:: Wear Your Heroes ::

I forgot to mention that you can now buy an Andrew Marr t-shirt from Teemarto, just one of a huge number of online retailers of quirky fashion.

Of course, many sites offer the opportunity to design your own clothing (or at least to print some "witticism" on an ill-fitting t-shirt). And the ever-popular CafePress seems to produce a customised version of any old tat, provided you pay them enough...

:: Alarming Regularity ::

Ananova, that bastion of naff news and jokes at the expense of "those crazy Romanians", has recently revealed details of a mother and baby slot at mexican cinemas. Little do they realise, perhaps, that the poncho-wearing Mums of Notting Hill have been able to trot their kitten heels and baby Fallujah along to Electric Scream for some time. Perhaps these po-mo specimens of motherhood could also buy their pampered offspring a suitable soft toy to keep them quiet during the film.

As promised, the write-up from Tuesday night's Leon launch. Following favourable reviews in the Observer and (London) Times, Tigger and I were expecting great things from our new-found favourtie foodie haunt. Our invitation arrived via a slightly circuitous route: the first time we ate there, the halloumi was disappointingly undercooked and rubbery. Given our desire for the place's success and support for the proprietors' aims, we felt obliged to remark upon this single low-point in the excellent consumable offerings we tasted. The long-and-short of it is: an email exchange on the merits of cooking halloumi ensued between Tigger and the owner, and we were summoned to their press-filled opening. It was something of a shock to discover that one of the owners is the son of a highly-respected current affairs broadcaster - and the other is married to an ITN newsreader. Scrupulously avoiding the temptation to name-drop, I shan't reveal the names, especially as nothing seemed worthy of PopBitch. At least one (female) ITN reporter is considerably shorter in the flesh than I expected. The drink and conversation flowed and I came home ready to recommend the chocolate mousse to anyone.

Most London bloggers seem to be tube obsessed. So, following Dr Rufus' recent-ish link to the fabulous South London Tube Map, I'm including a few of my favourite tube-based maps, momentos and meditations. The creator of the well-known geographic tube map has also come up with a number of other interesting alternative maps - including this one which details the track and station layouts of the Victoria Line. Believe it or not, it's possible to buy such a map for the whole London Underground network. (By the way, a new addition to the growing fold of geographical maps is this one which is superimposed on a NASA satellite image.)
The main drawback of all such maps however, is their 2-D nature. Fellow tube-nut Taxloss and I have lamented on more than one occasion the lack of a comprehensive three-dimensional plan of all those interlocking tunnels. How do those cross-platform interchanges work at Oxford Circus, Euston and Baker Street? Why are some stations configured with one track above the other (Jubilee Line at Westminster)? For security reasons, no doubt, the full extent of these underground workings will never be fully available to the public, but it's interesting to witness some net-users' attempts at realising a 3-D tube map. And a non-comprehensive set of station plans past and present is available here.
Perhaps most useful of all is the Tube Map with Walklines. This is an attempt to save the prospective passenger money - and perhaps more truthfully to reconcile the topological elegance of the LU Tube Map with the geographic reality - i.e. it takes an awful lot less time to walk between Chancery Lane and Farringdon stations than it does to travel between them on the Tube...

:: We Can Work It Out ::

*** WARNING: following a lapse in recent blog output, Devukha needs to perform the linkage equivalent of colonic irrigation. Please look away now if easily bored or offended. ***

(1) Self-Seeking Saddo
Obsessed as ever with web-users' attempts to find me online - or rather their serendipitous discovery of Devukha via Google, I republish some of the choicer search terms which have been used to find this site.
My current favourite is narcolepsy percy shelley, for which this site currently comes up third. I can help thinking that the hapless googler in question would be rather disappointed to find Devukha - or indeed the first result. It's hardly a GoogleWhack, but I wonder if the 37 results displayed were useful to that searcher? Others, ranging from the bizarre to the almost predictable are:

  • write ups modern city hall - Nearly relevant. Presumably looking for an insightful architechtural critique of the "Squashed Bollock" next to Tower Bridge.
  • investment proposal write ups - No idea. Am shocked to have been picked up by such a mundane business-like search-term.
  • ricciarelli recipe - No surprise. It's amazing how many others seem to be trying to recreate the sweetmeats Salieri slathers over in Amadeus.
  • Melmoth shakespeare greenwich - Obviously looking for the show I reviewed. I recommend the same company's production of Midsummer Night's Dream next month.
  • pepsi max banraku - That popular advert...
  • "creamy muck muck" - Dick 'n' Dom's favourite game. I always advocate Saturday morning kids' TV for a hangover.
  • "circle line party" - Still haven't been to one yet.
  • "version of almost blue" - Must refer to La Foscqette's version of the Elvis Costello track. Well worth a listen.
  • www.douglaspledger.com - Why type in a url? I thought that too, until I realised you could search for sites that link to a particular address by typing "link:" in front of it.
  • spooky wastwater - I'm already getting nostalgic about visiting the Lakes last month.
  • "imperial russian anthem" - Not as good as the Soviet one, which has now been readopted with different words.

(2) Lies, Damn' Lies & Sadistics
It has been a pleasure to observe the expansion of the Taxloss cyber-empire in recent months. This Isn't London, a veritable mine of misinformation, has picked up a number of impressive web-accolades and a loyal readership. This isn't the first time deliberate lies have been launched onto the web, of course - The Brains Trust's "Unreliable Facts" pages have been around for some time, producing such occasional pearls as the following:

Sex Education (Clove): Topographers working on a new road map for the historic city of Cambridge discovered an unsettling coincidence. If you place a sheet of tracing paper over the 1826 map of the city and, using a pencil, write the words 'Bed Flute' on the paper, when you remove the tracing paper and hold it up to a light source, you are presented with a mildly amusing euphemism for the male sexual organ.

That might have made me smile, but many of the others - like the content of that site in general - are weak to say the least.
This Isn't London avoids the obvious targets (nearly!) and rarely fails to raise a giggle. Mill Hill East is its younger, more truthful cousin.

(3) Our Marr, Unlikely Star
As promised, a swathe of links concerning the Beeb's plug-eared political correspondent. With the party conference season in full swing, he's a busy man at the moment - and I'm not the only one making cheap jibes at the expense of his face. However, Marr follows in a long line of physically interesting political reporters. His animated approach to presentation certainly livens up BBC new bulletins, and offers plenty of opportunity for parody on Dead Ringers. Some may dread the hypnotic power of Marr's eyebrows, but his (real) powers of analysis shouldn't be abandoned at the behest of physical prejudice. Marr's piece on how to read newspapers is engaging and instructive.

(4) A Pox On Those Pix!
Not much comment required for these - in current non-bandwidth-stealing mode these are of course linked rather than nicked. My favourite images from the past month:
  • Compact parking in Surrey - no jokes about women-driverzzz...
  • Lovely hand-drawn mazes - print them out and try them.
  • Elton John on stamps - how many puns on "Queen's Head" can you fit into a mini?
  • Architect Jenga... - diversion by design.
  • Steve Bell: "Fcukwits for Justice" - Grauniad cartoonist has a field day.
  • Martin Rowson on blood sports - Grauniad cartoonist has a field (sports) day.

(5) Chavs Will Rule The World
Another well-trodden path. The chav-baiting scene had a number of notable pioneers, but now it seems that it's no longer shameful to bear the name Charver. Po-facedly, The Beeb highlighted the problem of Britain's Burberry-touting mutant underbelly, members of which wear their ASBOs with pride. "Those Awful Hats" is now less like to be a reference to an early silent film, than a reflection on the ubiquity of the vomit-inducing trucker cap. And if you search for chav on the Argos website, the results are all too predictable. And wannabe transatlantic chav-ess BritBrit has got married again, and hastily arranged a "pre"-nuptial agreement after the wedding.

Next time on Channel Devukha - The Launch Of Leon or "how Tigger and I stalked the ITN news team"...

