TV programme of the month: Still Little Britain. Now merely on endless rotation on BBC3, but coming to BBC2 tomorrow night, and fame round the water coolers of the nation by Tuesday morning. All hail David Walliams and Matt Lucas. But beware, you may end up fancying your best mate's granny.
Football result of the month: Inter Milan 1, Arsenal 5. A right thrashing, and in the nick of time.
Book of the month: Urban Survival by Artjaz. The complete guide to being 'street', as we follow 'Woody' (a no-hoper from the sticks) learning all the key lessons of urban living. Characters, fashion, clubbin, wheels, and generally blending in. Witty, with cutting-edge cartoon illustrations. It screams 'Christmas present' to me, for the would-be-geezer in your life. Big up Artjaz.
Album of the month: Pop Art by the Pet Shop Boys. How many more times will these guys reissue their back catalogue and get me to buy it. Lots, I suspect. There was 2001's complete back-catalogue re-issue with extra CDs, there was 1995's collection of B-sides, and 1991's Discography. Like the latter, this is another greatest hits album, except this time there are twice as many hits, divided into a 'Pop' half and an 'Art' half. And an exclusive remix album. Ah yes, I knew there was a cunning reason they got me to buy it.
DVD of the month: Pop Art by the Pet Shop Boys. At this rate it'll be DVD of the year, but only because I haven't bought any others. Me and DVDs, we don't get on. However, 18 years of singles, 41 mostly great videos, and a wry commentary from the oldest 'boys' in pop, I had to make an exception.
Gig of the month: Ah, that would be the Audio Bullys at the Astoria - review here. And a strong candidate for December's top gig will be tomorrow night's Buffseeds performance in Whitechapel. A bit of lilting guitar magic, and local this time too. That's a mini Kieran from the Buffseeds, by the way.
Single of the month: The single is dead, remember. Even All New Top Of The Pops can't be bothered to feature them any more. However...
Huge hit single of next month (that I spotted a year ago): Mad World by Gary Jules. Those of us who saw Donnie Darko on the big screen noticed this little cracker well before the current Radio 2 bandwagon started rolling. My quote from last year - "Somebody release it please - it could be huge." Potential Christmas number one, no less. Mad world.
Today's date consists of three prime numbers, and that's something that won't happen again until 2011 (I'm sure you can tell me when). So today it's time for some fascinating facts about prime numbers. Well, some facts about prime numbers anyway.
2)Prime numbers have only two factors, 1 and themselves.
3)Two is the only even prime number, and only one prime number ends in '5'.
5) There's no repeating pattern whatsoever to the sequence of prime numbers.
7) Every even number greater than two can be written as the sum of two primes (that's Goldbach's Conjecture)
11) A quarter of the numbers below one hundred are prime, but less than 6% of the numbers below one million are.
13)Stanley Baldwin was the last UK Prime Minister to have been born in a prime year (1867).
17) The prime years of the 20th century were 1901, 1907, 1913, 1931, 1933, 1949, 1951, 1973, 1979, 1987, 1993, 1997 and 1999.
19) The largest discovered prime number is 213466917-1, a number with just over 4 million digits.
23) Huge prime numbers may sound useless, but they're the key to modern computer cryptography.
29) There are infinitely many prime numbers, we just haven't discovered them all yet.
Want to wreck your Christmas TV viewing now? Full (and I mean full) details of BBC television (and radio) programmes for the Christmas and New Year fortnight can be found here. (Beware, large pdfs.) (And, presumably, you can preview the next four BBC weeks here any time you like. Excellent!) (By the way, what the hell are the EastEnders youngsters doing up a Scottish mountain on New Year's Day?)
The BBC's pop showcase has been running five weeks short of 40 years, and many would say it's now looking distinctly middle-aged. It's easy to blame the bland state of the singles charts at the moment, but TOTP's not been a talking point in the nation's playgrounds and offices ever since it was moved from Thursdays to Fridays. So, can Andi Peters rescue the show from the broom cupboard, or is this a quick fix of Botox before permanent wrinkliness sets in? Let's see...
The new theme tune turned out to be a revamp of the old nineties intro, complete with pulsating orange skyscrapers. Enter new host Tim Kash grinning like a well-tanned shark, all teeth and Hoxton fin. As for the new logo I wasn't quite sure if it was meant to be a time tunnel or an electric hob, but it sat there annoyingly in the corner of the screen for the whole hour anyway. Mis-teeq kicked off the new show, showcasing not just their latest single (no 13, new entry) but a couple of other tunes in a three minute hit medley. Any switched-on kids will have switched off immediately Elton John started crooning his 1971 ballad Your Song 'live' from Atlanta, followed by the even more middle-of-the-road Will Young. Even Kylie was pretty average (even if her skirt was well above).
All New TOTP features less music and more 'features'. We suffered a mini documentary following The Darkness around Baltimore, a thinly disguised promo for their disturbingly camp Christmas single. The much-vaunted 'interactive element' turned out to be a premium rate phone/text vote (25p a minute), not that it's possible to judge your favourite video from a 7-second clip. Kelly Osbourne got a minute to plug her new single, and Posh Spice got two minutes to save her career. Craig David introduced a Holiday-type segment from South Africa, and before long I was screaming for someone to actually sing something. The new show seems to be more about promoting artists, rather than their music - more who to go out and buy rather than what.
In an apparent tribute to Busby Berkeley, a massive possé of lads in red hoodies jigged around the fountain outside BBC TV Centre. Blazin Squad emerged from the throng and performed a record that's been going down the charts for the last two weeks, while the nodding red gnome army bobbed around to either side. And then Westlife smouldered on stage (well, I'd have liked to see them smouldering) to perform their anodyne cover of a Barry Manilow classic, somehow perched at number one this week. A flare-clad trapeze artist dangled from the ceiling, like a leftover member of Pan's People from the 70s, just to make sure Dad was still awake.
So, not must-see TV, but maybe a temporary shot in the arm for a floundering show all the same. I wonder how the format will survive its future half-hour time slot though, and I'm not impressed enough by next week's line up to care enough to find out. I remember when they couldn't tell you who was on next week, because that depended on who you went out and bought on Saturday. Alas, TOTP is no longer about singles, and I'm no longer engaged.
Thursday 24th November 1983(presented by Simon Bates and Richard Skinner) (live edition): Paul Young - Love Of The Common People (no 5); Tina Turner - Let's Stay Together (no 16, highest climber, video); The Smiths - This Charming Man (no 30); Thompson Twins - Hold Me Now (no 14, singing live); Marilyn - Calling Your Name (no 9); Simple Minds - Waterfront (no 25, highest new entry); Style Council - A Solid Bond In Your Heart (no 11, video); Billy Joel - Uptown Girl (no 1, video); Eurythmics - Right By Your Side (no 15, playing out). 90% class.
Thursday 25th November 1993(presented by Mark Franklin): K Klass - Let Me Show You (no 13, new entry); Elton John and Kiki Dee - True Love (no 2, video); The Wonder Stuff - Full Of Life (no 28, new entry); Heart - Will You Be There In The Morning? (no 19, highest climber); Janet Jackson - Again (no 6, video); Breakers: Aphex Twin - On (no 32) & Kate Bush - Moments Of Pleasure (no 26) & Doobie Brothers - Long Train Running (no 10); Belinda Carlisle - Lay Down Your Arms (no 33, new entry); Meatloaf - I'd Do Anything For Love (But I Won't Do That) (no 1, video). 90% forgettable.
Starting today, diamond geezer is now available in both tabloid and broadsheet editions (well, if the Independent and the Times can do it, so can I). I hope you find the new size more convenient to read on screen, and rest assured there's been absolutely no dumbing down of the content. Oh no.
SPEECH FOR QUEENS
Queen Liz left the tupperware behind yesterday when she went to open Parliament. War hero Tony Blair smiled as she announced new laws to keep foreigners out (although thankfully Rupert Murdoch is already in). She also told scrounging students that they'd soon be deep in debt to society. Hopefully they'll all quit education and go get themselves a useful job as a palace footman or a topless model instead. God bless you Ma'am. But weddings for poofs? That's pushing a ring too far.
SLIPPED DISC
You'll remember that my computer's hard drive died totally and completely on Sunday night. Well, there's good news and there's bad news. The good news is that the hardware has now been repaired and is ready to collect. The bad news is that every single byte of data on the hard drive has been completely and irretrievably lost. Fuck. That's 18 months of email, all my holiday snaps, tons of anorak-level data, my lovingly-assembled internet favourites list, a library of mp3s, a ream of irreplaceable Word documents and a disturbing number of essential passwords. My one consolation is that, because I've been blogging so much of my life recently, a number of important photos are actually still alive out there on the net. But, still, fuck.
An apology: I'd like to apologise for that last uncharacteristic outbreak of profanity. This is due entirely to my fucking awful data back-up skills. It will not happen again.
LOCAL NEWS
I stopped by Stratford shopping centre yesterday after work to take a look at the public consultation exhibition for the Crossrail project. I discovered that the plans have changed since August, when I thought Crossrail was going to pass overground within ½km of my house. Oh no. Crossrail is now due to head into a tunnel just before it reaches the Bow flyover and so will be rumbling underground within about 100m of my house. At least they won't be building anything until 2007. I quite fancied taking one of the Crossrail staff home with me, but I made do with a leaflet instead.
In other local news, for those of you who are interested, the nightclub that was once 'The Block' has now been completely renovated and looks ready to reopen. It's been repainted bright pink, and there are six rainbow coloured lamps shining like fairy lights across the front, but there's still no new name. Make of that what you will.
GOOD TRY
So, our rugby lads are to be afforded a victory parade through the West End on a weekday lunchtime in two weeks time. What an honour that'll be, assuming anyone's still feeling quite so fervently excited by then. I might go down and stand outside Selfridges to eat my sandwiches and watch the gold cup omnibus pass by. Assuming I can get past the security cordons that is. And only because I need to do some urgent Christmas shopping afterwards you understand.
