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Random summer-based meanderings:If you're fat,

Random summer-based meanderings:

• If you're fat, for God's sake dress to suit your shape. Fat legs in short skirts are repulsive. I know some angry fat person is going to chew me out for this, and say everyone should be able to wear whatever the hell they want and comments like mine are exactly the sort that perpetuate unhealthy body images in women etc. but yo, I have a flat chest and a big arse, so I don't wear cleavage-baring tops or hotpants, it's that simple.

• Why are people in Tube station lifts unable to understand the principles of proper lift-space distribution? The people who enter first are virtually lolling around on deckchairs while the people who enter last have to become intimately acquainted with each other's bodily crevices. Not nice on a hot day.

• Do you think I could rig up superhuge loudspeakers on hot-air balloons all over London and play Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger simultaneously on all of them just so everyone could experience its stereo perfection, and possibly it would stimulate the economy with its inspirational message or at the very least have everyone doing the robot? No? Cynics.

Lazy Bank Holiday

A Bank Holiday weekend, and my first weekend in a while of actually doing nothing, as opposed to hanging upside down in fairground rides in Brighton, or climbing hills in the Lake District.

Lazy breakfast (and I do mean lazy - it ended at 3!) on Saturday in Goodfellas Deli on Lamb's Conduit Street. Watching jawdropping feats of inline skatery in Hyde Park, remembering that old love and resolving to go skating some time soon; resolving to also bring Alec so as not to be the crappest skater in the park. Dinner and brief foray into Eurovision madness (I liked Norway) before heading out to meet Russ for Breakin' Bread at the Rhythm Factory, which had mouthfuls of goodness (a spate of classics I never get tired of, including Sound Of Da Police and Witness; also, watching breakdancers always fills me with awe) among larger morsels of tedium (a bit too much jazzy/funky old skool which could get monotonous for me, some of the less successful attempts in the open-mic MCing session); all in all, a good club night, though not the best I've had.

Lazy breakfast (and I do mean lazy - it ended at 5!!!) on Sunday. Mass, dinner, and the rather harrowing Kids, which I was glad to finally have watched, and was not disappointed by, but will never watch again.

A break from tradition on Monday, where breakfast was somewhat earlier so we could get to Kew Gardens in good time for maximum tweeness. Lying on the grass after lunch, somewhere in between picking an insect off Alec and straining to understand Ada or Ardor, I fell asleep. Later in Richmond, we rowed on the Thames and ate on a barge and were very happy.

And today back to work.

Richard II, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre London, 2003

Theatre at the Globe is not self-evidently a transcendental experience.

If you're budget-conscious like us, you take the £5 tickets in the pit, where you get the best view in the place but have to stand for three hours. If it rains, you can't use your umbrella, and if you don't have some other waterproof covering you buy the theatre-issue plastic poncho which is extremely unglamorous and makes you very unpopular with the people around you due to the rustly noises you make while trying to wrestle it on. You then stand completely motionless in your cling-wrap prison until you can buy some overpriced tea in a paper cup at the intermission to clasp in your hands in the hope that it will warm your cold-stiffened body.

You are watching an all-male, all-authentic-practices production of Richard II. All the costumes look ridiculous. The men dressed up as women still look like men dressed up as women, despite the feminine mannerisms they take on. You miss the famous speech about England because you are wrestling with your poncho.

You should be miserable, but you're not. The parting kisses between Richard and his Queen are heart-wrenchingly tender, and you're transported beyond the cross-dressing, make-up and Adam's apples to the simple acceptance that this is a man and woman in love. You have finally seen the great Mark Rylance, and are not disappointed by his subtle, many-textured Richard. Time and time again you are struck by the enduring power of Shakespeare's words and wit today, and the ability of the cast to communicate this to us despite their lack of microphones and the occasional overhead helicopter.

As the company performs an ending dance, you vaguely note as you clap your hands sore that, again, they look ridiculous to your modern eye. None of it matters. In the midst of your euphoria, you are gripped by a sudden sadness, the same one that recurs every time you feel that surge of love for this blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England: you are leaving soon.

Blip

Forgive me. I generally try avoid meaningless blog entries, and I promise I do have an entry about the last few days in the works, but I have just woken up from a bizarre, neither-sleep-nor-waking-dream at my library desk to find I have typed "Effect on the contract of carriage of the carrier deciding to stow the cargo on deck without first obtaininggggg beanbag ffor my room, but is there a spare kayak?" into my notes.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, the law of carriage of goods by sea is boring.

