The crepe list continued

Yes, you can take it as read.  There are even more aspects of modern life that seriously get on my non-existent knackers.  And because I had neither the time nor the inclination to look at them in the original Crepe List post, I thought I might as well put together a follow-up now.  (Cheap, tacky and obvious move I know, but hey, flankers always sell well in cinemas, sweet shops and perfume halls.)

So here they are, again, in no particular order:

Drippy hippies running in slow motion through waist-high meadows of wild flowers against a soundtrack of sensitive singer-songwriters crooning fey paens to childhood friendship whilst strumming a single acoustic guitar – when the mobile phone network in question continues to send you computerised invoices carefully itemising every last text you sent to your ex when you felt ‘tired and emotional’ last Friday night. Don’t forget that these multi-national conglomerates intent on grabbing every last penny of your cash used to advertise themselves as looming behemoth Laputas mistaken for invading UFOs on RAF radar screens back during the Eighties.

Keep calm and carry on posters – why the hell have these Second World War relics from

the Central Office of Information’s attic clear-out become so popular of late? Presumably because they are easy to turn into mugs, tea towels and the sort of ‘ironic’ retro poster that Nathan Barley and co consider an absolute hoot to hang up on the wall of the office boardroom. No-one these days takes this sort of stark, stoical, uncompromising attitude to life at all seriously (hence the existence of such bleary miseries on the literary landscape as Liz Jones). The only variants on this theme that I like at all are: ‘I will not keep calm – and you can fuck off’ (have saved a copy of this on my mobile to make me cackle when times is hard) and ‘Now scream your head off and freak out’ (not managed to track down one of these for my mobile as of yet – though we live in hope)

David Cameron – ugly, moon-faced, ubiquitous windbag of an utter non-entity – yet somehow he’s managed to find himself in charge of our entire country. Just what is the point of his existence, apart from helping to pay the mortgages of Ian Hislop and Paul Merton? Bloody big mortgages to keep going in such financially straitened times as these, is all I can say. Move to a cardboard box on the Norfolk Broads. You know it makes sense!

Spray tans – so walking about drenched in stray off-cuts of reject caramel is supposed to make me more attractive to the opposite sex, is it? I know human beings come in a huge range of colours and finishes, but Tango-Dorito E-number orange is not exactly a Pantone I ever remember encountering in nature.

Pod being a hip, happenin’ sort of suffix for desirable new products (like state-of-the-art computer technology, cool coffee-shops on Islington High Street frequented by urban bike-riding Guardian readers, offices constructed entirely out of plate glass and steel girders so that the inmates end up feeling like tomatoes in a greenhouse every time the sun comes out) – ‘pods’ are what beans live in as they develop to maturity. It doesn’t matter whether they are coffee, vanilla or green. End of story.

Stacks of false eyelashes adorning women’s faces – sorry, but I don’t happen to be either a drag-queen or Ermintrude the cow from The Magic Roundabout. And while Scandinavian-style paper cut-out ones showing the outlines of birds perching on top of chimney pots might well be a work of art, they’ll still peel off and fall straight into your mug of skinny latte the first time you ever wear them, so I wouldn’t bother shelling out that £29.99 in Liberty if I were you.

Britain is great fever – in that case, why all the jokes about sending your rubbish to France? And how comes it was Roger Federer who won the Men’s Singles at Wimbledon for the seventh bloody time? (I’ll say this for him, though – if he hadn’t bagged the title, then it’s guaranteed that Andy Murray would have been given a knighthood in the next Queen’s honours list.) Plus we seem to have conveniently forgotten that, in normal years, some of the most vociferous advocates of bellowing patriotism are football hooligans, extreme right-wing Fascist nutters, Daily Mail readers – and punks taking the piss during tough times. Are you sure you want to be associated with any of these people?

