I’ve just had the war debate explained to me by Rachel (7 years old), and now she’d like to tell you.
I’ll take a basic dictation;

Apparently;

Tony Blair is our Prime Minister, and his friend is called George Bush and he’s another Prime Minister of somewhere else and she thinks that he might be the Prime Minister of America.

And they’re having an argument with another Prime Minister who they don’t like because he’s bad, and he’s got a moustache, but she can’t remember what his name is, or where he’s the Prime Minister of.

(Iraq?)

Yes, he’s the Prime Minister of Iraq and they don’t like him because he’s bad. And they’re having this argument, and that’s basically what a war is, it starts as an argument, and that’s what’s happening.

There are lots of armies and soldiers and they’re practicing, because Tony Blair is cross and he thinks they should have a war against the bad Prime Minister. And his friend thinks so too. But not many other people do.

And Tony Blair says this is the hardest decision he’s ever had to make while he’s been the Prime Minister, and Rachel thinks that that’s probably true, because starting a war is a very difficult decision to make.

It’s very difficult to decide to start a war when everyone thinks you shouldn’t, and if you look here, there are pictures of people who think that he shouldn’t in the newspaper.

And he says that they should because the other Prime Minister with the moustache is a bad man.

And the people that say he shouldn’t, say that he shouldn’t because there are lots of people in the country, and not all of them are bad like the Prime Minister, and some of them might be really good or really nice, and it’s not good to start a war with lots of people just because you don’t like their Prime Minister, even if he’s bad and has a moustache.

And she thinks that if she was Tony Blair she’d say “No, she doesn’t want to start a war after all“. But she thinks that if she was Tony Blair and thought all the things that he thought and had the friends that he had, she probably would.

That’s all.

Thank you.

Boys are idiots, and if you fancy them they should be able to tell and be bloody grateful for it too.
And then they should do something about it so you wouldn’t have to.
And if they think you’re lovely they should do something about it and not pretend that they’re hard to get.
Boys. Idiots.
No offence intended.

It’s starting.
I’m 25 going on 26 and it’s starting. This year I know three couples getting married.
Last year I knew one couple to do it, and at this rate of growth next year it’ll be (lets see,… hang on, I’ll go and draw a graph)
482 couples
(No, that can’t be right. damn mathmatics bollocks).

9, or something. And the year after that? Erm… loads, probably.
But it’s starting. I always wondered at what age it would start, at what age everyone around me would start geting married.
And now I know.
25. Going on 26.

25 going on 26.
There’s a song in that, I’m sure…

So I went to my new dentist again today. Again again. Mr MacBurrrrnie. Sounds good and Scottish.
And he is good. And Scottish.
And very different from my last dentist. Or my last three dentists, whatever - understand, it’s that I move around a lot, not that I wear them out.

Mr MacBurrrrnie tells me nothing. Nothing at all. He doesn’t tell me what he’s going to do, doesn’t tell me what the x-rays showed, doesn’t make reassuring explanatory noises, doesn’t tell me how many more times I’m going to have to see him.
Just says hello as I walk in the door, barks simple instructions at me - open wide, bite down, rinse, open wide - plays with my teeth for a while, then releases me again into the wild.

It’s very much like having a vet, I think.
And that’s fine.

Anne-Marie, my first dentist when I moved out of London, was compulsive about telling me what she was doing. She’d introduce every foreign object to my face before she introduced it to my mouth, and probably thought that that was a very reassuring thing for her to be doing.

Except that she didn’t do it with every object, she only did it with some. Like cotton wool. And mirrors.
But not with others. She’d never introduce the scary things. So she’d say “Alright, I’m just going to put this little cotton wad between your lip and gum, so that they don’t touch, is that ok?”
And I’d say yes, and then she’d shove some big metal something that looked like it was normally used for peeling hamsters in my gob while I was distracted by the squishy cotton wool.

Keith, who came after Anne-Marie, was a very talkative and jolly dentist. He would talk about anything but dentistry apparatus while I was in the chair - probably because he twigged quite quickly that conversation about dentistry made me cry.
So he’d talk about other things. Channel four was a big favourite, and how bad he considered it to be.
Then he found out what I did, and would get me to recite Shakespeare. With my mouth full of cotton wool and bits of metal.

Mr Mac Burrrrnie, at least, says nothing, and requires me to say nothing. Of course, sometimes I worry that I’ll go in there and he’ll calmly pull out all my teeth, and I won’t be able to say anything because I’d never shown any interest before that point.

Still, at least it cuts down on the ritual Shakespeare humiliation;

“‘Oo wee oh no’ ‘oo wee, ha issa hess’ion. Ow!”

Number of unique visitors - 111111.

Which I think is quite pleasing. Y’know, aesthetically.

