The Jamie Oliver Syndrome...

Strike up the band. Send telegrams to your loved ones. Sing it from your rooftops.

I officially have a Life.

So why do I find it slightly disconcerting that a small part of me craves to be an unemployed bum again? (possibly because I thought about it while I was sat at my new desk battling with formulas in Excel) I admit right now and off-the-bat, the month off however desperately needed and thoroughly enjoyed it was, did get a bit boring and frustrating near the end. It did raise an interesting question however - if money was no object and if society didn't pressure us into doing it, would we be happy not working?

I have visions of aliens looking down at us from outer space. Witnessing probably what we see on those Wildlife on One specials about ants or wasps. Watching us mindless going about our day like drones systematically performing repetitive daily tasks without question. Our little honeycomb lives. I admit, it's a tad profound for my quirky blog but it's high time I go a bit Alain De Botton on you, just so you realise I'm more than a pretty face.

Scaling it up a bit and being a tad more BBC FOUR than BBC TWO about this subject - money is good to have. Of course it is. If that was no exception and we were all 'Ladies who Lunch' would we be happier? For me personally I like to have goals. A few years ago, the social aspect of a work environment was huge part of why I enjoyed 'going to work'. As time moves on and priorities change, I'd now like control my own life schedule and not so adamant about social intercourse at work as I once was. I admit this is probably an age thing rather than a philosophical question but there is something a tad deeper to consider. There is a crisis many find ourselves in today, due to an onslaught of technology that has allowed mass communication to permeate into our lives on a scale which has never been experienced before. The internet, mobiles, blackberries and our modern, ultra-efficient lifestyles means we have access to anything and everyone, wherever and whenever we want. It also means however, we can be accessed by our work 24/7. This in itself is a terrifying thought to comprehend for many like myself who try to adhere, and quite rightly so, the need to draw a line between 'work' and 'play'. This new era of the never-ending work ethic and the constant pressure to perform and deliver is an investment which I and others feel reaps very little in return and which also never ever seems to be enough for those who demand it. This can also partly come from our own expectations. As a result we feel as though have failed in some way. I mean this in terms of quality of life rather than financial, although current economic climates have even made this even more poignant to how much we have 'failed'. Anyone who lives in a big city like London will have heard of the common complaint many of my friends have regarding their quality of life. It was one of the reasons I had to leave London myself. Not as I was tired of hearing the same familiar conversation but because I too wanted to address the imbalance in my own life. It is disparaging to work hard and receive little recognition for it and it has made us more envious of those who can seemingly 'not work for a living' or work less but have better lives than we do.

Is this the modern generation being lazy and not appreciating what the modern age allows us to achieve? Have we forgotten how to live while we obsessed over integrating unachievable work ethics and new technology into our lives or is there a genuine concern we should be addressing and seeking a cure for the 'Modern Work Malaise'.

There are great books on this by the way if you're interested that touch on these subjects. Status Anxiety and Affluenza are fascinating reads (which is a more in depth examination to what every thirtysomething asks what it means to be successful and why we are still unhappy yet 30 years ago we had less but were more happier, or as I describe it as "Why am I not Jamie Oliver yet?" referring to his seemingly perfect life, career and family - recent Sainsbury wranglings to one side)

Perhaps the Modern Work Malaise should be called 'The Jamie Oliver Syndrome'. I have my suspicions however even he might doubt his level of personal success sometimes.

I suppose what I'm trying to say, insights and world ruminations aside, is that there are questions regarding what I want to do with the rest of my life. Work seems endless wherever I am but is necessarily to survive and stimulate the old grey matter. Do I go on with what I'm doing now? I'm sure this question rears it head throughout anyone's life. I'd like to write more. Perhaps do some freelance writing again, like the film reviews I once did but perhaps this time with some social commentary. If only I could convince Charlie Brooker to let me cover him when he next takes a holiday from his Guardian article.

