Physics is Phun!

Well Neutrinos are a bit blooming fast ain’t they?! At last, something interesting has happened in the Large Hadron Collider and we can relax about £4.4 billion it cost to make. Phew. Day and night, desperate physicists have been whirling all sorts around in there trying to make something happen; particles, light, dining room chairs (no I made that up) and after much accelerating, firing and colliding it seems that we have a winner! 

Dr Ereditato (before you check, yes this is an anagram of Retired Toad) is making Albert Einstein look stupid all over the news today with Neutrinos of all things! He's poured them into the collider (which I think is a bit like pouring soap powder into one of those washing machines that you fill from the top) and the suprising results have scuppered Einstein’s best theory, making it look about as clever and likely as Mariah Carey’s last album E=MC2. 

Currently, the unexpected Neutrino results are being checked by other scientists (just to make sure) and the Doctor says ‘we want to be helped by the community in understanding our crazy result - because it is crazy’. Well that may be so Mr Toad. It is crazy what you’ve done. Who would have thought that something with a name like a chocolate energy drink would turn out to be so fast! If you’re right about these Neutrinos, the consequences could be ‘very serious’ apparently. Give yourself a pat on the back Doctor because you’ve ruined everything.

Posters of Mariah Carey and Einstein looking cheeky at his blackboard are being torn from bedroom walls all over the world! The science community are up in arms because (if I understand this correctly, which I’m pretty sure I do) all we have to do now is climb into the Hadron Collider, sit on a dining room chair holding a full carton of Neutrinos and presto! We can time travel! It’s only a matter of time I should think.

The second science shock of the day is that a satellite the size of a double decker bus is plunging  towards the Earth and it’s just luck if it’s not your head that it lands on. This isn’t a brilliantly thought through way to end the journey of a satellite really. That it just crashes to Earth I mean. I can’t imagine any of us would get that life-endangering ending past our bosses. ‘So thanks for that presentation Alice. This all looks good to go up. Can we just ask though, what happens at the end?’, ‘Oh right sure, well it just crashes to the Earth in a ball of fire?’, ‘Right fine. Off you go then. To infinity and beyond!’ Nasa clearly has some logistical kinks to work out. There’s not much we can do about it, other than just stay inside, but then if it’s your house it lands on, it’s probably game over anyway. Good luck with that. Fingers crossed.

There's No Business Like Show Business!

It's time. To face. The MUSIC!

I've been watching The X Factor every Saturday night for a few weeks now and I have come to a conclusion. What we're facing is definitely not 'the music', but more like what you might face if you picked up a moss-covered rock in a haunted wood and then forced yourself to let the woodlice crawl all over your hand for an hour, all the while trying to enjoy your Saturday night curry.

The poor old hopefuls always get a lot of stick so I won't go on about that. We all know what we think. Sometimes we laugh for a few seconds at the singing, but then stop when it becomes apparent that the singer is mentally ill. Sometimes they will have nice voices and we’ll cry at how they overcame such adversities as say, ‘coming from Fife’ (their words not mine) and round and round we go again week after week until Christmas. However it’s apparent, at X Factor time more than ever, that such a premium is placed on having 'talent' and being famous that it has now actually turned our young people into jittering lunatics and sent our existing lunatics completely and irretrievably over the edge. It isn’t fair. It's just not FAIR Gary Barlow. We need a reality check from reality TV and pronto.

But what actually is talent? Is it something you're born with? Or are you in the Malcolm Gladwell Outliers club and think that it's something you can develop on your own if you try hard enough? (As long as you're not born in August obviously, you youngsters are clearly stuffed right from the start).

These days, recognised talent (in the media at least) seems to be all about entertainment. Can you dance? Can you sing? Can you act? Not much glamour or recognition is handed out to the other job sectors. There’s no Administration Factor - It’s time. To face. The HOLEPUNCH! No Engineer Idol or Britain’s Got Social Workers. No. Young people today, in the main, want to be in the entertainment industry and they want to be famous and that’s that.

Why is it that some people *pictures the divine Beyonce rising above the X Factor railings in a cloud of sparkling rain* seem to have an other-worldly twinkle in their eye whereas others are doomed to a life spent making cardboard boxes in a factory? *Aside* Cardboard Box Factory Worker is my idea of the world’s worst job – no offence if this is your job but seriously come ON, get a better job. If you’re set on being a factory worker, at least make something else? The box is just the vessel! It epitomises emptiness and confronts you by forcing you to imagine all the other jobs out there where people have to fill the boxes with interesting things. Dreary. Plus, who makes the boxes for the boxes in the factory? A worse job even still! Is this an existential problem that drives box makers mad as they punch, fold and pack? Or is it unlikely that a box maker would even ask this type of question? I bet Beyonce would have asked it on her first day at the factory. ‘Beyonce, here are your safety goggles and do you have any questions before you get started?’, ‘Well actually yes, who is it that makes these boxes? They’re boxilicious!’ But anyway, I digress.

Analysis shows that to be successful (or at least to appear talented), you have to have put in 10, 000 hours of graft. TEN THOUSAND HOURS of doing the same thing over and over. You’d have to be as focussed as a bloody box maker! Then when you’re finally ready to show off what you can do, it will appear as though you have magical powers, when in fact you’ve practised your socks off and probably bored yourself rigid.

The lesson to be learned, as early as possible, seems to be that you get nothing for free and if you want to be successful, you’re going to have to put in some bloody effort. The sooner you work that out, the better. Unfortunately for most of us however, while our parents were reading us The Hungry Caterpillar and our infant brains marvelled at how that hole went right through the book, (right through it!? Amazing stuff and oh the possibilities!), Michael Jackson’s father (the horrifying Joe) was lashing his sons with an extension cord and screaming into their terrified faces, ‘dance! Sing BETTER and MORE!!’ While we were sliding down the stairs in our sleeping bags with our stupid and talentless peers, Beyonce and Kelly were putting together Destiny’s Child. ‘Did you have a nice time at Beyonce’s birthday?’, ‘Oh yes thanks, we organised ourselves into a girl group and worked on some harmonies’.

