The wages of sin

I can't be the only person who believes that advertising agencies are somehow infiltrating my brain using lasars and black magic, finding out what my favourite songs are, and then consummately ruining them by changing the lyrics in a clumsy, ham-fisted fashion and thinking that will seduce me into buying their products. 

IT WILL NEVER WORK. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

The latest example: Charlotte Church advertising Virgin Holidays (like she needs the money! but wait, that is a different post) with a rubbish, reworded version of I Want It Now! from Willy Wonka & The Chocolate Factory. It is in my Top 10 songs from musicals, and don't think that's not a real list that exists in my head. Here, with a few minutes' preamble, is the original.

The whole concept of pillaging the classics reminds me of revising for exams at school and listening to a local radio station which had a really good indie show on weeknights. But, following the model of commercial radio, it worked on a ratio of about two songs by Kingmaker/The Wonder Stuff /James/other to four minutes of extremely low-rent adverts for local businesses. Perhaps the worst was for a company called Posh Windows And Conservatories, which bastardised Every Day by Buddy Holly, a simple, beautiful, totally perfect song. Whichever 'creative' realised that the name of the company would more or less, just about scan in the same way as 'Love like yours will surely come my way' probably got a pay rise but verily, they are the wages of sin. Even now I feel a shudder of violation whenever I find myself humming 'Every day, prices getting lower', which I do with surprising and hateful frequency. They probably think this means They have won. Comrades, They never will.

A few of my favourite things

Happiness is…

…a bank holiday, The Sound Of Music and remembering you have a bag of peanut butter M&Ms in the cupboard.

Sweet charity

The Oxfam bookshop on Kentish Town Road is a special cave of treasure that I always like to stop off at when I'm working in the area. You can see the majority of my haul above. But I also bought these beauties. Look! The artwork! The titles!

The inside cover blurb for I Thank A Fool begins 'To most of those around her Liane, the heroine of Miss Lindop's new novel appears to be touched in the head.'  Honestly, how can this, and its charity-shop sibling Come Hither Nurse, disappoint? In the unlikely event that they do, they were only 49p each, which I don't begrudge giving over to Oxfam one little bit. This is just one of the reasons why I am constantly tripping over piles of stuff in my flat, like a hoarding old man in a documentary about the environmental health services.

Paying the penalty

The fact that this no!-my-eyes, small-bit-of-sick-in-your-mouth image exists is, I am afraid, my fault.

I was out last night, and only got back for the very end of extra time in the Champions League Final. As I twisted and twitched my way through my usual routine of not quite bearing to be in the same room as a penalty shootout, but not wanting to totally miss it either, I managed to see Ronaldo not-scoring. 'Ha!' I thought. 'I don't even care if Manchester United win now, because that punchable little stoat has missed.' This was obviously an enormous untruth, because in the end I cared very much, in a deeply negative way, that Manchester United won, being a big non-fan. And I was punished by karma slapping me hard across the face, both for my falsehood and my utter lack of charity. Not to mention my prodigious ability to bear a grudge.

I have learnt an extremely sobering lesson about not taking joy in another person's misfortunes, even if they are Cristiano Ronaldo's, and also being careful what you wish for. I am today a chastened correspondant.

More reasons to eat at Morrisons

The last time I was working in the same building as my friend Betty, she took me to the fashionable Engineer pub in Primrose Hill for lunch. This time, as if to keep my feet on the ground, she took me to Morrisons' coffee shop.

It is quite a heady contrast. You don't see many celebrity wife-swappers in there. You don't even see Jade Goody. What you see are several white-haired old men quite alone, gazing down at their cooked lunch, cup and saucer of tea and slice of cheesecake. There's something about that combination of solitary elderly gentleman and coffee shop that forms a big black cloud over my head. In all likelihood, each one is probably just enjoying some quality Me Time before picking up his wife (who he's loved a little more with every one of their 50 years together) from the hairdresser, and needs my pity like he needs a faulty hearing aid.

Still, despite this melancholy spectacle, I am always cheered by a visit to somewhere that is by and large untouched by progress. The Morrisons cafeteria speaks of a time before soya lattes and health and safety. There is no barista to steam your milky drinks. Instead you are let loose in front of the hot beverage machine to create your own deranged cocktail of tea, coffee and hot chocolate, and self-harm at will with scalding water.

