Increasingly desperate

I have been trying desperately to avoid looking at my bank account balance. I know this is stupid, that there isn't more money in there from just not looking or I can't make it last longer by not knowing, I just didn't want to know. I should have realised how close to the edge I am, considering how much my travel into London costs me. I have reclaimed the expenses, of course, but that doesn't change that I'm not actually earning anything. I don't know how long I can go on working without pay for, but then I don't know how long they want me to, either.

Earlier in the week I learned that one of my colleagues and fellow intern had been offered a contract. I'm hazy on how much work experience he has done to date, but I know he likes the company; it's a major company with lots of big accounts and lots of jobs, but as he says; there is a lot of competition for the jobs, too. Being nosy, the next day I found his contract -- wholly by accident. And I found it wasn't a job offer at all, but instead an offer of paid work experience for three months, at a rate of £100 a week. I don't know if that is exclusive of travel expenses, because I spend at least £70 a week on travel and it wouldn't be very feasible. On the other hand, I'm currently working for even less than that, so it would be a step in the right direction.

I enjoy the company and I enjoy the work, and I think I could be very happy doing the job. But that's not really up to me.

In the meantime I need to try and find a way to make some money. First to go has to be the snowboard, but who the hell wants to buy a snowboard at the start of the summer? Perhaps I should have planned ahead a little better before I bought the bloody thing. I am also trying to isolate from my bank statements my car insurance payments, since when I got the car late last year my Dad agreed to pay the tax and insurance for a year as a joint birthday/christmas present -- but to date I have been paying for it.

All of this is just a short-term solution, the reality is I need a job that is paying me real money, and I need it right away. I've sent my CV and a covering letter to a couple of London-based agencies that deal with recruitment in PR, so the hope is either a job may come from one of those, or that my company will be compelled to offer me something more substantial rather than let me go. I don't know how much I mean to them, there is a greater supply of interns than there is demand, and I might just be another face they will forget in no time at all.

Serial Killer Sunday (#3)

Well-spoken, mild-mannered, good-looking and educated Ted Bundy is often seen as the archetypical psychopath -- and along with his total inability to relate to other people these qualities made him extremely dangerous.

Responsible for more than 30 murders in the mid- to late- 1970s, Bundy was introverted and shy, although academically gifted, and was generally well-liked by the people around him. He was also the first mass murderer to be referred to as a "serial killer".

Born Theodore Robert Cowell to the unwed Eleanor Cowell in 1946, Bundy spent the first years of his life living with his grandparents, believing they were his parents, and his Mother to be his sister. Bundy never knew his biological Father, although he took the name of Johnnie Bundy, whom his Mother married when he was 4 years old.

As a young teenager Bundy already had a history of shoplifting, theft and was an aspiring con artist, he also claimed to have spied on girls dressing through their windows.

Bundy's first recognised (there is speculation he may have killed or attacked women earlier) victim on January 4, 1974 barely survived, after he attacked her with a crowbar while she was asleep. The pattern was repeated with an attack on another young woman, also a student the University of Washington, but this time Bundy kidnapped her.

Growing more bold, Bundy went from attacking women in their apartments at night to stalking and killing them in the park -- he claimed at least eight victims between January and July, reaching a climax when he kidnapped two young women in broad daylight from the Lake Sammamish State Park, near Seattle. Around this time Bundy was also volunteering for the Seattle suicide crisis center, a role that seems both out of character and coldly manipulative.

It has been said that Bundy's crimes are particularly abhorrent because he often preyed on the good nature of people -- he was remembered as a charming young man with his arm in a sling, who approached people asking for their help with his boat. It was like he punished people for being willing to help him out, and it's this behaviour, an almost total lack of empathy or conscience that seems to identify him as a psychopath.

Moving to Utah to attend law school in the Autumn of 1974, Bundy brutally killed two young girls in October, before just over a week later attacking and attempting to kidnap a woman, who managed to escape. Bundy had approached her, claiming to be a police officer, and lured her to his car -- she escaped when he tried to handcuff her, despite being concussed after he hit her with a blunt object he'd hidden in the car.