Am I carving out a whole new career in the making or is this trappings of a lifestyle that has even more pros and cons to the one I have now? Who knows what intellectual trepidations that might bring.

Beyond Useless...

"Hi there, how's Australia treating you?"

"Umm, er, it's treating me fine I suppose. Thank you for seeing me."

"So, you've come to Australia to look for work? How exciting. Now, just to let you know the job advertisement you responded to isn't available now."

"The entertainment marketing job?"

"Yes, that's the one. Don't worry, after that ruse I'm sure we can find you something."

"Oh."

"I know. You're qualifications were perfect for that job, weren't they? We don't have anything at the moment, but it's great that we finally get the chance to meet so I get to waste more of your time."

"Right, so I filled in this application form for nothing? Why does it ask for bank details by the way and what's with the question 'If you were a brand what would you be?' is this you trying to be hip and relevant or something?"

"Oh you don't need to worry about that. So, tell me a little bit about yourself while I think about what I'm going to have for lunch today."

"Well, I've had a varied career as Art Director, Marketing Manager and Account Manager. I've had extensive experience in the field of creative, marketing and advertising and now specialise in entertainment design but not exclusively... excuse me, are you just nodding at me politely?"

"Yes... a low fat salad is what I'll have. Now, I will be phoning my 'contacts' to see if I can drum up some interest in you. I'm also going to say a lot of big, exciting company names to you now and make it sound as I know every one of them personally, when in fact, I only know the HR manager who only reluctantly takes my calls as I constantly hound them. Does that sound like something convincing?"

"Well, a job working for a successful company sounds great, but..."

"Fantastic! Now, do you see yourself as more a creative than a strategic person, would you consider working agency side perhaps? I only ask this just to make me sound as though I know something about your job. I just don't want you to know I'm actually listening for several unrelated keywords from which I will feebly attempt to match you against a highly inappropriate job spec."

Umm, well I'm a trained creative person but have had strategic..."

"That's great, that's all I needed to hear. I see you also have a working holiday visa?"

"Yes, I... Why did you just pull that face?"

"Have you seen any other recruitment agencies or gone for any interviews so far? Be careful now, I know I look anodyne and false but I will shaft your potential career prospects if I find out you're not just using me. And if there's any chance I can put another candidate against you for a job, I will do it."

"Umm...NO? You're the first person I've seen actually."

"Great. I'll be as useless as the next agency you see anyway."

"Fine. I'm just slowly getting disillusioned about job hunting, you might as well kill the last ounce of hope I have left. If you continue to annoy me I'll just remind you that your only other career options were probably lawyer or estate agent. Is there anything else you need to know? Do you need to scribble any more doodles of flowers and swirly patterns on my CV or is that it?"

"No, I have everything. Just to let you know, I won't be calling you for a few weeks, if that's okay with you? Do keep in touch though and let me know how the job hunting is going your end. Just so I can field your calls and say 'Nothing has come in yet'. I'll eventually return one of your calls and suggest some crappy job spec we've had lying round the office for some time, hoping it may distract from how unhelpful I've been. By then, you'll get an idea of how we operate."

"Well, thanks for speaking at me. It's been pure joy. Perhaps I should have spent it more productively figuring how many of your business cards I could fit in your mouth?"

"It's been great to finally meet you too. Hopefully we can get you the job that fits you perfectly Robert."

"It's Richard."

Kate The Great...

I'm reading yet another biography about my favourite actress, who most of my friends know I endless quote and refer to a lot. The videos below are an abridged version of the intense 600 page book I am reading now. It's also a test to see if videos are something I want to add to my blog.




Her lust for life and decent common sense always enthralled and inspired me. Her quote below is what I try to do with my life daily and I thought I would share these simple words with you:

The thing about life is that you must survive. Life is going to be difficult, and dreadful things will happen. What you must do is move along, get on with it, and be tough. Not in the sense of being mean to others, but tough with yourself and making a deadly effort not to be defeated.

