missprint

A quick post, as I have to commit myself to an unnaturally early night as I have to get up again at 3am to catch my flight. I am off for 4 weeks to the sunnier climes of Eastern Europe but as I am rather pathetically addicted to the internet, I shall be attempting to blog en-route. I probably will get bored with the enterprise a week into the trip and immerse myself in my reading instead (I'm still trying to decide between an old favourite, The Secret History by Donna Tartt or a new book, Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell or The Corrections by Jonathan Fraznen. At the moment I'm leaning towards the Mitchell.)

So all transmissions regarding Girls Aloud, Top Fives and the Doctor of Who will be postponed (although I will just take this opportunity to say that The Idiot Lantern is my favourite episode of new Who so far and has only served to cement Mark Gatiss's position as my favourite Gentleman.) For a fix of listmania, please redirect your browsers to Stuart or 1001 Greatest Pop Songs; musings on the Girls of Allowedness, head over to Popjustice and the fabulous Lee and try and steer clear of Outpost Gallifrey kids, you fall over and graze your knee on the tongues of the rabid Whovians. Go and play in the lovely sandpit at Behind The Sofa.

Toodle pip!

I think that perhaps my previous list about medical metaphors was some kind of spooky premonition. Don't worry readers, I haven't come down with a rash cash of metaphoritis or indeed contracted an airborne virus that is doubtless traceable to Robert Palmer. I have however lost almost all of my voice. I think it's laryngitis and my mother has mysteriously produced a large quantity of amoxicillin. I ask no questions this time because I desperately want to get better for Monday, when I set out on my trip. The way I'm feeling now, I think I'll get to Poland and desperately pine after my bed and some tea. All in all, I'm feeling pretty pathetic because, wail along with me, I'm ill. Also, I had a weekend of drinking and arms aloft dancing planned but this is probably nixed in favour of flannel pyjamas, plenty of fluids and sensible foods like haddock and porridge. I am wallowing in self-pity and misery by listening to my new favourite playlist of terrible music. I can't tell you how many times I've listened to Boston's More Than A Feeling without fear of being disowned by you, dear readers.

I have spent the past two days trawling every branch of Millets or Black's in south London. I have amassed what I'm sure is a pile of useless accoutrements (fast-drying, anti-bacterial microfibre towel, day-glo padlocks and something I didn't even know existed, what is known as a "Kag In A Bag". I have never owned anything waterproof in my life and now this unblemished steak is broken by what is essential an all-body-umbrella.) As Toby Ziegler once declared: "[I feel] like I've been screwed with my pants on."

A few things before I crawl back to bed and perfect my air guitar skills. This is the wigsome spider that was in my room a few days ago:



Finally, another random body part self-portrait:

It was with some trepidation that I watched this week's episode of Doctor Who. After last week's somewhat underwhelming episode (possibly my least favourite of the season so far), I was fully expecting all the metaphorical stops to be pulled out. And in terms of fire and guts and things blowing up, Age of Steel didn't disappoint. (Allow me to utilise a shoddy metaphor that I haven't really thought through here...) In many ways, The Rise of the Cybermen/Age of Steel was very much like it's eponymous villains: cold, empty and clunky. There were moments I loved about this episode, moments which made me laugh and cry in equal measures but ultimately, it was a bit of an empty carb of an episode. As ever, review in note form:

- Not so much about the episode but for a flagship BBC show, the BBC aren't treating Doctor Who very well. Could we please just have one transmission time please? I know Eurovision was on this week but what's the excuse for all the previous weeks? (I guess it doesn't really matter much, I'm not going to be here to watch the rest of the season...sob.)
- Production design must have had a job on their hands this week what with Roger Lloyd Pack chewing up the scenery at every given opportunity. Even as a Cyberman, the melodramatic "NOOOOO!" was just a touch Evil Overlord too far. Plus, I just couldn't take the CyberController seriously, mainly because he still seemed to be in a wheelchair (albeit upgraded with some silver spray paint and supplies from B&Q)
- Don't even get me started on the heads exploding and the Cybermen clutching their heads in agony and wobbling around.
- Or even the reaction of the liberated ear-pod people. On seeing a giant slice'n'dice (which incidentally was a total shout-out to the Futurama suicide booth), do you:

a) Scream in a generally useless way, much in the style of Kim Bauer?
b) Scream in a generally useless way, much in the style of Kim Bauer, and leg it?
c) Flatly intone: "Oh no."