Bundy was arrested in the summer of 1975 after his car was identified as stolen, and in 1976 he was sentenced to 15 years for kidnapping. In 1977, Bundy was taken to Colorado to stand trial for murder. However, he escaped by jumping from a second floor window after he was allowed to visit the courthouse's law library during a recess. With an injured ankle, Bundy wasn't able to make it very far and was arrested again a week later.

While awaiting trial in December, Bundy managed to escape again -- this time by cutting a hole in the ceiling of his cell, walking out the front door and stealing a car. By January, Bundy had made it to Florida -- via Denver, Chicago, Ann Arbor and Atlanta. He promptly began killing again, fatally attacking two young women asleep in their sorority house and injuring two others. He abducted and killed a young girl in early February before he was again caught driving a stolen car.

Despite being on trial for murder, Bundy remained popular, receiving fan letters from young women, and even marrying a coworker in the courtroom, during the trial. In a display of over-confidence or arrogance, Bundy refused the five court-appointed lawyers and chose instead to represent himself. He was sentenced to death in 1982, but his influence even seemed to appeal to the Judge, who made a point of telling Bundy:
"You're a bright young man. You'd have made a good lawyer, and I'd have loved to have you practice in front of me, but you went the wrong way, partner" -- and to take care of himself.

It's ironic perhaps to tell someone to look after themselves right after you sentence them to death.

While on death row, Bundy confessed to further murders and later offered to help detectives working on the case of the Green River Killer. Bundy's insights were largely unhelpful, and perhaps motivated more out of arrogance and a desire for attention -- apparently the detectives hadn't expected him to be much help, but had instead hoped to get details of unsolved murders Bundy was expected of. Bundy later confessed to a further eight unsolved murders, and is believed to have been trying to manipulate his confessions into a stay of execution by promising more details "later".

Along with offering more confessions, Bundy also later started referring to other selves and a part of himself he called "the entity" -- but not until he was appealing his death sentence. In a final television interview blamed his actions on violent pornography warping his mind, and warned against sexualised violence in the media. This is worth mentioning only because Bundy hadn't ever mentioned pornography before, and none was ever found on searches of his home. Instead it seems he was manipulative and unrepentant to the end, when he had to be forcibly dragged from his cell. On January 24, 1989, Bundy was executed in the electric chair. Crowds outside with banners reading "Burn, Bundy, Burn" cheered the news of his death.

Retracing my karma

"My party piece:
I strike, then from the moment when the matchstick
conjures up its light, to when the brightness moves
beyond its means, and dies, I say the story
of my life -

dates and places, torches I carried,
a cast of names and faces, those
who showed me love, or came close,
the changes I made, the lessons I learnt -"
(extract from untitled poem, by Simon Armitage)

Sometimes I talk of regrets in my life; mistakes in judgment, lapses in concentration or just decisions made that I have in hindsight felt were made wrongly. However, it occurred to me lately when I talk of these things that there are parts I am leaving out.

Months ago, late on a random Saturday night I ended up sitting in a pub with Deb and some assorted other people, including a very quiet guy that worked in the kitchen of the pub I worked in, and a friend of his who happened to be a boy I went to school with. We went to school together, but I'd probably be safe in saying we were never friends -- in fact, I would go far as saying I bullied him. From the age of 11 to probably about 16 or so, I was a dick to him. Most people were, and I guess I didn't think for myself -- he was just the kid whose clothes didn't fit, who had a bad haircut, but it wasn't only that. I think part of what annoyed me is that sometimes if you were talking to him individually, he could be okay. You could have a normal conversation about music, but in public -- if there were other people around -- he acted weird, played up to it. Perhaps he wanted the attention, even if it was negative attention? I don't know. Anyway, the point is that I believe I treated him badly. Although in the years since we left school our paths have crossed on several occasions and we have been friendly and polite to each other, it's nagged at me.

