:: Weekend Wonderland ::

After a trip to Fluid tonight for the lady Popsicle's birthday, it all seems to be going downhill. I must clear up my room. No honestly. I've been saying this for at least two months now and procrastinating like a trooper. After finally tacking that shithole of a garden two weekends ago (three large bags of organic waste collected by the council, compost heap overflowing) my mind once more wanders towards matters domestic. The landlord's arranged for someone to come and fix the defective fridge-freezer tomorrow morning, so I need to be at home to deal with that. And I ought to hoover the place too. Oh God, I'm turning into the Housewife From Hell:

I'm sure cleaning avoidance may come into play once more if the opportunity to see the lovely Hypatia and Red Rum are available. I think it's time we stopped discussing that it's so long since we last met up and actually did something, like, well, meet up. I have no idea if either or both of them are available (hint!), but would be more than happy to discard my Marigolds for the sake of a long-overdue reunion.

So maybe the weekend's not looking quite so glum after all. The news of Alistair Campbell's resignation should at least give the office drones some pre-pub cheer this afternoon...

P.S. A quick apology to b3ta's itwontbeeasy. Although I linked to his fab Mackintosh pic on the relevant b3ta page, I probably ought to have mentioned him in my post too... I can't get the comments thingy to work, but was going to say that I'm a big fan (of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, not Jonathan Ive!)

:: The Pursuit of Beauty ::

A rather aesthetic weekend... Having bailed out of Tongue-in Chic's dinner party early on Friday, I was a little disappointed at the (lack of) talent on show. Despite a number of rather attractive and engaging ladies, the male contingent seem to rely a little more heavily on "personality". I was knackered anyway, and felt the need to depart before the strudel or the excessive alcohol got the better of me. Not that I'm a body fascist - I certainly don't have any right to be. I find the increasing aspiration to bodily perfection and the effect this may have on mental health a thoroughly depressing business. Let us elevate our minds therefore, to higher planes of beauty. Let us sup on the nectar from Narcissus' nipple. Let us drown in a pool of blissful hyperbole. Ladies and gentlefolk, I present to you (courtesy of b3ta) the all new Apple Mackintosh:

Saturday was a good'un, with a birthday outing to Chessington World of Adventures. Not my birthday, you understand, but that of Chairman Ma. It was a chance to get wet with a whole group of people you've never met before. Top pikey moment of the day was hearing a teenage mother scream in lingua councillia "Jessiccaah! Stop it. Come 'ere!", before turning round to see that the said child was diligently stamping on each Ritz cracker she'd just dropped. The wet rides were alternated with spinny ones to dry us off and the company was good too. Since Tigger was there too, I shan't reveal the identity of the one I particularly liked, but it probably wasn't too hard to guess. I got back to The Smoke in time to join in the final part of another friend's birthday pubcrawl. Strangely I got talking to another rather attractive young man, and even went part of the way home with him in a taxi. Anyway, nothing was ever going to happen (no matter how much I wished it). I'm convinced they're both straight and happily so.

Another relatively early night meant there was plenty of time on Sunday morning to scoot around the local deli in preparation for a posh pique-nique with La Gribouilleuse. No jam sandwiches and smiths salt 'n' shake washed down with a panda pop for us, thank you. Freshly baked bread, olives, salami di Napoli and some weepy brie were delightfully accompanied by a glass or seven of kir. Traipsing back to mine, we used the local recycling centre to get rid of our used items:

And yesterday... well, I took Blondinka B back to my Mum's house for the day, where we visited the village horticultural show. The exhibits were shown complete with comments such as "Despite having a lovely golden brown appearance, these scones were damp in the center. Use a little less flour on top for a better result." This could have been Midsomer Murders - I was expecting the rector to run into the marquee, to announce breathily that Mrs Fortescue had been tragically killed in an accident with an oversized marrrow.

Exhausted, I returned home, my sanity only marginally intact.

:: Alea Jacta Est ::

"The die is cast"... or rather the cast is cast for my production of Shakers Restirred.

Following a successful audition session, with some great performances, I was at a loss. The Production Manager and I then spent 3 hours discussing the different possibilities and came to the inevitable difficult decision. One unfortunate outcome is that I didn't cast La Grib. Doubtless this will be written off as a case of my bowing to local AmDram politics. I'd rather put it down to wanting to avoid as much conflict as possible with the other production the group are doing (Return to the Forbidden Planet in December). This is political in one way: I don't want to put to much strain on people who have already been cast in leading roles in that production. However, I'm also attracted by the prospect of new people coming into the cast who haven't acted with us before - and by the balance of the actors I've chosen. Never mind all that, I'm going to disappoint people as an inevitable part of the casting process. There are only 4 parts. Time to reach for my new EasyJet Sick Bag. If I don't puke I can always get some photos developed.

