No need

I really love Ibiza. It's not everybody's cup of tea, but if you know the right places to go, it's amazing.

So you can imagine how excited I was when I found out that the closing party for one of the coolest clubs, DC10, was happening on my birthday, along with a total solar eclipse. With the Space closing party the day before, and the Bora Bora beach bar - my favourite place on planet earth - open the whole time - it was shaping up to be the best birthday I've ever had. But today I found out that a friend of mine, an idiot ex, whose moronic behaviour ruined my first trip to Ibiza, has booked flights and will be there, at all the same places, at the same time.

He will flail, he will be a massive, star-f*cking, drunken embarrassment, he will be impossible to get rid of.

Do I go anyway, and try to stand as far away from him as I can?

Or do I just admit defeat, call off the whole thing, and go to my mum's for roast chicken instead?

*snigger*

Maybe that'll stop you poncing about in the countryside in your tweed hat and waxed jacket, shooting at innocent clay pigeons, you silly pseudo English person.

Happy 47th, though, your madgesty.

Holiday

I swap jobs on September 5, and I've just been informed I'm going to have to take a week of my accrued holiday before then.

Now, I'm a fan of not working, me. Not a massive fan of holidays though. I hate getting up early and spending half the cost of the flight on a danger cab to the airport, only to be delayed for hours. I hate the inevitable coach ride of doom past the increasingly ghastly hotels, and the four-mile schlep away from the beach up a rocky cliff face to a handful of poxy apartments next to a sewage outlet pipe. I hate the wistful painting of the little boy in straw hat and dungarees on the bedroom wall. I hate the squeaky sheets. I hate the depressing sight of two single beds. I hate pushing the single beds together, only to wake up wedged between the two, tangled in and suspended above sandy tiles by the squeaky sheets, covered in fat mosquito bites. I hate mosquitoes. I hate, hate, hate waking up hot, showering, and having to cover myself in sun block. I hate washing it off at the end of the day, and having to cover myself in insect repellent.

I love reading. But I hate doing it whilst self-consciously wearing a bikini over my reflectively white skin and perching on a ridgy plastic sunbed next to a couple from Burnley called Marion and Steve. I love the fact that Marion and Steve are there to talk to. I hate the fact that I have to talk to them all day.

I hate being too skint to get away from the apartments for day trips. I hate being woken up at the time I would usually get up for work by someone who has a key to my room and is determined to empty the pathetic plastic bin.

I hate the fridge that clicks on and off all night long. I hate sand everywhere. I hate not being able to find fresh seafood even though the sea is JUST OVER THERE. I hate that Marion and Steve won't come and take their kids away. I hate the holiday rep, the smelly, glowering apartment owner, the seven mile trek for bread. And oh, I hate the bread. And I really, really hate that just when I find the decent restaurant with the fresh fish, the genius chef, the laughing restaurateurs and the friendly kittens, it's time to get on some death trap tin aeroplane and go home.

So.

I have decided never to go on holiday again.

I would like to see a volcano. I'd quite like to go on a walking holiday. I definitely like a bit of Balearic. I am desperate to travel, see the world, taste different food, meet people, get a fabulous tan. I just don't want to stay in the ticky tacky little apartments 17 miles outside the airport.

But that's OK, because I haven't been able to afford a holiday for three years. Year before last - three days in Iceland. Last year - three days in Ibiza. So far this year - 24 hours in Brighton.

And instead of hurling myslef onto the backlogged pile of travellers at Heathrow, next week, I'm going to Bournemouth for three days with my mum and my sister. It should certainly be an opportunity to meet new cultures (the elderly) and taste exotic foods (scampi and chips). Plus, they have an awesome beach, and I fully intend to take all of my buckets and spades. I even have my eye on a new set, with a pump action, um, pump, and three mini buckets. Bring it on.

And on my birthday, it looks like I will be at a beach party in Ibiza watching a solar eclipse. Now that's what I call a holiday!

Lived history

I work near the bottom end of Pudding Lane, the street where the Great Fire of London started. This part of town is pretty much dominated by fancy glass buildings and braying toffs in suits, it would be easy to forget the area's history if it weren't for the place names, and all the damn Wren buildings.

Pudding Lane is where all the bakeries used to be in ye olden tymes, and also where a lot of fires happened. Apparently, when he was woken up and told of the King's bakery fire on the night of September 1 1666, Lord Mayor of London Sir Thomas Bloodworth grumbled: "Pish! A woman might piss it out!" This wasn't strictly true - the fire raged until September 6. By the time it was finally put out, four fifths of London had been burned to the ground, most civic buildings had been destroyed, and hundreds of thousands were left homeless. Oops.