Then this one night, someone went to introduce us and he stopped them and said we had gone to school together. I agreed, we had -- and I turned to him and said that I was sorry for being such a complete arse to him at school. I told him that I had no excuse for my behaviour, that it was inexcusable, and for what it was worth I was sorry.

He said it clearly couldn't have been that bad, since he couldn't remember it. I don't believe it, I didn't believe it, and I think his eyes said something different. Either way, he said he remembered I made him a compilation tape of something or another and we had talked about music. I figure if he clearly doesn't hold a grudge against me, and I have told him I'm sorry, then I can consider it closed. Resolved, you might say. And like Earl Hickey I can cross him off my list.

In a conversation with Charley last weekend, the context I don't recall now, I remembered a girl I had gone to school with -- someone else treated badly. I decided to carry on with crossing people off my list, and sent an email to the address I thought I could remember for her -- just asking if it was still her address, because I wanted to reach her.

After almost a week I got a reply confirming it was indeed her address, and asking who I was.

I wasn't sure -- and to be honest, still aren't entirely convinced -- I was doing the right thing, but I emailed her clearing up who I was, and laying out exactly why I was emailing her. I apologised for messing with her head and generally behaving badly towards her for years, and hoped she would forgive me. I didn't honestly expect her to still harbour bad feelings about it, but I have never before apologised to her either.
For what it's worth, she says she forgave me years ago -- water under the bridge and all of that. Now I have to decide if I want anything further to do with her, since I had no desire to try and rekindle any friendship, but am wary of just disappearing again.

The whole concept of karma in Buddhism troubles me. I sort of get it -- every action having an equal and opposite reaction, the illusion of separateness, and so with it what you do to someone else you are doing to yourself, in a way. But I have always had issue with when bad things seem to happen undeserved to a good person -- the old lady who gets knocked over by a fleeing shoplifter, maybe hits her head or breaks something, what did she do to deserve that? But just the same, when I look back, I think of bullying a boy at school and wonder if it has anything to do with why my own life was later made miserable. I look at the girl who I treated badly and would never give a chance to, and consider if it has any relation to my failed relationships.

I don't believe it does, but I also think it's important to recognise bad things you have done and trying to make amends. It's a step towards universal compassion.

Things I’ll never say

San and I were talking over the weekend, about diaries and life and I asked her if she still kept up with her own online diary. She said it hadn’t been written in for a while, because writing about things means she has to think about them and face them and bring them into the open and deal with them. And there were some things she just didn’t want to do that with. I didn’t press her on details. But sometimes I think I know, because there are things I’ll never say. Like when we spend time together it can feel just like back in the old days when we were still a couple – sometimes it’s better. We’ve both grown up a bit since the days of when I was living in Leicester and seeing her all the time, San has grown out of acting like a princess and maybe I’ve grown out of letting her be one. She also takes more of an interest in world events now – she’ll surprise me with it and I’ll ask her who she is and what she has she done with San.
And sometimes when we see a film together, or we go to see John Hegley together, and things are just good I’ll consider going back.

But you can’t ever go back. This is the girl who broke my heart one time too many –who told me she didn’t love me and couldn’t be with me on more than one occasion. If things feel good between us now, if there is perhaps something unspoken hanging in the air, it’s because we’re not together and there’s no need to know where things are going. There’s no need to feel anything, because we’re just friends now – even if I do still consider getting a flat with her if I get a permanent job in London.

I know we can’t be together, because even when we were together I think we were always both kind of, sort of, looking for someone better or something more. And I know now we still are. It wouldn’t be right to be with San if, like last night, a cute girl catches my eye across the bar, and I get embarrassed and smile and look away when she looks at me. If even if I didn’t act on it – didn’t get the chance to act on it – that doesn’t change the desire. And what about people like Deb, who every time she hugs me I don’t want to let her go and when she looks at me a certain way I just want to kiss her. Or Lyndsay – months now with no contact, but still a flame flickering somewhere in my mind, like the postcard I sent her from France comparing her to the morning sun on the Alps. All of these thoughts and feelings and desires would still be there.