- Katharine Hepburn

OK?...

Sometimes I wonder if words I spell are correct, words I have continued to spell for years sometimes. I hate to be incorrect. I make every effort to ensure words are written properly and my grammar is also in tip top working order, even though I do admit failing occasionally with syntax (the result I feel of thinking too quickly and typing too slowly). I realise the English language evolves continuously, but the wonderful rules we have created enabling us communicate effectively with each other is also in danger of dying out if we're not too careful. I think it's important to keep it good working order so to speak. So it terrifies me that the latest generation horrifically uses 'TXT SPK' in everyday conversation now or should I say 'CONVO'. I put my case forward with this aberration below:

ooow god c i dnt no hu u r babe im gessing u go 2 beal 6form but atleeast u no wat im talkin about....! this is frm head to toe "storkage" the guyz probably gona fink were a bunch of pedoz LOOL.....x

To be quite frank. What the fuck is that?

A grown 16 year old woman wrote this on a Facebook page. I know it's a "Social Networking Site" but there is no excuse. Emmeline Pankhurst is probably turning in her grave at the thought this girl now has the right to vote but not actually given herself the right to spell and form complete sentences. I felt quite sick reading it and wanted to violently stick the Oxford English Dictionary into one of her orifices. If you actually 'translate' it, she also thinks 15 years olds can be classified as pedophiles because they fancy their teacher (who is a friend of mine). Yes - after three, we can sigh simultaneously together. Do I sound like a Daily Mail journalist yet?

Anyway, I return to the point in hand. One of the simplest words Okay or OK used in my last entry, was one such word that made me think twice about it. I wanted to know where this phrase came from. Well, I wanted to know, as I have a keen obsession over the English language and also love to consume useless facts. According to Dictionary.com (I know it's American but I will find out what dependable old Oxford say too) it is derived from the following:

OK is a quintessentially American term that has spread from English to many other languages. Its origin was the subject of scholarly debate for many years until Allen Walker Read showed that OK is based on a joke of sorts. OK is first recorded in 1839 but was probably in circulation before that date. During the 1830s there was a humoristic fashion in Boston newspapers to reduce a phrase to initials and supply an explanation in parentheses. Sometimes the abbreviations were misspelled to add to the humour. OK was used in March 1839 as an abbreviation for all correct, the joke being that neither the O nor the K was correct. Originally spelled with periods, this term outlived most similar abbreviations owing to its use in President Martin Van Buren's 1840 campaign for reelection. Because he was born in Kinderhook, New York, Van Buren was nicknamed Old Kinderhook, and the abbreviation proved eminently suitable for political slogans. That same year, an editorial referring to the receipt of a pin with the slogan O.K. had this comment: "frightful letters ... significant of the birth-place of Martin Van Buren, old Kinderhook, as also the rallying word of the Democracy of the late election,'all correct' .... Those who wear them should bear in mind that it will require their most strenuous exertions ... to make all things O.K."

"How fascinating!" and yes, I'm aware only myself said that just now.

Wandering and wondering....

I started writing this to a friend and realised it was probably eloquent enough to put on here too with a few editorial tweaks.

It's my fourth week in Sydney now and as I sit here typing away at my laptop, thinking about how my life has changed, watching the unannounced clouds roll into the bay where I live (It's going to heave it down tonight with fantastic thunderstorm later - see, even the weather here is more interesting) I realised I'm just unemployed and wearing less clothes. However, it's not that bad really. It is hotter here and although I'm not cold at all, because I'm British I can't help thinking I may need an extra layer when I go out - just in case. It's a habit I have to break out of as I end up carrying a lot of useless crap around with me.

