President Pachiderm?

So the US Presidential elections are almost upon us. Finally. It seems almost inconceivable that I was writing about this way back in my entry of 9th January this year, and still we have a week to go.

In the meantime it seems as though America has limped along on the world's stage with a lame duck President (almost a matching pair with our waste of skin that passes as Prime Minister) who is politically just waiting to die.

For what it's worth I hope Obama gets in, as not only would it prevent the septegenarian psychopath McCain from continuing Bush's 'good work', it would also give some of the more red of neck members of the land of the free, home of the brave, a little food for thought, and prove that America is actually still moving forward in terms of progressive thinking. It would be an act that proves that there is more to Presidential policy that building pseudo concentration camps in Cuba for those who dare to question the relentless onslaught of the New World Disorder that the alcoholic cowboy has peddled ever since the aircraft/building interfaces in New York eight years ago.

This time next week we'll know whether we're going to have a historic coloured President or a historic female President (let's face it, McCain's health isn't great so he's a good shoe in for your 2009 Dead Pools), so until then, I'm going to worry about something far more important.

For the second time in my life I'm best man at a wedding, this time my friend Nick, who I've known for thirty years.

My speech is written, nice and short as requested by the groom, and I'm looking forward to sharing this happy day with Deborah, Tavis and Keziah.

Then we have Halloween, of course, so I'm sure I'll be back with something to say about my favourite day of the year then.

A Fair Affair

It's always a pleasure to share something that is important to you, and this weekend I got to do just that.

I was born and brought up in Nottingham, home of not only Robin Hood (think Michael Praed, Jason Connery, or Errol Flynn, please, but for god's sake not Kevin Costner), but also the largest travelling fair in Europe, the world famous Goose Fair.

When I was a wee small lad, I remember my Dad taking me down on the Sunday morning to watch the carnies dismantle all of the rides, and then when in my teens going en masse with my friends to ride the white knuckle rides and see who would be the first to balk at a challenge, or more likely, to recycle the candy floss or hot dogs that we had shovelled down our necks.

This year I took Deborah, and Tav and Kes, up to Nottingham to experience their first Goose Fair. Inevitably it rained, for it wouldn't be a proper Goose Fair without at least a brief shower, but fun was had by all and we cam away with all manner of stuffed toys of various shapes and sizes.

The greatest pleasure for me, though (aside from pointing out the Cock on a Stick stall where I had once worked one year when in my teens), was introducing Deborah to the gastronomic delight that is mushy peas and mint sauce.

Delicious beyond belief, and best served in a polystyrene cup with lashings of mint sauce and eaten in the chilly autumn air with the sounds of people laughing, screaming and eating all around.

Wonderful, too, was meeting up with and introducing my friend Steve (not quite my oldest friend, but he does have a couple of years on me - *waves at Steve* ) to the clan. Equally fantastic, and all the more so due to it being a complete surprise, was bumping into my old friend Martin, with whom Steve and I had been in our first band some twenty years ago.

All in all a great weekend, and another chapter written in the happy and fun life that I have found myself living these last couple of years.

Now all I need to do is find some AAA batteries so that I can try out the air guitar thingy that Steve bought for me........

Dark Messiahs and Ballet Dancers

The last eight days has seen us attending two very different events, both of which have been hugely enjoyable, and both of which, I haveto be honest, I thought would be merely OK.

The first of these was last Sunday at the Indigo club in the O2 arena. We were last there in March to see Gary Numan's run through of his seminal Replicas album, which I wrote about here, and which blew us both away, and we found ourselves back there to once again pay tribute to rock's dark messiah as he played his more current songs, drawn mainly from the Jagged Album.

Now as a lifelong fan I have to confess that I adore the early stuff. Replicas, Telekon, The Pleasure Principle, even Dance, I Assassin and Warriors get the thumbs up in my book, and while I think his output in the last ten years has been excellent, I'd forgotten the power that a Numan gig assaults his audience with, and so going in with average expectations I found myself falling once more in love with his recent offerings.

Then three days later we found ourselves in the company of a new friend and his partner as they took us out first to the theatre and then dinner in the swanky borough of Mayfair (that's Mayfair, London for those of you not residing on these fair shores).