And as I say, San broke my heart one time too many – there comes a time when you have to stop, and say to yourself that there is no guarantee the cycle won’t continue and she won’t do it again in a month, or six months’ time. I guess she knows this too, if it’s even something she thinks about.

Serial Killer Sunday (#2)

#"I'll make a shoehorn outta your skin
I'll make a lampshade of durable skin
And oh, don't you know that I'm always feelin' able
When I'm sittin' home and I'm carving out your navel#
Skinned by Blind Melon

Born Edward Theodore on 27 August 1906 to George and Augusta Gein. The younger brother of Henry Gein, Ed Gein has been the inspiration behind many memorable movie serial killers -- including Norman Bates in Psycho, Leatherface in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Buffalo Bill in The Silence of the Lambs. The latter is one of the more accurate portrayals of the mass murderer who made 'suits' from the skin of his victims, and made ornaments out of their skulls.

Gein's childhood is almost undoubtedly where it all began -- although as ever with this type of depravity, one can't help but wonder if someone could just be born bad. Gein's father, George Gein, was a hopeless and timid alcoholic while his mother, Augusta, was feverishly puritanic and endlessly warned her sons against the sins of the flesh, and the inherent evil of women. Although she had their best interests at heart with her dire warnings of the pits of hell, and preached of the evils of alcohol and lust, one can't help but feel it may have been taken a little too far.

Gein's brother Henry died four years after their father died of a heart attack. By all accounts, Henry grew up fine and wanted a normal life of his own -- perhaps a wife and family, and to move away. He apparently also made the mistake of bad-mouthing their mother to his younger brother. In 1944 the fire service were called to a bursh fire at the Gein farm. On their arrival, Gein claimed his brother was missing, although he lead them to where his body lay. The cause of death was put down as asphxiation from the smoke.

Gein spent the next year living alone with his mother in their farmhouse, and the inspiration for the movie Psycho apparently comes from their relationship, where Augusta would tell her son what a waste he was and compare him to his father, in between praising him and letting him share her bed. Her death from cancer a year later, following a series of strokes, probably didn't do Gein's mental stability a lot of good.

With the assistance of an accomplice, known only as Gus, who worked at a local cemetary, Gein mutilated the bodies of a number of women. He apparently favoured the older, plump women who reminded him of his own mother -- and it was from these that he began making his gruesome trophies. The details of these I won't go into here, there are some things I just won't talk about in public, after all.

In a move that may have been inevitable, when 'Gus' was moved to an old people's home and could no longer help Gein with his nocturnal activities -- which, incidentally, went unnoticed, Gein moved from grave robbing to murder.

A number of missing persons in the area were left unsolved after bodies were never found, and although after his arrest Gein was later a suspect, he denied killing more than two people.

Gein spent 10 years in a mental institution, before being declared mentally competent to stand trial for his crimes. Despite being found guilty, it was ruled that he had been insane at the time of the murders and he was sent back to hospital where he was apparently a model patient. He died of cancer in 1984, and was buried alongside his mother in the same cemetary he had desecrated during his lifetime.

Day two

At the end of day two in the PR internship things are good. Strangely, for someone who is used to getting out of bed normally no earlier than 9 or 10, I am not struggling too much with 6.30 starts. It helps that I sleep on public transport, so I grab a window seat on the train into London and doze until we arrive.

The office is a very cool place. I felt a little silly yesterday, turning up in my smart black suit and white shirt to find that it really was smart casual, not even smart, but blue jeans casual. They reassured me I did the right thing wearing a suit though, because if it had been the other way around... Everyone seems friendly, people introduce themselves and ask how long I'm around for and you have conversations like you haven't only met for the first time that morning.