CHAMPION Wasn't Thierry brill on Tuesday? Five one eh? Mesmerising, and far better than either Man U or Chelsea could manage last night. There again, those two teams are through to the knockout stage, whereas the Gunners could still be knocked out beforehand. That's the trouble with football - shouting at your TV screen doesn't make your team play any better. Not all the time anyway.
Remember the Great Storm? I'm not talking about that breezy night in October 1987, nor that Vicar of Dibley episode they seem to repeat every six months, I mean TheGreat Storm. Exactly 300 years ago tonight, the most damaging storm ever recorded in Britain ripped through an unsuspecting population, killing over 8000 people across southern and eastern England. There were no weather forecasts in those days, no satellites watching developments over the Atlantic, just a ferocious tempest striking suddenly and without warning. No wonder so many lives were lost. In comparison the 1987 'hurricane' killed only 19 people and, as for the Vicar of Dibley, I doubt anybody's died laughing yet.
We know a lot about the 1703 storm because one man went out of his way to record the experiences of ordinary people across the country. That man was Daniel Defoe, later the author of Robinson Crusoe, and a fine reporter/journalist to boot. He tells how windmills across East Anglia spun so fast that friction ignited the timbers and many just burnt to the ground. He also chronicles terrible destruction to property, particularly church steeples, and how 15000 sheep died in floods near Bristol. The greatest number of human casualties were offshore, notably on the Goodwin Sands where four great warships were lost, killing well over a thousand seamen.
The most famous casualty of the 1703 storm was an eccentric merchant called Henry Winstanley. In 1696 he lost two of his ships on the Eddystone Rocks, 14 miles off Plymouth, and pledged to build a lighthouse there to warn other vessels of the treacherous conditions. The Eddystone Lighthouse was an engineering marvel, particularly given that it was so far offshore, and was gradually built and strengthened over a three year period. Winstanley was so proud of his final structure that he boasted he would willingly stay in his lighthouse even during the greatest storm in history. On the morning of 26th November 1703 he sailed out to Eddystone to carry out urgent maintenance before the winter set in. Unfortunately the greatest storm in history set in instead, and by the following morning only a few bent pieces of rusty iron remained. A night to remember then, at least for those who survived.
Concorde's last flight ever (ever ever) takes place this morning, as the very first Concorde flies back from Heathrow to its birthplace. Awww. Filton Airport (just outside Bristol) was the site of the very first takeoff, and will be the site of the very last landing. One technological marvel, now to be a museum piece. One dream, grounded. The future ends at 1pm today.
This is where today's picture quiz was going to go. It was a good one, weather-related of course, but the relevant jpg is still sitting on the hard drive of my deceased computer, so no show. My old computer runs so slowly that I doubt I'd now be able to reconstruct all 16 images before the operating system ground to a halt, three or four times at least, so no show. Normal service will be resumed one day, I hope.
You've hopefully not noticed, but my home computer died on Sunday evening. Completely. One minute I was out of the room cleaning my teeth ready for bed while my PC rebooted, and the next I returned to discover the blue screen of death. Quite literally in this case. I tried turning the computer back on, only to hear the distinct sound of my hard drive clicking away feebly to itself, a final death rattle, terminal self-harm. There was no mistaking the symptoms, I was suffering from broken Windows. No entry, full stop.
I felt almost bereaved. Losing a computer is in many ways like losing a much-loved dog. A faithful pet, sitting there in the corner of the room, good company, playful, reliable, sometimes begging to be taken for some exercise, but always there and ready to fill your time when necessary. You know that one day they'll pass on, but you hope you'll be able to transfer your affection to a new model when the time comes. Course, a computer doesn't need to be taken to the vet to be put down, but equally a dog tends not to destroy all your memories when it dies.
I'm not sure how long I could have survived in PC-less World without suffering traumatic withdrawal symptoms. Thankfully I remembered that I had another computer, an old 20th century model, gathering dust in my spare room. An old slowcoach that I should have chucked away when I upgraded 18 months ago but thankfully, being a bit of a hoarder, I hadn't. It took me a few hours to make sure the old computer was broadband-enabled, and to remember what on earth my ADSL password was, but eventually I scraped back on line. It's like surfing in treacle on my old system, but at least I'm back in the water.
After spending the whole of last week writing about time travel, now I know what it's like to travel back in time. To June last year to be precise, because I've lost access to everything I've saved since. All my photos of San Francisco, my updated Christmas card address list, all my favourite web addresses, a library of mp3s, 500 days-worth of emails, even the picture quiz I was going to use on here tomorrow, the lot. Yup, I'm one of those sad individuals who was always meaning to back up everything on their system but never quite got round to it. I know it would have been easy, I know it wouldn't have used up that many CD-ROMS, but alas I'm an optimist. And optimists are sometimes caught out.
This morning my hard drive is sitting in a spare room somewhere in deepest Essex, awaiting either resuscitation or a death certificate. I hand-delivered it (in the world's oldest suitcase) to a far-flung disc-hospital last night, a sort of mercy dash, ready for urgent transplant surgery. Fingers crossed the prognosis is favourable, because I'd like to regenerate in a 21st century body as soon as possible. In the meantime I've learnt a valuable lesson about planning for the worst, because the worst sometimes happens. So, especially for all those of you who are planning to leap into my comments box and start preaching, here's a big button you can press instead. I hear you, I hear you.
Audio Bullys - London Astoria(Wednesday 19th November 2003)
As a connoisseur of all things geezer-esque, I snapped up a ticket to last Wednesday's one-off Audio Bullys gig way back in August. Always beats buying one off the touts pacing Charing Cross Road on the night. Ego War is probably still my album of the year, and this concert was timed to coincide with the launch of the boys' new 'Back To Mine' compilation, so it was a must-see event. Course, there were the over-zealous Astoria door staff to get past first, but I could tell that this was a cutting edge gig the minute Janine from EastEnders walked past me in the bar. Class.
Audio Bullys perform what I can best describe as 'sports casual rap', or maybe 'suburban estate dance', whatever. Geezer Tom enters and hangs around behind the giant decks, demonstrating his finest bedroom-remixing skills. Geezer Si wanders on and struts the stage, like he's down the pub in his local manor. Si's in his whitest Reebok Classics, just an ordinary bloke with stage presence who just happens to be able to rap and sing unexpectedly impressively. In tune, in rhythm, in the house.
We were treated to an hour of seamlessly mixed music, no fillers, all floor-fillers. Most of the tracks off Ego War translated perfectly, but the forceful rap and pounding bass often buried the tune in the mix. Only Real Life failed to ignite, but The Things was incandescent - chant along now everyone! The crowd danced and swayed and leapt, even to the new tracks (there'll be no second album syndrome for these two guys). Two giant graffiti boards flanked the stage and a big screen flashed appropriately urban images behind. 100% engaging, 95% style. Cos this was Real Life.
Some stuff I may have missed last week Bush visits London: I was nearby but Gert was there, with comprehensive on-the-spot reporting.
Rugby World Cup: Odd innit? We win a major global competition for the first time since 1966 and the country only gets semi-excited, whereas we got to the last 32 of the soccer World Cup last year and the nation nearly overflowed with pride. Dare I suggest it's because one's a public school middle class sport and the other one isn't? Or was it those laughable skin-tight rugby jerseys?
Nectar: For those of you following the ongoing story of my Nectar points, you'll be delighted to hear that my latest statement sees me 2km nearer Paris by Eurostar. Nearly as far as Peckham then.
Exactly 40 years ago tonight, the BBC launched a new children's programme upon an unsuspecting audience. Almost nobody noticed. The day before, and far far more important on a global scale, President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas. The world was still in shock, and the media were still coming to terms with the new demands of instant reactive news gathering. After the football had finished (Sheffield Wednesday thrashed Wolves five nil that afternoon) the BBC inserted an extra news bulletin featuring all the very latest from America. And then at 5:25pm, ten minutes later than scheduled, that now-familiar swirly theme tune was heard for the very first time.
Doctor Who was conceived by the BBC's head of Drama, Sidney Newman. He wanted a family drama that would appeal especially to an early teenage audience, filling that awkward pre-Pop Idol slot (well, Juke Box Jury actually). Well-known film actor William Hartnell was cast in the title role, with the plan that his new science fiction serial would run every week of the year. Carole Ann Ford, as granddaughter Susan, was given a special Vidal Sassoon haircut to make her appear particularly unworldy, or very dated depending on your temporal viewpoint. A pilot episode was made, and later remade, and even then the magic sparkled.
Episode 1 begins in fogbound East London, with Coal Hill School teachers Ian (science) and Barbara (history) concerned for the welfare of one of their brightest students. And rightly so, because when they follow her home they discover that home is a police box in a junkyard, that she lives with her alien grandfather, and that the aforementioned police box is larger on the outside than the inside. Grandfather is determined that it's time for Susan to leave London, locks the Tardis door and whisks her and her teachers off into time and space. First stop the Stone Age, where the Doctor discovers fire by lighting his pipe with a box of Bryant & Mays. An epic journey has begun.
4½ million people watched that first episode, figures somewhat reduced by the Kennedy assassination and a nationwide power cut. The BBC repeated it again the following week, just before episode 2, and this time 6 million viewers tuned in. But it was the Doctor's next adventure, on the 'dead' planet of the Daleks, that rocketed the series to success. Now 10 million viewers were glued to their sofas, either in front or behind, as the Daleks began their conquest of the nation's hearts, if not the galaxy.
Forty years on Doctor Who is still very much alive for a show they killed off 14 years ago, but also still very easily ignored. The BBC have managed not to screen one Doctor Who programme this weekend, bar a brief history-slot on Blue Peter and a weak Weakest Link spoof on Children In Need last Friday. We're promised an anniversary documentary at Christmas, but that'll probably be screened when you're out somewhere being festive. UK Gold have tried rather harder with an entire weekend of old adventures, but that's a fat lot of good for those of us who can't recieve extra-terrestrial transmissions. At least we have the new adventures to look forward to in 2005. I'd almost given up hope of ever seeing any more home-grown science fiction on UK television. It's about time.
