Divine Guidance.

I often feel that London is a being rather than a location, some omniscient deity that watches over its inhabitants and gives them what they need.   Tonight, for instance, London gave me what I needed to find my way home.

I went to meet friends in Carnaby Street for dinner, and then decided to walk home, across London.  The lawyer training kicked in and I decided to multi-task, and chatted away to my brother on my Blackberry as I meandered east.  When I hung up the phone, however, I found myself in a dark, desolate area of the City.  From Monday to Friday, I would have stood shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of people going about their business, but on a Sunday night, around 10 pm, it felt like the loneliest place in the world.  There was not even a comforting light from a flat to give me some assurance that there wasn't, in fact, a monster lurking around the next corner.   I had no idea where I was, or which way home was.

I began to feel nervous, looking up for a familiar landmark in the distance.  I punched numbers into my Blackberry, hoping for someone, anyone,  to pick up and speak to me soothingly as I searched for the next busy road, to laugh with me at my own hysteria.  Rain fell in puddles. Every sound was magnified by my anxiety, including the sound of my own heart pounding.  The absence of street noise, of cabs making their way past, suddenly felt thick in the air .  I picked up my pace, walking aimlessly in a randomly chosen direction, striding purposefully in case anyone was watching me.  

And then, I happened upon a corner where an art gallery stood closed, its interior lights still illuminating its display.   There in the window, framed, in large white letters on a red background, the following words shone out at me: 

"Keep Calm and Carry On"

It was just what I needed.  I stopped, took a deep breath, and looked around me.  After I'd calmed, I could hear the sound of street traffic.  Walking towards it, I found myself on busy Clerkenwell Road, with buses homeward streaking by.   Heaving a sigh of relief, I realised I'd made it out of the woods.  London had shown me the way out of one of its many mazes.  Just Keep Calm and Carry On.  Sage advice from a wise old lady.

The Denial Campaign Continues

And with great results too.   I've progressed in Operation Deny from ignoring adverse weather events to ignoring things like rest and sleep in order to add a little work/life balance into my life.  The problem is that when work is an 18 hour day, that leaves very little time for sleep and fun.  Fun, I've decided, should definitely come first.

I've been in Manchester working as usual this week.  Tuesday and Wednesday were marathon almost-all-night sessions, which had me shuttling from the client's office to my hotel, Malmaison (affectionately nicknamed the Bad House by myself and my colleagues) for a few hours' sleep before waking up not knowing where I was, getting back in a cab, and going back to the client's office.  I was the "day shift"  (which started around 9 am and ended around 3 am the next day), while a senior associate leading the deal was the "night shift" (Slept until 4 pm, then got up and went to 8 am the next day).  

By Thursday, I was absolutely beside myself with exhaustion.  I even spent an entire half-hour in the afternoon speaking to a colleague about various work matters with my head on his desk.  Two of my colleagues from London came up for Friday meetings and we decided to go out to dinner at Gaucho that evening, which I'd been whining about via Blackberry:"Somebody get up here and take me to dinner.  I want me some moo-cow."  I was so tired, though, that I had my doubts about being able to make it through the starters.  We started with a drink with some of the client's legal team at Zinc, which actually perked me up enough that I thought I'd be able to actually enjoy my sirloin.  It's amazing what a little G & T will do for you.

On to Gaucho.  7 ounces of beef, probably the equivalent in gin, and a few hours later, miraculously, none of us felt the least bit sleepy and decided it was time to head back to the Malmaison Bar for a nightcap or six.   Our senior associate bowed out quite early, but myself, my office-mate from London, the junior associate on the deal, and one of my buddies from the client's legal department decided to keep going.  At 3:30, we were kicked out of the bar and thought it would be a good idea to systematically work our way through the contents of my mini bar, while pondering such important questions as, "If you had to be one biblical figure, who would you be?" (Mary Magdalene), "If you had to be one politician, who would you be?" (Pierre Trudeau), and, "If you were Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal, would you sleep with someone for a million dollars, given that, with today's inflation rate, it would probably be five million?" (Stupid question.) 

Around 4 a.m., I decided it was a good night for dancing and the gang enthusiastically agreed. Our junior went upstairs to get her coat, saw her bed, and bowed out by Blackberry.  It was down to me and the boys.  Out we went, caught a cab, tried to fib our way into an all-night private members' club and got the door slammed in our faces, then found a scuzzy underground club that was still open and playing the most shiteous, wonderful dancing music imaginable.   The boys started drinking Red Stripe beer (bad idea), I stuck to the gin, and we took to the dance floor.  