Has to count either as one of the most depressing or most exhilarating phrases in the English language, depending on your point of view.
Depending, I suppose, on who you know.

Con - The thing that really needs doing doesn’t get done.

Pro - A big fuckbunch of other things do. And then that makes you really happy. And that’s all.

I was intrigued the other day when, while watching children’s television (with children, I’m not that much of a student…) there was an advert for ‘Happy Families Barbie’. Well, I say intrigued, more appalled.

I hadn’t realised there’d already been some controversy over the dolls.
Something about giving birth involving the clean removal of a magnetic stomach and the gentle removal of dressed baby within.
(Two great arguments for and against can be found here and here.)

I don’t know what it was I didn’t quite like about it, it was mainly the terribly proper image of ‘happy family’ wife Midge, husband Alan, three year old ryan and baby in detachable stomach. As the ‘pro’ mom/reviewer says;

I like the fact that Midge has a wedding ring, is married to Alan, and that baby has an older brother – Ryan. This resembles the thought process we portray to our children – marriage, then children. My daughter has enjoyed playing with this family. She mentioned to me that it is fun to have a Mommy, Daddy, and Two Kids.

Which is great, apart from the fact that lots of children don’t, and that’s ok too.

Still, and this was the thing that intrigued me, all the figures are sold separately, so you do at least stand a chance of building for yourself a non-conformist family unit.

* Not Hungover! *
Well, maybe a little bit hungover. But that’s acceptable because it’s Tuesday you see, and Tuesday comes after Monday, and Monday’s always the quiz night, so Tuesday morning is always just a little hungover. But not very.
Really. I’m not as hungover as I am;

* Full of Snot! *
And constantly surprised at how much snot the human body manages to produce. I think it’s simply amazing. I’m exploding every minute, on the minute, it seems, into soggy tissues that could now, I think, fill the Grand Canyon. I apologise to anyone that needs a tissue in the future, because I think I’m going to use them all. All of them.
I’m a very Snotty person. I’m also;

* Still Single! *
Go figure.
It’s not for want of trying, I assure you.
Still, I’m;

* Listening to Olivia Newton John singing ‘Hopelessly devoted to You’ on winamp.*
And singing along very loudly.
Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to have a computer.
I’m so glad I don’t have a webcam.

Does anyone know a German term for Nipple Tassels?

Or - Come to think of it, the French for Galactic Toss Monkey?

“Witticism witticism, concession to national audience, reference to international audience, small fawning build up…”
Lighting change, appropriate big band theme music, flattering camera angle, zoom in to entrance from backstage, winning smile to audience, age-old-friend-esque smile, embrace and murmur with never-before-met Host, turn to audience wait for applause to subside, modest smile.

“Over the top sentiment about important role of nominees within society”
brief wistful smile, “straight-forward reading of names”
slight pause, rustle of gold envelope, camera flicks between faces of nominees, all hands ready to applaud, all with cold, dead eyes.
“name“.

Applause applause, camera flicks straight onto face of winner upon whom realisation is 1 1/2 seconds arriving, then very brief millisecond of egotistical ecstasy and honest triumph, replaced almost immediately with badly feigned shock, surprise and modesty. Walk to stage.

Camera flicks around faces of losers, gracious smiles, polite applause, nods of good-loserness, jealous hatred deep in eyes.

Winner arrives on stage, shakes hands with never-before-met-host as if long time friend and benefactor, embraces award giver whom in all other business would be detested as diva. Shoulder diva aside. Stand before microphone. Grasp lectern earnestly.

“Stumble. Stutter. Attempt to sound like have not practiced speech in front of mirror for 28 years. Threaten to weep. Suck up to studio, ensure money for next project. Suck up to director, ensure no more diva-rumours in industry. Suck up to colleagues. Fawn fawn…” (Actually feel extremely smug. knew was better all along) “Fawn. Look soppily at trophy cover-up spouse, passing glance at co-star lover. Random non-career-harmful political statement about trees or babies that no-one could disagree with even if they tried. Attempt to crack joke, turn joke into fawning statement when raises no laugh. Pretend to start crying. Fawn. Thank everybody. Make unexpected religious conversion and give thanks for it. Suck up, suck up, dry up, shut up…
Modest smile, biting lip,
pick up award (white knuckled grip), rustle off stage.

Applause applause.

“Witticism Witticism….

I love award ceremonies.

Well, for one, there’s always the whole, y’knw, him thing, so that’s one, and then there was the scene where, two, three …. ooh, that bit… four. And the whole fabulous story, and how they did the … erm … thing with it, and then there’s the whole moral and directing and the bit with the, and the right, so that’s five, six, seven, eight. Eight? Eight.

“Catch Me If You Can”, I hate thee eight ways. That’s eight.
Count’m. 8.

Oh look, the newspaper says that there’s a three week ultimatum ’til war…
Who’d have thunk it?…
Wanders off distracted.