U is for UNIT: When danger threatens, it's good to know that crack security guards are out there to protect the nation's finest from the forces of evil. And no, I don't mean President Bush's armed entourage, I mean those jolly decent army chaps from the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce. UNIT was a worldwide organisation set up to track and defeat extraterrestrial threats, although their interview criteria can't have been that stringent if they gave even dippy Jo Grant a job. It's also a complete mystery how UNIT ever got funding from the Government, given that ours barely supports even a rogue-asteroid-spotting centre these days, but we thank the (time)Lord that they were there.
V is for Verity: Doctor Who's first producer was Verity Lambert, kicking off an illustrious career stretching 40 years. She remains the only female ever to have produced the show (something not even JohnNathan-Turner managed). It was Verity who came up with the concept of the Tardis, and Verity who gave the job of writing the show's now-legendary theme tune to Australian Ron Grainer(oooo-eeeee-oooow). She left the show during its third year, moving on to produce a string of other TV hits including Adam Adamant, Budgie, The Naked Civil Servant, Minder, (whisper it) Eldorado, and Jonathan Creek. Verity was awarded the OBE in last year's New Year Honours for services to film and production. Who'd not be here today without her.
W is for Wales: The Doctor has had a mixed relationship with the principality of Wales over the years. One of his finest adventures involved a Welsh valley full of giant maggots, but equally one of his most embarrassing adventures featured a bus full of space tourists invading a 1950s Welshholiday camp. Now it's BBC Wales who have been given the long-awaited chance to revive Doctor Who, relaunching in 2005 with new adventures written by Russell T Davies. I wonder if we'll be seeing Ninth Doctor Aled Jones emerging from the Tardis to battle against some bug-eyed sheep-rustling harpists, look you.
X is for Xterminate: World domination, absolute power and obsessive megalomania - there's been a lot of it about. Many of the Doctor's enemies have been cold, emotionless killing machines, set on destroying any puny human who should get in their way no matter what the consequences. You could never reason with a Dalek, nor hold a rational argument with a Cyberman, and trying to make a Sontaran see sense was always doomed to failure. Shoot now, ask questions later. But don't worry kids, obviously there are no realcharacters in the modern world with such a rigid view of good and evil backed up by force, so don't have nightmares out there. Good always wins, on the telly at least...
YZ is for Wise Head: The Doctor has managed to survive for 40 years, one third of which he's not even been on the telly, but how? I'd suggest it's because of his winning character. Eight wise men, all rolled into one. An interfering busybody with a heart of gold. A strangely-dressed knowall with your best interests at heart. An eccentric bloke with as much wisdom as intelligence. A man who could take you anywhere, and frequently did, but would always get you home safely, eventually. We've been his companion through time and space for four decades now. Carry on Doctor.
P is for Products: A forty-year old TV show generates a lot of spin-off merchandise, and no doubt car boot sales across Britain are full of the stuff. Plastic Dalek suits, annual annuals, unthrilling jigsaws, lots of old Target paperbacks, a number one record and even some Weetabix action figurecards (I own a set of them, despite hating the cereal). I also own a number of the Doctor Who RadioTimescovers, which I see on eBay are worth rather more than I paid for them, so I'll be filing away the 40th anniversary copy I bought yesterday very carefully. Oh, and there's a 'Who Shop', just up the road from me in East Ham, so if you ever have a burning desire for a commemorative Dalek plate or a ceramic Cyberman cookie jar, you know where to come. Or not.
Q is for Quarry: Filming to a strict budget can be difficult so, when faced with yet another script demanding an alien location, the BBC would usually decamp to a desolate quarry in Dorset and pretend that they were in fact light years away. Where would science fiction filming be without quarries? I guess pretending that all alien planets look like deciduous forests or bleak moorland instead, those being the other two favourite stock locations. The genius of Doctor Who scriptwriters led them to set one particular story (Sarah-Jane Smith's last) in a real quarry, thereby confusing all the viewers who naturally assumed that the Tardis had landed on yet another featureless alien world again.
R is for Regeneration: If one thing has helped Doctor Who to live long and prosper, it's the concept of regeneration. The show could have spluttered to a grinding halt in 1966 when William Hartnell asked to leave, but the production team dared to film him magically turning into Patrick Troughton after a particularly tiring battle with the Cybermen, and so the series was saved. It sure beats Bobby Ewing emerging from the world's longest shower, for continuity purposes at least. Patrick became Jon as a Time Lord punishment, Jon became Tom after overdosing on radioactive spiders, Tom became Peter after falling off a radio telescope, Peter became Colin after running out of emergency antidote and Colin became Sylvester very very suddenly because Michael Grade hated him. And then Sylvester became Paul because he made the enormous mistake of going to America...
S is for San Francisco: After a seven year gap, Doctor Who was reborn as an American TV movie in 1996. The film had everything - money, expensive sets, regeneration, a new Doctor, two new assistants, the Doctor's first ever love interest, a foreign location, the end of the world (again), even a new Master. Everything that is except a decent plot. By the time Paul McGann emerged from a hospital morgue there was only an hour of the film left, most of which time he spent trying to remember Who the hell he was, pursuing a shapely surgeon, or just riding around on a motorbike without a helmet. Virtually all of the action took place after dark so the San Francisco location was completely wasted and, well, the whole thing just lacked drama. And monsters. They never made a second movie.
T is for TARDIS: Another flash of brilliance from the original Who design team - a state-of-the-art spacecraft that's bigger (and cheaper) on the outside than the inside. The TARDIS (Time And Relative Dimensions In Space) malfunctioned in episode 1 and has been stuck looking like an old 1960spolice box ever since. The Doctor's Type 40 suffered from erratic steering (usually within the first two minutes of each story) and in 1981 managed to end up on the Barnet by-pass next to London's last remaining police box.
K is for K9: One of the Doctor's best-loved companions was a small robot dog with a sophisticated sensory device disguised as a long pointy nose. Imagine a Sinclair ZX81 on wheels, maybe a ZX81/C5 hybrid. Poor old K9 couldn't climb stairs, rather like a Dalek, so if there was ever a story set in a swamp or a liftless building he had to stay in the Tardis for the duration. K9 accompanied the Doctor for four years, alongside a Leela and a couple ofRomanas, until he left to star in his own spin-off TV show with the lovely Sarah-Jane Smith. Alas, the opening credits to K9 and Company were utterly cringeworthy and the devil-worship-in-an-English-village plotline not much better, so the series was put down, along with the dog.
L is for London Locations: Ever wanted to know where those on-location Doctor Who episodes were filmed? Here's a site that can tell you. See the Cybermen walk down those famous steps below St Paul's Cathedral. Step back into Victorian Docklands, home to the Talons of Weng Chiang. Beware, because there are Daleks everywhere, be it at Butler's Wharf, 76 Totters Lane or the cemetery where my great grandfather is buried. Ponder how on earth they managed to climb the Albert Memorial. And revisit the last ever Doctor Who story, inappropriately called 'Survival', set in the urban jungle of Perivale. Dangerous place, London.
M is for Master: Ahh, the evil arch-enemy of the Doctor, probably ever since they were at school together on Gallifrey flicking pellets at one other. The Master first appeared alongside Jon Pertwee in 1971 in that infamous killer shop-dummies story which I think is the very first episode I can ever remember. He was played by East End actor Roger Delgado, the very personification of calculated nastiness, until his untimely death in a car crash two years later. Another Londoner, Anthony Ainley, brought the Master back to life in 1981, cunningly anagrammatically disguised as Consul Tremas. Altogether the Master has appeared in 20 Doctor Who stories (that's more than the Daleks) plus the TV movie (where the Daleks would probably have been a better bet).
N is for No more: In the end, the Doctor's greatest enemy turned out not to be the Daleks nor the Cybermen nor the Master, but BBC1 controller Michael Grade. He put the show on ice for an extended break in 1985, then literally put Colin Baker on trial to see if ratings improved. They didn't. Nowadays ratings of 4 or 5 million look fairly reasonable, but at the time they just weren't enough. Scheduling the show against Coronation Street didn't help matters and eventually in 1989, after 26 seasons, Michael brought the final curtain down on the TV series. The Who-niverse has reappeared occasionally since, for that TV movie for example, some stories for radio, and for 'Dimensions in Time', a desperately misguided Children In Need '3-D special' where various Doctors wandered round Albert Square meeting the cast of EastEnders past present and future. Bang out of order.
O is for Other Doctors: There may have been only eight proper Doctor Whos, but a surprising number of other people have played the role in a semi-official capacity. Peter Cushing reprised William Hartnell's role in 1966 in a couple of classic and oft-repeated Dalek films, and Richard Hurndall played the late Mr Hartnell in the Five Doctors 20th anniversary special. And then there was the 1999 Comic Relief special, 'The Curse ofFatal Death', in which the Doctor was played (rather well) by Rowan Atkinson and also, in the space of a couple of minutes, by Richard E Grant, Jim Broadbent, Hugh Grant and Joanna Lumley. A female Doctor? Absolutely fabulous.
F is for Fans: Can there be any other TV show with as many devoted, nay obsessed, fans as Doctor Who. Anyone aged between 25 and 50 will probably remember growing up with 'their' Doctor, but many it seems never quite shake off that initial interest. There are fan clubs, conventions where middle-aged blokes dress up as their favourite monsters, a regular series of novels and audio stories and now, in the internet age, morewebsitesthanyoucanshakeasonicscrewdriverat. The show may have been cancelled 14 years ago but Doctor Who still tops polls of the nation's favourite sci-fi show. Anyone would think the BBC would bring it back...
G is for Gallifrey: Gallifrey is the home planet of the Time Lords, a race of beings with absolutely no fashion sense. It's an ancient world with ancient inhabitants, many over 800 years old (although Barbara Cartland never knowingly lived here) and everybody has two hearts (see, she'd never have fitted in). Every now and again the Doctor returns to Gallifrey to wreak havoc, or to save the universe, or to meet Lynda Bellingham (the Oxo Mum) for a good roasting.
