Honey, I Blew Up The Squids

Someone who commissions stories for BBC news online is entranced by the miracles of the animal kingdom. Enormous creatures, tiny creatures, creatures who think their parents are a totally different species of creature – these stories find a home on the BBC website with surprising frequency. I think that the individual responsible used to be a zoo keeper, a shark hunter or lion tamer, forced into a more gentle way of life by an exhausted spouse, sick of worrying about the day she'd go to meet her partner after work to find him waiting for her with an arm missing, or with his legs dangling from the mouth of a python. He's happy enough in his new job, but misses his daily brush with danger, and is known to confront any errant journalist missing their deadline with an upturned chair and a whip.

Today he is enraptured with the eyes of a colossal squid, which measure 11 inches across. And who can blame him? I anticipate the gelatinous lenses alone will be in huge demand from now on as organic breast implants. And just imagine the deep-fried squid rings – you could hula-hoop with them, if you were wearing a grease-resistant leotard. Fully grown, the creature in its entirety is almost twice the length of a double-decker bus. And on just such a bus – I am nothing if not an effortless welder of topics – I overheard this conversation on my way home from work this evening:

Commuter 1: 'Will you be voting tomorrow?'

Commuter 2: 'I might do. It depends what the weather's like.'

The power of democracy.

Happy birthday

It is Jones major's birthday today. Happy birthday, Jones major, over-38s record holder in the long jump for Biggleswade Athletics Club*, from Jones minor (Miss).

Please observe how on trend I once was in my patent Mary-Janes from the Start-rite atelier. Also, I appear to have once possessed the chicken legs of Amy Winehouse.

*Awaiting official IAAF ratification.

My favourite things on TV this weekend

No 1: Tim Burgess's hair on Later… 

It is a fact women discover sometime during their 20s: pretty boys do not always grow up to be pretty older men. In the early 90s, everyone was wild for the waifish charm of Burgess, Albarn and the like, their teeny snub noses and planed cheekbones. But fifteen years on? 

Most women shift their criteria of physical attraction as they get older, in response to their own softenings and widenings. They begin to feel increasingly warm about paunches and heavy jaws, overlooking bald spots and bad shoes, and indulging the kind of imperfections that would have been dealbreakers years before. The thicker-set and rougher-hewn start to take their turn in the spotlight of hotness, while the gamine-featured are left behind, like an ageing child star. As supporting evidence, I would refer you to the individual members of Take That. 

But in addition, I wonder if there is an element of self-sabotage at large with the once-cute. Johnny Depp has immersed himself in roles of steadfast oddness for years (though he is, strictly speaking, beautiful not cute). Mark Owen borrowed from the wardrobe of a clean-shaven Catweazle and the physical onstage quirks of Michael Stipe.  And how else to explain what on earth is going on with Tim from the ears up? The density… the gloss finish… and does David Copperfield know someone's stolen his foils? 

No 2: the world's worst escapologist, as seen on Britain's Got Talent. The first moment of brilliance: his name – Nicky Flash. The second: his interview in the contestants' waiting room, where he said with unwitting yet deadly accuracy, 'Tonight escape-apology will be done.' He pushed his equipment onto the stage in a supermarket trolley, knocking over a couple of floor lights as he went, and took the microphone to introduce his act, oblivious to the fact he was being upstaged by his trolley which had carried on freewheeling downstage towards the pit. He had pledged to break the world record and escape from a bound-up sack in less than 30 seconds, but ended up being unceremoniously dragged off stage some minutes later by volunteers from the St John's Ambulance Service and released from his predicament, now apparently battling some kind of panic attack, instead of his padlock. I'm only sad that the apposite YouTube clip does not yet exist but imagine if you can, conjure if you must from the darkest of places, a Frankenstein-like creation stitched together from Bobby Davro, Andrew Marr and Rhydian Roberts. 

Those are names I never thought I would type – well, at all. Never mind in the same sentence. 

Try not to have nightmares.

Being Michael Schumacher

The most amazing thing I've heard today came from the radio news – and regular readers may recall that I am not a fan of the medium. Subsequently, I discovered that the story had also been in the Metro, meaning it is 100% truth with no lying bits.

Bruce Willis is being lined up to play elderly motor racing commentator and bumbling genius Murray Walker in a film about the life of Michael Schumacher. Bruce Willis? As Murray Walker? This is even more extraordinary than the fact that someone would want to make a film about Michael Schumacher.

What could come next in the alternate universe of sporting biopics? Sylvester Stallone as Alan Hansen? This would be perfect, since Sly would be required to demonstrate absolutely no emotional range whatsoever. But personally, I would pay literally all the money I have to see Clooney play Hansen. In fact the idea of these two titanic men being somehow fused via celluloid into one male colossus is so incredible it necessitates a lie-down with a damp flannel across the forehead, perhaps for the rest of my life.

But back with F1 – who to play Schumacher? I think that perhaps Bill S Preston esq could do some good work within the role.

But dye his hair, and Beaker is surely a shoo-in.

The kids are… really really dumb

I don't think I can listen to XFM any more. This afternoon they had a phone-in quiz to win some gig tickets. The question was 'Which band had hits in 1996 with Govinda and Hey Dude?'

The caller said 'Is it The Beatles?'