I was very, very popular at this club.  I think it had something to do with the fact that I was the only girl there.  And it wasn't a gay club.  As my colleagues looked on with howls of laughter, one by one, suitors came to strut their stuff on the dance floor and try to win my attention.  One guy fell to his knees in front of me doing air guitar.  Repeatedly.  He was the boys' favorite. One took my hand and spun me around and around until I thought I would break a heel.  One wanted me to engage in some sort of choreographed routine to ABBA with him.  Meanwhile, the boys downed Red Stripe after Red Stripe and waved at me from afar, studiously ignoring every "Help me.  Get over here NOW" smile I flashed at them.  Eventually, my suitors drifted away, and it was just me and the boys on the floor, dancing to such classics as "Billie Jean," "Come on Eileen," and "The Grease Megamix."  My office-mate, a very dapper young guy who we always joke is straight out of Brideshead Revisited, twisted away like it was 1963, while my other colleague, from Manchester, favored a more Saturday Night Fever style of dancing, with lots of pointing.  

Sadly, the music ended around 5:30 a.m.  The boys were insistent that we not stop now, there were still four and a half hours until we absolutely had to be at work again, and we hopped in a cab and headed to the gay village to see if we could find anywhere that was open.  Alas, since it wasn't a weekend, it was not to be, and we returned to the hotel and the mini bar.  The idea was to stay awake until breakfast.

Around 6:30 am the boys were still chattering away and finishing off the last of the beer in the mini bar, but I decided I needed a sleep and called it a night.  Somehow, I managed to wake up at 9:30, shower, get to the office, and put in a productive day before making it home to London last night on the train.  My senior associate remarked with wonder to the rest of the team in London via conference call that I looked "remarkably fresh" given my ordeal.  One of my clients, vastly amused, was leaving in the early afternoon, and tasked everyone else in the department with monitoring me and reporting back if I even once dared to mention that I was tired.  

The boys didn't fare as well.  One fell asleep in his room with his blackberry in his hands, but forgot to set the alarm and wasn't able to arrive until well after noon.  One managed to stumble in on time, waves of booze wafting off him, and was unable to walk or talk by mid-afternoon and could only sit at his desk and pray for the day to be over soon.  

So, the work-life balance exercise continues.  Back up to Manchester on Monday.  To be honest, I'll probably spend the weekend sleeping.  

Monday Blizzards

I've been working like stink on a deal in Manchester since, oh, last July. Things have been particularly intense since January and I've been here almost every week, and most weekends. I'm stuck in some kind of groundhog day where every Monday the client says, "THIS week, we are going to sign-or else." And every week, we work as if the deal is going to sign, it doesn't, and we are asked once again to "push through" for another week in which we won't sign. Needless to say, living out of a hotel for months straight, breathing only boardroom air, living from risk meeting to risk meeting-it is taking its toll. It's all the little things that you let slip and put off...until you have a pile of seemingly mundane chores and errands to run that never get completed. One of those little mundane chores was renewing my passport. When I left the North on Friday evening to return to my poor neglected kitty for the weekend (bonus!), I bargained for a Monday morning off to visit Canada House to take care of the passport situation.

Readers of this blog (ie, my mother) are familiar with the premise: things in Dani's London Life can never be easy. I woke up this morning, my one morning in London to "get stuff done" to find London had decided not to open for business due to about 10 inches of snow that fell last night. The airports were closed, almost all Tube lines were suspended or severely delayed, and all buses were shut. To put this in perspective, during the Blitz, buses ran.

So.

After introducing Currie to her first snow (she decided it tasted good but was a little cold to wander around in), I decided to put on the blinders and pretend the blizzard wasn't happening. Go about my business. As colleagues chimed in on Blackberries trying to one-up each other with tales of personal inconvenience - "I got to the airport and the DOORS were locked," "It took me two hours to get my kids to school" (really, it was their nannies, but why quibble) - and those one-by-one sounding off to say they were "working from home" or "dialing in" today, I decided to show Canadian disdain for such snow histrionics and carry on. With my suitcase packed for another week, I skated down Hoxton Street to the office to pick up my train tickets and get some documents signed before heading to Canada House.

After a 20 minute tromp towards the City, braving the irate drivers and City boys sliding hopelessly in their dress shoes, I arrived to find that most of the women in the office had made it in, and not one. man. Not even the one who lives literally across the street (although, to his credit, he braved the conditions and made it for 10). Still, those who made it in had this strange bunker mentality going. One rushed out for danishes to get us through the crisis. One was calculating when she'd be able to leave for home without feeling guilty.

One colleague was incredulous that I was seriously planning to trek across town and then North. "Seriously, Dani," she counselled. "Forget it. This country shuts down when it snows." But I was undeterred. After getting everything settled at the office, I headed out in the snow again for Liverpool Street Station. To get to Canada House, I needed to get to Trafalgar Square, which involves hopping the Central Line to Tottenham Court Road, then the Northern Line to Charing Cross. I arrived at the station to find that no lines were running, except the Central and Northern Lines. With severe delays. Transport For London officials were turning people away, counselling to only make the journey "if it was absolutely necessary" and warning that there would be "serious disruptions."