Really it’s no wonder that when delusional, residential home out-patients rock up to the X Factor, tears streaming down their faces and with tragic tales of shattered dreams and jobs in factories, Barlow shifts uncomfortably in his seat and then sends them on their way proclaiming, ‘you are never, ever going to boot camp’. Barlow had to graft and he’s just not having it.

But is there anything we can do about our collective lack of talent? Is it too late? Are we doomed to spend our lives at our desks and never know how it feels to sell out the O2 in 10 minutes? Sadly, it seems that this may be so. All there is to cling to is the hope that it’s not too late to get a part on Eastenders as an old person. Just look how long Jim Branning waited for that break! And even when he lost his marbles and his dodgy eye started rolling in his head, they just wrote it into the show! Brilliant.

Perhaps all we can do is try to be as good as possible at the thing we’re already doing. Even Beyonce must need a flat pack box sometimes and when she does, who is she going to call? YOU that’s who. Feel better? Yeah, me neither.

Chris Lilley

I met Chris Lilley on Tuesday. I shook his hand and simultaneously thought two things. One, ‘crikey those are the greenest human eyes I have ever seen’ – it was literally like shaking hands with a dragon and two, ‘this stranger, whose hand I’m allowed to hold for the next 2 seconds, is someone who really sees people’. Well of course he would with eyes like that, but the television programmes he has made so far are the most sophisticated example of pathos we’ve seen since Charlie Chaplin.

Hugely successful for years in Australia and lately in the UK and America, We Can Be Heroes, Summer Heights High and Angry Boys are comedy series written by Lilley and in which he stars as all the major characters. Young, old, male, female, black, white, Asian and everything in between - each one of the characters is a total work of art. Sophisticated, complex and yet beautiful in their simplicity, each is a fully rounded, utterly believable, vulnerable, loathsome, loveable creation of humanity and woven expertly into a script where you will laugh at them, with them and then cry for them all at the same time.

Lilley is obviously a professional people-watcher and what he’s produced with these shows clearly represent 1000s of hours of observation, research, thinking, writing and editing. The result is so realistic that to say this is good TV would be like saying Fred Astaire was good at dancing or Frank Sinatra was alright at singing a song like he meant it. This is fabulous TV. Comedy at its very best.

When analysing the success of these shows, it’s heartening to note that people must be getting it. I mean really getting it. Sure, there will be people who shout ‘Nathan!’ into Chris’s face in the street, people who will download ‘Animal Zoo’ and listen to it thinking, ‘you know I really should get to a zoo’ and people who will scrawl ‘dicktation (just imagine the picture for the sake of the argument)’ onto their school books, but on the whole, people are enjoying the shows I think because it causes them to have the paradoxical feeling of escaping from reality by confronting it. Lilley plays with all the big ones like racism, homophobia, disability, prejudice, discrimination, but also has a point to make on just about everything else. It’s as if collectively the audience is shown something familiar, shocked by it, amused and then all give each other a big virtual hug and carry on with their lives, maybe feeling just a little bit more in the know.

From what I’ve read, Lilley seems somewhat surprised by his success and personal popularity. He doesn’t want the fame and possibly thinks what he’s done by making shows which are essentially just about people isn’t all that unusual a thing. Everyone loves a reluctant hero though so I don’t think his appeal is going to wane any time soon.

I’m glad I met him. I couldn’t help feeling afterwards like I wished he was my friend and I don’t think I was the only one...

Who Wears the Trousers?

Ok, that is IT. What is happening to the trousers of today?! I’ve just been to town in search of  jeans and have returned both emotionally and physically damaged. I’m not searching for anything in particular. No specific format. Just a nice jean, that befits a woman in her late 20’s, who goes to the office, but then hey let’s face it, who also likes to have some fun and I am sorry, but it seems that a woman like me (normal build and detectable brain activity) is simply no longer catered for on the trouser scene of today.

If aliens landed on Earth in the middle of the night, broke into Topshop using their advanced breaking in tools and began looking for clues, I am sure that after a few hours spent spindling their long, green fingers through the rails of clothes, they would report back to the mother ship that women on Earth are quite clearly a little bit mental in the legs department. 'Your majesty, we are no further forward in discovering how many legs they have and we'd respectfully like to abort this mission.'

Let's just look at jeans for example. If you want to buy jeans today, you can’t just buy them, you have to first decide what type of statement these jeans will make for you and this statement can no longer be ‘I want to drop my dinner on these and be able sponge it off with a flannel’.  No. Things have changed. The choices are now as follows: Bootcut Jeans. These are for women who want to say ‘I’m going to work now, but then I could go for a drink after if you want? I’m tall and I’m adaptable to any situation’. But beware ladies. For bootcut jeans must always be purchased just slightly too long for the leg. If you buy your bootcut jeans in the correct size, the bottoms will swing above your ankle and will make you look like an ankle-swinger and bloody fool. If you go for bootcut, you've got to go long.

Then there are Flares. Flares are nothing new of course. But today they are still an option for the average jean buyer. If you do make the choice for flares, you will look unusual, so bear this in mind before you purchase. When you’re standing at the Sainsbury’s checkout and the person behind you scans their eyes across the contents of your trolley and then down to your flares, what will they think? They’ll think you’re deranged is what they’ll think. Their eyes will flick back to the trolley and quickly re-examine for excessive tins of cat food. Either that or they’ll think you’re off to a fancy dress and haven’t made much effort. Let’s face it, flares make you look weird and there’s no excuse for them. Pack it in flare wearers please. It’s over.