The work varies -- although I doubt any job is all interesting and exciting all of the time, it's a pretty fast-paced environment and not too unlike journalism. But rather than pages to fill and editors to satisfy there are accounts and presentations and all sorts of things to organise. In the course of a day I might be researching stuff, looking for up-market bars and private clubs around the country, then spend some time putting mail shots into envelopes, then later on be calling journalists to try and convince them they want to be writing a feature about a new washing up liquid.

It feels strange calling newspapers. I was given a list of people to call and told what to say, and they warned me journalists could be rude and asked me if I had spoken to any before. "I kind of worked as a journalist, for a while" I say, and they understand. I know how it is. But I'm still surprised when I talk to one and am trying to sound enthusiastic about being from whatever detergent company (even though technically, I'm sort of not) and they say in a bored voice, tired of dealing with PR people: "What are you flogging, then?". But it's not like that, and that same weary journalist takes half an interest when you explain and puts you in touch with someone else.

When I was being asked to do some research I was asked if I had ever done research before. Again, I tell someone that I sort of worked as a journalist.
"Come over to the dark side, have you?" they ask, and I laugh.
Because it's true. PR always was referred to as the dark side -- people who couldn't write a tight, punchy intro and are more interested in getting you to write about whatever product they are being paid to push, but of course it's not as simple as just that. All the same, I have been turned to the dark side of the force, I have pledged my allegiance to them, and I do enjoy my work.

Musical Monday (#2)

Musical Monday continues on a completely different train of thought to the first post. We go from the most powerful jazz musician in America, to a folk rock 5-piece from Michigan.

The Great Lakes Myth Society were formed in 2004, two months after the dissolution of their previous band, The Original Brothers and Sisters of Love.

The GLMS rekindle their love of Michigan first explored in TOBSOL, and build further on it, mixing influences such as Steeleye Span, David Bowie and a very clear sound of the Pogues. The songs range from being nostalgic, as with Isabella County, 1992, to fantastical, like with Big Jim Hawkins, where they retell the mythical Paul Bunyan's creation of the Great Lakes, by way of a fight with a giant Jim Hawkins.

One of the things I like most about the band are their poetic lyrics, which would stand out as worthy poetry even without their music; indeed it sometimes feels like the songs have been made to fit around poems. The way the lines scan and words fit to the music seem like strange choices if this isn't the case -- although the songs don't suffer for it.

Not having so much as ever visited Michigan the songs are full of intricate references I often need explaining -- luckily for me, Jamie introduced me to the music and she does understand the references, and so can explain things like why in Isabella County, 1992 there are references to being "drunk all the time" or what the "salt trucks" are in the song Red Jacket Miners.

The songs are strangely catchy -- even if some stand out more than others -- although I find I enjoy them more if I can concentrate, rather than just as background. It's difficult to know what song to include here, but I have chosen Isabella County, 1992, if only because it was one of their first songs I heard, and the one I have mentioned the most. Short of that, go their MySpace page and listen to the songs they have available to download. Or just buy their album and be done with it.


Great Lakes Myth Society -Isabella County, 1992.mp3

Serial Killer Sunday

David Berkowitz is at once one of the most complex, contradictory and enduringly fascinating serial killers. During 1976 he shot and killed six people, and wounded eight others in attacks dating back to 1975. It has been said that the media attention on serial killers prompts them to continue killing, prompting more media coverage and even more killings. Berkowitz called himself the Son of Sam after he was called it in the newspapers, and the letters he wrote were inspired by something he had read about Jack the Ripper. Cynically one could suggest that Berkowitz's own website used for his messages of remorse and faith are just part of his need for attention.

It is speculated that Berkowitz's adoption inspired in him the rage and violence that he was to later vent as the .44 caliber killer, although he apparently had a generous and caring adopted family. However, he is also the subject of much professional debate -- about his motives, his sanity and the full extent of his involvement.

During his reign of terror in New York, Berkowitz taunted the police with barely-legible but haunting letters in which he claimed he was ordered to kill by "Father Sam" -- apparently his neighbour Sam Carr, whom Berkowirz claimed was a demon -- with instructions related to him by Harvery, his neighbour's black labrador.