H is for Hiding behind the sofa: The Doctor has always faced the very scariest monsters that the BBC props department could throw at him. Men in oversize furry costumes or ill-fitting silver boilersuits, small plastic things with teeth, giant gelatinous blobs or hermaphrodite wobbly diplomats with one eye. These are the creatures that kept us cowering behind the furniture in our childhood, but which in the adult light of day appear rather less scary. The only frightening thing on TV nowadays involving a sofa is Linda Barker's series of adverts for DFS. I wonder if modern children have nightmares involving giant pairs of scissors... snip snip!
I is for Interactive: The advent of broadband has given birth to a new set of Doctor Who adventures, this time animated online on the BBC website. They've pitted Colin Baker (and LeeandHerring) against the Cybermen and they've brought to life a classic Douglas Adams-penned story that was cancelled back in 1980 due to strike action. This month there's a brand new webcast story - Scream of the Shalka - featuring Richard E Grant as the Doctor battling subterranean forces in darkest Lancashire. They're releasing one new 20 minute episode every Thursday, the first was last week and, what do you know, it's actually rather good. Recommended.
J is for Jellybaby: Ah, those little quirks that made every Doctor different. Patrick Troughton was renowned for whipping out his recorder, while Jon Pertwee had a penchant for fast cars and gadgets. Tom Baker would always offer any oncoming foe a jellybaby, or try to trip them up with his giant scarf. Peter Davison had a sprig of celery on his lapel and a cricket ball in his pocket, while Sylvester McCoy went nowhere without his trademark brolly. Obviously they were all insane, but we loved them for it.
A is for Assistants: The good Doctor has had many assistants over the years, mostly nubile young women with the ability to scream loudly. There's been his granddaughter, a Blue Peter presenter, Joe Sugden, Rosa Di Marco, my best mate's cousin and even Violet-Elizabeth Bott. Assistants need to have everything explained to them slowly in words of one syllable, which helps all of us watching at home work to follow the more twisted technical details of the plot. They also have a tendency to wander off and get lost halfway through episode one and get captured by some hairy-chested local, who later turns out to be really friendly and saves the day in episode four.
B is for Brigadier: Brigadier Alastair Lethbridge-Stewart first appeared alongside the second Doctor as a mere colonel, battling abominable snowmen in the London Underground. He later took charge of UNIT (see Friday), and accompanied the third Doctor on most of his most of his adventures exiled on Earth during the early 1970s. It's odd, but I don't remember any killer daffodils, evil shop-window dummies, giant maggots or hungry dinosaurs blighting my suburban life while I was growing up, but apparently the Brig saw them all off. Actor Nicholas Courtenay rose no higher than private during his real-life army career, but is the only person to have appeared on screen alongside all seven Doctors.
C is for Cliffhanger: Every Doctor Who episode always ends with a thrilling and gripping cliffhanger. Either the Doctor or his assistant (or both) are suddenly thrust into some hideous death-related situation - a furry hand suddenly appears, a firing squad takes aim or even, on one notable occasion in 1987, the Doctor ends up literally hanging from a cliff. Cue scream, cue pained close-up, cue theme tune. How will they ever escape? But of course they always do, often in a really unsatisfactory way involving a sonic screwdriver, a feeble distraction or a hidden trap door. Maybe the best cliffhanger in the history of Doctor Who was the sudden appearance of a sink back in December 1963. Whatever could it be making young Barbara scream so loud...?
D is for Dalek: Easily the scariest and best of all the Dr Who monsters, these evil pepperpots spread across the universe from home planet Skaro bringing terror, death and domination to all. Just so long as there weren't any stairs in the way. The Daleks were the creation of either Davros or Terry Nation, depending on whether you live in the real world or not. They first appeared in the second ever Doctor Who story, helping the fledgling series to make a big impact on the teatime audience, and they've never gone away since. First-class monsters, only finally licked when the Royal Mail stuck them on some commemorative stamps a few years ago.
E is for Earth: There are millions of planets in the Universe, and yet the Doctor seems to spend most of his time on just one. He's been on hand to repel countless alieninvasions, numerous humanattempts to destroy the planet and the odd ripple effect threatening the existence of the entire universe. Lucky us. Most of these potential catastrophes have happened in the UK, which takes up less than ¼% of the land mass of this small blue-green planet, so goodness knows why our house insurance isn't higher.
Who Week: Next Sunday sees the 40th anniversary of the very first episode of Doctor Who. It's the BBC's top science fiction serial, the show that almost never started but now somehow never dies. So, for the next seven days, diamond geezer is going retrospective with a whole week of Who. There'll be a detailed A-Z, a daily Doctor, a look back at what was on the telly that debut Saturday night back in November 1963, and probably some other stuff too. There'll also be absolutely tons of blue weblinks to explore, so please don't forget to click around. This upcoming Who-fest means I won't be blogging about the Audio Bullys gig I'm going to on Wednesday (not yet anyway), neither will I be mentioning the Bush state visit (although the assassination of another president will loom large), but I'm sure you'll survive. You can read the whole of Who Week right now by inventing time travel and jumping a week into the future, or else just sit back, grab a jellybaby and wait for the first thrilling episode. Cue swirly music...
Famous places within 15 minutes walk of my house Number 2012 - The Olympic Stadiumii
An Olympic Stadium is a large circular-ish object, requiring space for a 400 metre running track, seating for the nations of the world and sufficient space round the edge for the selling of hotdogs and novelty fluorescent headgear. So, where to put it? It appears that the authorities have merely worked out how large a circle they need, found a map of the local area and hunted down the one location where that circle would fit without overlapping one of the many river channels round here. And the location they've found is a godforsaken industrial estate halfway up a boy-racer lane just north of Pudding Mill Lane DLR station. Middle of nowhere. This is Marshgate Lane, a 100% non-residential slice of East London, one solitary road cutting across the flood plain of the River Lea. If anywhere in London deserves to be regenerated, it's this unloved heap of warehouses, incinerators and industrial units. Up to 350 companies will be forced to relocate if the Olympics come to Stratford, but an Olympic flame would suit the area far better than the present smell of burning waste, fats and cooking oils.
I got myself a decent map and walked up Marshgate Lane to find the exact location of the centre of the stadium for myself. It's just past Knobs Hill Road, right opposite Parkes Galvanizing Ltd, where a couple of small roads run off the lane onto the Marshgate Trading Estate. Here you'll find a company that hires skips, a giant nondescript warehouse, the odd big family business, a company that prepares caviar and smoked salmon and, right in the middle, a Mercedes Service Centre. This is where the javelins will land, where 3000 perfectly-choreographed local schoolchildren will tapdance through the opening ceremony and where all the medals will be presented. I was disturbed to see three Mercedes flags flying over the exact spot - it looks like the Germans have staked their claim for the top of the medal table already.
This weekend, as a genuine local resident, I've also attended one of the public consultation events for the Olympic masterplan. The Lower Lea Valley regeneration team have been setting up their display boards in a variety of community-type institutions, asking people what they think about the plans and the legacy to be left behind for the local area. It turned out that most of the display is available on the internet anyway, but there were some nice extras including some fantastically detailed maps of the minutiae of regeneration and a 3D model to bring the plans to life (pictured left). The organising staff seemed keen to welcome us all, but even keener to get at least one person present to fill in one of their less-than-thrilling questionnaires. I would have spoken to somebody official about the plans, except that one of them was being persistently harangued by a pessimist explaining how the Dome was a white elephant and the whole bid thing would undoubtedly be a financial disaster, while most of the rest of the staff were too busy trying to set up a Powerpoint presentation. At least it was encouraging to see my community's future being taken seriously for once. Whether the Olympics arrive here in 2012 or not, local regeneration is on track.
Isn't it amazing how far into the future they can predict the weather these days? I don't mean 100 years into the future when the whole globe warms up (or is it cools down?), I mean next week. They never used to be able to do that. In fact go back a couple of decades and you were lucky if they got even tomorrow's weather half right. You'd go out in your shirt sleeves and it would chuck it down with rain, or you'd take your umbrella to work only to lose it on a park bench in the ensuing heatwave. But nowadays they have super Cray computers running atmospheric models millions of times a second, meaning meteorolgists can give us an in-depth analysis of sun, cloud, wind, rain and temperature next Saturday well before we get there. Or can they?
I've been keeping track of a couple of five-day weather forecasts for London over the last five days, jotting down what they said today's weather would be like. I've been to the BBC website's 5-day weather forecast, and also reading the 5-day cartoon strip on page 54 of the Evening Standard every day. Just what were they predicting about Saturday's weather earlier in the week? (Oh, and for my American readers, those are temperatures in degrees Celsius, we're not expecting snowdrifts)
The BBC has been fairly optimistic all week that it's going to be dry today, maybe with a bit of sun, but not especially warm. The Evening Standard, on the other hand, has been predicting precipitation (either showers or drizzle) instead, albeit with slightly higher temperatures. Two very contrasting forecasts, and they can't both be right. At least the Standard has been consistent all week, even if that's consistently downbeat, whereas the BBC has changed its mind a lot more about cloud cover and temperature. I notice that both media ended the week on Friday with a forecast virtually identical to the one they gave on Monday, so maybe all those fluctuations were unnecessary anyway.
Update: Saturday dawned crisp and bright, with light wisps of cloud scattered across a blue sky. Not too cold, not too windy, no sign of rain, sort of nice really. And so it stayed throughout the day, a bit more cloud every now and then, and even overcast at times, but mostly fine and sunnyish. So the BBC win the prize for predicting the type of weather, even though they never once quite came up with 'sunny intervals'. As for the temperature, congratulations to the Evening Standard who were spot on with 12°C, and had been pretty much throughout the week. But they were very wrong about the showery drizzle, which never manifested. Overall then, sort of close-ish (particularly BBCi), but neither forecast was reallly convincing. It appears that the best way to forecast the weather is still to wait until the day itself and look out of the window. Computers, even bloody enormous computers, don't seem to be able to beat that yet.