- So apparently, in the parallel universe the whole population of London could fit into Battersea Power Station?
- Last snark: I hated the CGI this week. It was just badly done and clunky and overused.
- I know that the CyberBride scene was a little mawkish but I was still in floods of tears like the girl I am. Anything with a RobotoBride is a good thing in my book.
- Speaking of which, I was somewhat disappointed that there were no CyberBoobies on the girl robots, especially CyberJackie who had some hefty clevage going on in Rise of the Cybermen.
- I loved loved loved Mrs. Moore and knew that this was yet another sneaky Whedon trick and she was going to die. Wah. (Although, I must admit that during the underground tunnel scene, I was convinced that she was a CyberMole.)
- I still don't find the Cybermen scary but the underground tunnel scene was terrifying. So apparently, live Cybermen are fluffy bunnies but deactivated ones wig me out big time.
- I'm glad that they didn't hash up all of Rose's daddy issues again. Mainly because I was already crying half an hour before the end of the episode and that would have just killed me.
- Bring Your Own...Gay Subtext Ricky and Jake were so doing it. Apparently Mickey picked up on this too - note what he said to Jake in the van: "I'm not trying to replace Ricky." I don't know though, the moonlight, the underground resistance life and Paris - expect that "If the van's a rockin', don't come a knockin'" sign to be dusted off.
- Oh Mickey you're so fine... Oh Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. You were a minor annoyance at the start and we all wished that you would stop puppyishly following Rose around. Then we felt bad because we started to realise that you had no-one, that Rose was your only family and that she dumped you for a jug-eared man dressed like a U-boat captain. And then we cheered because you saved the day with your techie know-how and stealthy-yet-slimming ninja-wear. I think it's safe to assume that the door hasn't been left open for Noel Clarke to reprise the role as The Doctor expositioned at the end about parallel worlds etc etc. All we can hope for is a Mickey spin off which involves some mano-el-mano action and anvilicious hints in Doctor Who, Torchwood (CLANG!) style. In memory of Mickey, here's a lovely picture of him in happier times:



- Tennant Adoration My! Tennant can rock a tuxedo. That and the glasses, I was just lost. Also, remember how I remarked that it probably wasn't appropriate for me to sneak some Tennant adoration into my essay? "Coupled with the fact that the current incarnation of the Doctor in David Tennant is much younger and attractive to a female audience than previous Doctors, it is clear that the producers of the show are trying to extend their demographic audience beyond the traditional young male and child audience of the old series"

The Idiot's Lantern next week - woo! Excitement on various levels: a Mark Gatiss penned episode; 50s clothing; meta-commentary on the pleasures of TV and Tennant with a quiff, rreow. Sadly, this episode is going to be the last episode I see for five weeks. However, my ill-timed travels around the Eastern bloc also mean that I don't have to watch Big Brother for five weeks and inevitably slip into a semi-comatose state.

As I haven't done much with my day today, I don't have much to write. There is only so much I can write about supermarket shopping; watching Goal! and a quiet evening spent making mix-CDs. So instead, I shall furnish you with yet another list...

All Time Top Five...Songs That Utilise A Medical Metaphor



One // Fever Kylie Minogue*
This, along with the Alexis Strum track at number two, is the track that spawned the idea for this list. The fever/love metaphor is probably more associated with the Peggy Lee track of the same name. Where the Peggy Lee track was all old-school Hollywood smoulder, Kylie's track is kitschy and seaside-postcard sex. From the perky and cute keyboard introduction to Kylie's sex-kitten posing ("I am ready for the news, so tell me straight / Hey doctor, just what do you diagnose? / There ain't a surgeon like you any place in all the world / So now shall I remove my clothes?") this is Kylie at her best.

Two // Addicted Alexis Strum
This is from Alexis's elecropop wilderness years and like Still Standing it is crying out to be covered by Kylie. Features possibly the best pop reference to a dairy product: "I'm a junkie / I've overdosed / On Chunky Monkey / Sweet stuff I need the most." It also has handclaps which as we all know is a vital ingredient for Pop Greatness (see also: Hey Ya!, OutKast; Real Life, Girls Aloud; Mickey, Toni Basil; Come Out 2Nite, Kenickie; Teenage Kicks, The Undertones etc) As her album of the same name never got released, the track is pretty hard to get hold of but it is floating around the interweb somewhere and is well worth the search. (Although it's worth avoiding the comedy dance remix by Xenomania.) An unhealthy relationship never sounded so danceable.

Three // Just Like A Pill Pink
"I can't stay on your life support cos there's a shortage in the switch / I can't stay on your morphine cos it's making me itch / I said I tried to call the nurse but she's being a little bitch / I think I'll get out of here..." I think this is probably my favourite Linda Perry penned track of recent times and certainly a highlight of Pink's second album, the txt-tastic, M!ssundaztood. More bad relationships and dependance coupled with Pink's shouty angst. I have a little bit of a problem with Pink's Feminist-For-Beginners approach and her faux-punk-grrrl-power branding but that's all really theory. I listen to this and Stupid Girls and remember that Pink is an excellent pop star. (Well, what other contemporary pop star can you imagine naming their album I'm Not Dead?)