Spanx knickers – aka ‘pull-you-in’ knickers. So you’ve been following the maple syrup and lemon juice diet for the past month and a half, yet you still haven’t managed to rid yourself of that last teaspoon of stubborn cellulite on your bum? Fear not, control underwear is here to hoist you into shape for that red carpet photo-opportunity. Now no-one but you need ever know your dirty little secret – you’re fat!!!!!!!! If someone like me pulls a pair of these vicious piranha knickers on, they simply redistribute the flab. The laws of physics state that energy cannot be created or destroyed – and neither can wobble. So your spare tyres are forced to migrate to sunnier climes – your neck and your knees. Aren’t you glad nobody has ever heard of you, so that no pictures of you appear on the front of Heat magazine with a circle drawn round the offending portion of blubber together with the accompanying caption accusing you of ‘letting yourself go’?

Tons of black eyeliner – in case you hadn’t already noticed, I’m not Amy Winehouse. And I’m not modelling cheeky little polka-dot prom dresses designed to showcase my ‘magnificent bangers’ in the after segment of a Gok Wan make-over, either. Nor am I sleeping with Don Draper in the office stationery cupboard when I’m not typing up letter after wonderful letter for him in the typing pool. Let’s get the photocopier on the case!

‘I’m going on a journey’ type formats for documentaries – always fancied a holiday in the Galapagos Islands or a cruise aboard the QEII, yet have never had enough moolah ready to afford it? All you need to do is get commissioned to write and present your very own documentary. All real-life programmes automatically triple their appeal to the viewers once they can offer a few pretty (and aspirational) backgrounds, so chuck your cute little knitted beanie on and start thinking of some nifty links between the death of neutron stars and a trip round the Galapagos Islands via the QEII. Hint to any glamorous lady intellectuals out there nurturing a humongous crush on Professor Brian Cox – just arrange to pass by a convenient glacier or iceberg whilst wearing your best padded parka – and he’ll get winched in by helicopter to join you. Guaranteed!

Knackered and clapped out

If anybody out there is wondering where the hell I've been and what the bollock I've been doing since you last heard from me, just give me a chance to explain.

Over the course of the past month I have:

1.)  Undergone an operation at the Christie Hospital
2.)  Passed my MA course with a Distinction
3.)  Finished learning the Georgian alphabet
4.)  Been stricken with a horrible virus
5.)  Suffering from post-viral exhaustion

I am afraid that I also looked up 'steam cleaning teeth' on Google - and discovered that that stupid old ratbag Liz Jones happens to be telling the truth about this rather esoteric sounding health and beauty treatment.  However, you'll be glad to hear that no way am I daft enough to actually sign up for a course of it.

And of course I haven't forgotten the lovely Dr Frogg.

So just relax and give me a break, would you?

Froggy is my darling

Or why we all love and worship Doktor Archibald Frogg from the League of Super Evil.

Find out more once I've finished writing it and posted it up here ...

The crepe list

In no particular order, a selection of the things that have been getting right up my schnonker (sp?) recently:

* Cupcakes - ponced-up fairy cakes with an inflated idea of their own importance
* Mismatched sets of vintage china - great way to charge triple for chipped pieces of bargain-basement crockery in balls-achingly trendy and eye-wateringly overpriced interior decorators called Carpet in Shoreditch (remember that shop in The Harry and Paul Show that used to part Trustafarians from their parents' hard-earned money?)
* Cake-stands - only useful for putting cupcakes on in twee teashop windows in Shoreditch
* Doilies - ditto
* Tea-cosies - what you make to pay your mortgage after you get made redundant from your job in the City
* Crochet - ditto
* Knitting - ditto
* Home sewing - something I am not very good at, due to being deficient in many of the more traditionally 'feminine' skills (so how I'm going to pay my mortgage during an economic downturn, I don't know.  Chutney-brewing, perhaps?)
* Owls - as signifiers of cute 'quirkiness', rather than ancient wisdom and knowledge
* Taxidermy
* Fancy cut-out silhouettes
* Bloody obsession with anything and everything Scandinavian - starting to wonder whether this hasn't all been secretly sponsored by the tourist boards of all these countries a la 'Carrots give you cancer - signed the Potato Marketing Board' campaigns
* Sara Lund's sodding jumper - she wears it because it keeps her warm in a cold climate and it's quick and easy to put on in the morning.  Proof - I have never seen her get snapped in it at the Coachella Festival
* Constant festivals - that all seem to be starring Florence And The Machine on the Jimi Hendrix Stage
* Assumption that I am meant to be at all arsed what all the female celebs are wearing at these endless festivals and who they have started going out with this week
* Twiglet-thighed female celebrities who don't ever seem to do any work, but only ever get papped on the red carpet/on holiday/at festivals, thus making you conclude that their definition of 'work' must be 'blagging designer clothes to get papped in on the red carpet/on holiday/at festivals'
* Constant twitterings in women's magazines about how 'lonely' and 'unlucky with men' Jennifer Anniston is meant to be - well, she doesn't seem to be doing at all badly from where I'm sitting
* Claiming that Prince Harry is 'handsome' - no, he sodding isn't!  Just look at him - a baked potato in fatigues jumping out of helicopters into the sea.  All these women only drool over him because he has a title, is loaded and appears in the papers every day.
* Liz Jones getting paid shedloads of moolah every week for writing total cobblers about her supposed 'fairy-tale' affair with a washed-up 'rock star' - generally referred to on Mumsnet, DigitalSpy, Gransnet, The Angry Mob et al as the 'FRS' (Fantasy/Fairytale Rock Star, rather than 'Former' RS) because that's what they have all concluded he probably is.  If Liz Jones longs to write novels with curlicued pictures of pink shoes and purple handbags on the front that stressed-out twenty-something women read on the Tube to take their minds off worrying about possibly losing their jobs during the current economic downturn, then why doesn't she just write up a synopsis of her idea and send it off to a few publishers for consideration?
* The media insistently banging on about how 'gorgeous' George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Ryan Gosling are - don't you even trust me to make up my OWN mind about celeb men?
* Idea that it is intrinsically 'feminine' for women of all ages to absolutely adore pink sparkles on anything and everything - if I took this up at my age (44), the natural assumption would be that my husband had left me for his secretary and I was now attempting to drown my sorrows in chardonnay and male strippers
* Fake tits
* Tango tans
* Horrible dagger-like false nails - if I'm not working as a porn star, why the hell would I want to dress like one?

The tea-trays of Atlantis

Well, it's official, fans.

I am suffering from acute library book withdrawal symptoms.

Manchester's Central Library is going to be out of commission until 2014 (or even longer, if the current renovation works fall behind schedule) and I'm already finding it difficult to cope.

Because there isn't all that much room in their temporary quarters on Deansgate, the librarians have had to store  most of their extensive holdings down the bottom of an abandoned salt mine somewhere in Cheshire.  Hence there are far less books, papers, magazines, CDs, DVDs and so on in circulation at the moment.

I've been trying my best by extending my range and visiting first Didsbury and then Chorlton, but it seems obvious that all the branch libraries share a pool of books which they regularly exchange amongst themselves.  As a voracious bookworm, I've already managed to work my way through a fair old number of these volumes. So now I'm starting to read some of my old favourites again.

Oh, how I miss the extensive and capacious shelves of the Central Library!

Four floors crammed to the rafters with the brightest, the best, the brilliant and just the plain barmy in world literacy.  Plus tons more in the stacks that you can order up from the basement stores.

The lack of weirdy-books is proving particularly galling.

I realise that Manchester Libraries probably chose to keep the books most likely to be of interest to the greatest number of borrowers - and these days your average punter prefers Jamie Oliver's 30-minute mispronounced dinners and Kevin McCloud's wallpaper hanging tips to alternative history and parapsychology (unless it is the bloody abysmal Da Vinci sodding Code - how that illiterate berk Dan Brown has managed to earn so much money from it is beyond me).

But oddball books have provided me with hours of free inhouse entertainment over the years - as you will know if you've bothered reading this blog on anything approaching a regular basis.