Next, there’s the inexplicable Skinny jeans phenomena. Whoever’s idea this was should be buried under a crushing pile of denim and left there. There is nothing at all good about skinny jeans and no good can come from buying them. If you do make the mistake of buying them, you can’t even get them on and you certainly won't be able to get them off so make sure you pick a pair you're prepared to wear for a while. They cut off your circulation and they make you look like an utter prat if you’re not more that seven foot tall, which you’re not. There are racks and racks of them in every shop. Thousands of weedy little leg- torture-tubes. Women who buy these jeans are trying to be fashionable. They are victims of fashion and granted, in a moment of weakness you’ve probably selected a pair to try on yourself. You’ve eyed the dangling leg-tubes and thought, ‘can I cram my legs into those?’ and then you’ve decided ‘YES. I can give it a bloody good go’ and marched towards the dressing room. ‘One please’ you declare to the assistant, who is likely to be embattled in her own pair of skinny leg- prisons and drawing the curtain across you begin to fitfully stuff your legs into the jeans as if wrestling two crocodiles into a rucksack. If, against all the odds, you do get the damn things on, you’ll probably need some help getting them off. You have been warned.

Then there are Boyfriend jeans. I’m honestly not making this up. Boyfriend jeans are supposed to give off the impression that you’ve borrowed them from your boyfriend. The owner of these jeans will be a pretty cool chick. She’ll have a boyfriend (of course), a chilled out vibe and probably doesn’t have a job. Her boyfriend is saving up so they can go to Goa and she’ll take the jeans along with her to either wear in a casual way to a beach bar, or tie around her head in an improvised way. She probably also wears her boyfriend’s shirt as a mini-dress. Generally, we are jealous of this woman and begrudgingly note that the only time we wear our boyfriend’s jeans is if we’re cold in bed.

So that’s the jeans. Fancy any of them? No. So then there’s the actual trousers. But oh Lord the trousers! We can’t bear it! There is a most peculiar type that has emerged in fashion recently. The ‘harem’ trouser or ‘parachute pant’, which disguises itself as a nice maxi skirt and then BANG, becomes trousers when you get it on. Who would EVER, ever in their right mind, wear trousers like this out of choice? Silken, enormous, floating trousers, brightly coloured patterns and elastic waists! They are ludicrious! They are the trousers of a clown! If you’ve bought any of these in a moment of dazzled confusion, or perhaps the circulation was cut off from your brain in a skinny trousers trying episode and you’ve found yourself in harems just to get the blood going again, for goodness sakes take them off whatever you do. There is no occasion on this Earth, where harem trousers are appropriate, unless of course you’re MC Hammer or Aladdin. If you guys are reading this, never stop rockin’ the harems. They totally suit you.

So I despair. What is a girl to do? If only someone would make trousers in the variety of ‘normal’. They’d make a killing I reckon.

Ode to Wholegrain Mustard

If I was stranded on a desert island and I was only allowed one th....No wait, let me rephrase this *cough* OK, if I was deserted in a kitchen on a desert island and could hope to find only one thing in the island’s solitary cupboard, what would I want to find? Well I shall tell you. I would look for MUSTARD. Deliciously wonderful Whole Grain Mustard. If, shipwrecked and alone, I staggered out of the waves and blinking in the sun, began scrambling for other items from my wrecked vessel I wouldn't be grabbing for things to make shelter. My eyes wouldn’t be desperately scanning the horizon for a ship. I wouldn’t be rolling the corpses of my dead shipmates over in the water and screaming up at the sky in horror. No. I would be searching the waves for a bobbing screw top lid and below it, a nice full jar of the good stuff.

I happen to have cooked dinner every night this week *scowls at husband* and though it’s been very tiring, (a woman’s choices are never easy), I’ve realised something. I put wholegrain mustard into EVERYTHING. What would make this chicken soup taste better? Mustard. Pasta? Mustard. Casserole? Try a bit of mustard in it, that’ll pep it up. Mustard has magical cooking qualities and I’m obsessed with it. Not in a creepy, ‘think about it and cover my body in it’ way you understand? Only in a sensible and healthy appreciation of it kind of a way. Let me explain.

Chico Marx famously said, (ok, it’s not that famous...I had to Google ‘mustard quotes’ pretty extensively) but he said, ‘mustard’s no good without roast beef’. Well he should’ve taken a leaf out of his brother Harpo’s book and kept his trap shut if you ask me. Poor, dumb Harpo was probably the mustard fan of the family and could only look on in muted horror as his brother made these terrible proclamations. Chics has obviously never tasted my mustard mash, because if he had, he would know that mustard adds a delicious piquance to even the most tedious of potato, and while I do agree that it is very good with roast beef, that is only one of its many complimentary companions. Incidentally, Chico Marx also controversially said ‘mint? No. I no like a mint’. Well I have NEVER been so.... *solemnly dedicates life to discrediting Chico Marx quotes*. Anyway, back to the mustard.

Now some say, that mustard destroys the original flavour of the dish and that using it is like covering everything in mayonnaise or ketchup *gags*. How dare you!? Believe me, mustard is much more than just a condiment, it’s an ingredient. It should be moved far away from these most inferior of cupboard sisters and promoted to the highest possible shelf. Well, not quite as high as those bloody show-offs: sugar and sprinkles - It would be wasted up there and they’d have nothing to talk about. ‘Oh look at me mustard! Look at my silver ball-bearings and see how I rattle!’ 'Yeah good for you. Now please be quiet so I can have a minute of peace'. No.  Mustard should be firmly at the front of the herbs and spices shelf. The centre piece of the display. Along with the snazzy smoked paprika and ‘herbs de Provence’ oooh la la! If suddenly called upon to perform a Sleeping Beauty/Mary Poppins-style song and dance number, creating a dish without any human interaction at all, I would expect mustard to be the lead singer. ‘A spoon full of mustard helps the onions go brown, the chicken soup not froooown, best casserole in town!’ *thanks rhyming dictionary*.

Please get up and go immediately to the kitchen to promote your mustard. It’s the unsung hero of the kitchen and deserves your respect. Next time you’re cooking something, just try it? Add a little mustard and let the wholegrain work its magic.

What's in a Name

Every 10 seconds, a celebrity child is given a stupid name. By the time you’ve finished reading this, 18 more celebrity children will have had a stupid name written on their birth certificate in gold glitter-pen and will be doomed to a life of ridicule and disaster. Today we focus on just one family, but there are hundreds of them out there.