Berkowitz -- nicknamed the 'Son of Sam' -- was apprehended after being given a parking ticket on the night of one of his attacks. He cheerfully confessed to the murders and pleaded guilty.

He has since retracted his tales of demonic voices and evil dogs, instead giving a more straight-forward explanation of a loathing for women. Berkowitz has said, however, he was a satanist and has also claimed that his neighbour, Sam Carr's, sons John and Michael were also involved a satanic 'coven' -- among other people whose identities he hasn't revealed. John and Michael died in mysterious circumstances in 1978 and 1979. Berkowitz insists he acted alone, but "There were others who knew about them and urged me on. But I carried out the killings. I take full responsibility for my actions."

Berkowitz is a quarter-century into a prison sentence of 365 years, and has repeatedly insisted he doesn't want to be paroled. He is now a born-again Christian and author.

Serial Killer Sunday

In the vein of Musical Monday and Half-Nekkid Thursday, I bring the blogging community my own theme day: Serial Killer Sunday.

I will create the first post later on today, since right now it's 1.30am and I just spent an hour making the image for the post.

Bat country

I'm ashamed for missing Musical Monday on only the second opportunity I've had so far to take advantage of it; I realise also there has been no "News day Tuesday" or "Serial Killer Sunday". I missed Monday's because I went to London to visit San, who is home for Easter. Things are carrying on as normal in Kings Cross -- a Starbucks has opened (though I don't believe they really open, I think they're alive and they grow...) and new buildings are springing up along the skyline. The area is regenerating, all in time for the Olympics, I don't think I even saw a single burned-out car this time round. In San's house things have their own kind of normality -- San's younger sister came out to their Mum, who I don't think was really all that surprised considering the amount of time she was spending with her girl "friend".

Things carry on more or less like they always have. In San's flat I noticed a mini trampoline. "Why do you have that?" I asked. San told me her sister had bought it, and didn't ask anything more. If San had bought it, I might have tried to understand why -- but San's sister and her mum buy strange things they see on TV. Like the new water filter in the kitchen. Not satisfied with the plastic jugs you fill up and put in the fridge, now they have an electric one with indicator lights and stuff that looks like an R2 unit and doesn't chill the water like it's supposed to.

San and I went to see the film "The Three Burials of Melquiades Estrada", in a screening with only perhaps half a dozen other people. Described as "Part complex character study, part Peckinpah-esque border Western, part mystic epic" the film revolved around a killer being made to carry his victim's corpse to his resting place in Mexico. It was funny in places, touching in others, and sometimes just sad, and needless to say I really liked it.

So that's why I missed Musical Monday, I will try and make a belated post to make up for it tomorrow since I already picked out in advance who it will be about.

All for the experience

Last week ended with me getting phone calls from the media sales agency, and consistently missing them. I'd call back and leave a message, they'd return my call and have to leave a message. This carried on the next week on Monday, obviously with a break over the weekend -- but by Monday I had decided I didn't want to work in sales. I knew I had to call the agency, or talk to them when they called me...I just couldn't do it. In the end I chickened out, and emailed them. I didn't get a reply, but they stopped calling, and that was what I wanted. Because I was avoiding their calls though I also had to keep calling back an agency I did want to talk to -- although the story from agencies about editorial or creative work has been the same almost every time; not enough experience.

Some agencies were more interested than others, and this one in particular chatted to me about my experience and what I wanted, but expressed doubts they could find me anything. However, within minutes of hanging up the phone to one guy I got a call from one of his colleagues who had my CV and thought she might have a job opportunity for me. Reporter for a B2B international finance magazine, a junior position with writing involved from day one and gradually more responsibility and the possibility for international travel. The more she told me, the more interested I was. She said she would send the company my CV and let me know if they wanted to interview me.