One abiding favourite I will be forever indebted to the Central Library for is Discovering Atlantis by Diana Cooper:

http://www.dianacooper.com/atlantis/

In this classic of New Age spirituality, Diana elaborates on the popular theory that the people of that mythical sunken civilization owed their greatness to crystal power.

When their children reached the age of adult majority, they were presented with a crystal wand and an object that looked just like a large metal tea tray.  Every time they wanted to travel somewhere, they sat on top of the tea tray, tapped the side of it with the crystal wand and thought of their destination.  Slowly, slowly, the tea tray began to rise in the air ...

Costcutters

Thoroughly cheesed off to read in the latest edition of the Guardian Media guide that Grace Dent is leaving.

Not only that, but she claims that she is being replaced not by another proper professional reviewer, but by reader contributions supplemented by copy generated by 'android pigs with hats on' (must remember to check this quote again and amend if necessary, rather than spend ages online reading the latest developments in the extremely disturbing Anders Behring Breivik trial and attempting to find out how the hell the bloody appalling man has managed to get himself any fans at all, let alone a German woman penfriend who might have even fallen in love with him).

In other words, those tight-fisted buggers on the Guardian are desperately trying to save money by cutting down on the number of qualified experts they employ.  The excuse they are going to use is that they want to make the paper more 'interactive' and 'user-friendly', because the advent of the Internet has turned everyone who watches telly (aka 'downloads content' - yuck, horrible modern techno-bollockese phrase de jour) into a critic.

Enter endless screeds of rabid fanboy dork-dribble, half-illiterate two-word summaries that tell you five fifths of fuck-all about the programme and hordes of students doing unpaid work experience who reckon the best way to create a reputation is by doing word-perfect impressions of Charlie Brooker circa 2003.

Grace is right to describe television as an artform that deserves to be taken seriously.  If the Guardian agrees with her conclusion, then they should be prepared to splash out on a full-time, appropriately experienced and qualified reviewer.

And if they claim to support up and coming new journalists, then they should be coughing up the going NUJ rates for every piece of copy that the work experience bods knock up. Plus a full byline.

They walk among us

Now HERE'S something new you don't learn everyday!

Those naughty little Illuminati get everywhere - and then some.

According to that unimpeachable authority Dr Google, they've even managed to extende their evil suckered tentacles as far as the north west.  At great personal cost, dedicated conspiracy nuts/theorists (please delete according to personal taste and/or current level of gullibility) have now uncovered convincing evidence of their presence in Manchester and Buxton.  Just see these links for far more and unnecessary details than you ever imagined in the very worst of all your nightmares:

http://illuminati-manchester.blogspot.co.uk/2010/01/ive-had-couple-of-e-mails-asking-about.html

http://buxtonilluminati.webs.com/buxtonandtheoccult.htm

On reading all these breathless revelations, a few basic questions do spring inevitably to mind.

1.)  If the Illuminati are such a mighty and all-powerful organisation as is usually claimed in these sort of screeds, then why on earth would they be so daft as to reveal covert signs of their presence and coded indications of their future plans all over the place?  They're meant to be secret, remember!

2.)  If the Illuminati are such a mighty and all-powerful organisation, you would think they would be rather more efficient when it came to company branding.  Why not open a chain of coffee-stores with a branch on every corner in the world, rather than have Rihanna make rude  gestures with her fingers in her next video (whilst wearing a jacket with a picture of a pyramid and an all-seeing eye on the back)?  That is, assuming they want everybody to even know of their presence in the first place.

3.) How exactly would it help further their supposed plans for world domination if they take over places like Manchester and Buxton?  Are they thinking of re-opening the Hacienda and the Spa, perhaps? 

4.)  I always thought local authorities were in charge of running Manchester and Buxton.  And I would imagine Richard Leeson would be pretty surprised (not to mention worried) to see a set of green scales when he takes off his vest at night.

5.) If the Illuminati are really such a brutal and ruthless outfit, how come weirdoes of every stripe have managed to reveal every little last detail of their calamatous influence right over into the furthest reaches of the Internet?  Surely they would be able to stamp out dissidence even more promptly than the government of North Korea.