Oh god, my cookies are disabled

Chandelier
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

I fear that blogger has joined its pal hotmail in exile, and been blocked by systems at my workplace.

I can't post at home as blogger entries on my PC save as a draft instead of publishing. I can (as you see) still post via flickr - not the best news as o2 has decided to start sending photos to email not as jpgs but as links that don't work, meaning I can't get any new pics to flickr. I've tried sending direct from my phone to my flickr email, but it doesn't work. So be prepared for some repeat pictures.

I'm not sure why the world of technology is conspiring to shut me up, but rather than hurling myself into the Thames in despair, I will endeavour to continue. Even if I have to post from my parents' house (mmm, really fast broadband and dinner), and Andrew (Otherwise Known As Not Enough Drew) has to go back to being my editor and blogger daddy (hey Drew!)

So, it's work 2, Not Enough Who In The What, 0.

I sense not being able to post at work will ring the changes in editorial policy - less angsty rants, more drunken, rambling love letters to blogger from internet cafes on the Tottenham Court Road at 1am on Saturday mornings.

Highlights from the Big Gay Out:

Watching the remaining members of Blazin' Squad mouth-breathing as they strained to understand an interviewer's questions back-stage.

Slick Tony Christie and his fuck-off Gucci shades, and a certain young lady asking for a quick pic of the two of them together for her mum, then confessing to me afterwards this was bollocks, it was for her, and her mum has no idea who Tony Christie is.

Two grubby-looking young boys outside the gates of Finsbury Park, arms slung around each other, blagging positive "yes!" gay rainbow sweeties from the lesbian who asked: "But are you gay?" by chanting in unison: "We're bisexuals!"
(yes I know that was on Drew's blog, but I was there too)

Getting kicked out of the closed Terrordome tent where we were watching our friend Strawberry K DJ, even though we'd been there for half an hour, the tent was two hours late in opening and there was still wet paint on the podiums.

Being given a balloon by a policewoman.

The Enchanted Forest of David Hasselhoff: trees, creepers, exotic bugs, velvet cushions, Speak & Spells on chains and a Hoff shrine, all leading to an incense-scented Moroccan-style tented retreat.

Toilet Land. If you have to spend a penny at a festival, do it in an enclave of pink-draped portaloos, staffed by lavatory-paper brandishing hosts and hostesses in - of course, pink - to the sounds of the theme-tune of Going For Gold (nice, but still glad we had access to the V.I.Pee)

The knight in shining armour zooming about the crowd on a pretend horse concealing a moped.

Realising it was cold, we'd been there for hours and were not gay, and leaving professional gayers Joe and Drew to dance it up while we dashed back to Marion's to drink wine, eat pasta and watch Bridget Jones: The Edge Of Reason.

Interview

I had an interview today for a new position at work. It was supposed to be yesterday but got moved, allowing me plenty of time to metamorphose from a relaxed, confident and possibly slightly under-prepared human being into fanged, clawed, head-biting, sweaty-palmed nervous wreck monster.

After I'd been sitting waiting for the interviewer in the office for five minutes, forgetting to breathe with my shoulders in my ears, it genuinely occurred to me that I may have started frothing at the mouth.

The interview was over in under ten minutes and none of the questions I'd prepared for were asked (that would have taken about four hours). As usual, my mouth detached from my brain and went right on ahead doing the interview by itself. I think it did a pretty good job, from what I managed to catch from my disembodied state.

Fingers crossed!

The magic of the interweb

Busy bee
Originally uploaded by LizzieCatt.

You whimsically muse over wanting something, and is if by magic, it appears!! Thank you Ms. B!

Sorry for the lack of posting, I've been ill and away from my computer. Planning to luxuriate over many words in the coming days.

Altogether now!

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside
I do like to be beside the sea
I do like to stroll upon the
Prom prom prom
Where the brass bands play
Tiddley-om-pom-pom


A very early example of Photshop?

So just let me be beside the seaside
I’ll be beside myself with glee
And there’s lots of girls fish besides
I should like to be beside deep fried
Beside the seaside, beside the sea.



I'm grabbing my stripy bathing suit and heading off on a very short jaunt to Brighton, back beside the keyboard on Thursday!

Irrepressible, irreplaceable, unforgettable...

...and very, very silly.

Simon Potter & The World's Fattest Rabbit

Farewell then, Simon the Hat.

At the weekend, it was time to bid a fond adiu to our friend and partner in having it right off matey, Simon "The Hat' Potter. The Potter mania predicted by the world's media did indeed come to pass as Hat-loving folk from around the country flocked to London to partake in a suitably energetic send-off for Simon and his lovely wife Lorena.