Life here is still in a state of limbo. It's not the worse state to be in but I'm desperately needing my own job and space now so I start my 'new life' in full. I went on the ferry to Circular Quays last week for an interview one morning. It was a spectacular Australian morning. A solid blue sky, as if someone had neatly selected the fill button on Human Nature's Photoshop and given the sky one hue of 'Blue'. I stood on the top deck of the ferry, allowing the breeze to dance through my hair and flutter against my face. I wore my aviator sunglasses, a crisp white cotton shirt, jeans and gracefully sat back to listen to Carly Simon's Let The River Run from the movie Working Girl. For a moment, I was Melanie Griffiths as Tess MgGill starting her first day of work, although for me it was my new life. Only then, for the first time since I arrived here did I think, "Richard. Everything is going to be okay."

It is nice to have open friendly public around you though when you make a significant move like this. Not have people who refuse to give you eye contact or glare into your soul if you invade their personal space on a train, bus or pavement, which pretty much sums up London's attitude to anyone and, I am ashamed to say, I was one of those people. (It's not quirky and eccentrically British - it's plain rude.) My initial spontaneity has been replaced with partial restlessness now and I fear for when order gets reintroduced into my life again, as I keep being told to enjoy the free time I currently have. I can't help knowing the organised part of me would like a 'Start Date' so it can schedule in events into my .Mac account calendar and buy trainers without guilt. I'm sure it will all fall into place come once the job arrives. I must learn to curb my impatience in the meantime.

I am enjoying the weather as it's not it's usual unbearably hot and more like a good British summer. I like seeing the water. It's everywhere and it's very calming. Even if you're in the middle of the city and your standing next to a man-made fountain it still has the same effect on you.

I went out on Oxford St, the gay district of Sydney last night and realised I loathe the scene wherever it may be. No new revelation there. Over here they're more vain and are usually 'off their tits' on something quite early on in the evening. This tends to stop when they reach 35 apparently, looking at the rental ads I saw last week. As then, they tend buy small dogs and apartments with great views of the harbour. I say this only as all the ads I've read are by gay men in their mid/late 30s who own amazing flats and a hairy collared animal who they describe as 'My Baby' or 'Chico' and always end their ad with the line "I do not tolerate drug users."

A spark of originality is all I ask for in a gay man. Please! My quest may continue a little longer perhaps.

There's A Life At The End Of This Tunnel...

A cockatoo landed on the veranda yesterday and my instant reaction was someone's pet had escaped. I realised then I was in another country. This is my new life now and big fat birds with yellow crests bounding up to a window pane is a perfectly common anomaly. Things are going to be different. I watched it with much bemusement and with a sense of pure novelty usually reserved for petting zoos and stupid people, realising my reaction to this exotic bird is probably how I've spent most of my time here since I arrived two weeks ago. It's not like I'm here on holiday or moved here permanently with both feet firmly on the ground, knowing which direction I'm heading. I'm in a limbo period and I'm not sure how to approach anything. I don't have my usual habits to fall back on or friends to immediately reassure me or places to go for comfort. I've spent some of it trying to recreate situations I had during my life back in London and unsurprisingly they just don't work over here. And that's good I suppose. I'm making hesitant choices over trivial things - what type of travel card to buy - Red? Blue? Travel Ten or Travel Pass? What meat do I choose from the alien supermarket freezer - why do the sausages look anemic and the lamb badly cut? Why do I think twice at meeting up with old friends who have offered to show me the way but prefer to meet complete strangers instead? I should be diving into everything head first, embracing it as it comes, but if I do, it means I'm actually 'living' here now.

A Time to Say Goodbye...

It is a wonderfully surreal experience knowing that the next month ahead of you will be full of choice, freedom and self inflicted fear. I got to steal a moment at my leaving do last night in order to see all my friends together under one roof. Laughing, smiling at me, sharing stories, so many different personalities sandwiched between wine glasses and beer bottles, all sharing one thing in common - my friendship.

I am a lucky, lucky man.

