Apparently this journal contains too much politics and not enough blow jobs

An agreeably teenage weekend there, from dancing to the Most Goth Song In The World (and several runners-up) at B Movie to suburban house party antics. I also found time to get a library assistant to contort himself in a window display in the furtherance of my Who novel habit, avoid a swarm of naked cyclists in Central London and drop in on wardytron Day for long enough to say my hellos and discuss tank-top etiquette with the birthday boy.

I've not seen Queer as Folk since it first aired, and it's interesting watching again in the light of Who, seeing Russell T Davies' stylistic tricks and tics more clearly now I know his destiny. It's also considerably more coherent than most of his Who has been, as I confirmed when I watched 'Bad Wolf' precisely 24 hours after its first transmission. ( Read more... )

On a note which may or may not be related, if you watch Duckula in your late twenties, you suddenly notice a lot of plot holes which eluded you at a younger age.

At a loss for what to do with the parents in the remotest South yesterday, we ended up in Carshalton Park and Sutton Ecology Centre yesterday; the latter in particular was ace simply because they had a baby moorhen. This is essentially a small black lump of fluff with a beak, which suddenly develops huge legs once on land. They are so cute that even ducklings look comparatively non-cute afterwards.

You know that RAF chap in the Metro who'd broken his neck without realising? That happened to my grandfather too, and I believe that was while he was flying Lancasters. Oh, and as regards his father, Tiger - I now have the biography on disc.

I must and shall see Courtney Love as Caligula.

I have a great deal of time for Simon Hoggart, but was nonetheless pleasantly surprised to see a Guardian columnist bucking the ubiquitous and inexplicable respect in which Tony Benn is held.

We crash fifteen supersonic tanks through the gates of Paradise

Goth? In love? Then why not have wedding rings grown from each others bones?

I would like to make entirely clear that the new club night 'Get It On With Johnny' is not the new name for LYE. Not that we haven't considered the option of boosting turnout by offering the use of johnnyvertigen, but I don't think claireybiscuit would stand for it.

"The notion that the laws of physics are eternal and unchanging is one of the ground-floor assumptions of everyday life" - but evidence of changes in the fine structure constant suggest that, like so many of the assumptions underpinning everyday life, it is a convenient falsehood.

A few years back, there seemed to be a sudden rush of Great American Novels - The Corrections, Kavalier and Clay, Carter Beats The Devil, Middlesex - and then it dried up. There were books *claiming* to be the next in that line, of course, but none which quite managed it. I can understand scenes happening in music, it usually being a fundamentally communal endeavour, but in literature it somehow seems a little stranger that the same sort of Moments should happen. Not that it's always like that, obviously - alas, the last Great English Novel, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, came alone.

Alan Moore's first meeting with John Constantine, the character he supposedly created, was apparently in a Westminster cafe. I'd love to know which one, but until I find out for sure, I'm going to assume it was the Regency, because I'd like to think Constantine and Moore's taste in caffs is the same as mine.