This was good news, however for Sir Christopher Wren, who was clearly flinging up buildings every five minutes, judging by the amount there are around here. I imagine him as a Laurence Lewellyn Bowen figure, large-cuffed and sprinkled with plaster dust, breathlessly showing off yet another post-fire church to Sir Thomas Bloodworth before racing down the road to top off another, with Sir Thomas yelling: "But we really don't need another... one... thanks.. Christopher" impotently at his retreating back. Still, they're all very wonderful and give the tourists something to take pictures of, so well done him.

Anyway, the reason I went off on one about Pudding Lane etc is because I'm on a cut-back-or-starve economy drive, and have been buying a bread roll and bread-topping jollop every day from Tescos (lunch for a pound? Get in!). In order to get to Tescos, I cut up through Pudding Lane. It struck me today that, even though Londoners in 1666 probably weren't all that enamoured by cottage cheese and donuts, it's kind of a kick to be trotting down Pudding Lane every day to buy a freshly baked bread roll.

Lost... and found

Everyone seems to be getting very excited about the first episode of Lost, which goes out on UK TV tonight.

Now, to be honest, I haven't really been paying much attention. I got swept up in the whole Desperate Housewives thing, and felt like a bit of a fool after a few weeks when I realised it was only a show on the telly. I even read the first four episodes on American website Television Without Pity before the show had actually aired.

Obviously I spoiled it for myself, as the Television Without Pity recaps are as good as - if not better than - the shows themselves. If you feel you waste too much time watching TV, seriously, just read it all online at work and free up your leisure time for more productive activities. Such as focused crisp eating.

I didn't realise how much I hate and self-destructively cling to Charmed as we both spiral into an endless abyss of co-dependent awfulness until I read the TWoP recaps. I had no idea how much I wanted Carrie Bradshaw to just SHUT THE HELL UP until I aquatinted myself with the site. The final series of SATC recaps were like a scab I couldn't stop picking. I didn't want to ruin it for myself, but oh my god my job at the time was boring, and I read the whole lot.

So, this time, I have managed to stay away from TWoP, and I don't really know any more about Lost than I have gleaned from Heat etc. Today, I was reading an article about the show on the Media Guardian website, and to my great amazement, learned that one of the castmembers is none other than Naveen Andrews.

Naveen Andrews was the star of a 1993 television adaptation of Hanif Kureishi's novel The Buddha Of Suburbia, which plunged me into a love affair with Kureishi's writing and young Naveen. I've since gone off them both, and haven't really been following Naveen's career. I'd assumed he had plunged into worthy Brit theatre obscurity.

Turns out, I was a little off the mark. He has actually appeared in a few movies, including Bride & Prejudice.

However, this is not all. This afternoon, I've learned a few shocking things about my former teen crush.

The first, mildly shocking fact, was this: when The Buddha Of Suburbia was broadcast, he was not actually a carefree teen. He was, in fact, already 24. He is now 36.

The two most shocking new facts I learned were revealed to me in this photograph:



1) He has simply shocking fashion sense. Blue velvet, Naveen? Seriously? And such a hideous shape. Horrible, horrible hugeness and height-robbing length. It looks like his mum wouldn't let him go to the premiere without a smart jacket on, so he borrowed one from Pavarotti. Urgh.

2) And ohmygod, that's not his mother! That's his girlfriend! He is living with with Barbara Hershey! She's fifty-freakin'-seven! I mean, go Barbara and everything, but WOW.

Aw! Teddies!

And now, for anyone who was upset by the preceeding rant, here is a picture of some lovely teddy bears holding hands.

Dance music is dead? Oh is it really?

There's been a bit of banter about the death of dance music/clubbing in the nation's media of late. I would like to add my thoughts to the discussion.

COMMERCIAL dance music/clubbing may not be as successful as it used to be. However, commercial dance and proper dance are two totally different things. Commercial dance music is designed to appeal to a shit-faced audience of pasty-thighed, gusset-flashing slags and over-gelled, Hacket-wearing, beer-leery, pot-bellied geezers who need something to jiggle their tattooed cellulite and garish facial piercings to as they guzzle 2-4-1 tart fuel and circle each other lustily in ghastly provincial nightclubs.