Famous places within 15 minutes walk of my house Number 2012 - The Olympic Stadiumi
OK, so this may look like the same old photograph of the run-down Big Breakfast house that I've shown you before, and indeed it is, but what's new is that London's Olympic Stadium is now planned to be built less than a javelin's throw away on the other side of that row of trees. It's all bloody exciting, for us locals at least. This redevelopment depends on London actually being selected by the IOC as the winning host city for the 2012 Games, of course, but detailed new proposals announced this week bring that dream a little closer to reality. And much closer to my house.
Plans for London's Olympic bid have been a little sketchy up until now, with plans for a stadium sort of near Hackney Wick, upriver from Stratford-ish, in that run-down bit of East London probably. This week the plans are revealed in their full geographical splendour, and the proposed site for the stadium shifts half a mile south from (just) Hackney into (nearly) Bow, much nearer to major transport links. The new site is currently bleak industrial land, surrounded on three sides by the Bow Back Rivers, which apparently makes the area pretty secure from international terrorist attack. You can view a fine and detailed map showing the Olympic regeneration of the Lower Lea Valley here, whether you're an international terrorist or not.
To your right is another photograph showing the heart of the proposed Olympic zone. This is the Greenway, a footpath slicing through East London atop the legendary Northern Outfall Sewer. Today a tree-lined haven for local wildlife, tomorrow the focal point of global consciousness (maybe - terms and conditions apply). Just to the right of the photo will be the warm-up tracks where the world's finest athletes will prepare for their few seconds in the spotlight. And just to the left, opening ceremonies, Olympic flames, 100m finals, track and field, drug scandals, medal ceremonies, marathon finishes and 100% total history. Bloody hard to picture it all at the moment, though.
The eighty-thousand-seater stadium will be at the heart of a compact area full of top Olympic facilities. Three indoor sports arenas will replace the Hackney Greyhound Stadium, and there'll also be a new all-weather tennis complex, hockey complex and velodrome. A huge aquatic centre (complete with Olympic-sized swimming pool, naturally) will be constructed close to Stratford town centre - this no matter whether the Olympic bid is successful or not. And the athletes' village will be built just to the north of the new Stratford International Eurostar station, leaving a legacy of 17000 homes for local residents after the Games have gone. Let's hope they're sports fans, otherwise all these fantastic state-of-the-art facilities will go stale pretty fast afterwards.
This miserable bunch of warehouses close to the Bow Flyover is scheduled to become home to the entire world's media throughout that extra-special Olympic fortnight. There'll be a huge International Broadcast Centre located here plus an only-slightly-less-huge Press Centre, both less than 5 minutes walk from my house. To think, I might catch Sue Barker nibbling a McChicken sandwich in the drive-thru by the roundabout, or bump into the Bolivian equivalent of Gary Lineker buying deodorant in the nearby 24 hour Tesco. I'll have the perfect Grandstand view.
To find out more about all these proposals, complete with more pretty maps, take a look at the official website for London's 2012 bid, or click through the masterplan for the regeneration of the Lower Lea valley. Alas, all of these fine five-ringed dreams remain at the planning stage at the moment, and many of the proposals may never come to pass. But there seems to be an unstoppable political will to make sure that something happens round here in East London, even if the Olympics don't. So, I'd like to thank all of you out there in the rest of the country for your imminent generosity in pouring millions of pounds of taxpayers money into my community. We'll put on a good show for you, honest. Just give us a sporting chance.
What information will be kept on my ID card? Nothing more than your name, address, gender and actual date of birth. Only Joan Collins need be worried.
No, really, what information will be kept on my ID card? Well, all of the above. And, erm, OK... your employment status, a copy of your fingerprints, your police record, a electronic scan of your iris, a full but unverifiable credit check, who you voted for in the last five elections, health records, your favourite football team, religious background, speeding fines, a strand of your DNA, any overdue library books and that dark secret you've been harbouring about Britney Spears.
How much will my ID card cost? There will be two different price structures. UK residents with blameless lives will be asked to pay €120 for the benefit of proving their innocence. Illegal immigrants, lawless benefit fraudsters and international terrorists will be able to buy a cheap but convincing forgery from that bloke in the lock-up behind the Chinese restaurant instead.
Why can't I just use my passport as ID? That photo in your passport looks nothing like you.
Will carrying my ID card be compulsory? No, don't be silly. That would be an invasion of your civil rights. If you should accidentally find yourself without your card whilst popping out to the cornershop, expect nothing worse than a night in a police cell and a €500 fine.
Where will I have to show my ID card? Use of your card will be mandatory before the use of any NHS services, so always keep it handy in case you want to request urgent treatment for a heart attack or serious traffic injury. Those with private healthcare can of course continue to flash their credit card instead.
How will ID cards help to fight terrorism? If you should ever be involved in a major terrorist incident, take your ID card and press it hard against the infidel's windpipe, resulting in respiratory trauma, unconsciousness and hopefully death.
Why aren't ID cards being introduced until 2013? This is because half the cabinet still think they're a stupid idea and maybe they'll go away. '2013' is in fact a Government keyword which means 'never, but it sounds like we're doing something'. See also 'Crossrail'.
What if I refuse to buy an ID card? Don't worry, we're arranging to have all this biometric data installed on the SIM card in your mobile phone instead, but without telling you. That way we can guarantee you'll always carry it with you everywhere you go, and we can track your movements to the nearest 10 metres too.
It's 85 years ago today since the guns fell silent across Europe at the end of the Great War. No need to call it World War One back then, because the generals signing the Armistice in a railway carriage at 5am that November morning hoped they'd done enough to prevent a second. Not quite. More than ten million people lost their lives in the poppyfields of northern France and Belgium (about four deaths every minute, on average). And it's the end of this not-so-great war whose anniversary we still commemorate today in remembrance of all those who've given their lives in conflict over the last century.
When I was a child, the two minute silence always felt more important than it does today. Maybe that's because there were more old soldiers around in those days. Only three veterans of the First World War made it to the Cenotaph on Sunday, out of a mere 27 such soldiers still alive today. At least, that was Sunday's figure - it may well be lower by now. Two years ago there were 160, but age has wearied them and the years condemned. As these centenarians slowly slip away, so the Great War will fade into history, just a virtual memory etched onto the written page (and preserved in that final episode of Blackadder). Soon there'll be nobody left who was part of that first civilian army, no witnesses to the atrocities of trench warfare, nobody who was actually there. Nobody cheats death forever.
Whole generations have now grown up, in Western countries at least, without any first-hand knowledge of what it's like to be at war. Long may that continue. But I wonder what children will be thinking about during the two minute silence in twenty years time. How their great-great-great-grandfather suffered during World War One? That project on ancient warfare they did at school last term. How they're going to reach the next level on DeathBlast 7 when they get home? Why the Queen's wearing that funny black hat again? Or just wondering when the nuclear winter will ever end? Let's hope we still take time out to remember why we're all still here, on behalf of those who won't be.
I've been somewhat unnerved to discover that my blog has been listed on a site of safe links for kids. I'm one of the Quicklink additions for November, alongside an online candle store, a mini art gallery and a timely reminder that this Friday is Teddy Bear Day. The Links4Kids site has a wholesome and vaguely Christian flavour, even if it looks as if the owner merely lifted this latest list of links directly from an old copy of Web User magazine.
It's worrying to think that someone I've never met thinks that my site is safe for kids. I mean, it probably is, but who's to say I won't suddenly start discussing Prince Charles' sex life at some point in the near future, or dropping the odd f*ck in here and there? And what if I get round to revealing that Santa Claus doesn't exist or, even more dangerously, pondering that God may not exist either? Oh the burden of responsibilty I now face. So, given that I have a potential new audience of youthful surfers, I thought I'd better start performing a useful public service and offer some helpful advice on a pressing topic of national importance. What do you think?
Hey kids, are you fat?
Are you a great big wobbly lardbucket? Don't worry if you are, because new research shows that childhood obesity is solely the fault of nasty evil adults. You'll be able to sue for damages in the future, assuming you live that long after you've clogged your arteries with Happy Meals. Teeth, who needs them when you can suck fizzy sugar through a straw instead? And the baggy look is in, which is just as well when your waistline is growing faster than your height. Never fear, diamond geezer is here with ten top tips to help you lose that puppy fat, fast.
1) Vegetables may be good for you but they taste foul. So always dip your carrots and broccoli in chocolate to make them easier to swallow.
2) Sloshing fizzy drinks round your mouth every day reduces the amount of enamel on your teeth, cutting a few useful milligrams off your weight.
3) Ignore all those ads for sugary foods during the breaks on children's telly. Leave the room and go get yourself an ice cream from the fridge instead.
4) Always eat as much unhealthy food as you can because they give you special tokens that help your school to buy essential PE equipment.
5) Sport is not fun. Sport is dangerous. Nobody ever got injured sitting on their sofa at home eating popcorn and playing computer games.
6) The walk to the chippie and back every lunchtime uses calories you wouldn't burn if you stayed in school and ate pasta and salad instead.
7) Always use a sicknote to avoid PE lessons because you don't look good in shorts, and you look like a whale in the shower afterwards too.
8) Who cares if poor childhood health is cutting back on your life expectancy? Who wants boring old things like pensions and Alzheimers anyway?
9) There's far too much salt in all that processed food you eat, so remember to neutralise your meals by pouring lots of ketchup over everything.
10) Remember kids, the easiest way to lose weight is to saw one of your legs off. After all, you never use it to get any exercise do you?
Lunar see: Yes, tonight's lunar eclipse was sort of visible from London. The cloud thinned enough, most of the time, to allow us to see something. The pathetic picture you can see here was taken over Victoria station around midnight, as the face of the moon slimmed slowly. I swear nobody else was looking up in awe at the eclipse, probably because it's not something you'd notice merely by looking once. You'd have to look twice, at least half an hour to an hour apart, and then think "blimey it wasn't a new moon last time I looked was it?" The cloud was too thick for the copper-red moon to shine through at totality, but a silver sliver shone brightly through the haze afterwards. Like I said, not over-exciting, but a spectacle all the same, and a reminder that the Earth still casts a shadow on the universe.