So, as part two of my tribute (the first being a challenging Double Millinery Salute), a few words about The Legend That Is The Hat.

Hat is a truly spectacular individual, whose boundless enthusiasm, sense of humour, and enviable collection of whistles, bells, games, roaring Hulk hands and assorted headgear lit up endless nights out. His enormous sense of fun and general top blokeyness will be sorely missed by us UK dwelling Hat fans.

In addition, I will miss my nearly neighbour and fellow SouthWest Trains sufferer. Simon, for you, there shall be no more points failures at Clapham Junction.

As Mr & Mrs Hat board the jet 'plane and zoom off into their rosy new future, I say this: watch out Australia - danger, danger, danger!

*sob*

HARRY POTTER AND THE MAHOGANY DWARF (embargoed until 12.01am)

By I.Am. Rowlinginnit

"Run, Cho Chang!" yelped Harry, frantically slapping out the flames on his invisibility cloak as he tore up the crumbling steps and away from the murky cavern.
The bone-headed troll lumbered through the reinforced steel door close behind, finger still on the trigger of his flame-throwing device, his huge bulk moving at a surprising pace.
Suddenly, a cloud of plaster dust, splinters, and mid-afternoon sunshine burst though the wall, along with a huge pair of hands which yanked Cho Chang and Harry swiftly to the safety of the street outside.
"Hagrid!" cried the blinking pair in unison as the gentle giant tossed them over his huge shoulders and began thundering down Old Compton Street.
"Dumbledore's not going to be happy about this, Master Harry," mumbled Hagrid, Cho Chang's foot partially wedged into his bearded mouth.
"Mark my words, Harry Potter, Gryffindor is going to do very badly out of this. Very badly indeed."
Although every leap Hagrid took was knocking the breath out of Harry's lungs, he stretched out his hand for Cho Chang.
But his heart sank as she failed to grasp it, and fixed her eyes firmly on the blurring cobblestones below.

The day had started full of promise. It was the summer holidays, and Harry and Cho Chang were spending the week with Professor Batshit, a hugely gifted but eccentric scholar of Potions, who lived in Soho.
Soho was a fascinating place in the middle of London, populated by all manner of freaks and vendors. Muggle visitors to the city would walk straight by on the Charring Cross Road, Oxford and Regent Streets and Shaftesbury Avenue. But those who knew slipped up into the narrow streets, where you could procure almost anything, or even anyone, that you desired.
Professor Batshit had never fancied the life of a traditional wizard, he told them, as he distractedly picked at the dried dragon's egg yolk on his kipper tie. He declared Soho to be the only place for a true virtuoso of the art of potion making to reside. It was also, he added with a wry smile, a fantastic address for those who did not wish to be beaten to a bloody pulp for stepping out on a Saturday night dressed as a fetish-loving chorus girl named Big Bertha Whipalot.
Harry and Cho Chang had sat up late into the muggy August nights, enrapt by Batshit's tales of potions that could reduce dragons to house pets, and tinctures which would shrink size elevens to the right proportions for a sparkly Topshop wedge sandal.
To Harry, the routine of Hogwarts seemed a million miles away.
As he and Cho Chang lay beneath clammy, unzipped sleeping bags on lumpy sofa cushions on the crumb-scattered floor of Batshit's apartment, his brain was racing with all the weird and wonderful images he had seen on the pungent streets of Soho over that last few days.
"Cho Chang," he whispered to his dozing companion as he rolled over and propped his face on his hand.
"I want to go to Stringfellows."

Stringfellows, as every boy at Hogwarts knew, was a red velvet palace just outside Soho, run by a good-natured and leathery dwarf named Peter Stringfellow.
Although the dwarf had been celebrating his 721st birthday for several decades, he certainly had no trouble finding romance with the strange and exotic females who worked in his titillation emporium. His prowess was spoken of in awed whispers, and many a teenage wizard had spent hours in the laboratory, trying to recreate the secret powders that it was rumoured the potent creature used to woo his lady friends.
But the supposed ingredients of powdered rhino horn, unicorn tears and snufflewort root were not only exceptionally rare and expensive, but also highly explosive, leaving would-be lotharios with sooty faces, singed eyebrows, and no more tuck money until Fetching Feast.
Stringfellow admirers were left to jealously pour over pictures in the London Standard Evening of the gnarled, half-size mahogany play-boy having his sparse, yellow-grey mullet ruffled by a series of scantily-clad beauties.
It seemed his secret would never be uncovered.

To be continued...