The next day she called with the news; they didn't. I wasn't experienced enough -- for a junior position, and not even worth interviewing. Naturally I was pretty disappointed, and I posted a question on a jobs board of a forum asking people for advice on getting experience in the form of unpaid work. I got a few responses, one person asked if I was "at least writing". I can't very well show a prospective employer my blog -- "We like the way you talk about this girl you fancy, you're hired" -- which is partly the rationale behind the occasional commentary on current affairs. Other questions involved where I had done any internships, since apparently it's not only a great way to get experience, but also a common way for employers to find suitable employees.

This prompted me to search for internship opportunities. Initial searches, although at first promising, seemed to suggest that internships in London were mostly aimed at international students. I'm still considering my own internship abroad -- opportunities in Australia, New Zealand and Italy have caught my eye in particular. However, anything involving an antipodean trip would cost me money I don't have right now -- and to fund such a trip, I would need the ever-elusive 'real job'.

So it's just as well a London-based PR firm have now offered me the opportunity to intern for at least a month, and possibly longer. I feel slightly apprehensive that I am now quitting my job to work unpaid, but I figure it's something I can't let pass me by if I intend to ever get out from behind the bar and into something more suited to me.

The other day a guy I once went to school with and worked alongside, behind the bar, several summers ago stopped in for a drink -- apparently after work. I tried to be polite and friendly, but still show no obvious sign of recognising him. He was dressed in a suit -- which didn't suit him in the least, he always seemed scruffy, however he was dressed -- and smugly asked me; "So what are you up to now?".
"You're looking at it", I said.

Very short news round up for Saturday

It's News day...er Saturday today. Not a regular feature, at least for the day -- but the need to continue to comment on current affairs is going to be more common.

Bird flu testing keeps labs open
All eight of Scotland's laboratories that can test for bird flu are to open over the weekend to help meet the rise in referrals of dead birds.
The good news so far is that apparently further tests on other dead birds have come back negative. Call me a pessimist, but I don't expect it to last. I don't know what will become of bird flu, whether it will ever mutate to spread between people, but at the very least I think it will be a disastrous for our wildlife. At this point, only time will tell what's going to happen.

Silence on Harry lap dance claims
Clarence House has refused to comment on newspaper reports claiming Prince Harry went to a lap dancing club.
I have to say, I am morally outraged at the shocking news that the 21 year old went to a lap dancing club with some friends, and turned down a lap dance. His behaviour is disgraceful -- I mean turning down a dance, she could be a future princess. Except of course she wouldn't be, because she would have to be in some way related to him to begin with.


UKIP parks tank at Tory meeting
The UK Independence Party parked an armoured personnel carrier outside the Conservative Party's spring conference in Manchester.
Seemingly oblivious to the meaning of irony, the party take offence at being called "fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists" by the Conservative leader, and attempt to prove him wrong by turning up in a tank, and then demanding an apology. That sounds perfectly reasonable...

Following on

Following the success of Musical Monday -- or at least, it was a success to me as it gave me the opportunity to do something slightly different -- I have been toying with the idea of incorporating other themes. Ideas to date have included "News day Tuesday", where I comment on current affairs in true blogger style, and "Serial Killer Sunday"; a very similar idea to Musical Monday -- except I write about mass murderers, instead of musicians. Think "Natural Born Killers" where the media turns murderers into celebrities, or the screaming girl 'fans' of Richard Ramirez.

Unfortunately today is Wednesday and I haven't yet thought of a theme for Wednesdays. Perhaps "quiz day Wednesday" would work, but every day doesn't have to have a theme otherwise I would only be able to complain about girls or not being able to get a job on certain days. And I'm already going to break the rules today -- by talking about the news.

Man held as terrorism suspect over punk song: LONDON (Reuters) - Anti-terrorism detectives escorted a man from a plane after a taxi driver had earlier become suspicious when he started singing along to a track by punk band The Clash, police said on Wednesday.

It would seem that in these enlightened times your choice of listening material can get you arrested. While in some cases this should be encouraged, anyone who buys Robbie Williams' albums, for example, or people who vote for Pop Idol -- but I don't think there are many occasions when political content in music taken out of context should be cause to call the police.