It was utterly heartbreaking but yet immensely life affirming to leave my friends. I hope they know how much happiness they've given me over the years. Old and new friends alike. Farewells and excitable exclamations from jealous friends were touching but I felt almost strangely unworthy, as I never felt I was doing anything special or come to think of it, anything they couldn't do themselves. I did feel like I was abandoning so many people who had given me so much. To relish in my future endeavor too much in front of them would have felt self-absorbed in way.

The 'Parentals' were there to also witness this potpourri of people who claimed to know me. The fact they got the chance to meet them all and see the side of my life they only hear in passing during the odd phone conversation was incredibly important to me and I know through friends who spoke to them they enjoyed themselves, despite the minimal reaction I got when I asked them. Modest to the end, my folks.

So, on to the next entry. This one will take a little longer to digress into literary prose. I'm stepping up to the bench, lets hope I can be brave and grab opportunity with both hands and not freak out and regress to the familiar.

Watch this space. And this time that space is awfully big.

This Year I...

In 2007, I...

...finally hit 30 ...met Lord Lloyd Webber ...tapped along side Darcy Bussell ...saw Carrie Bradshaw and friends ...watched Rufus do Judy ...lost a beloved friend and Godmother ...learned how to reach an A# ...finally saw the Baker, his wife , Cinderella and Jack go into the woods ...had a boat party ...got a crush on a reality TV star ...met him and met him too many times ...said goodbye to my other sister ...drank Manhattans on top of a NY skyscraper ... met my new brother in-law to be ...went to A&E with sliced finger ...booked a flight that will hopefully change my life.

Happy New Year! Lets see what 2008 brings shall we?

A time for change...

Tomorrow is the end of 2007 and like most cliched endings, is a dawn of a new era for many people, mostly significantly for me as I prepare to uplift my life and move to a different country on the other side of the world. It's been a long time since I wrote my last entry and I am angry at myself for not keeping my writing going over the last five months. Life has been eventful. It's been full of events I could have written about, but life took over, as it usually does in these situations and I foolishly put this blog to one side. I'm also considering opening up this blog to all my friends and family soon, so they can keep track of my life when I get to Sydney. I'm in two minds as I enjoy the anonymity and regular purging exercise I get from releasing all my thoughts and rants into the cyberworld. We shall see.

I have a musical to write and other writing to start and my new shiny white beacon of an iMac seems to be inviting me to use it solely for Facebook and porn. There are far too many diatribes on the passive nature on owning a computer to be included in this entry, so I will leave those for another time.

Moving to Australia is a thrilling and terrifying prospect. I'm currently facing a big chalkboard which has lots of intricate scribblings all over it which I've accumulated over the years and now stand poised with one of those eraser blocks in my hand, waiting to wipe it all off in one smooth swipe. I want to start a fresh new scribble and I'm hesitating, as hover over my life in London just one more time admiring everything I've achieved, I know deep down I'm not really losing anything it's just the action that terrifies me. I suppose this feeling is natural to someone starting a new chapter and many of my friends are envious of the freedom I have before me. I will however truly miss this moment in my life as it is rich and I have a lot of good things going on in my life right now. It's so predictable how making this decision has made me appreciate what and who I have in my life right now. Clichés that rear their ugly heads in fiction and in other people's lives are now making a long overdue appearance in mine. A comforting thought perhaps?

Thoughts on the boy Potter...

Okay, what I'm going to say will be considered controversial. Well, not if you're a literary critic, although they have all been quite praising about it I've noticed, but I've just finished the final installment of the Harry Potter septilogy and, well, I have my opinions I'd like to air after being sucked into reading the entire saga these past few years. I suppose I should prewarn those of a fragile idiotic nature who don't want to know what happens to perhaps 'look away now' or maybe the title of this entry should also read *SPOILER ALERT* But lets be frank here, if you didn't think I was going to talk about plot points when talking about the last book and are shocked to learn crucial elements to the story by reading this, then you're a bit of an twat really. Yes, that term was quite eloquent of me, I'm glad you noticed.

