Lessons learned from... Borat

Pamela Anderson she make the shame on glorious nation Kazakhstan.


More learnings

Ghostsign of the times

Girlfriend's housemate's boyfriend, aka Ghostsign Sam, got some pics published in Time Out this week, as part of an article entitled Disappearing London.

Sam's been collecting pictures in London of 'ghost signs', with the noble intention of writing a book. Ghost signs, by the way, are those old skool style fading adverts you occasionally see on walls above shops (move your eyes leftwards for one of Sam's), reminders of an era when there were shops that weren't either Starbucks or Tescos. No, I didn't realise there was such a time either, but I've been assured there was.

Anyway, if you know the location of any good ghost signs or have a photo of your own that he could publish, drop Sam an email at ghostsigns@gmail.com. If your picture doesn't look like a piece of crap, you could be featured in his book!


Read the Time Out article

Things to do. Don't say I don't treat you nice

More addictive than chocolate-coated heroin. Play

Record sleeves fight each other. Watch

Edmund writes about US elections and radiators. Read

The band I went to see last night. Listen

Stern reprimand

Tonight I was supposed to go to a lecture at LSE with one of my right-on "let's change the world" vegetarian friends and Sarah, who come to think of it, is also a vegetarian and quite right-on. I'm not right-on. I'm wrong-on. Or a wrong 'un. Or right-off. Luckily I'm not wrong-off, that would be disastrous.

I'd mentioned my plans to Darren at work earlier in the day.
"What's the lecture?" he asked.
"Er, that Stern guy," I said.
At first he thought I was going to see Howard Stern, the US shock jock. But I meant Sir Nicholas Stern, he of The Stern Report (aka The Review of the Economics of Climate Change). We briefly reflected on the comic possibilities of an attendee expecting an hour of Howard wackiness and instead getting the studied sternness of Sir Nicholas.

Anyway, when we arrived at LSE this evening, disaster struck: the queue was massive and we couldn't get in. My right-on friend got there early and still didn't get to see it properly - she ended up watching the thing on video link-up in an adjacent lecture hall. I was annoyed about missing it. And for some reason, my annoyance was directed straight at Sir Nicholas Stern.

Me and Sarah wondered what we could do instead. I started fantasising about buying a massive gas-guzzling 4x4 and driving it around for the duration of the lecture picking off passing polar bears with an ivory-handle machine gun, before smashing the car into a rainforest and shouting, "FUCK YOU STERN! THIS'LL TEACH YOU TO DO YOUR TALKS IN UNDERSIZED LECTURE THEATRES!"


The Stern Report

Swing factor

So despite his recently-acquired dead man walking status, Saddam goes back to court tomorrow to be tried for more crimes against humanity. This time, he's charged with the killing of up to 100,000 Iraqi Kurds during his al-Anfal campaign.

Strangely though, there seems to be some uncertainty about whether the second part of the trial will completed. If the former dictator's appeal to a nine-judge chamber fails (count on it), then according to law, he must be executed within 30 days, which may not be enough time to finish the second trial. Leaving the Kurds - the ones that are left - with no closure on the events of 1988. Or is Saddam's death enough?

Who nose?

Is there such thing as a small nose? People with 'big noses' and 'normal noses' are easy to identify, but I've never pointed at anyone and said, "Hey, what a tiny nose that person has."

When I put this to an audience in the pub last night, there was scepticism. So I challenged those assembled to point out any nearby drinkers with undersize probosces. Ghostsign Sam nominated someone, but I vetoed it immediately because the person in question was small themselves, and so the nose appeared normal.

"Just another story"

And speaking of the Stone Roses, there was a lovely little anecdote from ex-Roses singer Ian Brown, speaking about The Clash, in last week's Observer. Here it is:

I was at the recording of Bankrobber. Me and my mate Pete Garner were walking down Granby Road in the middle of Manchester one day and we could hear these drums coming through the walls. Pete was a proper Clash fan and he was convinced it was them. Then Topper Headon walks out on to the street right in front of us!

He invited us downstairs into the studio to see what was going on. Mikey Dread was there and we got chatting. They were dead cool. Joe Strummer was sitting in the corner with a big, wide-brimmed hat on beneath this big grandfather clock, clicking his fingers in time to it. Paul Simonon asked us what our favourite film was and then said [affects authentic west London drawl]: 'Mine's Death Race 2000!' Funny, the things you remember. Afterwards, we showed Johnny Green, their tour manager, the way to the record shop and he bought two copies of London Calling - one for each of us. I'll never forget it.

Full article

The Jackson Five

I've always loved the line in that Stone Roses song that goes, "Yeah, she looks like a painting - Jackson Pollock's Number 5". Now, instead of being a clever cliche-twisting quip, it's got a whole new meaning: something like "she looks like a million dollars". Or, more accurately, $140m.


Going Down lyrics

Lessons learned from... Red Road

CCTV and stalking are key parts of the grieving process.


Other lessons I've learnt from films

Vexed in the City

I'm in an Ethiopian restaurant with Sarah, who's just moved down to London from Manchester. It's a great place, but I think the waitress has taken a dislike to me, because I hesitated before ordering and so inadvertantly prompted her to make a suggestion, which I then ignored as it involved pumpkin sauce. Which I can't imagine being very nice.

Sarah starts telling me how watching The Paul O'Grady Show feels wrong in London because the presenter's so northern. Apparently Sex and the City star Kim Cattrall was on it the other day, promoting her new book, Being a Girl.

"That's not a great title, is it?" I say. Then I have an amazing idea. "Let's try and think up titles for a Kim Cattrall autobiography!"

Sarah doesn't look overexcited. I pause. If I think of a really good one, maybe she'll appreciate how fun this game is going to be. "Lateral Cattrall!" I shout. She smiles, slightly.

I pause. More. "Lucky Kim!" I yell. The response is underwhelming. "Like Lucky Jim, see? Only with Kim."

I can do better, I know it. "The Secret of Kim?" I suggest. Probably no one remembers mouse-animation film The Secret of Nimh, so this isn't a great one.

"Kims O'Clock!" Brilliant. Both cheeky and silly, but with an added touch of class. But Sarah only smiles slightly.

"Kim City! Tiger Kim? Er, Kim and Vigour! Are you not liking these?" I ask, a bit worried.

"I didn't really understand them, I'm afraid," she says kindly.

"Oh," I say. I am a bit disappointed. There's a few moments of silence. But I have one more up my sleeve. "The Cattrall That Got the Cream!" I say, with a flourish. She laughs.

"I get that one," she says. I am happy.


Who the hell's Kim Cattrall?