The earth mooved*

* immediate shame-faced pun disclaimer

I may be in love. 

It began yesterday at London Bridge station at 6pm. I was waiting on platform 5 with my friend Stefanie, on our way home from making brunch at a friend's. I am not in love with Stefanie, although she is extremely nice. You will recall that it was London Marathon day. He – will I ever know his name? – was edging gingerly down the steps in a tracksuit, carrying a giant furry cow's head in one hand. I pointed this out to Stef, and he heard me, and smiled a bashful 'Yes, I have been wearing a giant cow's head for 26 miles' smile. And then he was gone, round the corner, on to a different platform, to live a different life. Now I can't stop thinking about him, his blisters that may need tending, his freaky furry animal head that may need carpet-shampooing. I am actually considering the submission of one of those 'Lovestruck - Change Your Fate' ads in The London Paper: 'You: cow's head, tracksuit, limp. Me: brunette, consumptive pallor, carrying a griddle. Fancy an ice bath?' I have resisted the temptation to say 'you're udderly gorgeous', because, Christ, I've got my pride.

If Shakespeare was alive, I think he would be renaming his draft of Romeo & Juliet tout de suite…

'May I admire you again today..?'

I'm still not quite sure about Gossip Girl. The best bits deliver flashes of the John Hughes films I rented compulsively as a young teen. Snooty-turned-sensitive queen bee Serena Van Der Woodsen is embarking on a fledgling relationship with outsider Dan Humphrey. His family are sorta kooky and don't quite fit in. She's the princess of the populars. It's love arching, like a giant preppy Alice band, from one side of the tracks to the other, don't you see. And doesn't it remind you of anyone?

In part then, Gossip Girl is a third-rate Pretty In Pink, with less OMD and a gender switcheroo (although John Hughes completists will recall that he ticked that box already with Some Kind Of Wonderful). And so if Serena and Dan are the new Blaine and Andie, where is GG's linen suit-clad baddie to equal the marvellous, malevolent Steff? Praise the lord for the best thing about the whole programme, the decadent, callous and fabulously dapper Chuck Bass, who is determined to destroy everything that is true and pure and right and good and poor and ugly and badly dressed. He is truly James Spader with magnificent eyebrows.

Chuck, I'm so glad you're here, as your male co-stars are painfully lacking in… oh, everything. Chace Crawford, as Nate, is apparently cut from the same highly flammable, manmade cloth as Zac Efron. You imagine if his underwear was to be removed, there would be nothing more than a smooth mound of rubberised plastic where his manitals should be. And should you happen to shine a bright light into one beautiful bland ear, it would come straight out of the other, as strong and unbroken as the beam from a lighthouse.

Then there is Penn Badgley. By far the best thing about him is his name, and that is not a quality to be applauded in a heart-throb. As the lovable, verbally incontinent, slightly bumbling geek Dan, his character would ordinarily be catnip to me. Instead, every time I look at him, I think of Paul Cattermole from S Club 7. 

But Chuck… he has panache. And he has purpose. And that purpose, other than pure evil, seems to be to dress like a member of the cast of an extremely wealthy am dram production of The Boyfriend, all paisley, pastels, linens, scarves and stripes. I cannot wait till he has a scene at his home, as I am convinced he will have a wonderful line in smoking jackets and other silky lounging attire. If I was head of the network, I would be greenlighting the production of Dress Up Chuck dolls, the kind I was enamoured of when I was too young for John Hughes films.

Outmoded now, of course, in the digital age. But, metaphorically, already top of my Christmas list.

Doom

When I was on my way to work yesterday morning, the train stopped in South Bermondsey as usual, and while we were waiting for the customary comings and goings to happen, I could see that a funeral cortege had stopped outside Millwall's football ground, which is next to the station. I wondered if it was the final farewell of a former player, so I did some rather maudlin news-googling, but could find nothing. However, it's good to know that, at any time, I can get the latest news on 'millwall funeral' with Google Alerts.

So I made the assumption that it was a fan just wanting one last simulated match-day shiver of excitement before his soul vaporates elsewhere. Or hers, obviously. It must be nice to feel so strongly and emotionally about a place. I think it's hard to achieve that when you live in London. People move around too much to find that sense of belonging. I wish I knew where I'd want to be taken on the way to my date with the hereafter. I don't think you could very well ask a hearse to pull up outside Topshop at Oxford Circus. Or the food hall at Fortnum & Masons. I'd want to go all over the country, I think, to scenes of childhood holidays and favourite concerts and anywhere I feel I might have missed while I was still breathing, which would demand a heroic feat of stoicism and indulgence on the part of my loved ones. This seems like it would make a good subject for a novel, but I'm not sure that the world either wants or needs a hybrid of As I Lay Dying and Weekend At Bernie's.