I'd like to say now, the only modern children's books I have read are Rowling's Harry Potter, Pullman's Dark Materials Trilogy and The Hungry City Chronicles by Philip Reeves. I have only got into reading these as working in the film industry as it's always good to have a bit of foreknowledge of potential movie campaigns you could end up working on. Although Reeve's Mortal Engines was a pure coincidence and a chance to read a signed first edition for free. Harry Potter has been 'fantasy-lite' entertainment, I realise it's kid's literature and perhaps I shouldn't be so harsh on the material but I think the elevated status deserves some critic, as no doubt the books will be compared to existing classics like the epic Lord of the Rings trilogy or Roald Dahl's various deliciously horrid and captivating children's stories.

Maybe I'm impatient with these books, but I found myself skimming the pages at a hundred miles an hour, perhaps it is merely the style of writing that didn't captivate me instantly and maybe I yearn for more meandering, fantastical passages and clever word play that I remember lapping up as a child. I personally itched a bit when scenarios got repetitive, like the 'camping whilst on the run' parts. The deaths were dealt with in a very real unglamorous way, which I congratulate her for, although I think I did suffer from total memory loss reading parts of it, as I didn't even realise Lupin was dead until he appeared as a ghost with Harry's folks and Sirius at the end. Calling Voldemort 'Riddle' made the final stand-off all the more striking, subtle changes in character dialogue were a clever touch. She should have made the importance of wands more apparent in the other books though, as I felt it certain plot pieces/devices like that were all too convenient and materialised out of nowhere. Bit like in Star Trek when they go "Oh my God we're slipping into a Worm Hole, how about we press this button that will release intermittent tachyon beams that will create a static warp shell." which to me, makes as much sense as me saying "Oh my God I don't have a boyfriend, how about I switch on my toaster."

It's not my favourite book from the series. Azkaban and Goblet of Fire still remain firm favourites. Had the first third been structured in a more entertaining way and punctuated more with other plot lines to build up the tension it would have been the reached the top of my list. My favourite parts were Snape's back story and Mrs Weasley calling Bellatrix Lestrange a "B*tch". How many parents will be self-sensoring that part when they read it aloud to their children I wonder. Still, I'll pay good money to see Julie Walters and Helena Bonham-Carter fight like cats in a bag.

On another note, I apologise for the lack of entries on my blog. It has been a ridiculously long time and have faltered badly on the maintenance front. I have now got a lovely spanking new Powerbook that purrs nicely and allows me to go wireless and even has Final Draft so I can write 'professionally'. I have news on Centre Stage, writing a musical and the usual pointless banter about men and life and will endeavor to write this all up soon into those lovely, little, eloquently written passages I do love to toil over.

"What's your story?..."

Peculiar that I traverse the steep steps of Waterstones on Piccadilly and look across to the giant photos above the bannisters that showcase the great literary luminaries of our age and who do I see? David Beckham, Jane Fonda, Paul McCartney and Bill Clinton. There is one shot of a real author - you know one of those people who actually have touched a keypad or typewriter and known how to use syntax and grammar, rather than speak to a ghost writer - this was of Margret Atwood whose expression in the photo was of shere awkwardness, even though she was in fact surrounded by books. This observation was further compounded by the fact I was rudely ushered to one side by an assistant to make way for their next author who was signing. My glimmer of internal hope died however, when I noticed it was not the Pulitzer Prize-winning Michael Chabon or even 'Chick-Lit Queen' Sophie Kinsella. No, it was Kanye West and his mother.

This is future of publishing people. I do hope people like my friend Ben get their literary efforts recognised, I pray to God they do.

N.B. Please note. Since writing this entry, Kanye's mother (his biographer) tragically died from cosmetic surgery complications. This bizarre soap-opera like event has somehow, to me anyway, strangely reinforced my arguement there should be more emphasis on real literary talent. Or perhaps I've got a sick sense of humour.