Four // Addicted To Love Robert Palmer
Er, a slightly embarassing choice, I know. I can quite unashamedly admit to my love of Hanson and the Backstreet Boys but admitting to really loving this track makes me want to hide in a dark corner of the internet. Anyway, it was between this or Kelly Clarkson's Addicted but this won out because this is probably played in Spearmint Rhinos more than Kelly's angst-fest. Also, there's the video without which we might never have had Shania Twain parading her wares in the midst of oiled-up himbos and the 'hilarious' Richard Curtis send-up in Love Actually. Is it wrong that I really want to hear this at a club and bellow along to the lyrics: "Your heart beats in double time / Another kiss and you'll be mine."

Five // Crazy Chick Charlotte Church
A little tenuous I admit but it was either this or Alanis Morissette's I'm Not The Doctor which I don't like very much. Besides, Alanis doesn't make any mention of leather couches, psychotherapy or PhDs (POP FACT: any mention of a PhD in a pop song guarantees a fantastic track. See also: Racy Lacy by Girls Aloud ("I know this girl / She's not too bright / But she's educated in bed alright / She's made seduction a work of art / A PhD with her legs apart.")) Anyway, how could I possibly choose Alanis over this 60s Motown stomper? (Slightly unsavoury tangential note: A friend of mine misinterpreted the lyrics as: "You're driving me to insanity / All the things you do / You make me come on you" instead of "You make me come unglued".)

Also up for consideration: It Makes Me Ill *nsync (disqualified as usage of "ill" was in the street sense of the word); Tired of Being Along Al Green (being tired technically not a medical metaphor, perhaps just a sign of low blood sugar?); Fever, Peggy Lee; Addicted, Kelly Clarkson; Not The Doctor, Alanis Morissette or anything by Alan Fletcher's (a.k.a Dr. Karl Kennedy) band, The Waiting Room.

* Yet more reasons to love this track. This is Kylie's performance from An Audience With... and although the concept of the whole performance is fantastically camp and kitsch, what really makes it is the horrified/indifferent expressions of various members of the audience. Watch as Boy George perfects his lemon-sucking octogenarian impression! See Vernon Kaye's crushing disapproval! Be puzzled at the random woman who appears every so often, wildly flailing her arms about!



Anyway, it's 1:34am and I still haven't watched I Heart Huckabees or Melinda & Melinda yet. Toodle pip.

Sleep was quite high on my list of post-dissertation priorities but unfortunately, the events of the week have conspired against a full-night's sleep. Last night, Priya arranged for all the people on our degree course to go out to celebrate the end of university and I was slightly dreading it. You see, for me, university wasn't the life-changing experience that it purports itself to be. In fact, I don't think since I was 14 that I've ever been unhappy for such a constant period of time. When I finished my A-Levels, I resolutely decided against university, partly because I had never wanted to go and partly because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life. After taking a year out and rapidly realising that full-time work was the rock, it was with trepidation I approached the hard place. I applied for English Literature degrees in all the universities in London and for some reason or another, I ended up at UEL.

When I applied for university, I didn't want the typical student experience, as far as I was concerned it was a way of killing time in a productive way. You know that old adage about how the people you meet at university are your friends for life? In my experience, that hasn't been the case and perhaps partly that is my own fault (I am aware that the impression I give off to strangers isn't representative of what I'm really like. Like many shy people, I think others probably think that I'm rather stuffy, straight-laced and stuck-up. Incidentally, whilst talking to some of the others on my course last night, we were having that what-did-you-think-of-me-when-you-first-met-me conversation which only served to confirm these suspicions...) For the record, UEL is a new university, its intake comprises of a large proportion of mature students, international students and those who don't necessarily have academic qualifications. Combine this with the fact that the Docklands campus, beautiful though it is, is actually located in Beckton, which is pretty much the middle of nowhere. Beckton is perhaps the most depressing place in the world, it's a flat and empty landscape, only broken up by the grey ribbons of motorways and dual carriageways. It is also alarmingly close to Essex. In fact, you could use those very terms to describe the social life at the university.

Needless to say, when I first started at UEL, I was somewhat disappointed. Looking around the group of people at Induction Day, 80% of the people on my degree course were mature students. As I got to know some of the younger people on the course, I became increasingly frustrated, I had nothing in common with these people. There were no points of commonality between us apart from our ages: they all lived in Essex or East London and I lived way down in South London; I enthused about pop music and television whilst they immersed themselves in talking about drinking and white-stiletto nights out; during seminars, while I was attempting to talk about the topics without seeming too geeky, they sullenly sat there and contributed single-sentance answers. It didn't occur to me to try and befriend any of the older students, partly I am ashamed to admit, because it wasn't very cool. My first year at UEL was quite lonely and I found myself feeling more and more frustrated and angry that I was being robbed of a proper student experience. As much as I love my friends, on hearing their tales of life in halls, I was incredibly jealous in that way that unhappy people are only content on hearing that others are similarly unhappy.