:: Lame Apology #94 ::

My lunch break was stolen from me yesterday by whores (OK, by pestering colleagues). So no "traditional Friday Update", Kugelblitz. Rest assured that I have a multitude of links reserved for Monday. A surprisingly large number of them seem to concern Andrew Marr...

Until then, those of you who don't get the b3ta mail-out can enjoy the exploits of the Littlest Hobo in retirement. Don't pass up the opportunity to help the kittens at the end.

:: Sneaker Wars ::

Oh how Dr Rufus will be pissed off. Not only am I full of non-admiration for his latest objects of shoe-lust, but I have invested in a pair of Ripstop Mostros with a Combat-green/Day-glo orange colourway. Ubiquitous as this modern classic may be, I can only report that they're as comfortable as pie and don't make my foot look like I've just trodden on a Pokemon character. Thankfully I'm not the only Sock Dart loather - a fellow peruser of the goodly Doctor's blog was similarly scathing. "Charles", I salute your honesty.

Another feud with a friend has bubbled beneath this week's activities. Whilst regaling Jude with the account of my time in the Lakes, I mentioned that I'd visited Holker Hall. With barely a raised eyebrow, the little tart commented that the correct pronunciation was "hooker". So I mined the interweb for information on the quirks of English names. Lord Worcestercleucch's factsheet (his surname is apparently pronounced WUSS-tur-cloo) did not concur with my this, settling on HAW-ker as the authentic pronunciation. Jude's reponse was an immediate e-missive to the perfidious peer. We have yet to receive a reply, but the chaps at Crocus appear to agree with him. This incident reminded me of my favourite sort of limerick, where the rhyming words are changed at the end of each line to match an incongruously irregular one. Here is a fine example:

A youth called Cholmondeley Colquhoun
Kept a pet, a hairy babolquhoun.
Said his mother: "Now, Cholmondeley,
Is it really so colmondeley
to feed your babolquhoun with a spolquhoun?"

That may only elicit a mild chortle, but I can assure you that Tigger and I have laughed heartily at least twice this week. on Tuesday, we went to a recording of Jeremy Hardy Speaks To The Nation and then on Wednesday, we witnessed the sublime Flight of the Conchords. Never before have I witnessed such an authentic rendition of Jamaican Dance-Hall from two strapping Kiwis and a couple of acoustic guitars. Book now if you can get hold of tickets...

Proper News this week? Anyone comparing my cyber offerings with those of Taxloss, will have guessed which of us is the heavyweight political commentator. So I'm simply going to bemoan the Guardian's ridiculous revisionist stance on a Renaissance masterpiece. Haven't these people ever heard of posing? Who in their right mind would assume that the model for Michaelangelo's David always stood in that way. It seems fairly plain to me that the slightly twisted down-on-one-hip stance is designed to show off his impressive six-pack... and to distract the eager on-looker form his disappointingly proportioned manhood.

At the other end of the scale, Super Size Me is released today in the UK. And it's already inspired at least one super-size spoof. But seriously, it seems that quick, healthy food can be hard to find, even in London. Thank God, then, for Leon - a haven of fresh, tasty grub at reasonable prices. All within spitting distance of Oxford Street. I suggest you head there now...

And finally, if you at a loss for things to do over the weekend (forecast to be rainy and miserable), you could watch the Advert Channel or play tmwfa Top Trumps. Just watch out for flying shit.

:: Kill All Musicals ::

Yay! A hat trick of blog posts.

In my cyber absence, I accumulated a wealth of links which never quite formed posts. For your "pleasure", I now collate a series of these into a piece of backdated web-floss...

Last month, I was gratified to read an article in the Independent about the decline of the Musical. You might think that a singing thesp of my dramatic hue might revel in the razzmatazz of a hand-waving, leg-kicking full-on show. How far could you be from the truth? Since the obligatory study of Andrew Lloyd-Webber's execrable Cats for GCSE Music, I have been wary of the genre to say the least. I have never been one for enforced jollity, a policy exuberantly espoused by the majority of productions. And that's where the problem lies: The Production of even a well-written cleverly constructed piece of musical drama is a very difficult thing. In amateur productions, the spectre of karaoke is never far away, even when the cast are able and the show is a good'un. "Snob!" you cry. Perhaps, but the prospect of hearing/seeing Surbiton Women's Institute warble through Aspects of Love can only be appealing to the aural masochists amongst us. And it's even worse when you know someone in the cast...