PROPER dance music remains under the terrifying shite radar of Now That's What I Call Drivel 876 etc. Whether or not there is a chart-topping, big-breasted blonde in gold lame hotpants miming to a bunch of repulsive, hall-of-mirrors clones about love, dove, sent from above, ooh it's true, no one but you, take me awaaaaay at Martines in East Grinstead makes no difference to proper clubbing. Proper clubbing will carry on - no matter what pseudo-trendy bilge is being spoon-fed to the dim-witted masses - far, far away from Neil Fox, JK & Joel, and the School Disco On Tour Faliraki Megamix.

Chicken tikka jeera

The curry was all I could have wished for and more. After much (fairly drunken) deliberation, I went for the chicken tikka jeera, a 'medium spiced dish cooked with jeera (cumin seeds), a touch of garlic and lemon juice'.

And oh, it was good. My curry was the one that turned up looking really sexy in a special dish. Yes, for one night only, I was the woman who ordered the dinner that everyone else wished they were eating. It was delicately spiced, creamy but not too creamy, and had just enough of a kick to titillate the tastebuds. It was so damn fine, I would happily have eaten it again for breakfast, and am already plotting a return with Drew next week.

In addition to the fittest curry to traverse my pallet in years, Marion and I shared rice and a saag paneer, a side dish made with spinach and cubes of fried milky, curdy cheese. As it was bring your own booze, the bill only came to £11 including tip, and the wine was flowing. I may have been a little exuberant, but was certainly not blowing bits of poppadom at boys, although I did manage to crack my head on the neon sign in the window several times. Well, if you're going to cram someone in a seat and let them drink all the wine they want, you shouldn't put a big metal box above their head.

Brick Lane

Tonight, I am going to Brick Lane for a curry.



I can't begin to tell you how excited I am. I have been looking forward to this all through the job nerves, all through the missing that bloke who's buggered off to Chicago, and all through the other various crises that have caused my shoulders to clamp, vice-like, to my temples over the last few days.

The reason for the curry is Shaun, a much-missed favourite friend, who emigrated to Australia last November with his wonderful wife Renae and her magnificent rack. His company has pinged him back over here for a few meetings, so clearly we are all attempting to cram about a year-and-a-half's worth of seeing Shaun into a week before he spins around like a boomerang, and whizzes back off Melbourne.

But enough about him - more about curry.



I came late in life to the joys of curry. My parents indulged, but I feared the spice, and didn't fancy the smell much. I popped my curry cherry at 16 (the legal age of spicy consent) in the Shahin in Sunbury-on-Thames, and never looked back. Drunken curries with friends were a big highlight of the legal drinking and 'free house' years - the era in which I perfected the poppadom chop, and learned the art of blowing shards of the aforementioned fried, floury snack at boys without spilling my pint.

These were, I have to say, chicken korma years. It has taken me a long, long time to cultivate a love of spicy food, mainly because most of the hot dishes served up to Brits are shite. It takes a master to dazzle your senses and let fire dance deliciously across your tongue without blowing your head off. Toxic brown sludge laced with a thousand red chillies is not subtle, nor is it cuisine. It is the revenge of Indian restaraunteurs on people who believe it is acceptable to blow shards of poppadom at boys in their place of business.

So, tonight I am hoping and praying for a near-religious experience in Brick Lane. And if I've got any luck left after getting the job, it would also be fabulous to have enough room left for a salt beef bagel from Beigel Bake.

V. Good

Bridget Jones's Diary is back in the Independent today! Top drawer. Like getting a weekly email from a treasured friend one thought was dead.

I've read it, I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. All the boys on the desk think it's crap, but they think everything ever created is crap, except possibly themselves. I need time to digest. Why isn't she with Mark anymore? Why? Why?

I got the job!

"Get in!" yelled Sally as she emerged, triumphant, from the boss' office

Finally, I place a tentative foot on the next splintered and rotting rung of the career ladder. Hooray!

Tomorrow comes hard graft and new role-induced nerves, but for now, let there be sesame prawn toast, and let there be gin!

Cookies in miraculous recovery

It's amazing - my cookies are cured! Or cooked! Or whatever it is that happens to cookies.

I don't know how they got themselves into that state, and I don't know what fairy dust gathered upon them when my back was turned. All I know is that I can blog, edit out my stupid mistakes, and incorporate pictures of kittens whenever the hell I want to.



Don't get me wrong, I was totally falling for the idea of becoming a shady figure, lurking around the back streets behind flickr, hacking into mainframes, outfoxing the man, and sleeping in cars. Yeah.



But oh, it is good to be back in the safe arms of blogger. Clean sheets, home-cooked meals, a cup of coco, and no worries that html codes won't get busted and duffed up by the cops when they're scuttling down Sniper's Alley on a mission to blogger.



Oh yeah, that's what I'm talking about.