Nic Cage losing his sh*t

Oh my lord, this is gold. I think I'm going to have to see Deadfall now just to witness Nic's epic comic performance.

Thanks for the tip, Posc!

OMG THEY MADE MY THEME SONG

David O'Doherty @ Melbourne Comedy Fest

One of my fave Edinburgh Festival comics. Damn I wish gigs in Australia weren't so prohibitively expensive. I need to get a boyfriend in the entertainment biz (Bert? Daryl? Rove? God forbid, Eddie?*)

*Sorry to be obscure, non-Melbournites.

This video tells you everything you need to know about having little brothers

It's EXACTLY like this. Multiplied by many years interspersed with lots of cork legs, arm punches and giggles.

Cute funny men being funny (and cute)

Epic insult compilation

*strong language warning!*

My personal favourite: "people that talk in metaphors aughta shampoo my crotch" (Jack Nicholson in some film where he still had hair and no gut)

Just another day in the big, bad city

Pedalling to work this morning in the peak hour rush, I see a couple of stretch limo's ahead trying to pull out into the traffic. The first one gets though, but the second nearly runs into the cyclist in front of me and honks his horn - even though he's supposed to give way. Dickhead. I keep pedalling, following the first cyclist and giving the limo a wide berth, but unbelievably he is still pulling out and nearly knocks me down 'cos he's too busy staring after the first cyclist. I veer sharply to the right to avoid being crushed by his huge fender, and yell "HEY, WATCHIT!! DICKHEAD!" and pedal past him, shooting him a furious glare all the while.

I pedal on, shaky but righteous. I miss the turn-off in my rattled state and adjust the map in my head to compensate.

Hmm, those people in the back of the limo didn't look very happy. Aren't you supposed to be having fun in a limo? Isn't that the whole point of a limousine, getting tipsy in the back of a big car on your way to a party?

It's pretty early to be going to a party.

Oh my god, I think I just swore at some people in a hearse.

I am definitely going to hell.

North London // South London

Boogaloo // Bugaboo
skinny jeans // rugby thighs
hi-top trainers // personal trainers
muggers // chuggers
hipsters // nippers
Tracey Emin quilts // Cath Kidston quilts
vintage // antiques
Pearly kings and queens // pearls and twinset
Cockney geezers // Wide boys
Camden goths // Croydon yobs

* * * * *
Any contributions?

Hit grrls and beautiful geeks

You know those super-cool, highly stylised movies that completely glorify violence, that you come out of thinking "yeah, I could totally be an assassin!" and you're picturing yourself skulking around the city after dark, kicking in doors and giving bad guys the death stare before cooly dispatching their asses one by one?

No? Just me then.

Movies that fall into the category of making-you-want-to-be-an-assassin: Kill Bill, Charlie's Angels, Nikita, Pulp Fiction, Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, Zatôichi, the Bourne series.

But before I saw any of these there was Leon (or The Professional, as it was known in Australia), starring babe-in-the-making Natalie Portman as an orphan child who takes up with her loner neighbour after her family are slaughtered by a maniacal drug lord. Leon is possibly my most favourite film ever; and not just because I was a little in love with Jean Reno and the soundtrack featured Björk. I remember stumbling out of the arthouse cinema at the top end of Bourke street, blinking in the still-bright daylight, feeling different somehow. Indestructable. Cool. A little bit...goth.

And now there is Kick-Ass, the story of a high school geek who decides to become a self-made superhero, kitted out in a green wetsuit, Timberland boots and home-made ninja sticks.

The movie has blown away a whole load of comic book conventions, not least by introducing a 12 year old hit girl called, you guessed it, Hit-Girl. She reminded me a lot of Mathilda in Leon:



There's been a lot of hoo-ha about her use of the c-word in this film. I am not sure if it is my almost complete desensitisation to such language or testimony to Chloe Moretz's pitch perfect performance that it barely registered on my shock-scale.

Pre-teen killing machine uses a few bad words? Whatevs.

Controversy aside, Kick-Ass is great big colourful fun with a dark streak, and treads a fine line between highly stylised action flick and low-fi geekdom. Oh, and he helped:

Zese dreams are full of portent

One for the type nerds

(and beardy geek lovers)

We've come a long way, baby

I have already mentioned the truck driver who wound down his window to yell "LEGS" in my direction as I cycled to work recently. I only just thought of the appropriate response, which would have been "ARSE".

This morning, another truck driver shouted: "I finish up at 1!" (to which, I realise now, I should have suggested that he spend his afternoon at the zoo, where ogling is encouraged). But really, both blokes were rather polite in their approach, don't you think?