Anyway, since the last couple of posts are looking a bit image-lite (and this is a technical blogging term), it's time for a gratuitous YouTube clip. Let's talk about funeral songs as that's the sort of thing people do on blogs. Imagine if Nick Hornby had a blog. That's probably all he'd talk about. Actually Nick Hornby probably does have a blog. ANYWAY. This is on my short list. 

And while I'm in a Nilsson mood, and for some light relief, YouTube brings us this: 

'Get me Peter Elliott…'

Can anyone, anyone at all, man, woman or child, explain to me what on earth Denise Van Outen was doing carrying the Olympic torch? 

Obviously we are not the world's most illustrious sporting nation, but surely there was some figure of vaguely athletic competence who could spare half an hour? Is Kris Akabusi ex-directory these days?

Let us imagine what was going through the organisers' minds. 

'Well, Matthew Pinsent has a bit of a head cold. He just feels a bit, oh, you know, run down. So we need someone else.' 

'Can we get James Cracknell?'

'Swimming down the Ganges.'

'Ian Wright?'

'Tonsilitis.'

'Mick Hill?

'He's at a wedding in Cumbria.'  

'John Fashanu?'

'Doing a matinee of Oh What A Night in Bromley.'

'Well, in that case…'

I have just watched a documentary about the torch relay, showing how the flame was lit with great solemnity using the rays of the sun in Olympia. How better to continue this dignified ceremony than with one of the flame-bearers winking at the camera, chirping, 'My wrist's getting tired. Oof, that's not what I normally say!'

Give me strength.

Dear Russell T Davies

I'm a big fan of your work. I loved Queer As Folk. I adored Bob And Rose. I didn't really 'get' some of The Second Coming, but that's probably my fault. I have issues with concentration. I also enjoy your popular Doctor Who programme, although I can't remember the difference between any of the monsters unless someone shows me a picture. Apart from the Daleks, of course. And the Cybermen. And sometimes I find David Tennant a tiny bit annoying. But these are all trifles compared to one colossal problem I have. Who is dressing the doctor's assistants? And why do they hate them?

Let us firstly remember Rose, and her hugely unflattering collection of leisure gear – I'm thinking fleeces, parkas, hoodies, stonewashing… 

Piper, all of female kind shares your look of contempt. 

Let us next turn to Martha Jones (no relation, other than spiritually), and her hideous, omnipresent, boxy maroon pleather jacket, strangely reminiscent of a Russian sex worker.

I had high hopes for Donna and her black suits of power. Even though she looked like she was wearing what was known in the 80s as a 'body' underneath, which probably fastened with poppers in the undercarriage locality. At least she looked like she had a waist. Until she was off duty on Bernard Cribbins' allotment, wearing a shapeless long cardigan/knitted coat affair.

Finally, in tonight's denouement, we caught a glimpse of Rose Tyler – back, back, back, as they used to say in Smash Hits. Had her absence caused the head of wardrobe's heart to grow a little fonder, sartorially speaking? It had not. There was a jacket. It was pleather. The pleather was midnight blue. Let us once again allow the Piper's expression to relay the rest.

WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?

I know these are meant to be ordinary girls. But I am an ordinary girl and so are most of my friends. And we know better.

I just wanted to get that off my chest. Which is absolutely not clad in imitation animal skin.

Love you!

Miss Jones

2012 reasons to be cheerful

I just want to say this. I'm sick of people moaning about what a terrible thing it is that the Olympics are coming to London in four years, and that it costs a bit of money and there's a bit of building work going on and it might cost a bit more than someone originally thought. (Is anyone at all surprised by this? Has anyone ever employed under-budget builders?) I was watching the regional news yesterday (admittedly that was my own stupid fault) and they reported that six out of ten Londoners said there was nothing in the Games for them.

Nothing in it for them? Who are these emotional zombies? I can't have been the only non-member of the bid committee doing a little on-the-spot dance of joy in my personal space, wherever it was, when I heard the news. Actually I remember. I was standing in the More magazine office, and the only other people who seemed in any way excited were people who'd recently bought property in east London and were going to be able to cash in on it. Like, go team GB. 

