Days 1-3: Agadir

The new and different thing about this holiday is that we got a package tour, something which every bone in my body rebelled against. Except for my financial bone. So we get a hotel, for two weeks in south Moroccan beach resort Agadir, included in the price; we plan to cruelly ditch it tomorrow, and head north to Marrakesh. Our hotel, the ominously-named Tagadirt - is brilliantly eccentric, all blue and white art deco stripes, a maze of Whitereadesque white boxes, with swings and a mini-golf course bizarrely shoehorned into the middle.

Tagadirt art deco

As part of the package, we also got a ridiculous in-flight video, which I was hoping would tell us a bit about Morocco. In fact it began something like, "Going to a different country can be just that - different. Different weather, different people, different food, different places. That's fine - but sometimes that difference can be dangerous." It then went on to warn that we could perish by falling over next to the pool, get confused by the different types of ovens that we may encounter and, my favourite, put our children's lives at risk by entering "lifts with no interior doors".

Agadir being package central, there's a huge number of white tourists around town - initially, it seemed, far more than actual Moroccans. Most are older and fatter than us, and more inclined to wear tiny speedos below their large bronzed/very pale bellies.

Despite this, and despite the sudden stretches of scrub land (a result of the disastrous 1960 earthquake?), Agadir does have a certain charm - tree-lined avenues and a seaside town atmosphere, as well as an array of smiling waiters and scrawny chats with piercing yellow eyes.

The beach at Agadir

Morocco 'n' roll

Off on holiday to Morocco today, which is pretty exciting. Haven't decided whether to blog while I'm there or not. There'll probably be loads of interesting and colourful things to write about, and I'm not sure that fits in with the general tone of this blog.

Anyway, lots to read...

The Sun says... Phwoar!

I picked up a copy of The Sun newspaper on the tube yesterday. For any non-British readers out there, The Sun is Britain’s biggest selling newspaper, and despite its increasing interest in celebrity tittle-tattle and free DVD giveaways, it’s still hugely influential. But the best-known thing about the paper is its page 3, which always features a full-page shot of a pretty young female baring her breasts.

Rather wonderfully, the accompanying article often attributes the day’s Page 3 Girl with an unlikely comment on a topical news story, and coincidentally, this is always reflective of the paper’s editorial line. Yesterday’s was truly exceptional. The paper took their lead from the death last week of one-time War Minister John Profumo, whose scandalous affair with call girl Christine Keeler nearly brought down the Tory government back in 1963. Following the scandal, Keeler was famously photographed naked straddling a chair; The Sun managed to find a buxom blonde, called – yep – Keeley, and photographed her adopting a similar, though less modest, pose.

Bizarre stuff. But it was the final paragraph of the piece, with Keeley’s quote and subsequent devastating pun, that was truly brilliant:

Keeley, 19, said: “I’ve always been fascinated by the Profumo scandal – all that intrigue, sex and Cold War paranoia.”
Cold War? Cold Phwoar, more like!

Jack joke

Q: Why did Jack Bauer visit the herbalist?
A: Because HE'S RUNNING OUT OF THYME.

Things we read today

The Guardian's new Comment is Free site is live. Rubbish title, but looks interesting.

Simon Clarke's geographically accurate London tube map. Bendy!

Google, bless them, have mapped Mars. No signs of life, but I'm sure there'll be a Starbucks there soon.

And finally, Laura Barton on the disgrace that is the new Marmite.

Turbulent

Battleships sails sea of blood

Created in Artrage

Celebrity encounter #94

One of the most troubling issues in modern life is how to approach a celebrity. What's your opening line? It obviously can't be too personal - that'll make you look like a stalker - but you have to show that you're familiar with their work in a non-gushing, playing-it-cool kind of way.

I had to tackle this problem on Friday night, when I wandered into the West End's Phoenix bar for Darren's birthday. The first person I saw when I walked in was Romeo Stodart, lead singer of The Magic Numbers. Luckily I'd had a few strong lagers beforehand, so had no trouble leaning over and casually spewing the immortal opening gambit, "That's a good band you're in there."

Anyway, a short conversation ensued, none of which is interesting enough to relate here (yes, that bad) and he seemed like a pleasant guy. But my mind kept returning to that opening line. I thought it was quite a good one, but when I told Sarah about it, she visibly cringed, screwing up her face in pain. Back to square one.

Great house party moments #24

It's summer 2005, I'm sober and at Chris's house party. The theme is M, meaning you have to dress as something beginning with the letter "m". In attendance are a monk, a Maverick (from Top Gun), a pair of Minnie Mouses, a Buddhist monk, the obligatory Mafioso and so on. Chris has dressed up as a Marxist: he's dyed his hair black, donned sandals and glued bits of wig hair to his face.

A few hours in, I start talking to a drunken guy who has a large toy monkey tied round his head.

"So what do you do?" I say.
"I work for the foreign office," he replies. My eyes wander up towards the monkey strapped to his head, a creeping alarm beginning to register.
"Which department?" I ask.
"Counter proliferation of nuclear weapons," he slurs.

We'll always hate Paris

My flatmate Jamie is a total bastard. He came home from work the other night and asked me how my day at work had been. I grunted in a vaguely French accent and asked him how his was.
"Shit - but also brilliant," he said.
"How so?"
"Well, I went through the usual crap; but just before I left, a few of us got invited for a booze-up and posh meal, all paid for by the company. Guess where."
"The Ivy." Celeb dining haven. That would be pretty cool.
"Nope."
"Fifteen." Jamie Oliver's place, run by homeless kids come good.
"Nope, better."
"Er, Gordon Ramsey's restaurant?" Couldn't remember what it's called.
"Nope."
"Tell me. Where?"
"Paris."

He wasn't talking some shitty eaterie in Stockwell called Paris. He meant Paris. As I said, total bastard.

Cutlery

The poet, singer, songwriter and all-round eccentric Ivor Cutler died yesterday, aged 83. Ironically, following the announcement that he was retiring in the summer of last year, Cutler went through a bit of a revival. There was an interesting article at the time by Alex Kapranos, lead singer of the art-rock band Franz Ferdinand, beginning with a telling of the story behind opening lines of their song Jacqueline. It inevitably involves Cutler, and a girl called Jacqueline:

A friend of mine - a girl called Jacqueline - worked in a poetry library in London that Ivor Cutler used to visit. She became good friends with him, and went round to his house for tea a few times. She was pretty young, and pretty attractive as well. I think she was a little gauche, thoroughly charmed by the literary excitement of it all, and didn't realise he was maybe a little more amorous than she gave him credit for.

She described the scene to me of how she rejected him outright because he was just an old man. She said: "Why would I possibly be romantically interested in you?" And he replied: "You see me just as an old man, but I'm looking at you with the same eyes that I had as a young man." That was the inspiration for our song, Jacqueline, looking out through one set of eyes and seeing yourself reflected as you actually are in the gaze that comes back at you."

[full article]
[Jacqueline lyrics]

Interesting, no? To finish off, here's one of Cutler's snippets that I particularly like:

If your breasts are too big, you will fall over.
Unless you wear a rucksack.

[audio]