Funny. I didn't experience any disruptions at all. I went down the escalator, the train pulled up, and I hopped on. The train was practically deserted. I even had a seat to myself. An uneventful switch at Tottenham Court Road (not even a wait-I walked onto the Northern Line platform and the train showed up), and I was at Canada House within 20 minutes. Excellent. Strangely enough, Canada House was practically deserted. I took a number, unecessarily, and was in and out in about 8 minutes. 4 of those spent in security. Then back to Charing Cross, a hop, skip and a jump up the Northern Line to Euston, and onto the 1 pm to Manchester. Also known as, the Train I Was Supposed To Get Anyway. Snow, schmow.

So it was a lovely day, really. And I think I've found the key to inner peace and contentment in this absolute hurricane of work that I seem to be inescapably drawn into for the near future: live in denial. Things work out better that way.

First Fave of 2009

Probably I'm the last on this bandwagon, but recently got Bring Me Love by Dallas Green (aka City and Colour). Am in love. Want to sing all these songs, learn guitar, and also marry Dallas Green so we can be angsty and clever together. Seriously, download it. Lots of songs about being miserable and falling apart, but deceptively cheery (lots of strummy guitar and beautiful harmonies), catchy, and melodic. I just watched an interview Strombo did with Dallas on The Hour earlier in the year where DG said he really struggles with lyrics. This was a surprising insight, because I think his lyrics are beautiful in their simplicity and directness, and there are definitely moments of poetry in them: "I can see the sun setting, casting shadows on the sea/I can see the sun setting, getting colder, starting to freeze/What makes a man want to break a heart with ease? I think I know...I think I might know..."

My particular favorite at the moment is "The Death of Me," mostly because my current life of work , work and work has me tired, stressed to the limit, cranky and anxious most of the time...acutely aware of it, but unable to get out of the rut. So it resonates, in all sense of the word: it's also a pretty, upbeat tune that sticks in your head.

The Death of Me

Do I have nothing good left to say?
Do I need whisky to start fuelling my complaints?
People love to drink their troubles away
Sometimes I feel that I'd be better off that way.

'Cause maybe then I could sleep at night
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light
This is something that I'll never control
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

I know...

So here's to living life miserable

And here's to all the lonely stories that I've told
Maybe drinking wine would validate my sorrow
Every man needs a muse and mine could be the bottle.

Maybe then I could sleep at night
I wouldn't lie awake until the morning light
This is something that I'll never control
My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

Finally I could hope for a better day
No longer holding on to all the things that cloud my mind
Maybe then the weight of the world wouldn't seem so heavy
But then again, I'll probably always feel this way.

At least I know I'll never sleep at night
I'll always lie awake until the morning light
This is something that I'll never control
My nerves will be the death of me

My nerves will be the death of me, I know.

Just (Stolen from Stephanie)

The rules...
1. Put your iPod, iTunes, Windows Media Player, etc. on shuffle.
2. For each question, press the next button to get your answer.
3. YOU MUST WRITE THAT SONG NAME DOWN NO MATTER HOW SILLY IT SOUNDS.
4. Add commentary.

IF SOMEONE SAYS "IS THIS OKAY" YOU SAY?
”Bewitched” (Ella Fitzgerald)
I’m wild again, beguiled again, a simpering, wimpering, child again. So NO. It’s NOT OKAY. *throws toys out of pram*

HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOURSELF?
“Around the Bend” (The Asteroids Galaxy Tour)
“Hot hot love on a platter!” That one was too easy.

WHAT DO YOU LIKE IN A GUY/GIRL?
“Sexy Ladies/Let Me Talk To You” (Justin Timberlake)
Well, I have been meaning to mention…

HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?
“Everybody’s Stalking” (Badly Drawn Boy)
“Been feeling high, and then feelin’ low…”

WHAT IS YOUR LIFE'S PURPOSE?
“Bodysnatchers” (Radiohead)
Ready to join the hallowed ranks of mad scientists.

WHAT IS YOUR MOTTO?
“A Gift for Living Well” (Michael Crawford, “The Woman in White”)
“The talent that I have in spades, is one for fun and escapades…a gift for living well. Attracted to the lively arts, breaking bread, breaking hearts, making love when love has me spellbound. Italian food, the wines of France, I never walk when I can dance…a gift for living well.”

WHAT DO YOUR FRIENDS THINK OF YOU?
“I Know” (Fiona Apple)
“So be it, I’m your crowbar; that’s what I am so far. Until you get out of this mess. And I will pretend that I don’t know of your sins until you are ready to confess.”

WHAT DO YOU THINK ABOUT VERY OFTEN?
“Waiting for the 7.18” (Bloc Party)
“The Northern Line is the loudest.” Well yes, that I DO think often, as I live on the Northern Line (Old Street, HOLLA!). And also…”Just give me moments, not hours or days.”