Purty

Some music is real purty. These songs make me want to turn my face upwards and sway from side to side, kind of like a tipsy wolf baying at the moon:

• Black Heart (Calexico). He sings "One man's righteousness is another man's long haul" and the high plaintive strings unfold, destiny rushing up to overwhelm you like a flash flood in the desert.
• Don't Worry Baby (Beach Boys). Brian Wilson, Brian Wilson, if you only knew what those soaring high falsetto notes in the verses do to me, you would take out a restraining order pronto. I just found out the song has an entire review to itself at AMG and is analysed in mindboggling musical detail elsewhere, so I will refrain from further gibbering and go try to solidify my melted innards.
• Stephanie Says (Velvet Underground). That violin melody in the background is just indescribable. I probably shouldn't be describing anything by (arguably) founding fathers of punk as a darling perfect little gem of a song you just want to keep close to your heart and love and cherish forever, but it really just is.

The Fields Of Athenry Can Just Fuck Off

On the train home from the Lake District, we had to share a carriage with a group of boisterous Irish football fans, who were filled with joy that Ireland had just beaten Bosnia 6-0 and felt the need to share this with us for four hours.

After the fifth bawled rendition of the low-lying fields of Athenry, where once we watched the small free birds fly, HEY BABY WATCH THE FREE BIRDS FLY!!! (it has to be heard for the experience to be fully understood), I phoned Alec and ranted loudly about how he came from a nation of drunks and how his fellow fucking Paddys in my carriage could just take their small free birds flying and stick them where the sun don't shine and the fucking birds don't fly. He took it like a man. The people sitting around me (fellow victims, that is, not the minstrels) were a bit rattled.

Snippets: Brighton, Calla Gig, Lake District

I have no time to write properly about the weekend in Brighton. It was great cheesy fun. Deep fried donuts and silly screaming on the rides, chilly sea winds, warm man, the sky on fire at dusk.

I have no time to write properly about the gig I went to on Monday at the Water Rats. Three bands: Mogul, The Bookoo Project, Calla. I was there to see Calla, expecting whispers and buzzing strings and bluesy moodiness. I got pulsing walls of sound and emphatic guitars. Worth far more than the £4 the gig cost, and also every penny of the two albums arriving soon in the post.

I have no time because it is now 3 AM. I have spent the last few hours giving my room a crash course in cleanliness. My sister arrives from Singapore at 6 AM, and we get on a train to the Lake District four hours later. (Note to self: some time before then, pack.)

So see you all on Monday, then, and have a good weekend. I expect mine will be muddy.

From Scratched-Up Shakespeare To Sonic Youth

The Bomb-itty Of Errors on Friday was truly, dare I say, da bomb. Shakespearean rhyming couplets adapted for rap with an on-stage DJ scratching, beatboxing and grooving right along with the performers. Four guys playing a multitude of characters, including women, to hilarious effect, especially when quick scene changes were involved. Bawdiness, and some random suggestions of animal lovin'. "MC Heidelberg" complete with ringlets and prosthetic nose. A plethora of pop cultural references, almost reminiscent of the Beastie Boys in Paul's Boutique. The only rolling Shakespeare does in his grave to this should be a headspin.

Afterwards I somewhat unnerved the waitress at Misato when I suddenly realized what they were playing on the restaurant's piped music and shrieked "Oh my God! This is Sonic Youth!" in the middle of ordering myself the teriyaki salmon bento. With background music like that, I couldn't help but enjoy the meal and should add, for the benefit of those that click on the review link above, that service was efficient and friendly despite my little geeky outburst.

Bizkit Bon Mots

I love The Independent. From today's "In Brief" column:

"The American rock band Limp Bizkit has cancelled a British festival appearance this summer to concentrate on their new album. The band, led by Fred Durst, [above], was due to play at the Download Festival at Donington Park at the end of the month. Durst said: "Sometimes you just have to go with the flow of creativity and we're doing just that." The band, one of the world's biggest rock acts, are working on a new release called Panty Sniffer."

(Enough beaver for you, Alec?)

Kanina Moment

I got called a cunt yesterday.