Welcome to the world Harper Seven Beckham! Having scoured the internet in shock this morning for an explanation as to why another helpless infant has been given such a stupid name, I have made two alarming discoveries. First, Harper is actually considered to be one of America’s more normal names. Unsurprisingly, it means ‘a person who plays the harp, or who makes harps’. Well for goodness sakes David and Victoria! Give the poor little tyke a chance to catch her breath! It’s really difficult to play the harp! You have to have excellent dexterity and a musical gift that can’t necessarily be taught. There's a small chance she'll be able to do it, but probably not very well so you’ve basically just set her up for terrible fall. You might as well have called her Humpty Dumpty Beckham.

Nevertheless, it’s the ‘Seven’ part of this poor child’s name that I fear will really cause the damage. Quite simply, it has been chosen because ‘Seven’ is the number of David’s football shirt. Brilliant David. I think it’s clear that the Beckhams now plan the children around the tattoos rather than the other way around and with his career drawing to an end, David must be wanting to add a 7 onto himself somewhere as proof that it all happened. ‘I was the greatest! They called me Golden Balls! Look! Here’s my number see *cranes round desperately to show us his back*. There’s a nice space for a 'Seven' just underneath that ‘Cruz’ on his neck I’d say. Coincidence? Let’s just see what happens shall we? *Hears the sound of the tattoo needle firing up from here*

I don’t know if David has entirely thought things through though? When he finally hangs up his football boots forever and resigns to spending his days with the curtains drawn and avoiding Tom Cruise, little Seven will ride silently past the sitting room on her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse, like that little Marcy in A Beautiful Mind or those corridor twins in The Shining...‘She’s not real David. Don’t look at her. Come and have a little word with Tom, he’s got a nice bracelet for you to wear, it’s red, you like red’, ‘Nooooo Tom! Ahhhh! The number Seven! It haunts me!’ Spooky stuff.

Oh well, at least poor Seven’s not alone in this distressing situation. Not only has David inflicted on himself, a constant reminder of his lost talent ,  but Harper's big brothers have hardly got off lightly. There’s Brooklyn, sweetly named after the town in which he was conceived... 'Mom that is seriously gross’. I think that’s a story he’ll only be asking to hear once. Then there’s little Romeo, who’ll either be completely rubbish with girls or a super stud. Either way, his name will be a cross to bear. Which brings us neatly to Senor. Cruz Beckham. Si! The brother with a Spanish twist, because...he was born en Espana. They seem to be a very ‘say what you see’ bunch those Beckhams. It’s lucky no one’s been lumbered with ‘Chocolate Milk Beckham’, ‘Highway 101 Beckham’ or Mr Chips! Papa John’s Beckham? No. I’ll stop.

Only Victoria will escape unscathed from this catastrophe. She’ll be relaxing on her sun lounger, cocktail in one hand, the other adjusting her Chanel frames, while all around her, the consequences of her childrens’ names will play out like a surrealist horror. Harper Seven wrestles with a giant harp as her haunted, Edwardian rocking horse tips over and into the pool...without making a splash (ok, I’m even scaring myself now), meanwhile Romeo is chased off the school bus by gangs of jeering girls shouting 'You'll never get a girlfriend you loser!'  Brooklyn sits at the dinner table with his iPod turned up full. He’s trying to blast the ‘how did I get my name?’ story out of his poor little head. Cruz will be rattling his castanets and whacking the hell of a party Pinata, ‘Ole!’ And David? Well he’ll be trembling behind the sofa of course. Fingers jammed in ears and eyes screwed shut, hoping that this time, maybe Tom won’t find him... ’98...99...100! Ready or not David, I’m coming!’

That’s a scary picture right there. Next time you sign your own name, spare a thought for families like this ok? It’s got to be pretty tough.

Beyonce Dazzles at Glasto

Old skool critics were worried that Glastonbury would not be ready for the jelly. Some were opposed to welcoming a headliner so self-evidently and completely bootylicious. Some would have preferred that the boss-eyed drone Thom Yorke had had more prominence, or that King Bono could have taken over the stage (world) and churned out more of his old hits while we swayed along obediently. But nevertheless, the Beyonce extravaganza was allowed to go ahead and by the end, it was hard to see how anyone, even the most serious of music listeners (it’s meant to be FUN you dreary bores), can have thought it to be anything other than a spectacular show.

She burst onto the stage like a golden fireball of hair and energy and at first appeared to have forgotten her trousers. We quickly realised with collective relief that the gold ensemble was actually designed to show off her ultra-thighs to their most intimidating and advantageous. Glitteringly gorgeous in her gold jacket and black spangled boots, Beyonce whipped up the crowd and had them on side from the very first minute, launching into fan-favourite Crazy in Love.

‘You are witnessing my dream!’ she informed the delighted crowd of muddied onlookers. ‘Tonight, we are ALL rockstars!’ to which a cheer rose joyfully from the crowd – Not really true though is it Beyonce? YOU are quite clearly a rockstar. You have a gold jacket and a voice that can melt the coldest heart, but we’re not rockstars. I’m at home in my PJs with a cup of decaf, and they haven’t had a shower since Tuesday and are gearing up for another night with their heads in the slurry. Oh well. As if realising this fact she suddenly shouts ‘I want you to forget all your troubles and lose yourself in this music!’ and with that she begins to perform ‘Single Ladies’.

The ‘Single Ladies’ routine is memorising. We already know it is from the music video. As Kayne famously insisted it is, ‘the greatest video of ALL time. Of ALL TIME’ - However, I do think poor Kanye was just another statistic in the consequences of Beyonce's power-thighs. We secretly thought that famous dance routine was maybe all done with clever editing and some mirrors, but now 170,000 eyes are fixed on the ultra-thighs as they whirl around and jerk this way and that and then,  ‘Ladies! Put your hand in his FACE and SING, wuh oh oh, oh oh OH oh oh’. Well this sure got the audience going. Men, who had so far been quite enjoying things, suddenly fell ashen as 100,000 women started giving their faces some major Gloria Gaynor attitude.