Disclaimer: this clearly has nothing to do with the real Harry Potter books, which I'm pretty certain are not penned during JK Rowling's lunch break.

Today, I want one of these:

Soup

So, I've been making soup in a bid to ward off any further weight gain. No point bothering with the stuff in the canteen, our very passionate and appropriately rounded chef bungs cream, booze, salt and butter into very everything he can. There's a roast dinner on the menu every Thursday, giiiiant fish 'n' chips (with home-made mushy peas and tartar sauce) every Friday, they have mousse pots, chocolate bars, greek yoghurt with stuff in it... terrible.

There are healthy options, but it's WELL expensive in that canteen, and quite frankly, who the hell is going to fork out £3.75 for a plastic tub with a few chewy green leaves and some tasteless chicken in it when they could have roast pork, red cabbage, tatties, apple sauce and gravy for another 25p? Not me matey.

So, the canteen is totally to blame for my current physique, and therefore the reason for (a) the going faster (currently lapsed), and (b) the soup.

The soup was a brilliant idea I hit upon following laboured discussions with my sister the super-slimmer, who has gone from a size 16/18 to a toned 10 over a year. OK, so she had to have her gallstones removed thanks to over-zealous dieting, and is now utterly obsessed with calorie/fat counting and leaping about like an upstream salmon to Rosemary Connolly videos at stupid O'clock in the morning, but she's looking very hot. Bitch.

The one thing you can eat lots of, it seems, is vegetables (not potatoes of course though, oh no). And lots of lovely, fresh, organic vegetables are just super and great to put in your body. So, if you turn them into mouth-watering soup and take them to work, you can fill your tummy with wholesome goodness and there'll be no need to think about Rolos, not even once.

Thrilled at the prospect of my imminent transformation into svelte, thin-limbed earth-maiden, I rushed out to the farmers' market to scoop all of nature's bounty up into my soon-to-be skinny arms. Oh, alright, it was 24 hour Tescos at 10pm, but most of the veg was organic. Why so many chavs need to pile down to the Raynes Park turn-off to stock up on Tizer and oven chips at nearly midnight I'll never know.

Anyway, it was all going pretty well. I had my piles of raw ingredients, and had held a successful carrot & coriander and leek & potato run-through (cooked at the same time - check me out). I was planning to bubble up enough nutritious and delicious broth to last at least a week and a half.

The first mistake I made was I couldn't actually be arsed to cook. As the days went by and I shovelled more canteen grub into my fat face, the potatoes went green, the onions threatened to shrivel, the huge bundle of muddy leeks freezer-burned to the back of the fridge, and the carrots sat about, collecting condensation. Thank god for the indestructibility of crème fraîche. That stuff really is the b*llcoks.

The second mistake I made, once I'd got around to cooking, was 'tasting' the soup too much. By tasting, of course, I mean eating. By the time I'd 'checked' the carrot & coriander a few (hundred) times and had a bowl for dinner (and seconds - it was really nice), there were two rather polite portions left. Polite portions were not the point. Polite portions will not get between me and a large helping of goat's cheese wellington.

The third mistake I made was failing to bring the soup into work with me. It takes exactly 43 minutes for me to get ready, and I don't actually wake up until I'm getting off the overground at Waterloo. It's hard enough to remember keys-wallet-travelcard-diary-phone-umbrella-tissues-book-discman-make-up, shit, have I got my phone? without remembering something in the fridge as well.

The fourth mistake I made, having remembered the soup, was arriving at work and agreeing to go out for lunch. Leaving it on my desk, taking it to the pub for the evening and eating it the next day COULD have been a big mistake, but luckily I did not get food poisoning and die. Hurrah.

The fifth and final mistake was to jolly up my efforts with a hot, salty, buttered jacket potato and a Twister ice lolly. Did I mention I had a bacon sandwich for breakfast?

God I want a donut.

If he doesn't already make you sick...

Tosser.

The day after

Another busy day dealing with grim news, not helped by a rather majestic hangover. I'm pretty embarrassed that the buses and trains were on splendid form, while I limped around sorrowfully, contemplating whether or not I could cope with a cheese sandwich. Shame on me.

Tonight I'm going out to see a friend DJ, but I feel like I should be heading home to grow potatoes, paint lines up the back of my legs, darn socks and sew up a hole in the black-out curtain. I had to stay in town last night, the last time I left home, the first bomb had just gone off and I was totally oblivious to what was happening. The people I work with and I have been living and breathing these terrorist attacks since yesterday morning, I kind of want to go home and hug my mum.

