Concerning Iraq

"Ms England's life before she put on the uniform showed no predilection for violence, her friends and family say. She grew up in a close-knit outdoorsy family that liked sport and hunting."

Is that disjunction meant to be funny, I wonder? Is it the writer having a laugh at the family's expense, or me having a laugh at the writer's expense and the family's?

Weekend update to follow.

Last time my paid account expired, I still had access to all my icons. This time, they're down to three instantly. Bah.

This weekend I are mostly been p1ssed on booze

(Before we get started: any girls who'd classify themselves as 'Rubenesque' and wouldn't mind being drawn on for the credits of a programme about ideals of beauty, plastic surgery &c, I know a researcher who'd like to hear from you, so comment below or mail me.)

David Devant and his Spirit Wife's first single was called 'Pimlico', and was in part about the Tate Gallery. On Friday, David Devant played Tate Britain and I got to hear 'Pimlico' in the setting that inspired it. Alas, this was not as perfect as it could have been. For a start, the modern art which the song mentions isn't there anymore, but has been moved over the river. "We've all (thank you) been to Bankside" doesn't have quite the same ring, does it? Also, David Devant weren't playing the song. Art Brut were. And they saw fit to change some of the lyrics. David Devant had just covered one of theirs, 'Moving to LA', but Devant were never really cut out to be a covers band. And then the two collaborated on 'I'm Not Even Going To Try' which was as rousing as ever but frankly I wish it had just been a Devant show. Art Brut are almost painfully sincere, but it's all undercut by the singer's inherently amusing face. And while I'd normally applaud statements like "I want to write the song that makes Israel and Palestine get along...I want to write a song as universal as 'Happy Birthday'", coming from someone who can't even write the song that stops Rough Trade dropping his band, it's just bathetic. So I gamble (correctly) on there not being any more Devant material and head off to violentbec's birthday in Greenwich. Inevitably, there are people there whom I know through a totally different route. I don't bat an eyelid at that anymore. The Wetherspoons where we meet is, to put it mildly, chavtastic, so we relocate to an old man pub which refuses to stay open late even when atommickbrane rashly offers to buy 9,000 pints. Or was it only 900? So it's back on the DLR and home to North London though sadly neither outward nor return journey gave me a turn sitting at the front and pretending to drive.

Saturday's a meeting with Cambridge friends in Regent's Park. Except they're not in Regent's Park after all, so thank Heavens I'm back in the mobile age. Again, the clientele in the first pub leaves much to be desired; We Will Rock You has just kicked out. So we relocate and for various reasons I get pennied. Well, everyone gets pennied, but I honour it. The second time, I accidentally swallow the penny. If I'm trying to save the Queen from drowning, that was a counterproductive result. We end up at Collide-A-Scope, the first mainstream indie night I've been to in a good while. I'm not sure whether it was actually any good or whether I was just won over by the view.
Handy Transport Hints (an occasional series): Unless your journey begins or ends in Hounslow, a route involving Hounslow may not be the route for you.

I wake too late to see Mr Punch celebrate his arrival in Britain by reading the sermon, but still head down to Covent Garden to see the comical tragedy (or tragical comedy). If I've ever seen a Punch & Judy show before, I barely remember it, and I fear Gaiman and McKean led me to expect too much from this. At times, the spectacle of spree-killing presented as comedy for children does have a certain power, and I'm very glad to see Jim Crow play his part when I'd expected him banished by Political Correctness Gone Mad. But Punch comes off the right hand in order that a boxing match can be staged, and the Devil eventually succeeds in dragging him off to Hell. I leave feeling thwarted, but may well return next year for another account.
Most pubs in train stations have only their location to recommend them; The Head of Steam's an exception. Scrabble begins well, as I storm ahead of drasticsturgeon, but she soon claws back most of my lead. In the second round, I find myself faced with seven vowels (four of them 'i'), the Dark Side tactics of addedentry, and no knowledge of acceptable two-letter words. I go down hard. Still, I find a better vocation when thechild realises that I provide a better vantage point than any of her usual bearers. Afterwards, my wistful look is taken for broodiness; in fact I'm just realising that I feel like the exoskeleton from the end of Aliens.

Addendum: for the second time, I find the Music box too short. Last time it couldn't handle Lifestyle's 'It Doesn't Mean That I Don't Love You If I Forget To Call You Back', and now (The Real) Tuesday Weld's 'The Life And Times Of The Clerkenwell Kid' is beyond it. Clearly it is only designed to deal with the music tastes of the proletariat. Also irking me re: (The Real) Tuesday Weld - the question of whether to file them under 'R' or 'T' would have been an ideal farewell poll for Friday.