The show in question was Billy Elliott, and again I have to be honest in saying that while I thought it would be entertaining to spend a night at the theatre, something we don't often do, the prospect of two and a half hours watching a teenage ballet dancer didn't fill me with excitement.

How wrong I was.

From the moment the curtain went up to the final bowsby the cast, I was completely captivated, as was Deborah, as the tale of a young man's coming of age set against bitter miner's strike of the 1980s made me laugh, smile and hold a tear or two back in a couple of devastatingly poignant moments.

As Victor Remington almost said, I was so impressed I went out and bought the special edition DVD, which we're hoping to watch sometime very soon to compare the film to the stage show.

Tomorrow night is another change of pace again as I take Kez (13 going on 20) to her first proper rock concert. We've done Pink, we've done Newton Faulkner, but tomorrow night we're off to see the mighty Metallica at the massive O2 arena itself for a 'secret' fan club gig.

I personally can't wait, not only to see the band again for the first time in fifteen years, but also to watch Kez as she comes face to face with the Metallica monster.

I'll let you know how it goes.

A Not So Futile Exercise

I finally relented and caved in and bought a Wii for our household.

Against my will, of course, because I didn't want one at all, oh no, not me. I had no desire to play my favourite shooting game House Of The Dead on the Wii. Nope, not me. Never had the slightest interest in checking out the latest Resident Evil spin-off, The Umbrella Chronicles. You guessed it, not me.

Well, maybe I did. Well, OK then, I was looking for an excuse.

However, though I know House of the Dead would rock, and anything with the Resident Evil name on it draws me ike a moth to a flame, but the one thing I never in a million years thought I would have anything but a fleeting interest with is Wii Fit.

Yep, that balance board thing that allegedly gets you fit while having tons of fun. Not for me, that, uh-uh, no way. Or so I thought.

Last night we bust the thing out of its box at around 8pm and only called it a day just before midnight because I had to be up at my usual ungodlyhour to go to work.

But what fun! I never though that standing on a small board pretending to hula hoop and looking like a kid dancing at the special needs disco could be so entertaining (and we have the video evidence to prove it, not that any of you are ever going to see it!).

I skiied (slalom and jumping), I headed footballs, I moved some balls around into holes like some bizarre hybrid of Marble Madness and Spindizzy, and I even put the controller in my pocket (and yes, I am pleased to see you but really, it is a controller) and jogged, and it somehow knew what I was doing as my little Wii Mii (the avatar that looks scarily like me) followed my every move on screen.

I fear that Wii Fit means that my good work in avoiding all unneccesary exercise has come to an end as I feel the nagging pull of the damn thing, calling me back to have just one more go and try and walk the virtual tightrope across an urban chasm into which I have so far fallen every time I've attempted it.

Kudos to Nintendo for subtly reintroducing me, and many others judging by the similarities between Wii Fits and rocking horse manure in the shops, to the joys of exercise.

Well, now I'm a step closer to fitness, I feel the need to kill me some zombies. Pass the House of the Dead please.

The Final Chapter

Falling out of love is a deeply unsatisfying experience.

For me it's finally happened after nearly 14 years, and I'm kind of upset about it if I'm being honest.

I'd put my faith in this relationship, which started so promisingly with hours of extremely satisfying pleasure, and without realising it had soon become a faithful partner, being there for every significant moment, sharing the highs and the lows, the ecstacy and the agony, and loving every minute of it.

But it began to change, about half a decade ago actually.

Someone else got involved in this relationship, and while initially it was a little bit exciting, as I enjoyed the new input, wondered where this menage a trois might take me, and allowed myself to go along for the ride, little did I realise that things were a-changing.

Without warning there was suddenly another, and another, and another still, and slowly but surely I've come to the realisation that the voice, the spirit, the world that I had fallen in love with had changed beyond repair.

I've just spent the last four days making sure that my feelings, or rather my new state of non-feeling towards this relationship, were really as they seem to be, and I'm sorry to say that they are.

He was once my favourite author, the architect of Alex Cross, one of my favourite literary characters, but James Patterson has lost his identity, lost his bite, lost my interest.