A few shots from the show...

Oh dear...

I've been looking back at my blog in recent months and I seem to have done it again. Well, the opposite this time. There I am writing flippant, jocular entries to satisfy those who worried my blog was getting morbid and now it's just silly, of little substance and frankly has no thought whatsoever. I need to verbalise my thought processes more carefully, however mundane. My writing suffers badly and it becomes dry and something the editor of Heat may think was an 'interesting Carrie Bradshaw approach' to observing life. I'm shuddering in my cheap IKEA chair now. Dear Lord. Strike me down now. I'm meant to encourage great writing. Actually, don't strike me down just yet, I have a show to do in four weeks time and have no understudy. Anyway, I digress. I've decided and I'm sorry now in advance, if future musings seem depressive. I'm not. Please don't call social services or suggest seeing a psychiatrist. This is what writing is about - exploring every aspect and the negative parts are so much fun to write about. Exorcising those demons and woes in tiny, thought provoking words, syllables, sentences and paragraphs, it helps put everything into joyful, toe-tapping, 'Mr. Bluebird on my shoulder' perspective in a weird way. I miss it and I will now write whatever the buggery-hell I want to write. Self-editing in order to please the masses is for people who go round saying things like "I do love The Vicar of Dibley but I just don't get BBC2". (I wonder if John Craven worried as much, putting together his child-friendly news stories for Newsround.) I hope this will eventually kick start something within me to get my novel and script ideas into shape. After the show, I must start breaking the concepts down and figure out what will work and what is shockingly bad, I might as well cast it aside and lock it up in a small safe marked "Step away now. Dull beyond words".

How could I forget...

There I was thinking about who would be on my BFM list and I forget this man. How will Mr Ruffalo forgive me? Well, he is married so I'm sure he'll cope.

I'm mulling over who he should replace. Hugh or Elijah? Answers on a postcard please.

For Grandjie...

You were not my guide.

You were my feet upon which I walked ahead with into my future.

You were not my comforter.

You were the hands that covered my heart when I was cold.

You were not my teacher.

For you were my smile when I found knowledge and achievement.

You were not just my friend.

You were my world. My energy. My joy.

Blatant additon to BFM List...

It's unimaginative, a huge and blatant teenage crush of an addition, but over the last week I have been watching, what Americans call 're-runs' of the first season of 'Heroes' on the Scifi Channel (yes, Sky finally got their act together) and have fallen for the lovely Milo Ventimiglia, who plays Peter Petrelli. Heroes is a kinda regular Joe X-Men style science fiction show that has more twists and turns than 'Lost' and is more confusing than an epileptic inside a duvet cover. I desperately need to be more selective with my exclusive list, I know but I have a small, yet hopeful sense of hope that evidence of their personality and intelligence will shine through with many of my candidates. I have faith Milo might have something going for him apart from good hair. Heroes is totally addictive and I've been willing the creator and director, Tim Kring to include a scene where Milo has to take his shirt off. (Currently it stands as one shot of him getting out of bed with his back to the camera - not good enough NBC. Shame on you. Don't you know gays flock to sci-fi? it's as natural and predictable as cows eating grass, dogs catching frisbees and imbeciles reading the Daily Mail).

Still, he goes on my list, as does Jonathan Kelly who is the executive assistant to the Editor of Vanity Fair. He's like the male version of Ugly Betty and Andy Sachs from The Devil Wears Prada. (PAs are obviously the 'in-thing' over in America it seems and they now get they're own cover stories) I can't find a photo of him on Google, so you'll have to do your own undercover investigation online or just buy this month's edition. He's preppy, well-groomed and seemly successful, as he is contributing to this month's edition of Vanity Fair for starters. I imagine he's a very savvy and smart journalist too; likes to stop every morning for a frappaccino before heading into the office, working the hours God Graydon Carter sends him and then heads home to make seafood risotto for him and his boyfriend in the evening. Okay, I'm assuming a lot here. Total flights of fancy, of course. He may hate risotto.