There are some rubbish books around at the moment. Rip-offs of Schott's Miscellany. The Marmite cookbook. How to be a Footballer's Wife. Build Your Own Snow Globe. The Beyblade Annual 2004. It must be nearly Christmas. But the saddest publishing travesty in the nation's bookshops this Autumn has to be the Guinness Book of Records. Born in 1955, this annual repository of superlative knowledge has sold a record-breaking nigh-100 million copies worldwide, and is surely the most successful piece of alcohol sponsorship of all time. The biggest, the tallest, the longest, the widest - they're all here. Or at least they used to be.
I own a copy of the secondGuinness Book of Records, a blue hardback from 1956 with proud gold lettering. It was all very serious back then, a book to settle pub arguments, assuming people used to argue about the largest blast furnace, the tallest flagstaff and the highest parliamentary majority in those days. Serious maybe, but comprehensive and potentially useful. The tallest giraffes are 3 feet taller than a London trolleybus. Britain's largest turnip weighed 16 pounds. The world's longest railway tunnel runs from Morden to East Finchley (via Bank) on the Northern line. The most expensive English footballer was a certain J Sewell, transferred from Sheffield Wednesday to Notts County for a massive £34,000. Proper facts, the lot of them.
Jump ahead to 1972 and giraffes are now 5 feet taller than a London double decker bus, turnips are up to 33lb 8oz, and Martin Peters of West Ham has raised that transfer fee ceiling to £200,000. Carefully catalogued detail. Onward to 1993 and we still get proper facts. The world's oldest man died in Japan aged 120 years 237 days. The fastest computer chip can run at 200 MHz. Roy Castle and Cheryl Baker hold the world record for the longest ever rope slide, 366m down from the top of the Blackpool Tower. And David Platt and Paul Gascoigne were both sold to Italian clubs for £5½million. Even ten years ago, the Guinness Book of Records was still a fascinating read.
Not so any more. The annual GBoR is now a picture book, a compilation of tabloid soundbites, a freakshow of irrelevance. No more giant vegetables, no more longest tunnels, no more British transfer records. Instead you can discover the greatest weight lifted with one ear (50kg), the oldest person to ski to the North Pole (77 yr old Jack MacKenzie), the most body piercings in one session (90), the biggest nail clipper collection (some bloke in South Africa has 505) and the highest ollie (113cm) (it's a skateboarding leap, apparently). Improper facts, about which I no longer care. Shame. So, if you're thinking of buying someone this flashy-covered hardback as a Christmas stocking-filler, don't bother, they won't read it. Go visit a car boot sale and buy five old copies for your money instead, back from the days when Guinness had more body and far less froth.
There's a total eclipse of the Moon tomorrow evening. I thought I'd mention it today for the benefit of all those of you who don't read blogs at the weekend (which appears to be about a third of you). They're not over-exciting, lunar eclipses, but this one's happening at a time when there's a vague chance you might be awake to see it. There are two more next year, but one's at moonrise so it'll probably be too low to see, and the other's at three o'clock on a Thursday morning. Which leaves tomorrow night, or else you'll have to wait until 2007 for your next decent chance.
Here's how the eclipse works: 22:15 Saturday: The Moon enters the outer shadow of the Earth, or penumbra. It gets slightly dark. Nobody notices.
23:23: The Moon enters the inner shadow of the Earth, or umbra. Slowly the top left corner is eaten away, still sort of visible but darker, then more and more disappears until the whole disc has gone.
01:06 Sunday: Total eclipse. The Earth lies now directly between the Sun and the Moon, so no light can get through, so the Moon goes dark. Not black though, usually a sort of dark red colour, because some light is still getting through diffracted by the Earth's atmosphere. But quite moody-looking all the same.
01:30: Ah, that didn't last long. The bottom left of the Moon edges back out into light shadow, and the eclipse is partial again. And slowly more and more partial.
03:04: Back into the outer shadow, where the eclipse is again barely even noticeable.
04:21: That's it, all over, and the full Moon shines brightly once again.
I've recommended two magazines this year. The first was Word magazine, a monthly mix of music, books, gadgets, entertainment and culture. Started off really well back in February, but I've recently been rather disappointed and disillusioned by Word's evolution into a music, music, DVD and music magazine. Pity. And the second magazine was Smoke.
Smoke is a kind of London fanzine, first published in June, successful enough to be out again this month, and scheduled to be quarterly in the future. Joy. Black and white with a tasteful blue cover, Smoke peers out at the capital from an obtuse angle. It drips quirkiness, design and detail, and it demands to be read, owned and loved.
This month in Smoke... the desolation of Shoreditch station; Christopher Fowler observes the squirrels of Regent's Park (and the rest of London's Nature Wonderland); Trocadero hell; London's campest statue in Temple Place; bus route of the month is the number 360; spotlight on Putney; the inconsistency of the Monopoly board; prodigy houses; a London Shipping Forecast (Bow Church to Island Gardens, wind easterly 4 or 5, visibility moderate or good); dancing with poodles... Oh go on, read some proper snippets here. And then go buy your own copy for just £1.70 here. Quality.
Tonight's weather conditions may be nigh perfect for Bonfire night, but the day of the week certainly isn't. It's a Wednesday, it's a midweek work/school sort of a night, and somehow it's all a bit of a social damp squib. The perfect time for pyrotechnic celebrations is at the weekend, of course, but alas our roving calendar doesn't allow for such regular perfection. At least Firework Night next year will be on a Friday, so if you're patient all will soon be sparkling. And the following year we'll be celebrating the 400th anniversary of Guy Fawkes' evil gunpowder-related exploits on a Saturday night, which will be even better.
It's not looking quite so good for a few other important annual social occasions, however. Here's the diamond geezer guide to some other special events and festivals, and the next year in which they'll fall on a decent date.
• Valentine's Day: next on a Saturday in 2004, next on a Friday in 2014.
• My birthday: next on a Friday in 2007, next on a Saturday in 2013.
• St Patrick's Day: next on a Friday in 2006, next on a Saturday in 2007.
• Easter Day: next on a Sunday in 2004, then again in 2005.
• May Day bank holiday: next on May 1st in 2006, then not again until 2017.
• Hallowe'en: next on a Friday in 2008, next on a Saturday in 2009.
• Remembrance Day: next on a Sunday in 2007, then again in 2012.
• Christmas Day: next on a Sunday in 2005, then again in 2011.
• New Year's Eve: next on a Friday in 2004, next on a Saturday in 2005.
I'm sure the theme tune was wrong. It used to be much better, I'm sure it did. And they never used to film it on film either. Ah well. Cue an hour and three quarters of death, doom and despair. Just like Brookie used to be, then. And still time for one more savage murder, but above the patio this time. Barry Grant came back, which was a nice excuse for a few classy flashbacks of our Sheila and our Damon. Barry returned to ask Jimmy Corkhill for daughter Lindsey's hand in marriage, or maybe it was just to remind us that this soap had had a golden age and that it was long gone.
The residents of Brookside have been particularly miserable of late. That'd be ever since the evil Jack Michaelson, your unfriendly local drug dealer, moved into the Close a few weeks ago, like a narcotic whirlwind. Hey presto, one lost kidney, one toddler on acid, one teenager on crack cocaine and the entire cast ready to pack their bags and leave the close for good, or at least all those who hadn't already left in the back of an ambulance.
Jack Michaelson - the name may be naggingly familiar. That's because producer Phil Redmond has been attempting some rather blunt symbolism here, naming his final villain after Michael Jackson, the controller of Channel 4 at the time of Brookside's final downgrading. Tonight's last episode dripped with symbolism as well as blood. The unfortunate Mr Michaelson met a gruesome end, attacked by an impromptu lynch mob of residents in his own home, trussed up and hung out to die from his bedroom window. And, when the bizzies sped round to the Close one last time, nobody had seen a thing, honest. Dead good that.
As the episode drew to a close, all the remaining families left the Close to start up new lives elsewhere. No doubt we'll see half the actors turning up in Holby City or Emmerdale within a few months. Soon there was only Jimmy Corkhill left, sitting in an old armchair beside a blazing bonfire, surveying a deserted sea of boarded-up houses. In a last feeble act of defiance he went round the Close turning all the taps on, and then he too was off to live a new life of luxury with Barry and Lindsey. "Come on, we've all got lives to get on with." Game over. And, somehow, no great loss.
Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to mourn the passing of Channel 4's flagship soap opera, Brookside. Little Brookie was born on 2nd November 1982, way back on Channel 4's opening night. The soap's gritty style didn't initially endear it to the guardians of the nation's morality, nor to the viewing public for that matter, but things soon picked up until Brookie was much-loved and well-respected. Until recently, when the characters got duller, the plots got sillier and the viewers again deserted in droves. Now shunted into a graveyard slot to curl up and die, Brookside's last ever episode will be screened tonight at twenty to eleven, exactly 21 years (2 days, 2 hours and 40 minutes) after the first. No flowers please, but all mourners welcomed. Brookside is succeeded by its bastard offspring Hollyoaks. May the Lord have mersey upon her soul.
And now diamond geezer proudly presents a house-by-house clickable guide to Brookside Close and who lived where when, even all the families you'd tried really hard to forget. Y'alroight with that mate?
Number 5 (the big detached one) The Grants(1982-89): The original Brookie working class family, that's militant trade union official Billy and his long suffering wife Sheila, complete with four kids including swot Karen, scally Damon and baby Claire. Mum and Dad may have moved on but they still pop up in all the best TV dramas.
The Rogers(1989-93): Whining Katie Rogers has hung around the Close ever since she joined the cast at the age of 12, and has somehow managed to be 100% unlucky with every single man she has ever fallen in love with (even if Ron Dixon only shot one of them dead).
