Woodhall: late-night karaoke hits the bathroom

Bedtime (or waking-up) in Woodhall in normally accompanied by a mad rush for the bathroom. Scrubbing teeth, squeezing pimples, checking yourself out in the mirror; all adds up to me-time, and in a flat without a lounge, you can tell why some of us (not naming any names) are addicted to spending time in there, making ourselves into the good-looking people we aspire (and mostly fail) to be.

Bathroom-time usually means tactical warfare that has seen firearms drawn (but not used) on more than one occasion. However, peace does break out once in a while in the mad-rush for cleanliness. From time to time, people even brush their teeth without locking other people out.

Other times, things get really jolly, and happy singing breaks out... before turning into yet another way of introducing competition to what was a mellow evening.












Zhao started it all with a mad rendition of the polish national anthem. George followed with an impromptu version of our very own God Save the Queen. Things were getting competitive.

Rap, followed by blues and more than a little jazz, then rang out. Vocal acrobatics that flavoured not only the acousitcs of our fair abode, but also that of the other flats connected by the ventilation shaft that allows people to breathe when in the windowless bathroom.

Things came to a head somewhere around the time George followed Zhao's version of Nina Simone's Suzanne with his version of Leonard Cohen's Suzanne. However, after a brief bout of fisticuffs over the sink, they agreed that each version of the classic differed just about sufficiently to be allowed in competition. However, having damaged their instruments, they required new toothbrushes before they were able to continue.

Not sure if the other residents of our block appreciated George and Zhao's efforts considering the concert began at 11.45, and concluded in the small hours - after a small break for mouthwash. Zhao shaded the evening with a tearful examination of Eminem's Stan.

It was 3am. Time to get back to the original reason for being in the bathroom in the first place.












It was back to the pure and simple sound of scrub and brush, scrub and brush. Serious business.

Then all that was left was contemplation of the night of dreams ahead, and the morning light that would surely follow.

Domestic life

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The boules obsession

On a list of strange Ghetto pursuits this year we've already had plastic duck shooting, indoor cricket (with tish-tennis ball) and table olympics. Now we've taken a tentative step into the strange world of indoor french boules.













Truth is, the game's normally played in a sandy, pebbled pit. Quite a long way from our relatively fresh carpet and kitchen lino. Few things have dented the enthusiasm of George, Zhao and myself though, and formulating a competitive game from relatively coarse surrounds is becoming something of a forte.

























Over three or four tournaments, it's pretty safe to say that Zhao has been the overall victor, however, last night I managed to win two games of conventional boules. However, at the new 'golf boules' strand, involving play across three rooms, Zhao once again emerged the victor. So I'm catching up, albeit slowly.

That's not to say George never wins. He does. Just not very often! Harsh, but true.






















Strange quirks of the rules are that if anyone knocks any boules down the stairs, they are disqualified. No arguments. That's about the only quirk, actually... although you could well say that the whole concept of indoor boules is one massive quirk all of its own.

Woodhall - unseen views!

VEE-Drinks!

The blur in this photo is one of quickfire signing - by way of a few members of the old VEE-TV team getting together in the shadow of Marble Arch last night.

It felt less like a Tuesday night and more like a Friday night (but then every night on VEE-TV felt like a night out!) as we downed several beers and stole chips from whoever had been unofrtunate enough to order any!














The pictures tend to get blurrier as the night went on - although the signing seemed to get faster, and in my case, more muddled up!













And Paul could always be relied on to pull a few faces whenever us lads lost track of the girl's conversations...













In the end, chucking-out time came too soon. And so it was for a short trip home, jumping on the tube and getting some precious shut-eye before morning came too soon, as it always does...















We made sure we finished our drinks before we left, though!

My birthday - snaps!

It's easy to live in denial about getting older. God only knows, I've tried. It seems like only yesterday I was living the easy life, 14 years old, sitting my SATs, hardly knowing that I had 8 straight years of exams (through GCSEs, A-Levels and Degree) ahead of me. Mum and Dad paid for everything. I did a paper-round, and later worked in Co-Op for the grand sum of £2.28 an hour. Was that really only 10 years ago?!

Time flies, it really does. I mean, I've got my twenties in front of me, most of them anyway (nearly halfway though) but there's something about being 24 which feels, well, older somehow.














Of course, I am older. Every second, every day, I'm older. Nothing can stop it. I'm older now than I was yesterday. Than I was at breakfast. Before lunch even. It's unbeliveable how it continues to creep up on you. Even on days off...


















Drink helps, not that much (hangover in the morning) but just enough so that a birthday feels like a celebration rather than a commiseration. These shots weren't all for me, you'll be relived to know. There was a shot for everyone - my thanks to them all for making it to my big day. The astounding thing is that the people who came were from every different walk of my life - from university, to school friends, to mates from VEE-TV. Even Malcolm, my former estate agent pal, made it down. It was a grand night, even if everything did get a little hazy at around midnight..!


















Many thanks for these snaps to Sarah and Lucy, who made my night by turning up dressed to the nines (whatever that old chestnut means)! And thanks to Paul, above, for providing the defining image of the evening!

