but that should quiet down soon.
Last few months: Birthday at a hysterical, drunken murder mystery party in Norfolk. Weekend in Baroque Vienna experiencing the oddity of Oktoberfest in a gay bar. Braved renting a car and drove to Devon to celebrate Thanksgiving in a country house (baked a turkey and didn't poison anyone.) Trip to California for Christmas and lovely days lounging in my mom's flat. Home for New Year's and back at work.
Robert's moved to London for a semester in bucolic Runnymeade. Already I'm worn out from the bars, big dinners, and boozing but that should quiet down soon.
25 Sept 2002
Blimey. Has it really been two months. Howdy! And apologies to anyone kind enough to drop by only to find I've been a tosser about writing.
What a two months it has been. Went to San Diego to watch my best friend be quite possibly the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and to have the chance to pal around with friends old and new. I loved San Diego -- the beach and the sun and the chance to terrorise others behind the wheels of a car. Also didn't mind meeting James and having my first picnic-on-the-beach date (oh, those summer nights). It was also quality time with my mum -- she really is home even though she's not in the house I grew up in.
Shortly afterwards I flew to Edinburgh for the Fringe festival and the madness that follows. Saw a fascinating, but extremely vulgar play, Stitching, and a foot-stompingly fun Slovenian folk band, and managed to keep pace with Andrew Lazenby who can make a walk across town an athletic adventure. Also indulged in some Scotch Whiskey, the variety of which is truly amazing. From the caramel smoothness of Balvenie, to the smoke and peat of Bowmore, it has a diversity of most people mightn't recognise.
Two weeks later, I flew back to Mykonos for seven days of beach and sun. I was hoping it would have the same restorative effects it did last year, but I quickly got bored of being by myself on a small island lacking new adventures. Unfortunately, there was no German distraction, or new exploration to undertake, and my hotel was filled with a disconcerting group of Christian lesbians that filled the pool with loud testerone-charged chatter.
Currently, my father and his partner are in town -- discovering how easy it is to get lost in London. My father's wearing a cast on his foot and I think is finding it difficult to get around. I've discovered that it's fairly difficult (painful) to walk very slowly. But we're off to Paris this weekend, which I always find exquisite. Hopefully, they won't be daunted by the French.
Next weekend I'm off to Norfolk with some of the Edinburgh gang for a weekend in an 18-century refectory to celebrate my birthday by donning 60's clothing and a London crimelord persona to take part in my first murder mystery. It promises to not be boring.
What a two months it has been. Went to San Diego to watch my best friend be quite possibly the most beautiful bride I've ever seen and to have the chance to pal around with friends old and new. I loved San Diego -- the beach and the sun and the chance to terrorise others behind the wheels of a car. Also didn't mind meeting James and having my first picnic-on-the-beach date (oh, those summer nights). It was also quality time with my mum -- she really is home even though she's not in the house I grew up in.
Shortly afterwards I flew to Edinburgh for the Fringe festival and the madness that follows. Saw a fascinating, but extremely vulgar play, Stitching, and a foot-stompingly fun Slovenian folk band, and managed to keep pace with Andrew Lazenby who can make a walk across town an athletic adventure. Also indulged in some Scotch Whiskey, the variety of which is truly amazing. From the caramel smoothness of Balvenie, to the smoke and peat of Bowmore, it has a diversity of most people mightn't recognise.
Two weeks later, I flew back to Mykonos for seven days of beach and sun. I was hoping it would have the same restorative effects it did last year, but I quickly got bored of being by myself on a small island lacking new adventures. Unfortunately, there was no German distraction, or new exploration to undertake, and my hotel was filled with a disconcerting group of Christian lesbians that filled the pool with loud testerone-charged chatter.
Currently, my father and his partner are in town -- discovering how easy it is to get lost in London. My father's wearing a cast on his foot and I think is finding it difficult to get around. I've discovered that it's fairly difficult (painful) to walk very slowly. But we're off to Paris this weekend, which I always find exquisite. Hopefully, they won't be daunted by the French.
Next weekend I'm off to Norfolk with some of the Edinburgh gang for a weekend in an 18-century refectory to celebrate my birthday by donning 60's clothing and a London crimelord persona to take part in my first murder mystery. It promises to not be boring.
26 Jul 2002
Tired. This site is tired. I'm tired of looking at it. I'm tired, and tired of having to work weekends. I'm tired of feeling bad because someone I really liked, who I thought really like me isn't returning my phone calls. I'm tired of television...