Simon Howe & his mad cult(1993-94): Katie, along with Terry Sullivan, was sucked into an explosive web of religious fervour, in one of the Close's least believable storylines.
Barry Grant(1994-95): Bobby and Sheila's eldest, and thuggiest. He's back tonight for the finale, hoping to wed West End diva Lindsey Corkhill. Poor deluded soul.
The Johnsons(1995-2001): Mick moved in after Barry moved on, bringing with him soapworld's worst ever actress, the woodier-than-wooden Gemma.
The Gordons(2002-): A new family of scallies, seemingly all under 20, and all managing to be of absolutely no dramatic interest whatsoever.
Number 6 (the bungalow) Alan Partridge(1982-84): No, not the fabled Radio Norwich DJ, but a chubby computer wizard and the groom in Brookside's first ever wedding.
Harry Cross(1984-90): Dear old Edna found it much easier living in a bungalow, until her untimely stroke after which she was replaced in Harry's affections by best mate Ralph.
The Johnsons(1990-93): Brookside's first black family, whose cuddly husband Mick was once stalked by Jenny, his son's completely loopy teacher.
The Crosbies(1993-98): Patricia Farnham's parents, gruff David and the charming Jean, who hung around the Close far longer than their daughter managed.
The Shadwicks(1998-): A tedious family of screaming harridans, part of a misguided attempt to bring trade unionism back to Brookie, and epicentre of an excessively drawn-out date-rape plot.
Number 7 Harry and Edna Cross(1983-84): Curmudgeonly Harry was scripted to die of a heart attack after three months in the soap, but he was saved by the producers because the audience loved him, even if nobody on the Close did.
The nurses(1984-87): That'll be Sandra, Pat and Kate, the latter shot dead in Brookie's first ever siege, the first of many hideously improbable plot devices all to hit a tiny Liverpool cul-de-sac.
The Rogers(1987-89): Mum Chrissy walked out on the family, dad Frank was killed in a wedding-day coke-fuelled car crash, daughter Sammy fell deep into alcoholism but at least son Geoff had the sense to escape by joining Torquay United.
The Chois(1989-90): A family more famous for the fact that David Yip used to be the Chinese Detective than for any non-event plotlines they may have had.
The Farnhams(1990-): It was never satisfactorily explained why women threw themselves at the feet of extra-ordinary Max. Maybe it was his throbbing restaurant, or else his snobby attitude towards the oh-so-common Dixons nextdoor (although he eventually ended up marrying one of them).
Number 8 The Collins(1982-90): First seen moving into Brookside Close in the very first episode, after downwardly-mobile dad Paul lost his job. Son Gordon was soapworld's first ever gay character, oh the curtain-twitching shame of it all.
The Dixons(1990-97): All part of the new Thatcherite working-class, here came bigoted Ron and his mobile shop, eventually marrying common-as-muck loudmouth Bev. And full marks to whichever scriptwriting genius thought of renaming their semi 'Casa Bevron', touch of genius that.
The O’Learys and Sinbad(1997-98): Tinhead (one of those ridiculous Grange Hill-type nicknames) was a school bully kept in the series purely to maintain female viewing figures, shacked up with Emily Shadwick (who performed a similar function for male viewers). Sinbad on the other hand was the Close's venerable and much-loved window cleaner, until finally ousted in a ghastly false-child-abuse scenario.
The Musgroves(1998-2000): Depressing Irish family who found that living in Brookside made them, and all the viewers, even more depressed. So they left.
The Dixons(2000-): Back in Casa Bevron again, until successful businesswoman Jacqui made the very recent mistake of selling the house to evil brugs baron Jack Michaelson. You can tell he's evil because last week he smashed Father Christmas's face in with a baseball bat. Honest. Tonight the Close close in to wreak their terrible revenge.
Number 9 Heather Haversham(1982-87) Now better known as that woman in Silent Witness, Amanda Burton made her TV debut in Brookside, first kicking out a lying cheating bastard of a husband, and later marrying a really sweet old bloke who turned out to be a compulsive heroin addict.
The Gordon-Davies(1987-90): Posh Jonathan married nice Laura, who spent the last three months of her Brookie contract in a coma after annoying the producers by trying to leave the show early.
Terry & Sue Sullivan(1990-91): Ah, well-meaning Terry with the scary perm, so often the foil to nasty Barry with the menacing eyes. Sue (and baby Danny) alas never survived their tumble off the roof of the brand new Parade.
The Harrisons(1991-93): Bunch of Guardian readers. Bit earnest, bit dull.
The Banks(1994-96): Bunch of Mirror readers. Bit strident, but good at digging up bodies from under patios.
The Simpsons(1996-98): The family brought in purely so that two of the offspring could generate column inches by having an incestuous relationship. Yawn.
The yuppies(1999-2000): We didn't really care about Dr Nathan, Darren and Victoria either. In fact, this house seems to be cursed by character indifference.
The Murrays(2000-): Her out of the Nolan Sisters and desperate for a baby, except that it was her schoolgirl daughter who got pregnant instead. Youngest son Anthony recently drowned school bully Imelda in a local pond and is now easily the best actor in the entire show.
Number 10 (the 'house of horror') The Taylors(1982-83): Brookside's first death occured when (non-canine) Petra woke up one morning to discover husband Gavin had died of a brain haemorrage overnight. She didn't hang around long afterwards either.
The Jacksons(1984-85): Ah yes, firebrand Marie and her weak husband George, the much-loved inspiration for the national 'George Jackson is innocent' poster campaign (years before Deidre Rashid's similar Coronation Street stunt).
The Corkhills(1985-93): Billy and our Doreen blundered through life on the Close, rowing, yelling, and wondering how they ever ended up with a weak policeman and a screeching hairdresser as offspring.
The Jordaches(1993-95): Brookside's most convincingly dramatic family, fleeing a life of sexual abuse and ultimately stabbing the perpetrator with a carving knife and buying him under that legendary patio. All that, plus Anna Friel and a lesbian kiss - we shall not see their like again.
Jimmy Corkhill(1995-): Billy Corkhill's scally brother was supposed to appear for just six episodes but is still around tonight 17 years later to deliver the soap's closing line. Jimmy has been a criminal, murderer, drug-dealer, prisoner, teacher (yes honest) and, perhaps not surprisingly after all that, seriously mentally ill. Tonight, maybe, just maybe, he gets to add another murder to his list. I'll be watching to wave goodbye.
If it's a quarter past seven on the morning of November 3rd, then I've been single for exactly four years.
(Yes, I know the post below is one I wrote a year ago, but I've updated it a bit, and I intend to keep posting it every year on this date until my situation changes. Not that I care if it doesn't, you understand.)
A not-so-recent survey found that 66% of UK adults are currently in a stable relationship, leaving the remaining one third of us currently unattached. Some might say that we single people are missing out, and maybe we are, but I'm convinced there are lots of positive points to being single:
Single: You get the whole duvet to yourself.
Coupled: You don't need a hot water bottle.
Single: There's half as much ironing to do.
Coupled: There's somebody else to do the ironing for you.
Single: You can hoover the carpet when you think it needs doing.
Coupled: Someone else hoovers the carpet before you think it needs doing.
Single: You can watch whatever TV channel you like, without arguments.
Coupled: There's someone to talk to about the TV programme you're watching.
Single: You can flirt with people in the street.
Coupled: You don't need to flirt with people in the street.
Single: You can get home from work at whatever time you like.
Coupled: There might just be a meal waiting for you when you get home.
Single: You get to eat the whole ready meal for two yourself.
Coupled: It takes just as long to cook for two as it does for one.
Single: You can go on holiday somewhere you actually find interesting.
Coupled: Hotel rooms cost less per person and there's someone to talk to at breakfast.
Single: There are no important birthdays or anniversaries to accidentally forget.
Coupled: Somebody actually remembers your birthday.
Single: You can spend all your money on yourself.
Coupled: There are two salaries coming in and only one set of bills.
Single: You have can still have a riotous social life in your 30s.
Coupled: You can still have a riotous social life in your 60s.
Single: You always get a double seat to yourself on public transport.
Coupled: You can never find a double seat because all the single people are hogging them.
Single: You don't keep catching every sniffle, cold and flu bug off your partner.
Coupled: When you suffer a major cardiac arrest, somebody notices and dials 999.
Single: You have no friends to go out with because they've all partnered off and are staying in.
Coupled: You don't have to go out with those annoying friends you had while you were single.
Single: You know which set of parents you'll be spending Christmas with this year.
Coupled: The family sometimes chooses to spend Christmas at your house.
Single: Being coupled is restrictive, stifling and a sign of personal weakness.
Coupled: Being single is unnatural, lonely and a sign of personal failure.
Single: The memory of someone you used to live with is usually better than the reality, isn't it?
Coupled: Single people spend all their time trying not to be single, don't they?
Single: You can lie in bed in the morning for as long as you like.
Coupled: There's a very good reason for lying in bed in the morning.
Single: Nobody sees what you look like first thing in the morning.
Coupled: Somebody loves you despite what they see first thing in the morning.
Single: You never unearth a pile of mobile phone bills filed for tax purposes listing the phone numbers of numerous blokes your partner has been shagging behind your back.
Not that I'm in any way bitter, you understand...
It's a bit miserable and windswept out there, so I've put together a compilationoftoday'sSundaypapers to save you having to journey outside to the newsagents in the rain. And to save half a rainforest.
Front page: postal strike latest (yawn); top model cheats on boyfriend (yawn); Iraq (yawn); royal exclusive (yawn); football rape case (yawn); woman found with big breasts (yawn).
Non-shocking exposé: politician discovered telling lie; Church of England contains gay priests; MMR jab either is or isn't safe; crime frightens you; EastEnders star seen drinking; some hospitals aren't as good as others; house prices may come down eventually; some policemen are racist; some journalists are racist (ah sorry, we'd never admit the last one).
Political comment: Michael Howard is... evil/heaven sent/a man whose history is easily forgotten/saying all the right things about asylum and tax cuts/the best the Tories have/the best the Tories have, which isn't saying much/the owner of a gorgeous wife/right/far right.