WHAT IS 2 + 2?
“We Get On” (Kate Nash)
For some reason, this makes me think of my family. We are four, and we get on. Awww.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR BESTIE?
“Five Minutes More” (Dean Martin)
Well, five minutes more with my bestie would be nice. As it is, I never see her for even five minutes.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
“The Tears of a Clown” (Smokey Robinson and the Miracles)
“If there’s a smile on my face, it’s only there trying to fool the public…don’t let my glad expression give you the wrong impression, really I’m sad, you’re gone and I’m hurtin’ so bad...”

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WHEN YOU GROW UP?
“Drop It Like It’s Hot” (Snoop Dogg feat. Pharell)
Awwwwww yeah niggaz. I’m a gangsta, but you all knew that.

WHAT DO YOU THINK WHEN YOU SEE THE PERSON YOU LIKE?
“It Ain’t Me Babe” (Johnny Cash and June Carter)
Yup, that about sums it up. It ain’t me they’re lookin’ for, babe.

WHAT WILL YOU DANCE TO AT YOUR WEDDING?
“One Is the Loneliest Number” (Aimee Mann)
“Two is the loneliest number since the number one.” Oh, that doesn’t bode well. Oh, dear.

WHAT IS YOUR HOBBY/INTEREST?
“Once” (Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova)
Um, chasing ambulances? (“Hear the sirens call me home”)

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST FEAR?
“Intuition” (Feist)
“It’s impossible to tell how important someone was and what you might have missed out on and how he might have changed it all and how you might have changed it all for him, and how you might have changed it all and how he might have changed it all for you…and did I miss out on you?”
There you go. That’s my fear: Did I miss out on you?

WHAT IS YOUR BIGGEST SECRET?
“To Die For Love” (Patrick Doyle, “Sense and Sensibility: Original Motion Picture Soundtrack”)
Elinor Dashwood: I have nothing to tell.
Marianne Dashwood: No, nor I. Neither of us have anything to tell, I because I conceal nothing, and you because you communicate nothing.”
I have no secrets. I’m much more a Marianne than an Elinor. Always have been.

WHAT DO YOU THINK OF YOUR FRIENDS?
“Elevator Love Letter” (Stars)
“I take it out on my good friends, but the worst stays in. Oh, where would I begin?”
It’s true. I DO take it out on my good friends. They are my rocks, jointly and severally (ooh! Legalese in my metaphor!)

WHAT WILL YOU POST THIS AS?
“Just” (Mark Ronson feat. Phantom Planet).
You do it to yourself, you do, and that’s what really hurts.

Neigbourhood Watch

I have a favorite vintage store down the street from my place in Hoxton, called Paper Dress Vintage (sorry Vancouver, I have to say, in the vintage department, London has it all over you).  I often pop in on my way home from work if they're open late (which appears to be only on a whim, not a regular basis).   I've found some great pieces from the '60s, '70s, and yes, even '80s here (PS, it makes me feel old to say '80s is vintage).

On Thursday night as I walked home, there was a large crowd spilling out of Paper Dress, swilling champagne, and huge spotlights were placed on the sidewalk, facing the storefront.  It was Paper Dress' first year anniversary at this location, and they were throwing a huge celebration.  As I passed the windows, I had to stop and stare for a few minutes:  there were three women in vintage dresses, with elaborate 1940s style hairstyles and makeup, posing in the window, loud music blasting.  Then, ever so slowly, they started to shimmy out of their dresses...it was a burlesque storefront! Genius!

It reminded me of a time a few years ago when Edy I were speeding up Kensington Church Street on his motorbike and passed a hat store which had a naked man posed ever so seductively in the shop window, with a hat concealing his...ahem.

Saucy storefronts.  Must be a London thing.  

All-American Car Wash

On my way to work, I pass a large carwash at the intersection of Curtain Road and Great Eastern Street. It derives its "All American" name from being a handwash, hand-detail kind of place. Now, when I think "All-American" carwash I think of the scary automated variety of beast, but, let's not quibble. Usually when I walk by there is one car parked there, with one guy half-heartedly hosing the car down while 6 others stand around in gumboots (Wellies, for those in the UK) smoking cigarettes and cat-calling passersby (myself included). Generally, the staff at the All-American carwash do absolutely nothing. [Insert your own ironic quip about American work ethic here.]

This morning, however, was a different story. There was a large Metropolitan Police van parked in the carwash, and about 4 officers in uniform sitting inside, arms crossed, waiting. The All-American staff (other interesting tidbit: most of the All-American staff are visible minorities and almost certainly recent immigrants to the UK, in my humble assessment) were in a frenzy of squee-gee'ing, hosing, shammying and buffing. It was like somewhat had hit "fast-forward." I felt like "Flight of the Bumblebees" should have been playing as a soundtrack.