'Detectives halted the London-bound flight at Durham Tees Valley Airport and Harraj Mann, 24, was taken off.

The taxi driver had become worried on the way to the airport because Mann had been singing along to The Clash's 1979 anthem "London Calling," which features the lyrics "Now war is declared -- and battle come down" while other lines warn of a "meltdown expected".'

Interestingly, the Hartlepool Today webportal reported the same story two days ago about the man as their local resident being taken off the plane -- but there is no mention of his music. He expressed bemusement about the whole thing. What it does mention, as you might have guessed from his name, Mr Mann is of Indian descent. I would be willing to bet that a white person playing the Clash woudln't get escorted off a plane.

It's likely the lyrics would be again misinterpreted, perhaps as white supremacist, but I think it's important that a foreign-looking man should be detained under the prevention of terrorism act because of his choice of music. He should be warned never to show any public appreciation of Rage Against the Machine.

Music Tuesday

Entirely unrelated to Musical Monday, I hadn't wanted to bring down the tone of yesterday's post with far more commercial ramblings. But it goes a little like this.

Late last week, the rumours that Pearl Jam would be performing a one-off low key gig at London's Astoria were proved to be true, after a false start when Jon failed to win a pair of tickets from the fan club with perseverence an early start the next morning he managed to secure us two tickets. For anyone (that is, probably most people who read this) who doesn't know why this is a big deal -- the last time we saw Pearl Jam play, they sold out arenas. The Astoria has a capacity of 1200 people -- compared to Wembley Arena's 10,000. Tickets sold out within minutes, and have since been selling on ebay for upwards of a grand a pair.

Nick apparently sulked when Jon told him he'd bought two tickets -- for us -- and hadn't told him. "I didn't think you were a fan" Jon told him, which is true
"I am" he replied "I own two of their albums"
When questioned on which albums they were he could name only Ten, claiming he couldn't remember 'the other one'. So he's clearly a very big fan.

Yesterday this year's Reading festival (or as it's known these days "The Carling Weekend Festival: Reading") lineup was announced. And after months of speculation, it was announced Pearl Jam were to headline the Sunday night.

There was a similar rush for tickets when they went on sale a short while later, and Jon did the decent thing by buying Nick a ticket this time.
Besides, we need someone to drive the RV we're planning on renting for it.

I'm as excited at some of the much smaller bands playing -- in particular the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and the Raconteurs are high on my list, although I was disappointed there isn't a recently-reformed Smashing Pumpkins on the bill. And that's it for Music Tuesday -- we have tickets to see Pearl Jam at one of the city's best venues, and tickets to Reading festival.

Now I just need a new job to pay for this decadence...

Musical Monday

I discovered today that Mondays in this neck of the woods, according to the Noir-inspired WDKY, are Musical Monday. In honour of this there is now a link in the sidebar, and I have configured the Last.fm recently played list so it looks better and actually seems to fit inside the frame.

I wish I could be all Indie Rock Pete and make it new music Monday, and talk about lots of obscure bands nobody has heard of or would want to hear of, but I'm just not that cool.

Instead, today I bring you the sublimely talented jazz trumpeter, Mr Wynton Marsalis. According to my 'Penguin Guide to Jazz' (Cook & Morton, 1997) Marsalis is "the most powerful jazz musician in America today".
Born in New Orleans on October 18, 1961, to the relatively obscure musician Ellis Marsalis, Wynton Marsalis is one of six brothers, including Branford Marsalis and Delfeayo Marsalis.

A kind of child prodigy, Marsalis quickly went from learning the trumpet as a child, to playing concertos and funk bands in his teens, before going on to study at Juliard. At 20 he was leading a new traditionalism in jazz -- and from then his influence has only grown, from joining Art Blakey in 1981, forming a band with his brother Branford in 1982 and since 1992 his position as Artistic Director of Jazz at Lincoln Center.