To get back to the topic, I was recently approached by the director of my theatre group's production of Return To The Forbidden Planet. Seasoned Devukha-perusers might remember my gripes about stage-managing this show last December, but the director obviously hasn't twigged. The reason I dropped out of performing was my total horror at the bodged-up campery it would entail. Her words to me: "I've written a part for you in my new musical Lysistrata. It's broadly based on Aristophanes' play, mixed with pop songs from the 70s and 80s." My heart sank and my stomach lurched. Being a master of tact and diplomacy, I managed to avoid contorting my face to reflect the gymnastic feats of my vital organs, but didn't have the balls to refuse her immediately. No doubt I shall update readers of my progress in this matter - any advice would be appreciated, as would offers of accommodation in far-flung climes for the duration of the production next summer.

In my book, the only bearable musicals are:

  • Cabaret - punchy, edgy and sexy. This needs a good production to be watchable, but the fact that the singing is well-integrated into the plot doesn't lead to uncomfortable transitions (see notes below on The Sound Of Music).
  • Oliver - strictly for the kids, really, but there's still a soft spot for Lionels Bart's classic in my glitz-hardened heart.
  • West Side Story - Only the film. The idea of a British production with bad accents and appalling singing is barfalicious.
  • The Sound of Music - See above. Must only be watched on Boxing Day. Is only worth watching for the supremely surreal moment where the Mother Superior gazes out of the window and bursts into "Climb Every Mountain".
  • City of Angels - For nostalgic reasons, to be frank (was in it at College). The jazz score's better than most...
  • The Rocky Horror Show - if that counts.

Any comments gratefully received...

:: Regular Postings ::

Could this be the dawn of a new era? Not really - some of the regular crap. The flyer for bAsTaRd...

...and the pick of last month's search terms finding this site:

  • tennis pizda
  • "moan moan moan" review edinburgh
  • big tigger's celeb classic
  • sonobe units 900 origami
  • pelmeni serving suggestions

In case you're looking for explanations and can't be arsed with Google, here are some explanations: "pizda" means the same as the German Fotze, Tigger is a character in Winnie the Pooh and also one of my friends. "Sonobe" makes good use of your fingers and "pelmeni" taste better when they have been frozen first.

And I'm also reading Hons & Rebels at the mo, and I'm still loving the Pepsi Max banraku apartment advert...

:: The Last Swallow ::

So the rain more-or-less cleared up. And Mummy dear took me on a delightful tour of the lakes. I didn't manage to avoid all the tourist traps, but I was pleased to find a few places not overrun by beaming Japanese fervently photographing every tea-shop in Cumbria. The highlight for me was eerie Wastwater, deserted except for the odd outward-boundy type and glistening coolly in the half-cut sun. Eyebrows may be raised, but the trip has encouraged me to go fell-walking. Those gleefully awaiting photos of me in a fleece and stout boots may well be disappointed: I'm not planning to take a camera, and so simply there won't be any, so long as I manage to avoid the infamous Lakeland Paperazzi.

The baleful bank holiday passed without much event, although a rained off picnic at the behest of Miss Equus Caballus turned into a gin-fuelled funfest. The "morning"-after recovery was considerably aided by the BH showing of Breakfast at Tiffany's. I was shamed into confessing that I've never read the book, although I do have a soft spot for Truman Capote, particularly seeing his arresting portrait by Cartier-Bresson.

With the passing of the damp summer idyll, I suppose it's now time to brush off the creative cobwebs incurred during this period of mental aestivation. Er... actually that means I might write more often on this thing. My natural reaction might be to wake up and shout at the simpering bystanders, but I'm more likely to venture into to realms of creating new fonts or going to the cinema.

Failing that, I might parade around South London on a souped-up bicycle, or attempt to break the 30-mile wheelie record on an un-souped-up one.

The possibilities are endless...

Ta-ta!