I was walking home with Gwen from our customary Wednesday night post-IP-law girlie dinner (which Alec calls the Short People's Club for some offensive reason of his own). A big black man waiting at a bus stop turned as we passed and said, quietly but distinctly, "Cunts."

I was obviously not going to make an issue of it, since I wouldn't have stood a chance in a brawl even if I scratched eyes and pulled hair (maybe if I kicked groin though), and we ignored him and kept walking. All the same, part of me desperately wanted to turn around and shriek "SI MI LAN CHEOW? KA NI NA BU CHAO CHEE BAI!" but that would have been descending to his level. Or perhaps considerably lower. Hokkien is the best cussing language ever.

This review of the re-release

This review of the re-release of Sonic Youth's Dirty album got a lot of what I like about the album right.

It also got my salivary glands into hyperdrive with its description of all the extra goodies included in the re-release. In particular, I quote: "Then come the instrumentals. Almost an entire disc of them, in fact. Failed experiments, jams, dry run-throughs of songs that made it on to Dirty, with nary a word from Kim, Thurston or Lee. This is probably the re-issue's main selling point. On most of their extended jams, Sonic Youth could work up a haze and mood that was positively unparalleled, and it's fairly intriguing to have a disc where that haze is never broken by the group's piercing vocals."

A disc full of Sonic Youth jams, which sound catchy rather than like the mutant offspring of free jazz and a powerdrill, and no Kim vocals? I WANT.

Something's Going Right

There's something wonderfully affirming about being able to spend quality time with three men you love over the weekend, only one of them being your boyfriend.

Apart from Saturday night/Sunday morning with Russ, I met Nick on Monday night (for those not in the UK, it was a public holiday here) for dinner at my beloved Sweet And Spicy before popping round the corner into Alec's local pub for drinks (note to self: must pop down there some other time and clarify with Sue behind the bar that I wasn't cheating on him). Again, the same feeling of happy companionable comfort, although it probably wouldn't have been at all apparent to anyone else given that we spent a fair bit of the time disagreeing violently and interspersing this with hacking coughs.

After we parted ways, I let myself into Alec's flat and settled down with In Cold Blood while waiting for him to return from Ireland, where he'd spent the weekend.

It's been one of those clusters of days when I look at my life and think that despite my multiple faults and failings, I must be doing something right (for which I also credit God, who, incidentally, I really should spend more quality time with).

What Will Be Will Be Fine

This was what was supposed to happen: I'd meet Russ some time on Saturday afternoon, we'd hang out a couple of hours, he'd leave after dinner for a party he'd been invited to, and I would then pack in some hardcore study for as much of the night as I could manage.

This was what did happen: at some point during dinner I reminded him about the party; at some point after dinner he decided to skip the party. At some point we were faintly aware he'd missed his last tube home; at some point I looked out of the window and it was no longer dark. At every point we talked. And talked. And talked.

I crawled into bed at 6 am, curling myself around what felt like an intense core of happiness, gripped by the conviction that what we have will withstand the stresses and separation to come when I leave England, that our two worlds will continue to have space for this.

The Path Of Least Resistance

I can only ever hold out for so long, and certainly against Django giving 10% off and free shipping for orders of $38 and above I was incapable of resistance. Witness my downfall:

• The Decemberists: Castaways And Cutouts
• Calla: Scavengers
• Calla: Televise (although I wouldn't have bought it if it wasn't $6.99)
• Magoo: The Soateramic Sounds Of Magoo (they didn't stock Realist Week, their latest. Pity, because that's the one I wanted. But after their Arts Cafe gig gobsmacked me so thoroughly I was prepared to buy anything by them.)
• Black Heart Procession: Amore Del Tropico

• Calexico: Feast Of Wire
• Prince: Greatest Hits :P

• Stephen Malkmus: Pig Lib
• Prefuse 73: One Word Extinguisher
• Lewis Parker: It's All Happening Now
• Matt Elliot: The Mess We Made

KLF Uh Huh Uh Huh

It was 3 AM, and I'd been reading the same sentence on the page of my IT law textbook over and over again for what seemed like forever. This triggered obscure skippety synapses in the Random Useless Music Trivia part of my increasingly bored mind and I found myself typing "KLF 3 AM Eternal" into Google just for the hell of it, only to reel back in shock at the discovery that after all these years of thinking they were saying "ACtion so GROO-VEE", they were actually apparently saying "ANcients of MU-MU".