What's My Name? (I Forgot, Again)

I saw that Snoopity Dog-Dog from the 90's on Glastonbury, doing Gin and Juice, which brought back memories. Back in the day, my favourite tipple used to be gin and orange juice. This was by no means in imitation of 'Scoob', as we used to call him; oh no, I was way ahead of the curve on this one. But did I get 'respect'? No I did not. I was merely sneered at for drinking 'girl's drinks'. Hold up, I protested, here's a gangsta rapper eulogising my choice of drink! Does he look like a girl? With his pigtails...?

Hmm.

An elderly alcoholic told me that the drink had 'connotations of pre-war spinsters'. Gangsta rappers and pre-war spinsters make strange bedfellows... except maybe in a movie starring Ice Cube and Imelda Staunton, which - let's face it - could easily happen.

Perhaps my mistake, back in the 90's, was trying to milk the resemblance beyond the drink. There is something slightly pathetic about a male bookseller wearing pigtails, even if there are few hairstyles better suited to the onset of male pattern baldness.

Come On, Dine With Me

The World Cup is here again. Obviously I was very excited. However, after the Come Dine With Me football specials were over (shortly before the tournament began) it all fell a bit flat. The competition seemed unlikely to provide anything as startling as Frank Worthington's avocado vinaigrette (an avocado cut in half with vinegar poured onto it).

Perhaps the best way to retain my excitement, I decided, was not to watch any of it. However, I did end up in a crowded pub on Saturday to see England play Algeria. The pub had recently been renamed the 'Three Lions Bar', though it seems unlikely to be a long-term thing. As I watched the game I found that the most interesting activity on the screen was going on in the top left corner, where a clock was counting away the seconds. Mind you, a lot of other people seemed to feel the same. I don't know why it bored me actually. I'm quite happy watching a film in which nothing happens for two hours and then it all ends ambiguously. As for the vuvuzelas, most of my music collection sounds like that.

A few chants were struck up. 'We're shit, and we know we are', was my suggestion but it wasn't taken up. I notice that James Corden and Dizzee Rascal have got together to do a World Cup anthem, a version of Tears for Fears' Shout. 'These are the things I can do without' - yes, see how the project helpfully critiques itself. Odd that it seems to be encouraging howls of therapeutic rage rather than cheers - or perhaps this is entirely appropriate under the circumstances.

Am I the only person to be bothered by the absence of a comma in the phrase 'Come on England'?

I used to roll my own but now I have a fag

Once upon a time, only a few weeks ago it seems, politicians were people who fed you feelgood lies while, behind the scenes, they were busy shafting you. Now they are people who promise you pain. Yes paying back the Great Debt is going to be 'painful for everyone', says David Cameron. Christ almighty, why not just kill us all and get it over with?

Mind you, here at least is a promise politicians might actually be able to make good on, although it doesn't give you much of a comeback when their policies destroy your life. 'Well we did promise you pain', they'll say. 'We can offer you more pain. Would you like more?'

Surely they are taking this too seriously. I'm no economist, but you don't actually have to pay back the national debt, do you? No you just wait until it reaches Third World proportions and then Bono or someone will campaign to have it written off. David Cameron and colleagues are behaving as if money really existed. Amateurs.

At least we are apparently going to be consulted at how we want our pain applied. They borrowed this idea from the Canadians but it does seems to tap into a particularly English vein of sadomasochism, possibly inspired by DC's experiences at Eton.

We are all his fags now.

bestiary

I stayed at my aunt's in Newquay, a family holiday. 'Hello Martin', she said - to Justin. It hardly mattered. Holidays are about forgetting who you are. Calm days of gazing out to sea, into the misty distance, but nights of terror as the cat tried to break into my room, leaping up at the door handle. Unsuccessful in the first instance it seemed to retreat, but moments later I heard alarming crashing noises. Perhaps it was constructing a small battering ram - so I wondered, trembling in the dark. It's name was Gromit, after all.

I exaggerate. I don't even dislike cats. Dogs are another matter. My cousin nextdoor had a new dog, a Hungarian breed with a serious and old-fashioned look, as though by rights it should have been staring dolefully out of an ancestral portrait in some faraway hunting lodge. It could even have got away with a moustache, I thought. But its air of dignity was somewhat undermined by its failure to achieve stillness and by its constant attempts to chew through its lead. What if it succeeded? Would the house survive? Would we? Only a puppy, it was still big enough and clearly its ambition was to be everywhere at once. Thank God it lived nextdoor.

As though this wasn't enough in the bestial line, we went to the zoo. A woman persuaded me to 'gift aid my entry fee'. I didn't understand but I said yes. I had to give them my postcode, at which point my fears began, as if I would return home to find the place full of, say, marmosets.

Heidi wanted to see the lions. She didn't really want to see anything else. It seemed for a moment as if it would be necessary to pretend that all the animals were lions: monkey lions, ostrich lions, penguin lions... Luckily, there was enough in the way of distraction to keep her amused until we got to see the actual lions being fed. The meat was hidden under some logs, which did not present much of a challenge to these beasts. A voice explained that, in order to keep their interest, the lions were often fed in 'exciting' ways. Meat attached to bungee cords, hidden inside papier-mache zebras, and so on. You imagined the lions, presented with their keepers' latest wheeze, wearily rolling their eyes. How undignified.

An animal renowned for its 'speed and energy' was lying on its back as if dead. The tapir seemed to be mating, a process which involved the half-drowning of one of them. For all of these reasons I very much enjoyed my day at the zoo.

ding a dong every hour

I caught the last half the National Movie Awards, the awards voted for by the public. The public? Who let them in cinemas? They even had an award for most anticipated blockbuster (the next Twilight, of course) but none, I noticed, for most bitterly disappointing one. The audience screamed at everything. Tom Cruise won the Tom Cruise Award for Being Tom Cruise. He tried to look surprised, and gave a speech in which he revealed that he knew exactly where he was (London, in England) and thanked everyone ('In particular, all of you.')

Don't mention it.

Excitement was also provided by the Eurovision Song Contest. I was not surprised that the UK's feeble entry came last, although the fact that it lagged so far behind a song in which a woman claimed repeatedly to have an apricot stone in her head is one of the many lovable mysteries of Eurovision.

My all-time favourite Eurovision winner is Ding A Dong, the 1975 Netherlands entry by Teach In (yes, them). It is so thrillingly urgent in its demand for the listener to 'sing a song that goes ding ding a dong' at all times, whether you are 'feeling alright' or whether, alternatively, you are wallowing in despair after 'your lover is gone, gone, gone'. That the compulsion to continually sing nonsense lyrics over and over again may in fact have helped to bring about the departure of the lover does not even seem to occur to them, so manically focused are they on their message.

If you actually followed their advice, of course, you would wind up as a dribbling lunatic, mindlessly chanting 'ding ding dong' in your soiled underwear as your life falls apart. But how refreshing it is to find Eurovision nonsense pursued to its logical goal: complete insanity.