London attacks

Working in a news organisation, I feel like I'm in a bubble. I didn't really have any trouble getting into work and have hardly left my desk since I got here - can't believe it's 3.15 already. Instead of writing the usual froth, we're ringing hospitals to see how many dead and injured have been brought in. The emergency services and hospitals are coping amazingly well, the major incident plans appear to be extremely well-rehearsed. The thing I can't get my head around is that this is happening to friends, neighbours, fellow Londoners, right outside the front door - I certainly won't be going outside for a while.

London attacks

I'm at work and OK - are all you other London kids OK?

Velodrome

Ha ha to Alex from Londonist:

"Fantastic news! I for one can think of nothing better to help reduce crime and increase standards of living in what is arguably one of the most deprived areas of the UK than a velodrome.

I've even got a slogan:

You can stick ya crack, I'm off to the track..."

Anyway, if you've come here expecting PE-fuelled jubilation or track event-inspired euphoria and are disappointed, get your fix here (although I think it's down at the moment, heh).

Oh go on, call me a killjoy...

...but what about the repercussions of artificially inflated development and house prices? How the hell is London's already stretched and struggling public transport network going to cope? How are we going to get to work for the next seven years whilst everything is shut down so a never-ending amount of cash can be poured into hosting a glorified sports day?

*sigh*

Maybe it'll get a few fat kids off their arses.

*sigh*

Maybe I'll be dead by 2012.

I refer you my post of Thursday, January 13, 2005


Back The Bid - Of France!*

THE STANDARD EVENING
September 26 2011

Queen Elizabeth II has expressed deeps regrets that the 2012 Olympic Games were not awarded to Paris, it was claimed last night.

The thin-lipped monarch admitted to shocked onlookers that London's botched efforts to prepare for the games were "a total shambles" and "well embarrassing."

She added that Paris would have staged a far superior show.

The 85-year-old, who has recently been critcised for heavy drinking, made comments about the impending games as she partied at London nightspot Red Cube.

"It's a right f**king nightmare," she told chums Dane Bowers and Anthony Costa.

"The 2012 Olympics is a cash-guzzling abyss of disaster, and we're all going down, I tell you.

"The whole thing is doing my head in. Why didn't we just let Paris win, like I said? Why? Why?"

The Queen was referring to controversial comments she made at a 2005 event, expressing a conviction that the games would go to the French capital. She stated at the time that there was a serious lack of support from Londoners.

However, the Parisian pitch was floored by a subsequent dramatic turn-around in public opinion in the London area, which was attributed to the introduction of a garishly-decorated tube train.

Impressed Olympic organisers named London as the 2012 host city in July 2005.

But the euphoria following the coup turned sour in 2007, as the company behind the Jubilee Line train's redecoration was subjected to lengthy investigation into its practices. Successful joint litigation was later brought by passenger groups and ASLEF, who accused the Haitian firm of using voodoo magic to win over cynical commuters.

The company claimed during the trial that Londoners were simply bedazzled by the bid committee's snazzy website, and a record-breaking advertising campaign that saw every lamp-post and billboard in the city bedecked with posters and banners.

However, this defence was dismissed by Judge John Laideeshair, who commented in his summing up: "The majority of the city's inhabitants may well be as thick as a bucket of mud.

"But it is preposterous to suggest that Londoners - who have already witnessed authorities struggling to stick up a big white tent and bung up a footie stadium - would have been fooled by some silly photoshop images of leotard-clad athletes glibly pinging over Tower Bridge, the Thames Barrier, and that stripy building that looks like a big c**k."

Her Royal Highness has been single-handedly project-managing the games since 2009, when the London Assembly and Labour government fled the country in shame after a series of embarrassing gaffes. Red-faced politicians absconded en masse to Acapulco when a sub-contractor working for a private firm subcontracted by a government-funded organisation leased itself back to itself, and accidentally bulldozed Newham.

I think this could be bad

I just stumbled across this via Low Culture - a shortened version below.

I didn't know anything about how the US Supreme Court worked until I read the article, but I think this is really bad:



Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, the first woman to serve on the United States Supreme Court and a crucial swing vote on abortion and a host of other divisive social issues, announced today that she was resigning, setting up what is sure to be a tumultuous fight over confirming her successor.

After months in which speculation about the Supreme Court focused on the likelihood of Chief Justice William H. Rehnquist's stepping down, the resignation of Justice O'Connor, 75, caught much of Washington, including the White House and her own colleagues on the court, off guard. Even so, the armies of ideological activists from both sides who had massed in anticipation of a battle over replacing the chief justice, a reliable conservative, quickly pivoted to what they agreed was an even higher-stakes showdown for control of a seat that could alter the court's balance on an array of polarizing topics.