Moral of the story is if you want better service, slap some fake official-looking decals on your vehicle and you're off to the races.

Flat Wars Continues

It's been a long few weeks with many late (post-midnight) nights in the office. On Monday night I got home at a reasonable hour and thought I'd be able to catch up on the sleep I've been missing over the past, oh, four months or so. Currie in her kerchief and I in my cap, had just settled down for a long winters' nap, when all of a sudden (well, not sudden, at 2 a.m.), there arose such a clatter, we sprang from our beds to see what was the matter.

It was some scary faceless entity, buzzing my flat. And I have one of those totally intrusive, scare the bejezus out of you buzzers. Currie cowered under the bed while I somewhat hesitantly answered the intercom, but no one said a word. They continued to buzz. For about two hours. I resorted to screaming out the front windows, craning to see who it was, to no avail. Finally, around 4, I called the police. When they arrived, there was no one there, but the iron gate (arch-nemesis of Gategate 2008) had been broken open with a hammer or crowbar or some such object. That was reassuring.

So much for sleep...I was probably better off at the office.

Bright Side Relinquished.

If you know a good exorcist, let me know. I'm beginning to think my flat is seriously possessed.

On Tuesday night, I came home from work around 10:30 and settled in to watch Obamarama unfold live on BBC World. Around 11 pm, I heard a large wooshing noise right above my head, and the heavens-or rather, my potlights-opened and poured rain. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. It is unusual for it to rain from your ceiling. I was a little concerned, too. Especially when it didn't stop, and then when cracks started appearing in the ceiling and it rained from there, too.

I rain-oops, Freudian typo-ran upstairs to knock on my neighbours' door...Nicole and Vicky are trainee solicitors and all around good folk. Vicky opened the door and I apologised for intruding so late, but that we were having a little precipitation problem downstairs. She turned pale and said Nicole was in the bathtub. We both ran down the hall and she banged on the door.

"Nicole," she shouted. "The lady from downstairs is here, and there's a problem, water is coming from her ceiling." (Editor's Note: I hate being called "lady," especially by people close to my age. It makes me feel old and uncool.)

"Oh nooo," wailed Nicole. "But I'm just using my birthday bath bomb from Lush! Are you sure it's me? I didn't fill the water up very high! If the water's yellow, then it's my bathwater."

Sighing, I ran down the stairs and inspected the water that was quickly filling the pots and pans I had quickly scattered around the living room, pausing to admire the new cracks and the new potlight-waterfall that had started in the kitchen. I peered into my stock pot. Yep, the water was definitely yellow. I trudged upstairs to report the news to Nicole and Vicky.

Nicole emerged from the bathroom in a bright pink fluffy bathrobe. The girls were very apologetic, as was I. We all trooped downstairs, and I tried in vain to reach any of the plumbers from whom my property management company, Foxton's, guarantees 24 hour, 7 day a week emergency coverage. Funny, but none of the plumbers picked up the phone, or had voicemail. I left several scathing-bordering-on-offensive messages on Foxton's answring machine while the girls admired my decor, and we had a good if inappropriate giggle at the fact that my ceiling was apparently about to fall in. The girls called their landlord, and he promised to send a plumber round in the morning.

Sure enough, Nicole, her fluffy pink bathrobe, and the plumber arrived at 8 am yesterday morning. He inspected the water that was still pouring in. I, meanwhile, was on the phone to Foxton's trying every argument I could to get out of my lease so that I could move out of this oh-so-trendy-but-oh-so-uninhabitable-mews:

- The mice (oh yes, did I mention those?)
- The cockroaches (dead, but still gross)
- The intermittent electricity
- The stove whose dials have all been scrubbed off so you can't tell if you're grilling, convecting, or ventilating, at what temperature or for how long,
- Watermaingate 2008 (see previous post, "Brightside Revisited")

My property manager was suitably apologetic and was on the phone to me several times yesterday guaranteeing workmen of all kinds (for professional reasons, people, get your minds out of the gutter), compensation for Watermaingate 2008 and the ceiling, painting the living room, getting me a new stove-you name it, he promised it. I begrudgingly accepted. Although I would prefer to move, it appears the law isn't on my side and I would have to forfeit my considerable deposit if I moved. By the time I left work last night around 11:30 p.m., I was feeling cautiously optimistic.

Until I got home. I went to put my keys in the front gate and it wouldn't open-it stuck. This has been happening for a few days, so I jiggled my key in the Yale Lock. I rattled the heavy black iron gate. Not moving. Maybe I had the wrong key, I thought. Both the key to the gate and my front door look alike. I tried my other key in the lock, turned it, and it sheared off, leaving half the key in the lock. I buzzed every flat in the property, trying to get someone to let me in. No one answered.