There hasn't been an Olympic games in London for over 60 years. That's a long old time. If it were a comet that hadn't been seen for 60 years, or a rare classification of kestrel, everyone would be far more excited. OK, that's because those things are free. And Olympics cost billions of pounds, and sometimes have to borrow those pounds from other places. I don't know where the money should come from. Regular readers will know, I don't like to trouble myself with reasoned thinking. But the fact is, great feats will be accomplished. People will do things higher, faster, stronger (I'm paraphrasing Daft Punk here, obviously) and more perfectly than mankind has ever done before. Events of magic and wonder will happen, in the very city where we wish for them every day, on our journeys to and from work, or while we're putting the rubbish out, or doing a little jig to avoid stepping in some dogshit, or pushing a trolley around the supermarket.

And best of all, there will be many brilliant montages to music to watch on telly afterwards, which is practically my favourite thing about any major sporting occasion. Fields Of Gold by Sting, will be used many times, and I will weep during each of those times. Actually, being in charge of making montages-to-music might be my ideal job. But I digress. 

I do believe that half the population do have an interest in some kind of sport – boxing or football or tennis or things with people on horses (I mean, some people really, really like horses). And for people who don't, there's synchronised swimming. And even if we all hated all of it, what I want to say is: Where's the famous British emotional repression when you need it? Why is everyone suddenly vocalising their disapproval? Having an opinion? 

I want to see the British doing what the British do best – which is certainly not actually any of the Olympic disciplines. I want everyone pretending that everything is just fine, pretending to like things they don't like because they don't want a fuss, and that it's all OK, no really, I mean, the Olympics is not really our cup of tea, but nothing ventured, eh? I want to see the whole population pretending they're terribly, terribly excited, forcing out the words through gritted teeth, mangling the sounds through forced, rictus grins.

Never mind chivalry. I honestly believe that enthusiasm is a dying art.

Anyway.

In other competitive sport news, the other night I went to the local pub quiz with my mum. We came equal fourth, which I consider highly respectable given our number. If either of us had been dog enthusiasts – and I certainly have a brown and blue checked winter coat that makes me look a lot like one of these people – and been able to identify various species of canine, we would have done even better. There was a gang of brayers on the next table. I heard one of them say to the group: 'Do you think you have one side of your face that's better than the other? It's such a nightmare when you go to read for a part with someone and they put you on your wrong side.' He was like Mariah Carey in a striped sweatshirt.

Don't shop for it, Doctor…

I would not advise anyone researching a textbook on customer service to turn to Currys in Peckham for positive examples. However, anyone putting together a manual on retail in the 1980s should definitely head to the SE15 branch of Argos, where you can wait for your deckchairs or foot spa or Gent's Gold Plated Silver Bulldog Ring to the strains of The King Of Rock 'n' Roll by Prefab Sprout and Criticize by Alexander O'Neal*. Yesterday, someone was also wearing a Christmas at Argos sweatshirt. Given these factors, I'm disappointed to have missed a play of Last Christmas, because, honestly, you can't have too many. Argos is a living, working miracle to me. How can they keep that enormous number of different things in the confines of a medium-sized shop. Imagine the labyrinth of aisles and sky-scraping towers of shelving that must stretch back miles into different counties and continents. Imagine the ever-evolving technology that is propelling the gophers to the farthest corners of the stock room. Jet-packs, robots – any mode of transport that would make a splendid new attraction in Michael Jackson's Neverland (and from what I hear, he could do with the money). Anyway, my point is, I have discovered what the A in Tardis stands for. And it's not And.

My business in Argo was to buy a portable hard drive for my computer, so that the 91 per cent of my life that is gathered inside it can be protected. This is as a direct result of the calamity that befell Miss W's beloved machine (and you can read her quite beautiful elegy here). I have decided to keep it in one of my kitchen cupboards. This is in case of fire, of course. My spare bedroom, customary home of my computer, is at the front of my flat. My kitchen is at the back. I am reasoning that in the event of flames bursting out in my home, our location on a busy road that thousands of people use and observe every day will ensure that the emergency services are in attendance in enough time to save at least one of my virtual lives (and hopefully my real one, too). This is the kind of thinking that Richard Madeley and his millennium cupboard would be proud of.

(*This video for Criticize contains some of the greatest pre-song 'acting' I've witnessed. It is right up there with Janet Jackson's What Have You Done For Me Lately. I would invite other nominations, were I not quite so scared of the long, lonely silence. It is the blogger's torment. Every night we dream cold, lonely dreams where two words are scrawled large all around us on walls that are ever closing in, and shrieked in the guttural tones of vile hags: '0 Comments'.)