Quickly though, it passed and Beyonce went on to perform Naughty Girl (good) and then Baby Boy with a peculiar guest appearance from Bristol rapper, Tricky. This was the only part of the show that seemed to go massively wrong. Tricky looked like he had just been given some horrifying news and then been pushed through the stage curtains. ‘Mr Tricky, we’re afraid the Inland Revenue are repossessing your house and your cat has been found in the washing machine...it was on ‘woollens’. We’re very, very sorry’. He completely froze up. I think he perhaps wasn’t quite ready (career-wise) to contribute to a Beyonce mega-concert and looked a little sick and not a little COMPLETELY paralysed with fear. She did her best to help him along but after around 2 minutes of mass audience cringing, he disappeared from the stage... Probably to have his head kicked in by Beyonce’s management team.

Bee ran through all her big hits and it was a very good reminder of just how many of them there actually are. ‘If I Were a Boy’ showed off her  vocal talent. There was more audience participation fun with ‘Irreplaceable’ and then a jolly medley of Destiny’s Child hits. At one point she went off stage and her back up group, ‘The Mammas’ sidled to the front of the stage, like the three hyenas from Lion King, purring and muttering something about the men in the audience looking ‘damn fiiiiiine grrrrl’ – the men folk spent the 90 minute set in the most confusing and paradoxical state of being encouraged to dance, look at Beyonce’s memorising power-thighs and then being told that they were replaceable and to hit the road. Such is Beyonce’s message. Poor Jay Z’s head must be spinning.

We assumed Beyonce had disappeared off stage for some kind of outfit change, or maybe to get some trousers, but when she emerged in the same gold jacket we guessed she was actually just being given oxygen or possibly was having a heart attack.

No matter. Beyonce doesn’t need to change outfits to keep our attention. She then sang an utterly beautiful cover of Etta James’s ‘At Last’ which she’d historically performed at the inauguration of President Obama – and lest we forget that fact, there was footage of the special moment on the screen to which the Glastonburyers would cheer their approval whenever Obama flashed up. ‘Yaaaaay! We approve of your president! The vibe is very chilled here at Glastonbury! Nuff respect to the brothers and sisters!’
Next it was quirky current single ‘Run the World’ – Nothing to say other than, ‘who run this mutha? GIRLS’.

And then to finish, an understandably (after all the love she was getting) quite emotional looking Beyonce was guided down the stairs by an extremely cautious security guard, whilst singing ‘Halo’ and came to the railing to touch the willing hands of some very wide-eyed fans. Some wide with pure adoration, but most wide from dropping so much acid since they'd arrived on Wednesday.

So to conclude, from my PJs and behind my cup of decaf, Beyonce was outstanding and by that I mean literally that she stands out. Streets ahead of her peers in the industry and clearly from a different planet to the rest of the world’s 28 years olds. A planet where ultra-thighs laugh in the face of trousers and men cower behind rocks crying, with question marks floating above their heads. Who run(s) the world? Ummm...looks like it’s definitely Beyonce.

Alice Through the Looking Glass

Amy Winehouse, last orders please. PLEASE
Amy Winehouse is wasted again? Umm, yeah so? Well this time she’s not trotting her horrifying, bloodied ballet pumps around Camden, but is instead flinging them around a stage in Belgrade, whist simultaneously slurring her way through Back to Black and trying to keep her beehived head from lolling off. Fans were charged up to £30 each to watch the wreckage of poor Amy’s life be spread out across the stage like a transparent board of evidence on Crimewatch. ‘Here we have Amy’s liver and beehive, a discarded ballet pump and a Grammy award which appears to have been used to mainline heroin into her knuckles. Now over to Rav!’ Poor Amy though. Joking aside, we want you to get better. Maybe have an orange squash instead? Just try it?

R.I P Ryan Dunn
Ryan Dunn from Jackass has attempted a Back to the Future style manoeuvre and driven his Porsche 911 at 130 mph into a hedge on the way home from a night out. Unfortunately for Ryan, and for his friend Zachary, instead of reappearing from the hedge in the year 1955, he has died instead.  Not really funny. Again, joking aside, Back to the Future was just a movie Ryan. Maybe get a cab home next time? Ryan...? Oh...

That’s What You Get For Waking Up In Vegas
Call the Police! The horrible prison guard from The Green Mile has married a 16 year old child-woman in Vegas and has ‘set up home with her in the Hollywood Hills’. Let’s hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate as poor Mr Jingles the prison mouse! The blushing bride is Courtney Alexis Stodden, aspiring singer and brains behind the lyrics ‘I will not be responsible for your lover’s attraction, I will not be a victim of your aggressive reaction’ – crikey. If only poor Mr Jingles had been so good with rhymes, he mightn’t have got stomped on. Oh well, according to Courtney’s mentally unwell father...what? Oh sorry. According to Courtney’s FATHER, ‘Doug is the nicest man’ he’s ‘ever met in his life’ and ‘every father can only pray to have such a man behind their daughter’... Oh dear. Oh deary deary me. Well, congratulations to the bride and groom. Sadly, Doug will be dead before Courtney is old enough to watch The Green Mile so hopefully she’ll never have to realise the true horror of who she’s married until it’s all over.

Glastonbury
It’s Glastonbury. Glastonbury! Wooo!! Mud and bands! And a tent! Yeaaaah! I know I’m probably the only one, but... I wouldn’t go to Glastonbury if you PAID me. Not even if you BEGGED. Oh sure it’s got Beyonce. I suppose I could be tempted out of the car for 20 minutes to pay homage to the great Mrs Z. If it was raining, I’d at least wind down the window to bop along to ‘Single Ladies’ and maybe ‘If I were a Boooooy!’ But that’s as far as it would go I’m afraid. After that it would be car door slamming and mud flying off my tyres as I got out of there as fast as possible and back home to my clean bed and toilet, that I know no one can push over while I’m in there. That’s a worry that you just do not need in the bathroom. The only other act I’ve even heard of this year is Tinie Tempah. I thought he only had that one song? That’ll be a short set in the old triangle tent, or whatever it’s called.  Oh well, if you’re going, have a nice time. I think I'll leave it to the cool kids.