I gave up at this point. I sat down on the street and wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I called Foxton's emergency 24 hour service, and pressed "2" for locksmith. They provided two numbers. I called both. One told me he wasn't interested in coming to help me. The other never picked up his phone and never called me back. I called a colleague still at work and had him Google "24 hour locksmiths, Shoreditch." He gave me 5 or so numbers. I called them all. One informed he wouldn't come unless he had authorisation from the owner of the property. I said, "I'm the tenant, my landlord lives in Singapore and I don't even know how to get in touch-are you telling me I have to spend the night in the street?" He said yes. I called him a filthy name and hung up. The rest just didn't answer.

At this point, the evil villain of Watermaingate 2008, from the off-licence who had broken my water main and just shut it off rather than repair it, took pity on me and pried the remnants of my key out of the gate, picked the lock, and let me in the gate. I gleefully skipped up the stairs to my flat. OK, so it was 12:30 and I'd just spent an hour in the street after putting in a 15 hour day at the office. At least bed was nigh.

When I got to my front door, I could hear Currie Cat meowling piteously for food on the other side. I frantically dug in my bag for my keys. Pulling them out, I realized my horrible mistake: the key I'd sheared off in the gate wasn't the gate key.

It was my front door key. I was still locked out.

At this point, Gategate 2008 was born. I called my parents in Canada and had THEM Google locksmiths, who I called one by one until I finally found one who was willing to come, but was an hour away. I said OK, and settled down on my front doorstep to wait. Currie was practically strangling herself on our front window miniblinds, trying to get my attention. She couldn't understand why I wouldn't come in.

Eventually the locksmith arrived. He was about 17 and he brought a Chav friend. They were both in tracksuits with shaved heads and attacked my door with gusto. With an electric drill. It didn't look like a particularly "locksmithy" way to do things, but at this point it was 2 in the morning and I didn't really want to quibble over technique.

The Chavsmiths managed to wrench the Yale Lock right off my door. Thankfully, they put a new one on, and 2 and a half hours and £200 later, I was home.

Foxton's got some choice voicemails around 12:31, 1:48, and 2:17 this morning. I haven't heard back. I can't imagine why.

Satanic Sluts and Freedom of Speech?

I have been a big fan of the British comic Russell Brand for ages. Most people in Canada don't know Russell, except if they've seen the film Forgetting Sarah Marshall, where Russell basically played a rock n' roll version of himself called Aldous Snow, who steals Sarah Marshall and the movie. Russell's hosting of the MTV Video Music Awards in September may have raised his profile somewhat, and he has jumped on the Judd Apatow train and will be making several films in the next year, so safe to say, he's the Next Big Thing. Russell often refers to himself as a Dickensian-era chimney sweep thanks to his charming "Mockney" persona and pseudo-Victorian-goth style of dress. He has a great turn of phrase and, most of the time, a high-brow, sarcastic sense of humour that I really enjoy. A highly intelligent guy.


For several years Russell and his writing partner Matt Morgan have hosted a radio show for the BBC, first on 6 Music, and for the past few years, on Radio 2. I have been a big fan of the show, which I listen to on podcasts, in which Russell rambles, engages in shambolic interviews with random celebrities (a highlight includes his interview of Big Bird), and relates generally lewd stories to best buddy Matt. Russell is a recovering heroin addict who freely admits to having a sex addiction and a lot of stories involve who Russell has shagged, is shagging, and wants to shag. It's just part of his persona.


Last week Russell had Jonathan Ross, who hosts a chat show called Friday Night and is the highest paid performer at the BBC (6 million quid a year), as his guest host. Russell has been a frequent guest on Friday Night and they have a good rapport. Things got a little out of hand, though, to say the least.


It all started on last week's show. Russell's guest host, the author David Baddiel, was telling an anecdote about how, as a married father of two, he has always enjoyed popping round to Russell's house to witness various single-guy shenanigans. He mentioned coming over once to hear from Russell that the "Satanic Sluts," a gothic-burlesque dance troupe, were coming over for a little romp. One of the sluts, Georgina Baillie, introduced herself to Baddiel and said her granddad was Andrew Sachs, who played Manual on Fawlty Towers. Baddiel mentioned that he had met Sachs, and Georgina begged him not to tell her granddad that she'd been round to Russell's house. David and Russell had a good laugh about it, and moved on with the program.