To top both of these Random Street Hollers, a friend reported a chav-tastic teen who called out "oy, luv!" to get her attention and then proceeded to tell her, "You look really nice today luv, and I 'ope you have a good day".

I'm pretty sure it wasn't like this in the Seventies. Thank goodness some things have changed, eh?

Wins my vote for funniest video on the interweb

"Alright, which of you preppies put gold dust in my fencing mask?"

Snigger-worthy

Bestival 2009

Man, I am so happy to have left behind my twenties. I struggled through those years really not liking myself very much, not knowing myself very well, and not looking after myself as well as I should have. Thank f*ck I made it to my thirties. Yes, there are also challenges particular to this decade, but I know myself so much better now. I know that I need a certain amount of space, comfort and privacy in order to stay sane. I know that if I start feeling self-conscious, drinking more is not the solution. And if I feel like a cup of tea while everyone around me is drinking cocktails, I am just going to go ahead and get a frickin' cup of tea and I honestly couldn't give a toss what anyone else thinks about that. I LOVE TEA.



All of this is to lead up to the point of my post today, which is that I really enjoyed Bestival. Way more than I ever expected to enjoy a festival. Yes, it was dusty and dirty. Yes, there was a terribly long and painfully slow queue for the loo's in the morning. Naturally, there were noisy people who made sleeping difficult. And it was so cold at night that my bones ached even with 3 pairs of leggings under my tracksuit pants. At times it did feel like an endurance task.

All of those things are part and parcel of the festival experience, non? I knew what to expect in terms of the level of physical discomfort. I had prepared myself as best I could (toilet paper, baby wipes, antibacterial gel, wellies, my own tent). What I didn't expect was that I would spend quite so much time giggling like a school-girl with my friends; or that I would find myself dancing like an idiot in an outdoor rave one evening, deliriously sober; or that the crowd would excell even my wild imagination with their incredible costumes.



Saturday was a constant colourful parade of amazingly outfitted people, like a mass hallucination taking place in broad daylight. There were Judy Jetsons and Ziggy Stardusts and astronauts galore. There was a Lady Smurf, a group of monkeys in space outfits, a female Predator, and a man who simply wore a giant ear on the front of his t-shirt, with a sign saying "last in stock" above it (think about it). There were meteors and mars bars and milky ways and black holes. We saw several Buzz Lightyears but only one with a life-size toy grabber (he was attempting to grab one of the Thunderbirds crew when I last saw him). We were mugged by men clad in full-body (including head and face) morph suits in various hues one afternoon. They appeared like a scary hallucination and, probably sensing our fear, made their way over to hug us en-masse until the day-bed we had been reclining on collapsed under our combined weight.

I think perhaps the secret to a good festival is not to put any pressure on yourself. There were really only a few acts that we made a point of going to see - Florence and the Machine*, Friendly Fires, Jack Peñate, Fleet Foxes - and the rest of the time we wandered happily unfettered by a schedule, lazing in the sun, doing a bit of hula-hooping, but mostly checking out the utterly gob-smackingly amazing crowd. We went to bed when we were tired and/or cold, rather than forcing ourselves to stick around to see the last acts. I didn't even feel guilty laying in my tent on Sunday evening, warm at last after stuffing my sleeping bag with every piece of clothing I'd brought with me, as I was lulled to sleep by the sweet sounds of Elbow playing the main stage.

Go ahead and judge me. My twenty-year-old self certainly would have.

My overall Bestival experience? Much fun and many memories that are making me laugh out loud right now. I would share them with you, but I'm guessing you had to be there.

*For the Flo fans, I totally get "You've Got the Love" now. I had thought it was a bit of an insipid and unecessary closer to an album full of belters, but no: it's just meant to be played to a field full of happy people who are feeling the love, against a backdrop of the gloriously setting sun.



Our Festival Glossary:

Foldies: The Festival stalwarts. People who attended the original Glastonbury in 1970 and aren't ready to give up the dream. Characterised by long greying hair and doped-up smiles.
Fluts: Festival sluts. Generally wearing tiny shorts and big hair, with rings of dark make-up around the eyes. Working their way up to Groupie.
Eninens: Nice n' normals (that would be us). Like a cider (or a tea), are careful not to tread on anyone, bring their own camp chairs.
Festies: Proper dread-locked, bare-footed hippies with dirt caked under their nails.
Frents: the über-cool parents who bring tiny children along to the festival so that they can learn all about the effects of excessive drinking and drug-taking first hand, while being exposed to the educational ditties of the Klaxons.

Romance at the bus stop

Awww. Actually, my brother met his (Swedish) girlfriend at a bus stop in Cricklewood - perhaps waiting for public transport is the new speed-dating?