Twitter

I signed up to Twitter this week. Mainly because everyone else was doing it and I hate being left out *anxiously recalls painful lesson learnt aged 9, after hurling self from wall to copy older, cooler girls*

But luckily so far, Twitter is nothing like that fateful wall. With an appealing sky blue facade, a friendly little bird as a mascot and as easy to work out as push button phone (For heaven’s sake grandma! You just pick up the receiver and dial!) it’s a whole new world of talking (stalking).

Twitter had me hooked straight away, ‘Oh Alice! Come and join us! In this sky blue world you can be friends with people you’ve never dreamed of! Look! Over there is Oprah Winfrey giving out some life advice and here is Barack Obama at a congressional picnic of all places! You and Lady Gaga seem to be watching the same thing on TV right now! You!? and GAGA!?’ It’s really quite something.

Not only can you read ‘tweets’, but you actually write them as well and if you mention someone’s name, they will see it. What a thrill that is! Imagining Bill Gates, eyebrows raised, pushing his glasses up from his nose and peering forward at the screen to see what YOU have said from your idiotic gas-fired computer. Bloody brilliant.

There is of course (sorry @Oprah, I am trying to be positive) a downside to all this. When you join Twitter and begin to ‘follow’ people (I’m now ‘following’ 114 people) you can’t help but notice that you don’t have any followers yourself...and this leads to the distinct feeling that you might as well be back up on that wall, aged 9, preparing for a short flight to the ground that will certainly end in tears (from you) and laughter (from the cooler people).

So I know what you're thinking. Just get some followers right? Make some friends! Get out there and mingle? Well it’s easier said than done, let me tell you. It’s recommended that to attract followers (much like in the real world) you must interact with people. Say things to them. Make a name for yourself on the scene. But after trying it a few times, you feel like that kid in the playground that no one likes, ‘Hey guys! Wanna play marbles? Hey everyone! Wait for me!’ Twitter is a real, systematic confidence killer.

So, option two is just talk to yourself? Easier and less rejecting (most of the time – I can be a real bitch), but then you can end up feeling like your witty comments are simply being wasted on just stupid old you. It’s Obama, Kanye and Cher who you really want to impress, not just the few spammer sex-perverts who have crawled from under their rocks and onto your follower list – that’s a real hazard by the way. The joy of seeing you have a follower is dashed when you click their smiling profile picture, only to discover that they are most likely following you from the inner depths of some Miami mega jail *shudder*. Virtual shanking? No thanks.

The other type of follower that a loser like you or I might attract is salesfolk. ‘Follow me back and win a prize!’ – errr no thanks. This page is reserved for A-List tweets thank you very much. I have important things to say to Mr McCartney and I don’t need free paint-balling sessions. Creeps. I have ‘reported’ these people to the Twitter police as ‘spam’ and ‘blocked’ their asses from my page – but now I worry that even that was uncool. Maybe it’s Twitter etiquette to tolerate these underlings? ‘Oh yeah Suzy Sex Pest? She’s harmless. And she tweets a lovely recipe for rock cakes’.  ‘Miss, Miss! Carly won’t play marbles with me!’ springs to mind– not cool Alice. Not cool.

However, before you stop reading for fear of damaging your own street-cred by association, a couple of cool moments have actually happened to me. I’ve had real, genuine correspondence with two people of interest! One thing I tweeted @indiaknight made her ‘choke on her tea’ – with laughter you understand? Not with disgust at my apparent uncoolness and motley following of perverts and merchants. And @SteveHarvey sent me a link to his radio show at my very own request! Wow. These were real highlights. I was sure the followers would flood in after that – but...they didn’t. Oh well it's only day 4. I will keep you posted and if you’re reading this, please follow me ok? It’s embarrassing. I’m not adverse to a pity follow. Thanks.

Love, @AliceBand1

Burning House

Eeesh, this is hard. Well first off, I think I’d better save only items that are in my bedroom, as the fire could well be raging outside the door couldn’t it? *shudders at the memory of Back Draft*

And I’m assuming that I’m in my bedroom and that this is a dead of night fire correct? One presumes that a fire during in the day would come as less of a shocker and that you might have time to try and extinguish it yourself with a damp towel, or as a last resort, with the help of the brigade (Fire Brigade, not Girls’ Brigade – they’d probably be responsible for setting the fire in the first place). Tut.

Although, saving just items in my bedroom limits me to only saving things like my stuffed Koala pal (awww), my alarm clock (no way), my bed (but that’s so impractical).

No, I think for the sake of a more interesting list of items, this fire must be considered purely hypothetical. Doors can be opened freely without disastrously completing the fire triangle and I’m not solely responsible for manoeuvring the items from the house to the street ok? To rephrase then: If the Girls’ Brigade knocked on the door with some matches, what would I make sure to get the hell out of there before the whole place went up? Let me see...

My memory box: The first thing I’d save is a box of items really (which is cheating – but this is my fictional fire so who’s going to stop me?!) and it contains things like all my teenage angsty journals, photographs of assorted people who I’ve encountered along the way, letters, notes passed under desks in lessons and other miscellaneous things like shells, badges, corks. If I ever get amnesia, you can just show me this box and it’ll all flood back. If only Madge had a box like this for poor Harold it might not have all been so painful to watch.

My wedding dress: £1200 of Spanish lace and sparkling splendiferousness. They said I could have it ‘shortened’ and made into a ‘cocktail dress’ for afterwards  - ‘Oh and if you bust your wedding ring open with garden pliers, you can use it to pick locks if you ever forget your keys!’ How dare they?! This dress symbolises the happy day when I made an honest man out of Mr Alice and also it was the most beautiful piece of clothing I ever had next to my skin. Except for the time I broke into a display cabinet in the V&A and got into those gold hotpants. No that didn’t happen. What?