Cut to last week, and Jonathan and Russell. An interview with Andrew Sachs was scheduled. The minute they announced this, I knew that it was not going to end well, as clearly the only connection between Russell and Manuel was Georgina. Russell made a point of mentioning again how he had had sex with Sachs' granddaughter and said to Ross not to mention it during the interview. However, Sachs did not pick up the phone, and Russell proceeded to leave an answer-phone message, when suddenly Jonathan Ross yelled out "He fucked your granddaughter" in the background. Russell promptly hung up, giggling. Remorse clearly set in for both of them, and they proceeded to leave several more answer-phone messages, each worse than the next, where they would start out making a contrite apology, and descend into making even more offensive remarks about Sachs and his granddaughter. I'm not easily shocked, but I listened to this as I jogged along this weekend and was shocked a number of times. The program was pre-recorded, so I assumed, with some degree of wonder, that the producers of the show had gotten permission from Andrew Sachs to include these messages in the broadcast. Well, I mused, he's a comedian, so maybe he thinks this is funny, even if I don't.
Well, apparently he didn't find it that funny, and neither did the 27,000 people who have now complained to the BBC. The media grabbed ahold of this story on Monday and ran with it. While I found the program somewhat offensive and not that funny, it didn't strike me as worthy of the complete outrage and howls for the heads of Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross that have popped up the news over the past few days. The complaints escalated, and by today, the pressure on the BBC to take some action against the two was insurmountable.


They were both suspended this morning by Mark Thompson, Director General of the BBC, who called the program a "gross lapse of taste." Can you imagine David Letterman being yanked off the air? Suspending Jonathan Ross from broadcasting will have about the equivalent impact here in the UK. Much to my disappointment, Russell Brand did the classy thing about half an hour ago and resigned, saying that he only does his radio show to make people happy, and since it was clear that he wasn't making people happy anymore, so it was time to go. The BBC investigation will not look at whether or not the show should be broadcast; it appears clear that it should not have been. However, the BBC will have to account for how such content was approved, and who gave the nod for such content to go out, and will therefore investigate the editorial processes at Radio 2.


Ofcom, the independent media regulator, has also launched an investigation to determine if the show breached the UK Broadcasting Code, the content standards for television and radio established under the Communications Act 2003 and the Broadcasting Act 1996. Section Two of the Broadcasting Code incorporates articles of the European Convention on Human Rights and establishes minimum standards to protect the public from offensive or harmful material. What does that mean?


Well, no depiction of suicides or self-harm, unless editorially justified. No depictions of exorcisms, the occult, divination or paranormal activities unless it is explicitly stated to be for entertainment purposes only. Competitions should be conducted fairly, and any simulated news must be broadcast in a way that there is no possibility of the public understanding it to be true. From a quick read of the Broadcasting Code, it doesn't appear to me that Brand and Ross clearly violated any specific provision.


So, it appears that Ofcom's investigation will hinge on this, Section 2.3:
"In applying generally accepted standards broadcasters must ensure that
material which may cause offence is justified by the context (see meaning of
“context” below). Such material may include, but is not limited to, offensive
language, violence, sex, sexual violence, humiliation, distress, violation of
human dignity, discriminatory treatment or language (for example on the
grounds of age, disability, gender, race, religion, beliefs and sexual orientation).
Appropriate information should also be broadcast where it would assist in
avoiding or minimising offence."
"Context" means:• the editorial content of the programme, programmes or series (as noted, often it includes who Russell has shagged this week) ;
• the service on which the material is broadcast;
• the time of broadcast (Saturday evenings between 9 pm and 11 pm);
• what other programmes are scheduled before and after the programme or
programmes concerned;
• the degree of harm or offence likely to be caused by the inclusion of any
particular sort of material in programmes generally or programmes of a
particular description (Aha!);
• the likely size and composition of the potential audience and likely expectation
of the audience;
• the extent to which the nature of the content can be brought to the attention
of the potential audience for example by giving information; and
• the effect of the material on viewers or listeners who may come across it unawares.

So. It will all come down to the degree of harm or offence caused by the inclusion of this material in the program, which will be a subjective determination by Ofcom. I feel like Brand and Ross have lost already, thanks to the furor that has been mostly generated by the London tabs. Sure, it was offensive. But so is Russell's regular item, "GAY!" where he gives "advice" to people with "gay problems." Was this particular episode so offensive that two of the biggest stars should resign? I don't think so. Russell Brand is offensive. But the show was no more offensive than usual. Unfortunately, thanks to the spotlight that has been put on this episode, I think the degree of potential "harm and offence" caused to Andrew Sachs and Georgina Baillie has increased hundredfold. Ofcom will have to find that the program was offensive now and no doubt the BBC will face a large fine.


I think the media has generated much of the firestorm, posting pictures of Georgina in lingerie, and paying her for exclusive interviews in the Sun on how "devastated" she is, chasing poor 78 year old Andrew Sachs down the street to get his reaction and to snap pics of an elderly man clearly overwhelmed by the attention that is being heaped on him, which would inspire a sympathetic reaction in anyone. Apparently, the day after the broadcast, there were only two complaints to the BBC. It was only after several London papers published stories earlier this week, that the complaints began to pour in. I think this is a tempest in a teacup that has been grabbed up by London editors who love to splash tales of Russell's bad boy antics across their pages, and now Brand and Ross are paying the price.