Dear Mr Slash

Dear Mr Slash

I'm writing to apply for the position of lead vocalist with your band Velvet Revolver, as advertised on various popular websites.

I don't know if this has ever happened to you, Slash – if I may be so informal – but lately I've had the feeling that I'm drifting, career-wise. I'm at a crossroads. I've been looking for a fresh challenge, a sign, if you will. I wonder if this is what it was like for you when you left Guns 'n' Roses, although perhaps Axl Rose's insistence on behaving like a drug-addled megalomaniac may have had more to do with your desire to seek pastures new.

I know you're a busy man so I won't waste your time. I feel that this is exactly the calling I've been waiting for. Let me first tell you something about my 'vocals'. I was regularly picked to sing solos at primary school, although I was always controversially overlooked for the prestigious first verse of Once In Royal David's City at the school carol concert but THAT'S JUST FINE. Choose a photogenic small boy, if you must, and don't blame me if there's some kind of nervous bladder incident. Then only a few years ago, at a Christmas karaoke work party, someone who was no more than very drunk told me I shouldn't sing with anyone else because 'they would spoil it'. However I do believe in total honesty, Slash, so let me say this. I'm not very good at singing the high notes, but since your previous vocalist was a man, I can't see that this minor shortcoming would hinder my application. 

As regards references, I would refer you to my friend who works at Kerrang, who I bumped into in Uniqlo at lunchtime. She told me that in a recent interview with the weekly rock bible, you had stated that you're fed up with unreliable frontpersons, and that you're looking for someone who can turn up on time and get the job done. Mr Slash, this is your lucky day. My timekeeping is excellent, as long as I am not required to be anywhere before noon, which I think is unlikely in the world of contemporary music performance. And as any of my friends would testify, I am extremely sensible. I have never even lost my mobile phone. I thrive on responsibility, and should my application prove successful, I would be happy to take on any additional band-related duties, eg starting birthday collections for members of the crew, organising quiz afternoons or editing the Velvet Revolver newsletter. I really think this could go places with a few new fonts and the addition of horoscopes or perhaps some fun puzzles, such as a heavy rock-themed wordsearch.

In addition to my not inconsiderable vocal skills, I believe we have a lot of other things in common which would make life 'on the road' go smoothly. Firstly, I, like you, am afflicted with naturally curly hair. Imagine the late-night chats we would have in our bunks on board the bus (I would have to take the top one as I get travel sick), discussing the merits of Bumble & bumble Curl Creme versus Aveda's Be Curly, and comparing wide-toothed combs. It would be a truly bonding experience, I believe, and I hope you don't think I'm speaking out of turn when I say you really would reap the benefits of a good six-inch trim. Those split ends are not going to grow themselves back together, whatever the latest 'miracle' product promises you.

I also have a keen interest in baking, which I know would go down a storm with you rock boys and your 'munchies'. And I'm not just talking leather-trouser-straining cakes and biscuits – I can also provide a range of healthy muffins and flapjacks. These are ideal as a nutritious slow-release pre-show energy boost, as opposed to the usual quick-fix pick-me-up. And by that I mean drugs.

Anyway, enough about me. I look forward to hearing from you very soon and keep up the good work.

Miss Jones

For my scarf, wherever I may find her

Grave news. I have lost my favourite scarf. I say lost. That would imply that I don't know where I left it. But I do know, most exactly. It was in Masala Zone on Marshall Street just after 2pm on Thursday. The service had been slow and we were late getting back to work, so I left in a hurry. As soon as I was a few yards down the road I felt a biting chill across my chest area – doubtless sensitive scar tissue from this calamity – and realised my mistake. But I couldn't turn back. I was late already, and no one is interested in your excuses when you're freelance scum.

I went back after work but no one could find it. Come back tomorrow lunchtime, when the same staff are working, they said. So I did. This time they disappeared to the back of the restaurant and returned with a hideous green tie-dyed number, a monstrous insult to the memory of my elegant, understated former companion. 'Is this yours?' they asked, delighted with their discovery. I had to steel myself not to shout back 'LOOK AT IT! AND LOOK AT ME! DO YOU REALLY THINK THAT IS MY FUCKING SCARF?' 

Instead I just said, 'No.' And felt my sad face become a little sadder. 

Then a strange thing happened. They said, 'What does it look like?' And I realised I couldn't exactly remember. I had always marvelled at its chameleon-like ability to look blue when worn with blue, or grey when worn with black. But were the stripes in it gold or silver? Did it have tassels? I felt like Elton John in Your Song when he's forgotten if they're green or they're blue, just because these things he does. Which doesn't rhyme in this conjugation. Still, could it be possible that I had taken our happiness for granted and never really appreciated my scarf, never taken a true, good look at it in all its splendid detail? (I can't help myself here in channelling a scene from Act 3 of Our Town, staple play of the US high school English syllabus and once performed in The Wonder Years – Kevin operated the spotlight, as I recall. I saw a production of it up West when I was a teenager with Robert Sean Leonard, who I was in love with then, and Alan Alda, who I am in love with now.)

Now, without it,  I have only  a vague impression of its beauty, its reassuring cushion around my neck, and the strangely comforting smell of all those daily layers of perfume and moisturiser, lovingly built up over our months together.

Forgive me this shallow outburst of self-indulgence. I am drunk with grief.