If it's strange turning 24 - I wonder what it must be like to turn 42? Better get on with enjoying myself before anything terrible like that happens...

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A day on the Heath

We're making a habit of exploring new places and scenery at the weekends - and last Sunday was no exception. This time we ventured closer to home though, spending the afternoon exploring Hampstead and it's gorgeous Heath.













I think there's a scale of progression from Regents Park, next to where we live, Hyde Park, and Hampstead Heath. The Heath feels like being in the countryside. While Regents Park is immaculate, and Hyde Park slightly more rugged, the Heath is muddy, earthly, not over-cared for. It's vast, really really big, and we ended up getting quite lost and eventually realising we'd gone round in a circle and found oursleves back where we started from!

The Heath, by which the poet Keats lived, ("Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, - While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue") is lush, and feels more 'real' somehow. At times, walking through, it felt as though we could be anywhere, although as the photo above proved, London was still visible, if only just, through the end of summer mist.













As usual, this was another opportunity for some random antics, as these bench photos might prove...























































I think this is the first time I've featured Claire on the website - pictured above. She is the newest member of the Ghetto, by virtue of ensaring Georgie! Luckily, she has a sense of humour and has quickly learned how to put up with three moody, messy lads! Also, she buys and cooks good food, so as you can imagine, we're ecstatic that she's moved in!













Claire became Paparazzi for the afternoon, taking unexpected photos of me and George at every opportunity! We now knew what it was like to be stars! Even out in the seclusion of the rugged Heath, we were not immune from the gaze of the world's press...













Above: the strangest thing - Swans floating along on water with a surface of algae. They looked like sculptures on a five aside astroturf pitch! I thought I could just run over to them on top of the water, but needless to say, I was wrong!














Couldn't quite believe my eyes to see these people swimming in the pond - apparently George has also given it a go in the past, during winter! It might have been the end of summer, but I still couldn't see myself diving in!


















Then we came across this startling sculpture - a huge table and chair. Thought we were in for a good sit-down until we realised just how big it was! The usual japery followed (below).








































Another great London day out ended with a couple of pints and a meal in Marine Ices, which just so happened to be Claire's favourite restaurant in London, and served the best ice-cream I've had in a long time (I went to the gym the day after to try and make up for it!). Another day out that made us realise just how close some great places, towns, Heaths all, are to where we now reside.

And it's not all city and concrete y'know!

Another Dream

Another day, another dream.

This time Roger Waters from Pink Floyd was in my flat, cooking breakfast. My Dad was there also - and introduced Roger as his friend.

"I really enjoyed the Live 8 concert," I told Roger.

"Thanks," he said. Humble.

Then I was in a pub, drinking beer. It was busy, lots of people drinking. Friends were coming and going. I kept having to re-order my drinks because I was losing them.

The rest is a haze. Again, my door started knocking, and I got up for my real breakfast. Tuesday morning, September. End of summer in London.

Looked at my desk. On the front cover of Word magazine, Roger Waters of Pink Floyd. 'Why we re-united!' the cover said. I'd been reading it the night before.

Life becomes dreams becomes life, I guess...

Notting Hill Carnival

Paul Daniels and Debbie McGee... with my mate Debs!

Debbie says "yes Paul."

I'm not even going to attempt to say that this photo is genuinely my friend Debbie with the magician Paul Daniels, and his assistant/partner Debbie McGee. Debbie's a pretty level-headed, down to earth sort, but she bumped into the 'stars' (c-list celebrities might be a better description) at Watford Gap service station, and she's been stangely obsessed ever since. Don't know what posessed her to add her photo to theirs though. I think she might have the potential to be a stalker...

"I didn't even realise it was them, as I stood in the queue to pay for my petrol," she said. "If I had known, I probably wouldn't have acted so cool."

What is it about our obsession with celebs? I say this because I walked past Ricky Gervais twice last week, and although he looked like a normal bloke, was simply walking through Bloomsbury chatting on his mobile, and still I felt as though I should have said something to him. But what would I have said?

"Hey Ricky, I'm a fan! Love your work!" Too cheesy.

"You look kinda normal in the flesh..." Too stalkerish.

"Can I have a part in the next series of Extras?!" Too desperate.

No, I wouldn't and couldn't have said any of these things. But still, I wanted to. As if, because I'd seen him on telly numerous times, there was some sense of recognition, like I knew him, somehow. Perhaps that is the secret of telly, and why so many people without any talent (unlike Ricky Gervais and Paul Daniels, obviously! Well, unlike Ricky Gervais, at least) manage to forge a career out of simply being on the box.

Perhaps there is something I could have done when I saw Ricky. The Brent dance he performed in The Office. One of the all-time classic British comedy moments, performed impromptu on Charlotte Street. Wonder how he would have repsonded to that...

Duh duh duh da dur duh... (gurns)















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The phenomenon that was... The Suicide Journalist

As a TV researcher working in a busy development team for the past four months, I've found myself ever more exposed to the farthest backreaches of the electronic landscape.