Patterson is these days nothing more than an ideas machine, who gives the synopsis of his latest plot to a 'co-author' and lets them emulate his voice, which they have done with increasing ineptitude over the last few years.

I miss his voice. The early books remain favourites, but having reached the end of my tether with this charade I'm finally facing the fact that I haven't really enjoyed a Patterson book for years. Instead I have dutifully picked up the latest hardback, which have appeared as often as every six weeks of late, like a betrayed partner who clings to the hope that 'things will get better soon'.

So there we have it. It's over.

Yes, I'll no doubt return occasionally for old times sake when Alex Cross is dusted off, but no longer will I be, as Stephen King can still clam of me, a 'constant reader'. I'm done.

It's been fun, but it's time to move on and find a new love.

And Mark Bellingham might just make the cut.....

Birds of a Feather

I sitting here writing this with two pairs of dark, beady eyes watching my every move, and I have to admit that over the last month or so I've become used to it, and even quite like it.

The eyes belong to a gorgeous pair of parakeets that are part of the family - he's Spark, she's Ruby - and the past month has taught me something that I didn't appreciate before, namely that birds really do have personalities.

I'm very much an animal lover, and have owned dogs, cats, and even a dwarf Russian hamster, but in all of these cases their personalities have been up front, so to speak, in their mannerisms, in their voices, and in the fact that, I suppose, they're mammals.

The birds, though, are every bit as individual as their four legged counterparts (which now include a couple of guinea pigs called Jemima and Aston), and fascinate me in the ways that they find to communicate with us.

For example, I'm usually first up and when I come downstairs I'm often greeted with a whistle from the birds, usually followed by one of them (more often than not Spark) then flying to the front of the cage, and hanging on to it with his claws to attract my attention to the fact that they've used all their water and are demanding more!

Also, when we eat I've noticed that regardless of whether Ruby and Spark have been snacking all day, they both make a point of joining in with us, which I'm told by the resident experts is because they consider us part of their flock (or vice versa) and the flock that feeds together, err stays together.

So, what I'm trying to do, I guess, is apologise to the avian world for my lack of faith in their individual personalities. Oh, and just in case they're slightly unforgiving I'm keeping them well away from a certain Hitchcock DVD....

Tinkle and a Twix

One of my colleagues left the company I work for today, so in time honoured tradition a group of us descended on a local hostelry for a few drinks to celebrate, or commiserate, or whatever it is you do when someone leaves.

Well, when I say hostelry, and let's face it, who does say hostelry these days, I mean swanky, wanky cocktail bar in the vicinity of Fenchurch Street that serves all manner of exotically titled beverages that no sane person should ever be seen ordering, let alone drinking.

In the spirit of the evening, however, I'm prepared to indulge such frippery, mainly because they also serve pints of Guinness, which is much more suited to my real ale palatte.

Inevitably I have to visit the Gentlemen's, and this is where I'm suddenly reminded of one of life's peculiar practices that, frankly, I've never been able to fathom.

Lurking in the conveniences is a smartly dressed man with a selection of sweets, chocolates and various toiletries. Now, aside from the fact that it must be a soul destroying existence spending much of your working life in the gents, it begs the question why, when all I want to do is recycle the last couple of pints, wash and dry my hands, and proceed to refill my bladder once more, would I be in the least bit interested in a small plastic bottle of aftershave, a perfumed soap, or a Twix!

I realise that everybody needs to make a living, but (and call me old fashioned) this is tantamount to emotional blackmail. Here I am, having performed one of the most intimate functions of the human body, which may or may not have been observed by my friend at the sink, but for the priviledge of performing the basic sanitary function of washing my hands, thus preventing everybody else I will touch this evening from, effectively, touching my manhood, I am effectively being placed on some huge guilt trip if I don't give this guy some money (and I'm guessing he's not going to be happy with ten pence) to hand me a towel which I'm perfectly capable of doing myself, and then offering to sell me some beauty products and an item or two of confectionary to take back to the bar!

I'm sad to report that I took the cowards way out and fled the bathroom without washing, so if I happened to shake your hand this evening, I'm sorry!