[Three hours later]

Sorry. Where was I? Ah yes.
Catch me if you can, if you can, or if you feel like it, if you want to.
For if the film was referring to itself, which it isn’t, then it would be hardly any challenge at all.

You wouldn’t have to try very hard to catch “Catch me if you can” running, as it does, at the pace of the slowest runner, while constantly looking back and making sure that they know what’s going on.

It’s only a game of ‘catch me’ if, while running away, people usually said;

“Ooh, you’re looking a little out of breath there, shall we just hold on a moment? No no, that’s fine with me. Ready?
Oooh! Chase me, chase me! Watch out for that curb! I’m just going to run around this obvious plot corner, make sure you don’t lose sight now! No, there you still are. Well, you see that big florescent purple tree you’re passing? That one. That one on your left.
Well, that’s going to be important later on.
Yes that one. The one with Obvious written on all its leaves.
Don’t worry, I’ll remind you in five minutes time.
Hey look! There’s a happy family with matching
“We’re Symbolic, You know!” t-shirts.
Wave to them! Wave! It’s alright, you don’t have to notice them now, they’ll be hitting you in the face with metaphors later.
Shan’t hurt. Not Much.
(Or at least only if you choose to smack your head against the seat in front in protest…)
Watch out for that ridiculously obvious red herring I’ve just put in your path, wouldn’t want you to actually get distracted by that!…
Chase me, chase me!”

And no one playing chase does say that. Or at least no-one I play chase with does anyway.

Maybe I should play with Steven Spielberg.
I’ll e-mail him and ask.

[Two hours later]

He said no.

I mean, it was just such a fabulously great story, and you wanted it to be all Oceans Eleven and witty and classy and then it gets all Family and America and Moral and ‘Sad’ and, Ah, I don’t know. It was just such great material.
It’s such a shame. And yes of course Leonardo di Caprio is a honey, no-one said he wasn’t.
(Although now they will…)

****

How did I hate thee, ‘Catch Me if You Can’?
Thus did I hate thee, ‘Catch Me If You Can’ and for the sake of these;

1. For the sake of Mr Hanks and his big smug face.
   As usual.
2. For the sake of Mr Hanks and his… did I say that one already? Well, I do hate him a lot.
3. For the sake of the argument that broken homes create master criminal brains and all that a con man needs is a daddy.
4. And that aforementioned daddy should be Tom Hanks.
   Euw. Peh. Wah.
5. For the sake of the capture scene at Christmas eve at midnight with French peasants singing by candlelight. So bad I assumed it had to be a dream sequence.
   It wasn’t.
6. For the sake of happy families holding the key to moral upbringings and upright citizens. For the sake of small children that do not scream when bedraggled criminals appear at the window enquiring after the whereabouts of their ‘mommies’.
7. For the sake of Mr hanks and his big stupid smug face.
8. For the sake of the necessity to take a criminal to America, where his crime will be treated sympathetically as the lost-daddy syndrome it obviously is, a socially useful but sadly misdirected skill (but only because of the daddy thing, remember). For the sake of the necessity to remove that prisoner from evil European prisons which have no roofs or, seemingly, electric lighting. But do have lice. And wardens that spit at their prisoners, and deny them all hygiene, medicine and, it seems, food.
   Europe, eh. What a hotbed of human rights abuses.
9. For the sake alone that it could have been such a very, very good film with the material, that the colours and atmosphere were so promising, the whole thing could have been so rich.
10. And for the sake of Mr Hanks.
    And his Big Smug Face.

Thus do I hate thee, ‘Catch Me if You Can’, thus and, yea, triply thus for the same reasons alone.

Terribly entertaining though.
Good afternoon at the cinema. I heartily recommend it.

I’m better now, in case anyone was wondering, and am not going to make any great stories out of diarrhoea or vomit, because quite frankly, I don’t find it very pleasant material to work with.

To write about, I mean.
We’re not talking post-modern performance sculpture here.

Which reminds me of a piece I saw the other day
(n.b. We are now talking post-modern performance sculpture now. Or rather, installation)
You walked into a pitch black room, and on a screen in front of you, obviously triggered by the door, appeared the words ;

“In 30 seconds you will be possessed by love”
“30″
“29″
“28”
etc, etc. In big, plodding, slow countdown, huge characters in pink, a steady build-up of suspense that was actually quite terrifying, until after;
“4″
“3″
“2″
“1”

The word “Love” appeared on the screen, bright white, a sudden flash.

And for 15 minutes afterward the word was burned onto your retina.
Every time you blinked, every dark surface you happened to look at said “Love” to you.
And you couldn’t get rid of it.
So you were, in one way at least, possessed by love.

I like that kind of thing.
It does exactly what it says on the tin.

Just warning you.