:: Power Mad ::

Tonight is the night. A hapless stream of hopefuls will traipse before me, hoping their every batted eyelid, sideways shimmy and perky pose will be good enough... to get them a part in Shakers Restirred. I just hope none of them have seen the Japanese horror film, Audition - I only narrowly managed to retain my lunch when watching it two years ago. Well in the woolly world of AmDram this is a "casting", not an audition. "Merely semantics!" I cry, as the terrified ranks of tyrant-pleasers attempt to gain my approval. Well, nearly. I expect I'll ask them all to read one of the monologues then they can have a go at a group bit. Or something. Maybe the casting should include some Krypton Factor-style challenges. A timed race to construct a chair or set of shelves from Ikea? They could build the set for me whilst auditioning! A money saving idea worthy of Brian Potter, methinks...

And I'm not the only one that's every had trouble contructing a flat-pack item from everyone's favourite Swedish retailer:

Other than that, there's no news. In more light-hearted times, I might dwell on the Jimmy Savile look-a-like competition at 3rd test next week or the fact that Stephen Gately "married" his gay lover. Incidentally, I can't decide whether Ananova's use of the term "gay lover" is offensive in its pretentions to sensationalism - or simply a means of avoidly the blandly ubiquitous "partner". Your thoughts on a postcard please...

While I await a deluge of postcards, I'd better get back to terrifying a few actors.

:: Hum-drum, Pedigree Chum... ::

One thing off my mind, I suppose. Pet Foods is, to all intents and purposes finished. Good riddance to it - I don't anticipate being at this company long enough to enjoy the delights of dog treats in Bulgaria next year. What with Hyp and Taxloss currently relaxing on the sofa watching Des & Mel freelancing/looking for work, I'm inclined to consider my options on the work front. As my job has drifted from being mildly diverting to mind-numbingly dull, and my boss has refused to address the issues raised in my appraisal 9 months ago ("lack of challenge", "no variation", "boredom"), I think it's probably time for me to move on too. The only problem is the easy visibility of my computer screen - I'd rather not let the boss see I was scanning the Grauniad job pages for gainful employment when I should be researching some obscure brand of Moroccan processed cheese.

The weekend was something of a non-thriller. Having been out on Thursday with Tigger and La Gribouilleuse, I opted for quiet relaxation and garden clearance. A slight frisson of annoyance hit on Saturday afternoon when I arrived back (from feeding La Grib's cats) to discover a letter sellotaped to my bedroom door. It was from the landlord relating of his "painful disappointment" after the visit of an estate agent the previous week. Without the statutory 24 hours notice, the landlord asked for an agent's inspection to take place on that day. I muttered that neither of my housemates was at home but that if - as he claimed - this was purely to inspect the kitchen (finished almost a year ago), this was fine. In the letter, the landlord claimed that the house was reportedly "filthy, inside and out and not fit for normal living". Whilst I would readily concede that the front "garden" was very messy (I sorted the situation out immediately), the fact that the agent had appeared at half an hour's notice was ludicrous. Of course the house was not fit for viewing (to prospective buyers). The bedrooms were all messy (clean washing on bed and CDs on floor in my case). The kind of wheedling sentiment expressed in the otherwise offhand and impersonal letter was outrageous. This was coming from the man who was too cheap to replace the grubby lino when the kitchen floor was concreted last year - the ill-fitting old one has several recalcitrant stains which bleach will not remove. Rather than retreating behind some mealy mouthed excuse, why didn't he simply call up a week before and say he's thinking of putting the house on the market - could we make the house presentable?

The net result of the situation is that Gawain J and I are thoroughly pissed off with the management of the property - why in three weeks has the broken freezer not been repaired/replaced? We've now had to throw away at least £50 worth of food. As any fool who gets duped into watching a house-buying programme knows, presentation is very important when potential buyers come round. Other than our general messiness, the drab dark blue carpets in the hall and the ghastly dingy brown lounge suite hardly present an attractive proposition. These furnishings are entirely the responsibility of the cheap-arsed landlord... So, we might be moving too, but not too far away. The main problem would be how to move that fuck-off grand piano out of the front room.

No apologies for the paucity of pix. I can't be bothered with b3ta today and must have used up my internet quota on making sure that we'd won the cricket.