Tonight's the last night of Big Brother 3 which is a big success here. But really, the people on it are tired. I quite like Jonny but Alex is a mopey fuck, and Jade just couldn't be more repulsive -- although she provides great comic relief:
Jade: Where in the world do they speak portuganese?
Alex: They speak portugese in Portugal.
Jade: Portugal? Is that in Spain?
Poor thing can't catch a break in the press, but she really is rather dim.
We're also knee deep in the Commonwealth Games -- a sort of Olympics for the countries that used to make up the British Empire. I've no idea if it's any good, but will no doubt be forced to watch it somewhere, somehow. I should just turn off the telly and read -- I'm loving Perfume, by Patrick Suskind. And will need to get to reading the branding books I took from Organic.
Tonight's the last night of Big Brother 3 which is a big success here. But really, the people on it are tired. I quite like Jonny but Alex is a mopey fuck, and Jade just couldn't be more repulsive -- although she provides great comic relief:
Jade: Where in the world do they speak portuganese?
Alex: They speak portugese in Portugal.
Jade: Portugal? Is that in Spain?
Poor thing can't catch a break in the press, but she really is rather dim.
We're also knee deep in the Commonwealth Games -- a sort of Olympics for the countries that used to make up the British Empire. I've no idea if it's any good, but will no doubt be forced to watch it somewhere, somehow. I should just turn off the telly and read -- I'm loving Perfume, by Patrick Suskind. And will need to get to reading the branding books I took from Organic.
9 Jul 2002
The fourth and seventh of July. In an attempt to introduce our BT clients to our new colleagues at Agency.com to each other one of our more patriotic ex-pats organised a dinner party at the Big Easy BBQ and Crabshack.
Yes, there is such a place in London. To most people's surprise.
It was predictably tacky -- wood panelling and wagon wheels and plastic cacti and an annoying two man band playing 70's rock and wondering why the audience wasn't singing along to Sweet Home Alabama. And some of the worst cole slaw ever tasted. But the margaritas went down well, and the tequila shots took the edge off of being surrounded by so many drunk American bankers. You see, Chelsea is known locally as tosserville because of the large, obnoxious financial American ex-pat community who crowd the Starbuck's in their flipped up polo shirts and ray-bans. Shudder.
I enjoyed the irony, however, of celebrating my country's independence from the country I fled back to. Thing how much easier my bloody visa would be if we had never declared un-dependence!
Three days later I was sitting in the anteroom of the much more refined Claridges Hotel. Famed for its high tea, Claridges is a stunning piece of art deco filed with dowager type women having their Sunday lunch. We were there for an all too different reason. Some enterprising person booked the table for six in the kitchen of the Gordon Ramsey at Claridges restaurant. It sounds tacky, but it was sublime. Ramsey is the only Michelin 3-star chef in London and lunch, whilst pricey, was exquisite. Seven courses of foie gras, scallops, lamp, sea bass, etc. all accompanied by bottles of wine with each course. Lunch was more than six hours, but the staff and the company were delightful and it was a decadent way to spend a rainy Sunday in London.
Yes, there is such a place in London. To most people's surprise.
It was predictably tacky -- wood panelling and wagon wheels and plastic cacti and an annoying two man band playing 70's rock and wondering why the audience wasn't singing along to Sweet Home Alabama. And some of the worst cole slaw ever tasted. But the margaritas went down well, and the tequila shots took the edge off of being surrounded by so many drunk American bankers. You see, Chelsea is known locally as tosserville because of the large, obnoxious financial American ex-pat community who crowd the Starbuck's in their flipped up polo shirts and ray-bans. Shudder.
I enjoyed the irony, however, of celebrating my country's independence from the country I fled back to. Thing how much easier my bloody visa would be if we had never declared un-dependence!
Three days later I was sitting in the anteroom of the much more refined Claridges Hotel. Famed for its high tea, Claridges is a stunning piece of art deco filed with dowager type women having their Sunday lunch. We were there for an all too different reason. Some enterprising person booked the table for six in the kitchen of the Gordon Ramsey at Claridges restaurant. It sounds tacky, but it was sublime. Ramsey is the only Michelin 3-star chef in London and lunch, whilst pricey, was exquisite. Seven courses of foie gras, scallops, lamp, sea bass, etc. all accompanied by bottles of wine with each course. Lunch was more than six hours, but the staff and the company were delightful and it was a decadent way to spend a rainy Sunday in London.
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