The menu features nothing to jar the senses. All the meals have been carefully chosen from a soothing colour palette of yellow, orange and brown – jacket potato with baked beans; jacket potato with tuna; omelette and chips; egg and chips; sausage and chips. Make up your own, if you like.

As I was paying the princely sum of £1.51 for a coffee and a teacake as big as my head (I am strangely in love with a teacake lately), I heard one of the orderlies shouting to a colleague: 'The customers are asking for forks again.' As though this was an outlandish demand equal to requesting a jacket potato garnished with the moon on a stick. 'They want what? We ate with our fingers in my day and it was good enough for us.'

To me, it is endlessly comforting to know that there is at least one corner of London where it is forever 1983 – the year of Thriller and All Night Long. And who on earth could not feel better for remembering this (which I'm also officially posting as a belated birthday dedication to Miss W)…

A Lynda Day Makes The Doctor OK. Or something

I read today on the Media Guardian website that Steven Moffat has been confimed as the new lead writer and executive producer of Doctor Who, succeeding Russell T Davies in the role.

Le Moffat has written several episodes of Doctor Who over the last few series. Other bloggers would be able to tell you with lightning recall which ones they were, and whether he's well qualified for his new job. If you ask me, the best qualification Steven Moffat has for anything is that he wrote Press Gang, the most excellent children's drama series in the history of the world.

The next question is will David Tennant go with RTD too? Or will he go with R2D2? Ha! No, but if he does, who could possibly replace Tennant and his family-friendly face? 

I will tell you. 

Steven Moffat should look no further than Julia Sawalha, reprising her role as Lynda Day, tough-talking, cardigan-favouring editor of the Junior Gazette, but now reincarnated as the first ever lady Doctor. She would be AWESOME. Lynda was academically brilliant, a take-charge kind of gal, but emotionally retarded – perfect for the rootless time-traveller swooping through the dimensions, never quite belonging. Imagine her indignantly facing down the Cyberman with only a bout of hiccups betraying her terror.

I have long been a disciple of Lynda's. As an impressionable youngster, she was my style icon. Where she, in her flippy skirts, heavy shoes and patterned shirts, led, I attempted to follow. Nearly 20 years later, I don't think I have strayed far from the path that much. And as I think about it, I still have pretty much her haircut.

Failing that, I would settle for Paul Bettany. Thanks.

Leader of the pac-a-mac

In preparation for my recent expedition to Scotland, I decided to do something I've never done before, something I've always been a little bit scared of. Yet somehow, in my mid 30s, it seemed to be the right time to take the step.

I bought a cagoule.

It is black – classic, understated. It fits in a mesh pouch that is slightly bigger than a box of Nairn's Oatcakes. It opens properly, all the way down, rather than with a tiny neck cavity which demands you have a diploma in escapology to put it on or take it off. It is, the man in the Lewisham branch of Millets was quick to ensure me, 'breathable', which is a boon if you enjoy breathing, as I very much do. The label is 'Regatta', which seems to me to denote a level of sophistication above and beyond the Peter Storms of the waterproof world. I feel strongly that I am wearing the Gucci of cagoules – tailored, timeless, elegant.

There is little more say, apart from that I already feel a level of fondness for it that has surprised me. It's a little early to use the L word – but who knows what depths of emotion may reveal themselves during the storms we are destined to share. And I like myself as a cagoule-wearer. I feel responsible. I have purpose. I have really useful pockets. I feel as though it's only a matter of time before I know every flavour of Cup-A-Soup. Unfortunately you cannot sidle up behind someone quietly to steal, say, a particularly enticing item from their picnic. Rustling is an issue. This is a tiny drawback, since I believe cagoule-wearers are mostly honest. But if anyone was brilliant enough to invent the stealth cagoule, well… I would bake that person a cake.

So these days, I am emphatically PC (pro-cagoule), and contemplating a one-woman mission to bring the waterproof to the fashion forefront. Celebrities! Join me! I've already done some of the styling for you. Presenting…

The Carrie Bradshaw:

The Betty Suarez:

The Victoria Beckham:

My own pac-a-mac diffusion range for Topshop can only be weeks away…