Tin Foil: Now you’ve got to be practical in a fire. You don’t want to be picking through the charred remains of your house the next day, wearing your wedding dress and sobbing into your memory box like Miss Haversham. You’ve got to think like a survivor and there’s not much you can’t do with a good roll of tin foil. Of course there’s the obvious like preserve your left overs, but there are numerous other applications that would be of great use in a post fire scenario. You can wrap yourself in it to keep warm, or to look professional if you’ve just finished a long run such as a marathon. You can cut out small circles of it to use as currency. You can make a sun reflector and attract attention from passing ships or you can screw lots of it up around a rock and make a football. The list is endless.

Peanut Butter: For some reason, this was the first thing I thought of and I’m not too sure why. But one should always trust one’s instincts so rather than dismissing it, I am faithfully adding it to the list – whilst also being a little concerned that in a real fire, this would literally be what I would have grabbed for. Hmmm. *Takes jar from shelf and places into handbag*

My goldfish (plural): Now, I’m assuming Mr Alice is getting out on his own obviously so that’s why I’m reaching for the rest of the family here.  And I suppose this means I’m saving the goldfish bowl too, as stuffing poor Beyonce and Jay Z into my pockets would probably traumatise all three of us more than the fire ever could. Two of us wouldn’t survive that horror, and it could easily be any combination.
And that's it. Nothing else needed. If you want see what other people would save, have a little look at this site: www.theburninghouse.com

Not the Hosepipes!

Today, many of us woke up to the shock news headline that England has fallen into the raspy clutches of drought! Not a surprise drought!? Have mercy! Somehow overnight, drought has gripped its hot, papery hands around us, squeezing out every last drop of water and leaving us throughly parched and rather anxious.
In spite of the fact that it rained all day yesterday, the useless reservoirs seem to have inexplicably failed to capture any water at all and now we’re right up the creek. Or we would be, if there were any water. We’re just sort of on the bank, peering miserably at our failing crops and turning our teary eyes to the sky in confusion and horror.

To make things even more dramatic, it seems that now even heath fires have broken out! Actual fires! On the heath! We’ll show you Australia! Who needs 40 degree nights and a million acres of kindling?! Give us a fairly milky, warm spring and some luscious Dorset hills and we’ll show you a real blaze! Sources do say, however, that ‘some youths’ were spotted ‘running from the scene’ - probably clutching some matches and a copy of Bear Grylls ‘Born Survivor’ - so the jury’s out on this one for the moment.

So why is England so dramatic? It doesn’t take much to get the news wheels turning these days. Yes of course it’s bad if there’s not enough water and in some dry corners of the globe, this is obviously a very serious, life endangering issue. But come on seriously? Who cares if we Brits can’t use our hosepipes? How many of us even have hosepipes? All I’ve ever used a hosepipe for is a carefree, childhood water fight. ‘Seven year olds dismayed by sweeping water fight ban shock’. ‘Conservatory cleaning dips dangerously as hosepipe supply cut off’. Come on now. Let’s get some perspective.
Luckily at least someone is keeping their head. The BBC news team have suggested some useful tips to help us all through this difficult time:

• Wash your car using a bucket (yeah right – if it was really that bad they’d just say ‘don’t wash your car’ surely? We’re not falling for that)
• Reuse your bath water on your garden and plants (Hey, just because your crops have failed, doesn’t mean I’m going to start drenching my herb garden in Radox)
• Keep a jug of water in the fridge instead of running the tap (What?? That’s the same?)
• Don’t let water waste while you're waiting to get into the shower (ok MUM)

I do have sympathy for farmers though. It must be very disappointing when your crops shrivel up and die. In Northern Europe the wheat growers are apparently having a terrible time and prices of pasta and cereal are consequently set to rocket through the roof of Sainsbury’s and right out of our reach! If this happens no doubt panic will again ensue.

On a more positive note, Scotland has had three times the normal amount of spring rain. Does this seem suspicious to anyone else? While we’re sobbing into our empty cereal bowls and frenziedly throwing our bath water out of the window and onto the car, the Scots are relaxing in their paddling pools and ordering linguine with haggis for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Send some rain down here you selfish Scots! Send some rain or else we’ll set our youths on you like a fire on a Dorset heath. And that’s a threat.

Top Tips for Summer

Summer has arrived! Yes we know not officially as it’s not June 21^st quite yet (bore off you Shakespearean stone-hengers) For all intents and purposes, summer is HERE and at long last the terrible ‘should I take my coat?’ is over for a whole, glorious season. Here are a few top tips to make sure you get the most out of the next few months:

1. Keep it covered up: As your old friend the sun beamed through your curtains this morning, you won’t have been the only one who woke up and immediately burst into tears in front of the wardrobe. Let’s face it – it is now far too late to begin your summer diet. The body you have is the one you’re stuck with for the summer and that’s that. Make a note for next year and move on. Luckily for the girls, this year it’s all about the maxi dress (Thank you Ms Wintour). Almost anyone can look good in a maxi so if you’re feeling a bit fat, these are by far your best bet. To the boys, there’s never much you can do summer-fashion wise, but at least please keep your tops on in the street ok? Traveller-chic is not a look that anyone should be aiming for. Remember, just because you regret your own tattoos, doesn’t mean everyone else has to regret them too. Cover it up. Just cover it all up for crying out loud.
2. Avoid the pub garden: 5p.m. You hear whoops, laughter and clinking glasses outside and someone suggests an after-work spritzer. ‘How delightful!’, you think. Suddenly, even the most objectionable of workmates become appealing prospects with whom to share a pitcher of Pimms. ‘Richard’s not so bad’, you think. ‘He even looks quite sweet in his short-sleeved, summer-shirt from M&S. And Tanya’s being positively hilarious today!’. But be warned. The sunshine has impaired your judgement. A few hours later and you’re in a dark, pub garden. Your coat hangs warmly in your wardrobe as you shiver against Richard’s itchy, M&S arm. It’s Tuesday and you have to be up in 6 hours, what were you thinking?! You hate Richard! Tanya’s a moron! You zigzag home cursing your stupidity.
3. Holidays: Don’t peak too early with these. Don’t be darned foolish and head to Cyprus in early June, come back all lovely and relaxed, and then spend the rest of the summer watching everyone else pack up their bucket and spade and hit the road, leaving you to cover for them while your tan flakes off all over your desk and the bitterness in your heart cements into a cold stone of misery. Ugh. No siree. Wait as long as you possibly can. Wait until they’re all back from their smug little tripettes and then off you go on August 20^th, bang! No one will be expecting it! They’ll blink after you in bewilderment as you march out of there in a cloud of sand and maxi dresses. Plus, when you get back, you’ll be the only one with a tan. WIN.
4. 4. Hayfever: AtchoO! I really do feel sorry for you hay fever suffers. I am not a fellow sufferer. But if it makes you feel less angry with me, I am allergic to cats. So though you’re spluttering and itching your way through the summer while I may shove my nose, carefree, into a freshly mown lawn, just think, in the winter when you’re cuddled up to your cat, I am all alone with only pictures of other people’s cats... *breaks into sobs*. Anyway, I digress. In case you didn’t already know these tips, and who the hell am I to tell you right? Apparently local honey is very good? Or putting Vaseline under your nose? No? Oh well. Screw you and your cat, I’m off outside to do some breathing. You can’t have everything.
5. 5. Sunbathing: Whether you’re squinting up at your book on a sandy beach, or sipping lemonade under a parasol in your back garden, being in and around the sunshine is one of life’s most pleasurable things. However, we’ve ruined it for ourselves now apparently by our reckless treatment of the Ozone. We’re sorry! We never knew! Don’t sell us the damn aerosols then duh!? As children we all drew nice pictures of the sun, smiling down on nice houses, with pictures of ourselves smiling and holding hands with stick men, BUT the sun is in fact not smiling at all and, as we grow to learn to our horror, is in fact a ball of indescribable fire. Sorry to spoil your fun... ok I’ll try and lighten up. Just make sure you put your sun cream on is all I’m saying. And maybe switch to roll on deodorant.

Top Three Disney Movies of All Time

‘When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you aaaare!’ *closes eyes and wishes was in sparkly blue evening dress*.

Now, I know there’s a little bit of Nazi scandal surrounding Uncle Walt and yes I know that Disney women generally aspire to be nothing but subservient wives. I also know that talking animals in real life would be completely horrifying and how dear old Mickey is less frivolous mouse and more sinister Disney doppelganger, created as Wally’s shadowy other self (parts of Fantasia are truly frightening I think we’d all agree).  I KNOW all this. But the fact remains, that blue fairy was damn sparkly! Most of us learnt some valid American history from Pocahontas, and who doesn’t love an underwater calypso and a singing crab occasionally?? After much soul searching, I’ve decided on my top 3 Disney movies of all time (Old school Disney, not Pixar. Pixar = mind too blown by animation genius to think of top 3).
*Clears throat*

3^rd Place – Aladdin
‘PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWERS! Itty bitty living space’. I used to watch this every day before I went to school, which might explain why some of my Key Stage 1 education is a little mixed up and why I associate going to school with strolling through a bazaar and also with a fear of having my hand chopped off. Hmmmm. Princess Jasmine wasn’t a total drip, the magic carpet somehow managed to have sophisticated facial expressions without actually having a face (amazing) and Raja was the inspiration behind the name of just about every subsequent pet cat in the world. As ever with Disney, it was also laden with useful morals for the adults such as ‘wish fulfilment seems good at first, but never works out how you think’ and of course the old chestnut ‘don’t pretend to be someone you’re not’. Great songs, Robin Williams and a criminal parrot rolled into cartoon perfection. Top marks from me.

2^nd Place – The Lion King
This would probably be everyone else’s 1^st choice, but I’m bucking the trend. Disney’s answer to Hamlet is packed full of lines which are still stuck fast in the popular consciousness.  I challenge you to find anyone who won’t know what you're doing when you whisper loudly, ‘Muphasa!’ or shreik  out with glee, ‘He’s alive! He’s ALIVE!’ Lion King also contains the raunchiest Disney scene yet when Nala and Simba..errr...you know...and Elton starts playing ‘Can you Feel the Love Tonight’. Cover your eyes children! There’s also some proper tear jerking moments like when poor old Muphasa is stampeded over by a stampede *sniff*. We learnt all about the circle of life from this movie. We learnt that Hyenas can sometimes beat lions. And we all learnt our very first (and last probably) bit of Swahili. It means ‘no worries’. Brilliant.

1^st Place – The Little Mermaid
But finally, back when Nemo was just a little, orange twinkle in our eyes, we fell in love with the watery world of King Triton and his aquatic subjects. The adventures of Ariel  (another heroine that makes Snow White and Cinderella look like Stepford Wives), and her slippery pals meant that for ever more, little girls would wear their goggles under their hair instead of over and spend more time swimming near the filter at the bottom of the hotel  pool than is probably advisable. Ear infection anyone? Ariel is the devalued female, controlled by a domineering father but who strives to surface and live among humans, in particular the box- jawed Prince Eric. Phwoar. Ursula is one of Disney's most frightening villains ever, but boy does she belt out a good song! Likewise, Sebastian the crab is certainly the most musical crustacean that I personally have ever come across. He can throw together a 50 piece orchestra made of fish and seaweed in the merest flip of a fin! 100% pure Disney joy. But let’s not get carried away. Put down your maracas and take off your hula necklace just for a moment while we remember that The Little Mermaid also teaches us some important life lessons: that love conquers all, that you can overcome your circumstances if you try hard enough, that there is value in learning and in having curiosity and somewhat confusingly, that if you happen to make a dangerous bargain with a witch, it will pay off. Hmmm. Maybe don’t try this one at home kids. Overall though, YES Disney. Yes Yes Yes. Keep 'em coming.