Justice O'Connor's decision creates the first vacancy on the court in 11 years, ending the longest period without a change in the line-up of justices in almost two centuries, and it provides President Bush with his first opportunity to name a Supreme Court justice. The chief White House spokesman, Scott McClellan, said the president would not make a selection until after returning from a summit meeting next week in Scotland.

Since joining the court in 1981, replacing Justice Potter Stewart, Justice O'Connor has been at the very center of the court in almost every sense, and has held or helped define the balance of power on many of the issues of broadest concern to the nation, including affirmative action, the death penalty and religion.

But it was her stance on abortion, and in particular her role in reaffirming Roe v. Wade, the landmark 1973 ruling that put the court on the side of abortion rights, that put her most squarely in the middle of culture wars that have increasingly dominated not just the courts but political discourse in general.

Replacing her with an opponent of abortion rights would not by itself be enough to overturn Roe v. Wade; it would take a shift of two votes in the court's current composition to do so. But it would change the balance of power on the court when it comes to lesser restrictions on abortion, such as bans on the procedure its opponents call partial-birth abortion, and it would move the court that much closer to overturning Roe, the long held goal of many social conservatives.

It is still not clear whether Chief Justice Rehnquist, who is battling thyroid cancer, will step down this summer, creating another vacancy and expanding the confirmation battle to two fronts.

C. Boyden Gray, a former White House counsel who founded the Committee for Justice - an advocacy group set to back whomever the president nominates - said: "It makes me nervous.
"I'm not sure we are as prepared for an O'Connor vacancy."

One of the liberal groups expected to be active in the looming confirmation battle, People for the American Way, said the choice of her successor would be a critical moment.

"Justice O'Connor has been the most important figure on the court in recent years," said Ralph G. Neas, president of the group. "Her replacement will have a monumental impact on the lives and freedoms of Americans for decades to come."

Mr. Neas urged the president to engage in bipartisan consultations with the Senate before settling on a nominee and to reject pressure from conservatives for an ideological nominee.



Bush's comment to Justice O'Connor on hearing of her resignation?

""For an old ranching girl, you turned out pretty good."

Apparently, Mr. Bush said he would be "deliberate and thorough" in selecting a nominee to replace Justice O'Connor, and he promised to consult with the Senate, which will have to confirm his choice.

Hmm, deliberate and thorough in selecting some ghastly, woman-hating, gay-hating fascist, I'm sure.

I may not really know much about this, but it basically, in summary, it looks America is another step closer to being well and truly fucked.

Doooooooomed.

And now I shall go away and write about Live8.

The golden ticket

I just quietly opened an envelope that arrived at my desk, in which nestled a Gold Circle ticket and a press pass for tomorrow's Live8 gig in Hyde Park. I feel like Charlie frickin' Bucket.



I'll report back on Monday.

A Brief History of Blog

So this morning on the train, I say, "If you get bored at work today, you do know I've got a blog, don't you?"

And he says: "A what?"

"A blog," I say.

A quizzical look.

"A web log, like an online diary? A sort of website... thing," I say.

And then, "Oh dear."

I think this is more cringe-worthy than introducing someone to your mum and dad. J, this is the blog. A collection of utterly pointless and self-important drivel, written by me and narcissistically placed on the internet for other people to read. Sometimes funny, often ill thought through, always full of errors.

This is where the whole blogging thing began for me.

Work Hate was actually quite funny. It was a collaboration with Drew, and people still seem to like it. But we don't hate work any more, so we stopped. Drew's site was clearly the inspiration for this one, I wanted to be able to witter on at him while he was living in New Zealand, which is in the future so it's difficult to communicate with people who are there. So I made this.

Drew's friend Christopher has a brilliant blog, and another great blog was Belle de Jour, that diary of a London call girl that arguably brought the forum into the public consciousness last year. Not your consciousness though, apparently. Belle made blogging (geeky) appealing, by writing rather explicitly about having sex for money (sexy). After she won a book deal, Belle had millions of wannabe writers scrabbling for their keyboards to set up blogger accounts, and millions more PRs trying to convince their clients that blogs were the latest whizz-bang form of communication. However, that last bit is mostly bollocks.

Although, I am informed that a mention on a very popular blog can do wonders for a product, and that some political blogs in the US wield so much influence that some writers were paid off during the last presidential election to write kind things.

I've got *blush* 30 blogs on my favourites bar, including Londonist, Defamer, Low Culture, Dooce and Go Fug Yourself. Oh, and Gordon Dioxide was good.

As you may have realised by now, I even know a little basic html. I really hope that, and all this, doesn't put you off.