Absolutely, the two need to apologise to Andrew Sachs, and publicly. No granddad wants to hear the details of their granddaughter's sex life. However, the man wasn't born yesterday. His granddaughter's profession is as a "Satanic Slut." She has appeared topless on the Internet and in newspapers as a glamour model. He isn't going to be shocked to learn she isn't as pure as the driven snow. And as for Georgina Baillie a.k.a. Voluptua the Satanic Slut, a word of advice: if you're so concerned about your reputation, you might want to take down the pics of you in a bustier with a whip from your Myspace page, and maybe refrain from engaging in group sex with sex-addict TV stars who regularly speak about their conquests...and at the very least...don't tell him who your granddad is. Brand and Ross weren't funny. Yes, they crossed the line, and no, it wasn't funny. But I don't think the reaction has been commensurate with the action in this case.


Britain regulates media content. Fine. But don't enforce it inconsistently, and don't enforce it only when pressured by public outcry that is generally instigated by rival media outlets. If you're going to stop Russell Brand from broadcasting a show with occasional naughty bits, please get rid of TV shows like Miss Naked Britain, please edit out those bits of Big Brother where we have to watch grainy night-camera footage of people having sex under the covers, censor Little Britain, fine Jamie Oliver every time he says "fuck," and please, no more reality shows with naked glamour models like Jodie Marsh looking for yet another husband, or Danielle Lloyd getting another pair of implants or dating another footballer. Since when are tabloids our collective conscience? That's a scary thought indeed.

Plum Crazy

It feels like Christmas, not Hallowe'en...the lampposts here on Hoxton Street are all wrapped in Christmas lights.  It's been snowing.  I'm cozied up with the Currie-Cat and we are eating baked plums.

Plums always remind me of my Nana Rita, whose special "Plum Crazy" is a family legend that I remember from my childhood.  Plum Crazy was an extremely strong plum liqueur that she made from scratch, in a large keg that she rolled with her feet every winter night, for months, while knitting and watching TV.  I remember my mom and dad telling me that when they stopped in to visit, they had to take turns rolling the Plum Crazy as well.

I've learned how to knit now, thanks to my Auntie Ruth.  So, now to track down a recipe for something akin to Plum Crazy before plum season is over (maybe a couple of weeks at best), so I can spent my cold London weeknights knitting and rolling Plum Crazy, with Currie Cat by my side.

OK, so I sound like a 78 year old lady, but I'll leave the London carousing to Winehouse.

Missus Missus

Rehearsals are well underway for my December show, Brenda Bly: Teen Detective.  We rehearse at the Flash Musical Theatre in Edgware, North London.  The theatre is somewhat old and is always freezing due to poor insulation.  It's seen better days.   I learned yesterday that some of its residents have also seen better days: apparently the place is haunted by a woman that most of the people in my company have seen at one time or another.  They call her Missus Missus.  People who know me know I've always been intrigued by ghosts, so I have been collecting as many stories from the company as I can about Missus Missus.

An old lady in a black dress, she was most recently seen by Hannah a few weeks ago, who was teaching a Bollywood dancing class to some kids and had to lock up the theatre after all her students had gone.  As she was leaving the theatre, she turned to check to make sure no one was still in the space, and saw Missus Missus walking up some stairs at the rear of the theatre.   She called out to her, and she disappeared.  She looked solid and real.   Hannah has also seen her on the CCTV camera, when sitting in the theatre office, and Missus Missus has walked by the door to the ladies' room while Hannah has been standing at the sinks.

Jenny thinks Missus Missus likes her, as she has been photographed several times with orbs flying around her.  It is generally agreed, however, that Missus Missus does not like Catia, and has scratched her or pushed her several times.   A number of people in the cast have said that children in the audience have asked them, after performances, who the old lady dancing on stage was.   Hannah's dad, a magician, has been distracted during performances at the theatre by Missus Missus flitting up and down in the wings.  In fact, a child he brought up onstage with him to assist with a trick saw Missus Missus, laughed and pointed her out, and Hannah's dad had to play along with the kid.  

Jenny, Laura and Hannah perform as a girls' group that sings World War II era music.  When they rehearse at the theatre, they swear their sound becomes more authentic and sounds like they are really 1940s'-era torch singers like the Andrews Sisters.  They can't explain it, but think that it might be Missus Missus at work, and that she may be of this era.  A number of people who have been alone in the theatre at one time or another have told me that they have all of a sudden felt an explicable, oppressive sadness, and have gone from cheery and happy one moment to feeling close to tears the next.  

So who is she and how did she get to this theatre?  The theatre sits next to a recreation ground that was at one time the graveyard for a church that also sat on the recreation ground.  Both were moved to make room for the park, and apparently the theatre, in its previous incarnation as a community hall, was used as temporary storage for the coffins before they were moved to their new location.  I don't know if I believe this, but I'm going to look into it and see what I can find out.  

Interesting stories though.  I hope I come across Missus Missus one of these days.