I leave you with a delightful insight into Jude Law's early morning motions from my current Link Of The Day - "Sometimes I think I’m the luckiest man alive. Then Sadie gets up, and I remember."

Toodle-pip!

:: Hot Stuff, Baby ::

Like those sweaty munchkins at bAsTaRd, I feel no remorse at such a cheesy reference to the current climatic aberration. Strictly Kev's "hot medley" (Hot Stuff, Baby/Feel it Hot, Hot, Hot/Hot in Herrrrrrre etc) followed by the distribution of plentiful ice-pops kept the punters at bay. DJ Spec's set also managed to fit in the most tracks I've heard played in an hour. I was just pleased I'd remembered to bring a towel and a change of clothes...

That sweat-fest was followed by a well-earned day off and, on Friday evening I went off to see the fabulous Gotan Project with La Gribouilleuse at Somerset House. This was my favourite of the summer so far. Following the hilarious Norwegian support act (The Ralph Myerz and Jack Herren Band), a screen flew down at the front of the stage. As the sultry, hypnotic tango vibe swelled into the majestic courtyard, sexily abstract shots of intertwined dancers' legs were projected on to the screen. One by one, the musicians joined in, appearing ghost-like behind the projection screen as they were lit up. This mesmerising display continued for about half an hour before the screen was finally lifted to show the musicians in their full splendour. And just think - I didn't drink all night due to fear of losing my place and of a heart attack at paying £3.50 for a pint of Grolsch.

Friday also marked the star of b3ta's competition to design gender-specific self help manuals... No, I don't really understand it myself - you'd better have a look at this:

Saturday brought more sweltering - exacerbated by the need to help La Grib in the kitchen in preparation for a dinner party exraordinaire. Although the guests suffered from the heat, we simply ate late and enjoyed each other's company.

There are two big news items which have loomed large over the past few days. I've had final approval to direct a play in October. Woo and Yay, Calloo, Callay! We had a production reading last night, and it seemed to go well - people were surprisingly positive. And Hypatia's Hop-a-Hyp-Hyp Hopped her way out of her job. Which is just as well from the sound of it. Read all about it here.

Erm... that's it - more on the play soon.

:: THIS IS NOT LONDON ::

:: Stuffy and nonsensical ::

All's not looking rosy on the blog front. After a minor contretemps with the boss regarding interweb usage in the workplace, I've restricted all surfing to lunchtimes and after hours... and when I can get my hands on my housemate's machine, of course.

This, combined with ultra muggy conditions conspires to make the office ever-more conducive to post-meridian somnolence. All the while I pore through the never-ending Food Storechecks from Vietnam, Ukraine and Saudi Arabia, mindful of those bastards sunning themselves outside.

So, time for me to get on with my budget for the play then - I want it to be ready for tomorrow. With this week's onset of global warming however, today's obligatory b3ta pic seems worryingly plausible:

:: Dodgy Merchandise ::

Not much to post today, partly given a recent net-surfing crackdown by my boss. This on the day before my contract was renewed for another three paltry months. Time to look elsewhere (again) for employment, methinks.

On a more positive note, things are going well in preparation for the proposed production of Shakers Re-stirred. The only drawback is the enormous amount of time I seem to spend splitting out scenes in preparation for casting and blocking. Heartfelt thanks must go to La Gribouilleuse for choosing the play in the first place. Not to mention the hours spent with her cats "helping out" as we frenetically compare notes:

- Which one's Tracey now?
- I love the seafood pasta bit!
- Oooh - I think it's Carol!
- No it's Adele!
- what about the shorts?
- They don't have to wear them.
- Definitely not - they've got it the wrong way round in the stage directions...

Oh dear, we seem to be turning into our own disjointed version of the play...

Never mind, while I'm off for a weekend of washing, cleaning, reading and partying, I leave you with a couple of retail opportunities. If you're so inclined, you may wish to purchase a T-shirt emblazoned with the name of Our Esteemed Leader. On the other hand, if you need to do a really big shop, you could go to this mighty retail outlet.

See you at the Red Bull Flugtag in Hyde Park on Sunday!

EDIT - Friday insanity has just overtaken the workplace. A van turned up outside the office and started unloading crates of a new drink to reception. Apparently we are only the second office in London to be given samples of the new T of Life iced tea drink from Tetley. With 48 of the bottles in our floor's kitchen, alone, people have gleefully been supping their freebies...
...before deciding they don't like it very much after all. As a fan of iced tea, I would say this wasn't bad - the flavours are a bit funny and I prefer Lipton.
Of course, the best option of all is to make it yourself.