Apologies for not writing in my blog sooner but I've had an awful lot go on in the past month and will fill everyone in soon I promise.

It's official...

Damn you SKY, damn you to Hell!...

The global communications company SKY has invaded the comfort of my abode and wreaked havoc with everything it touched. After naively thinking their £26 a month deal for TV, Broadband and Phone offer would be a good idea and signing my life into their hands, I am now currently residing in a flat that is bereft of terrestrial TV, no broadband and have been billed £20 for the experience. Ironically, no one at SKY thinks this is bad for a new customer or can communicate within their customer services departments. Apparently, it takes 3 working days to log a complaint which is most likely to be filed under 'IGNORE AND TRANSLATE INTO FARSI' so only limited individuals who fluent in a dead language are able to respond and help you. I am now 'sans' internet access at home after SKY decided to disconnect us two weeks ago, without warning or sending the correct 'technical team' to install a dish to our roof, connect the relevant cables and routers and, you know, basically do their job as stated. According to Rupert's people, second floor flats require a 'specialist team' team of installers, who are few and far between, obviously trained along side Japanese Samurai, the Gurkhas and elite SAS soldiers. This does mean I'm unable to regularly update this blog until it's all been sorted, which probably at this rate, will be around the same time the London Olympics opens in 2012.

Charlie reminds me....

I've decided. I must procrastinate more when I write. About random things. More the things that annoy or confound me, like men or those dire chewing gum ads that supposedly declare it's "mastication for the nation".

Certain entries about my life and hobbies are certainly quite dull, well not dull exactly, I'm just not in the slightest inventive when it comes to prose. My fault is that I don't write enough. Midnight blog entries are never going to win the masses for the prize of hilarity. And that's why my book and script ideas are still, well, just ideas.

Thank you Mr Charlie Brooker.

Don't talk like a slut Shelley...

Those of you may know, I am currently taking extra lessons in tap every Sunday and Monday now. Sunday class is specifically Broadway Tap (more jazz hands and I tend to sweat a lot more essentially). I love these classes, even though tapping is not my strong point, I want get better at it. As Mary Poppins would say, practice makes perfect. Ironically one of my fellow tap dancers in this class is none other than Emma Williams who played the part of Shelley in the West End production of Bat Boy. Emma, for those not familiar with her recent media coverage, was going to 'support' Connie Francis and also play Maria in 'The Sound of Music' when it opened at The Palladium last year. She decided to pull out and lots of media hoopla proceeded, with suggestions Emma not wanting to be seen as an 'understudy' (fair enough to me, if that's the case). Certain papers accusing the show of 'fixing' the reality TV competition. Emma was also the youngest ever female to play a lead in the West End for her part as Truly Scrumptuous in 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'. I hope she forgives me if I got any of the information wrong just now (and for the fact I've actually put up a link to a Daily Mail article -shudder down spine- something I try not to promote as a rule) Emma obviously knows 'Bat Boy' inside and out and was really enthusiastic to find out we're doing the show. Hopefully, she can come and see the show come June.

More reason to put on great show. No pressure.

On another musical note, I purchased the new Broadway version of 'Company', my favourite Sondheim musical. About a single guy called Robert who refuses to settle down and is surrounded by various couples, all wondering why such a great guy like him is, well, single. Lots of observation about dating, relationships and the ultimate realisation of what it truly means to find someone you can love. (Any similarities to my situation are purely coincidental of course. I can't emphasise with one bit - stop scoffing. Yes, you at the back. Yes, I'm pointing at you. I heard that, take that back right now). This new recording has revamped the original 1970s score whilst still retaining what was true and poignant. Go buy it now. It's a musical for adults who have real problems. Not a single jazz hand in sight but some of the best lyrics ever written.