diamond geezer

 Sunday, May 09, 2010

lifesnippets: Friday

...isn't that, you know, thingy off that BBC3 drama? And with him, she looks familiar, she's been in something hasn't she, can't remember what, know the face. They seem very friendly. But blimey, yes, it's definitely him, in the same pub as us. We're, like, this close to a celebrity, a real one, if BBC3 counts as real. Great how everyone's leaving the pair of them alone, allowing them to carry on enjoying a normal evening unmolested. But still secretly looking over to see what they're up to, heads twisting, necks craned. What's she drinking? What brand of trainers is he wearing? Where do you think they're off to next? Blimey...

...why do taxi drivers always insist on talking? Why can't they just keep stumm? And he was doing so well, so silent, until that other cab pulled out in front of us. Go on, let the insults fly. But I don't want to engage in conversation, thanks, I don't want to have to agree with you out loud. I have no idea whether everyone who works for that particular company is a dickhead, that's just your opinion, but if I agree quickly maybe you'll shut up. Damn, no, I've opened the floodgates. Yes, that bloody bus was a bit close. Yes, that idiot cyclist is hogging the road. Please, I'd rather not spend the rest of the journey reinforcing your prejudices. Are we nearly there yet...

...I'm not dreaming, am I? That really is Jarvis Cocker in thick specs and a tweed jacket, organising the party games. Calling for silence by banging some cutlery together. Dividing the dance floor into two teams. Explaining how each group has to pass a spoon from one end of the line to the other by threading it down trouser legs. Commentating dryly on the drunken proceedings until the left-hand team wins. Returning to the mixing desk to play some rocking 70s stormers. Blowing bubbles across the gyrating crowd. What the hell am I doing here? I don't even know the person whose birthday this is. Help the aged...

lifesnippets: Saturday

10 Downing Street...it's not quite business as usual in Westminster. Normally the outside broadcast stages on College Green would have been packed away by now, but instead they remain cabled up in case David Dimbleby needs to pontificate in the drizzle. News crews are parked up outside Millbank Tower in case the Cameron-Clegg marriage is announced. At the end of Downing Street the gates remain firmly locked, with no sign yet of a removal lorry. Protesters shout in Parliament Square. A NAAFI canteen serves tea on Horseguards Parade while three young ladies sing VE Day classics in a neighbouring marquee. A beardy man in morris costume jingles his way down Whitehall. Tourists take photos of one another with Big Ben in the background. It's business as usual in Westminster...

...you don't make comedies about suicide bombers. But then you don't make comedies about paedophiles either, and that never stopped Chris Morris. His first full-length film is Four Lions, an incisive delve into the murky world of the Sheffield jihadi. Misguided bigots filming suicide videos in suburban semis. Blundering incompetents stockpiling peroxide in lock-up garages. Loving fathers telling bedtime stories with martyrdom subtexts. And a very unfortunate sheep. It shouldn't be funny, but you can always rely on Chris to get away with murder...

...last night I was hobnobbing with the stars, tonight I'm sitting at home with a cup of tea, such is life...


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