Sport: Arsenal are... top class/cruising/a bunch of hooligans/championship material/bound to slip up soon.
Financial section: interest rate fears; your pension is crap; share tips for men in suits; credit cards are dangerous but you still have one don't you?; small ads by loan sharks.
Arts section: Turner Prize analysis; J-Lo's arse; the latest hardbacks reviewed; photos of that bloke, you know, the one who played Spiderman, in his new film about a horse; the finest classical releases; Wife Swap's good innit?
Travel section: my Andes backpacking experience; cross channel booze cruise for £1; your guide to buying property in Tuscany; Blackpool illuminations are well classy; advert for cruise ship holiday (guaranteed virus-free, honest).
Magazine: posh frocks you can't afford; car advert; recipe involving ingredients Asda don't sell; I married my long-lost sister's bigamist husband; another car advert; long article about Macedonia you'll never get round to reading; porcelain thimble collection special offer; yet another car advert; beautifully designed manor house for you plebs to aspire to; Mystic Meg's Lotto numbers.
There's a special offer on the trains all weekend, meaning that every journey on c2c(the London-Southend line) costs one quid. So I went exploring. For a start, I've never ever been to Fenchurch Street station before. This must be central London's most obscure manline station, tucked away off the beaten track in a forgotten corner of the City, and is virtually deserted at weekends. It's also the only mainline terminus without a tube station, so goodness knows how it got selected as one of the four 'famous' London stations on a Monopoly board. Fenchurch Street station, which is 150 years old next year, is a small Victorian island in a financial sea of concrete and glass. It's built on a viaduct above a three-storey warehouse and below a stack of new offices, and is everything that the commuters of Southend deserve.
I could have gone to Southend, but the first train out of the station was going somewhere far less glamorous - Grays. Final Destination. My train hurtled past the giant Ford works at Dagenham, across the bleak Rainham marshes, past docks, containers and refineries, on into grimmest Thurrock. Alongside this underused line the new high speed Channel Tunnel Rail link is being built, now just a grey pathway of concrete edging and portaloos. In three years time international Eurostar trains will speed this way, hopefully with the windowblinds down. Grays itself appeared to be a cheap shopping centre surrounded by featureless redbrick estates. Proud shaven-headed dads stood outside Iceland watching their offspring perform in the local talent contest hosted by the non-entity who came third in Fame Academy. Fat grans in light blue towelling buzzed past on mobility scooters, hoping to snap up some fake bargain jewellery on one of the market stalls. I stayed in the town no longer than 19 minutes.
Just four minutes up the line lies another very different shopping centre - Lakeside. Here are all the designer stores that Grays lacks, selling dreams to the upwardly mobile of Essex. Almost nobody arrives here by train, the sun glinting off the windscreens massing in the IKEA car park. The whole retail cathedral was packed with happy shoppers, out spending time spending money. A swarm of designer teenagers swept by on an urgent quest for the latest must-have accessory. Proud shaven-headed dads pushed their offspring around in turbo sports pushchairs, their waddling wives dripping with expensive carrier bags. Only just over 50 shopping days remain before Christmas, but I suspect this lot need little excuse to get out and flash their plastic.
November's anniversaries • 100th anniversary of the publication of the first ever edition of the Daily Mirror(2nd November 1903) • 220th anniversary of the last public hanging at Tyburn(7th November 1783) • 85th anniversary of the Armistice signalling the end of World War 1 (11th November 1918) • 50th anniversary of the first broadcast of the BBC television programme Panorama(11th November 1953) • 55th birthday of Prince Charles, Prince of Wales (14th November 1948) • 40th anniversary of the formation of the volcanic island of Surtsey, off Iceland (14th November 1963) • 30th wedding anniversary (well, would have been) of Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips (14th November 1973) • 75th anniversary of Mickey Mouse's first appearance in Steamboat Willie(18th November 1928) • 220th anniversary of the first manned balloon flight by the Montgolfier Brothers in Paris (21st November 1783) • 40th anniversary of the assassination of President Kennedy in Dallas (22nd November 1963) • 40th anniversary of the transmission of the first episode of Doctor Who, "An Unearthly Child" (23rd November 1963) • 20th anniversary of the Brinks Mat gold bullion robbery at Heathrow (26th November 1983) • 300th anniversary of the Great Storm, the forgotten one that killed 8000 people (26/27th November 1703)
What's on this weekend? A.V. Roe Centenary Sunday 12 July, 2pm
A replica triplane celebrates one hundred years since Britain's first ever flight on Walthamstow Marshes.
Gig of the month: Ah, that would be the Audio Bullys at the Astoria - review here. And a strong candidate for December's top gig will be tomorrow night's Buffseeds performance in Whitechapel. A bit of lilting guitar magic, and local this time too. That's a mini Kieran from the Buffseeds, by the way.
Want to wreck your Christmas TV viewing now?
The 7am puzzle: What's special about tomorrow's date that's not going to be special again until 2011?
LET'S GO TABLOG
LOCAL NEWS
In other local news, for those of you who are interested, the nightclub that was once 'The Block' has now been completely renovated and looks ready to reopen. It's been repainted bright pink, and there are six rainbow coloured lamps shining like fairy lights across the front, but there's still no new name. Make of that what you will.
CHAMPION
Concorde's last flight ever (ever ever) takes place this morning, as the very first Concorde flies back from Heathrow to its birthplace. Awww. Filton Airport (just outside Bristol) was the site of the very first takeoff, and will be the site of the very last landing. One technological marvel, now to be a museum piece. One dream, grounded. The future ends at 1pm today.
The Seventh Doctor (1987-1989)
Who be 40
The Sixth Doctor (1984-1986)
The Fifth Doctor (1981-1984)
The Fourth Doctor (1974-1981)
The Third Doctor (1970-1974)
The Second Doctor (1966-1969)
The First Doctor (1963-1966)
Famous places within 15 minutes walk of my house
I got myself a decent map and walked up Marshgate Lane to find the exact location of the centre of the stadium for myself. It's just past Knobs Hill Road, right opposite Parkes Galvanizing Ltd, where a couple of small roads run off the lane onto the Marshgate Trading Estate. Here you'll find a company that hires skips, a giant nondescript warehouse, the odd big family business, a company that prepares caviar and smoked salmon and, right in the middle, a Mercedes Service Centre. This is where the javelins will land, where 3000 perfectly-choreographed local schoolchildren will tapdance through the opening ceremony and where all the medals will be presented. I was disturbed to see three Mercedes flags flying over the exact spot - it looks like the Germans have staked their claim for the top of the medal table already.
This weekend, as a genuine local resident, I've also attended one of the public consultation events for the Olympic masterplan. The Lower Lea Valley regeneration team have been setting up their display boards in a variety of community-type institutions, asking people what they think about the plans and the legacy to be left behind for the local area. It turned out that most of the display is available on the internet anyway, but there were some nice extras including some fantastically detailed maps of the minutiae of regeneration and a 3D model to bring the plans to life (pictured left). The organising staff seemed keen to welcome us all, but even keener to get at least one person present to fill in one of their less-than-thrilling questionnaires. I would have spoken to somebody official about the plans, except that one of them was being persistently harangued by a pessimist explaining how the Dome was a white elephant and the whole bid thing would undoubtedly be a financial disaster, while most of the rest of the staff were too busy trying to set up a Powerpoint presentation. At least it was encouraging to see my community's future being taken seriously for once. Whether the Olympics arrive here in 2012 or not, local regeneration is on track.
The Prince of Wales
OK, so this may look like the same old photograph of the run-down Big Breakfast house that I've shown you before, and indeed it is, but what's new is that London's Olympic Stadium is now planned to be built less than a javelin's throw away on the other side of that row of trees. It's all bloody exciting, for us locals at least. This redevelopment depends on London actually being selected by the IOC as the winning host city for the 2012 Games, of course, but detailed new proposals announced this week bring that dream a little closer to reality. And much closer to my house.
To your right is another photograph showing the heart of the proposed Olympic zone. This is the Greenway, a footpath slicing through East London atop the legendary Northern Outfall Sewer. Today a tree-lined haven for local wildlife, tomorrow the focal point of global consciousness (maybe - terms and conditions apply). Just to the right of the photo will be the warm-up tracks where the world's finest athletes will prepare for their few seconds in the spotlight. And just to the left, opening ceremonies, Olympic flames, 100m finals, track and field, drug scandals, medal ceremonies, marathon finishes and 100% total history. Bloody hard to picture it all at the moment, though.
This miserable bunch of warehouses close to the Bow Flyover is scheduled to become home to the entire world's media throughout that extra-special Olympic fortnight. There'll be a huge International Broadcast Centre located here plus an only-slightly-less-huge Press Centre, both less than 5 minutes walk from my house. To think, I might catch Sue Barker nibbling a McChicken sandwich in the drive-thru by the roundabout, or bump into the Bolivian equivalent of Gary Lineker buying deodorant in the nearby 24 hour Tesco. I'll have the perfect Grandstand view.
Will we remember them?
Lunar see: Yes, tonight's lunar eclipse was sort of visible from London. The cloud thinned enough, most of the time, to allow us to see something. The pathetic picture you can see here was taken over Victoria station around midnight, as the face of the moon slimmed slowly. I swear nobody else was looking up in awe at the eclipse, probably because it's not something you'd notice merely by looking once. You'd have to look twice, at least half an hour to an hour apart, and then think "blimey it wasn't a new moon last time I looked was it?" The cloud was too thick for the copper-red moon to shine through at totality, but a silver sliver shone brightly through the haze afterwards. Like I said, not over-exciting, but a spectacle all the same, and a reminder that the Earth still casts a shadow on the universe.
I've recommended two magazines this year. The first was Word magazine, a monthly mix of music, books, gadgets, entertainment and culture. Started off really well back in February, but I've recently been rather disappointed and disillusioned by Word's evolution into a music, music, DVD and music magazine. Pity. And the second magazine was Smoke.