`The publisher needs all copy by August, so I am having to write about the end of my life now'

While working on a completely unrelated project last week, I accidently stumbled upon a website revealing possibly the quirkiest column ever published in an English newspaper. Part of me thinks that even this website is a wind-up, but even if it is, the pieces of writing you can find by clicking on the link below are some of the dirtiest, bad-taste, all-round hilarious ramblings you've ever read in your feebled existence. And there's a great story behind it.

`The door of my flat is opened by a bird in a T-shirt and pants. I'd forgotten about her.'

The tale goes that back in 1999, Chris Morris (of The Day Today and Brass Eye fame) teamed up with The Observer newspaper to produce a spoof column purporting to be written by a suicidal journalist, named Richard Geefe.

`We agree that we would one day end up sharing breakfasts of hate.'

The column was called Second Class Male, and featured the rambles of a terribly confused and irrational journalist who had (supposedly) promised his editor that he would kill himself but not before he had written a series of cutting pieces for the newspaper. It incited great controversy among people who had no idea that the whole thing was a hoax!

'I am at best a Brian Wilson, but a Brian Wilson who went to bed before making Pet Sounds.'

Halfway through the column's run, and after an 'aborted suicide attempt' by the writer (supposedly) the column changed its name to Time to Go! When the journalist finally did 'kill' himself, the last column featured the comments of people who had been around him before his demise - including a TV documentary crew, who said, with regret -

'I should also point out with regret that we are taking legal action over Geefe's breach of the new BBC honesty contract. He was being filmed on the understanding that he would kill himself in November. His death this week seriously contravenes that agreement.'

The column eventually lasted three months and produced numerous letters of complaint from its readers. Others saw it for what it was, an elaborate hoax using the shock tactics that have become a trademark of Chris Morris's television and radio career. You can check it out for yourself at the link below - but try not to get offended!

http://www.compsoc.man.ac.uk/~cow/studio/geefe.html

Punting and a grape shoot-out - a day in Cambridge!

Zhao, George and myself decided to escape the metropolis last Saturday in favour of some punting exploits with Tom Conlon (Zhao's former university housemate/workmate/dating adviser) who comes from Cambridge and was more than happy to show us around...

Great fun it was, although it has to be said, things didn't go entirely to plan!

Just after this photo was taken, I was unfortunate enough to be hit by a flying pint of beer, which soaked my hair, my clothes, and my seat in our delightful punt... a bunch of chavs decided to try and ruin our day, throwing beer at us from their vantage point on a bridge... and most of it fell on me! Serves me right for pulling such a cheesy grin at the camera...

I should add I was fortunate that the pint was lobbed in a plastic cup.











Only a few moments before, I'd managed to get myself hit on the head by a punting rod which was being bandied around by a white-haired old man. From then on, believing myself momentarily cursed, I took extra care while crossing the road, sitting at the side of the river, and indeed, while standing up punting on the back of the vessel itself.

Luckily, the rest of the day passed without major incident. Unless you count starting a new grape shoot-out craze that is...












Moored illegally by the side of the river we were, listening to student punters telling the same stories to their passengers as they punted by, when we decided to inject a little competition into our picnic.
We had so many grapes that we didn't know what to do with them all. Tom threw a couple up in the air. The first bounced unluckily off his lip. The other landed satisfyingly in his gob. This would form the basis of our duels.

Based on a sudden-death penalty shoot out, we sat in a row at the side of the river and took it in turns to throw the grapes up in the air, finding ourselves disqualified if the grape should land awry.

















This was a contest of intense pressure - not least because of the other punters watching our keen attempts as they drifted by. Tom made a good start, winning the first few duels. Zhao suddenly hit form though, until a remarkable overthrow and a last minute adjustment ended with his grape hitting him on the forehead, with the rest of us unable to participate due to hilarious giggling.

















George showed a few good touches, but was nothing special. I was somewhere in between.

The joy of the contest was not in winning (or laughing at remarkable overthrows), rather it was in playing the game itself.


















Another moment of personal pain (following the beer soaking and punt-stick knock on my head) was suffered by Tom this time, as an attractive girl on another punt shouted a random heckle in his direction as he struggled to direct our punt.

"You should have gone to Specsavers!" She cried. Tom cried too. He recovered after a swift pint or two though.

Punting is actually quite hard work, I've realised. It wasn't so much getting the power, but more, it was directing the darn thing. I'd consider punting on a date, if I wasn't so amateurish with stick in hand (Did that come out right?).
















For some people though, going out and punting while under bombardment from chavs with pints isn't enough risk for one weekend. Witness Tom and Zhao's train dodging antics on the morning of the punt. They may have escaped with their lives, but they did not escape with their dignity, or George's respect. (I had not yet arrived to lose respect for them, but did so swiftly in retrospect, once I saw the snaps).


















Zhao was on a one-man mission to ridicule himself over the weekend, and won that particular competition with these crazy antics shown below -

















And further added to his cause by drawing me into a newspaper fight on the train home (we hit each other with battered copies of the Guardian and Independent...)

He then fell fast asleep. He's a quirky old man now, we think, and took until Tuesday to fully recover. Take a look...














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