A quick lesson in the importance of wearing knee pads while roller blading

...even if you are a confident blader of many years experience and don't think you need them. The pavement don't care, man.

Melbourne dreaming turns 3!

I thought I'd rope the boys in to help celebrate... I am currently enjoying FOTC Series 2, lovingly downloaded by my own personal Doug. The joy! The pervaliciousness! The jaunty theme tune! What's not to love?

Cupcakes, Gandalf and flying pans

What a week! I have: seen the gorgeous Fleet Foxes at the Roundhouse, turned 32, copped a frying pan in the shoulder, consumed outrageous quantites of cake, had a close encounter of the celebrity kind, been immortalised in song at my flatmate's album launch and *inhale* started volunteering at a local primary school (just one morning a week at this stage).

Phew!

The best thing? Overhearing a couple of the Year 5 students talking about me and saying that they wished I was their teacher.

The second best? Having Happy Birthday sung to me by Gandalf (more commonly known as Sir Ian McKellen) at my work birthday lunch. We were having a perfectly pleasant time sitting at a local café enjoying our meals, when he walked past the big window overlooking the courtyard. As he made his way into the restaurant, we used our awesome powers of casual observation and spied Dame Judi Dench at another table, and Patrick Stuart (Mr. "Make it so") tucking into his sandwich in the canteen area. Apparently Simon Callow was there too, although I didn't recognise him without the crazy hair and kilt.

Anyway, when our table started singing Happy Birthday, everyone at the restaurant joined in and apparently Ian turned around in his seat to sing along. I was – regrettably - facing away from him at the time. Can you Adam and Eve it?!

The worst thing: the frying pan incident, involving an over-head rack and a poorly hung frying pan connecting with my shoulder on the way down. Just served to reaffirm my life-long belief that housework kills.

And now for the good news...

"Having a Big ol' Womanly Ass May Be Good for Your Health, Study Finds"*
(*possibly not the actual wording of the article title)

Rejoice, fellow fat-bottomed girls!

I was bemoaning that little bit of extra Christmas podge in the mirror only last night, but this morning I came across this cheering article which throws hip and buttock fat into a new, far more flattering light. It also served as a blindingly brilliant reminder of why Freddie Mercury totally rocked.

I have been waiting patiently for the chance to have a good old rant about how the media has become increasingly obsessed with youth n' beauty - to a disturbing extreme - in my lifetime. Watching programmes and films from the seventies, the first thing you notice is how frickin' normal everybody looks. Seen through the spectacles of noughties perfectionism, everybody looks strangely frumpy and poorly dressed, with bad skin - until you remember that actually, that's how most people look in the real world. Off-screen life ain't pretty, at least not without a major effort (for the vast majority of us). Before digital manipulation and botox became the norm - in Hollywood at least - adults actually looked like adults; not like the most beautiful kids at your high school.

When did we reach that point where media saturation reached critical mass and became the standard by which we judge reality? Was it the rampant one-upmanship of the eighties? The self-obsessed nineties? Or could it be the current digital era of Myspace profiles, celebrity stalking, and Photoshop?

I feel like we all need a media-detox to get a grip back on reality. Imagine a nation-wide week where there was no TV, no magazines, no posters, no ads, no internet, no images anywhere - just other people, in all their messy, crumpled, ageing, lumpy, wonderful, diverse glory.

I have been watching old episodes of Two Fat Ladies recently, an old-school English cooking programme which feels like it is from a time before women on television had to be eternally youthful goddesses - but which actually aired in the late nineties.

There is hope after all!

Here were two women who were overweight, middle-to-late aged - Jennifer was in her sixties when the show was filmed - and from incredibly posh backgrounds. They were also eccentric, comical, rebellious, defiantly un-PC and a joy to watch. Each episode featured the two of them zooming around Great Britain in their motorbike and side-car, pitching up at various picturesque locations and cooking lovely old-fashioned meals for the benefit of various groups including a Boy Scout troop in Northumberland; a Welsh Men's Choir in Llandudno; and a lacrosse team in Cornwall.

A toast to those two glorious ladies who didn't give a fig what anyone thought of them, and to all those who would rather read a good book than go on a diet; and a big fat butt slap to vacuous celebrity worship. I'm off to tuck into some seriously rich Borough Market brownie. All in the name of butt-reinforcement.

* * * *

Please note, I hope this little rant doesn't preclude me from appreciating the beauty of certain blokes on occassion - it's just that I feel judging people by their outward appearance shouldn't become our default position, and should instead have a clearly defined place within a much more diverse context. There's swooning at the latest Hollywood star; and then there's firing a 37 year old TV presenter for being too old.