The second year came around and I'd started befriending some people I had never noticed before. Having had such a disappointing first year, I let myself get carried away and overlooked the fact that I also didn't have much in common with these people because I was too overjoyed at being part of a little group. However, this too was short-lived as the group dispersed as various members dropped out (UEL also has the highest drop-out rate in the country. I guess we had to be good at something.) It was at this point that I started getting to know the older students on my course and I realised that I got on with them far better than any of the younger students. They were funny and inquisitive and talkative and raucous and there was none of that cautious sizing-up that comes with people my own age. However, these were people who had given up careers and had wives and husbands and children and a mortgage. These were not people I could imagine populating my life in years to come, whose faces would be in birthday photos and nights out. However, despite going out last night, armed with an excuse to leave early, I found that I had one of the best nights out in recent memory. Despite spending the first half of the evening in a cramped, sweaty, noisy bar in Brick Lane. Despite the rain. Despite spending the second half of the evening in what appeared to be a BNP pub in Brick Lane. Despite it being karaoke night in said pub. Despite being accosted by a drunken be-anoraked idiot from the BNP pub, who laid on the charm and aquired my fake email address with the immortal line: "You look like you take it up the arse." Despite the fact that there were no night buses running from Liverpool Street to Peckham. Despite the fact that it took an hour and a half to get home. Despite the fact that I had work the next morning. I put it down to the funny and inquisitive and talkative and raucous people and although I might not have left with the quintessential student memories of messy flats and drunken nights that somehow involve traffic cones, I did leave a little more open and about 5 drinks drunker.

Anyway, that is all an incredibly long way of trying to say that I've been sleep-deprived for the past two weeks and that it is due to this that I overslept and missed Doctor Who this week. So, the weekly musings on the fineness of Mickey, the pertness of the Whovian ladies' breasts and as ever, the loveliness of Tennant will be postponed until tomorrow when I watch the repeat.

Stolen from well, practically every diarist and blogger this side of the galaxy but specifically the lovely and fragrant, Stepfie and Stuart.

Six Weird Things About Me

One // I am absolutely obsessed with subtitles. I will watch anything and everything with subtitles much to the annoyance of my friends. It's gotten to the point where if I watch something without subtitles, like a film in the cinema, I have a little difficulty in catching all the dialogue without the aid of subtitles and I end up having to focus very intently on the actors mouths.

Two // I have a seemingly boundless capacity for sleep. I have been told that I just fall asleep straight away (much in the style of Homer Simpson). 8 hours a night is just not enough, at least 10 hours enables me to be fully functioning and lucid. I have been known on occasion to sleep for the whole day, only arising from bed at 5pm. I know, it's disgusting. However, even more strangely, I cannot sleep on planes and trains or any other form of transportation. Which usually means that I spend flights trying to surreptitiously unentangle my shoulder from strangers's lolling heads.

Three // I refuse to go into a hairdressers anymore. I have had far too many bad experiences with them. I am sure that every girl has had that dreadful experience of going into a hairdresser armed with a precise idea or picture and only to have your hair butchered into the style that the hairdresser thinks is suitable. Also, hairdressers seem to operate using a different system of measurement to everyone else, I have now learnt that asking for half an inch off results in a trim. Ask for any more than that and you will find most of your hair adorning the floor of the salon. I haven't been to a hairdressers in five years and instead I cut my own hair over the bathroom sink.

Four // Despite being brought up on Vietnamese food, I never learnt how to use chopsticks until I was about 12. When I was little, my Dad tried to teach me by encouraging me to practice picking up his cigarette butt ends (classy). My 7 year old self assumed that as I was An Oriental, my chopstick skills were innate and like some kind of slow-release knowledge, I would miraculously just know how to use them one day. In fact, I actually still don't really know how to use them properly, everyone comments how how I hold my chopsticks strangely (I hold them like a pen).

Five // You would think that being an only child, I would have had an imaginary friend but this was never the case. Perhaps the spoilt brat in me didn't want to share my Polly Pockets.

Six // I had a Catholic education (not weird in itself. Well kind of...) and in order to get into Catholic schools, I had to attend church every Sunday and go through all the Catholic rites of passage, including confession and First Holy Communion. (Incidentally, I loved my First Holy Communion dress despite the fact that it was made out of net curtains.) I always found confession quite stressful and intimidating, so as a result I didn't go very often. However, when I was made to go I always confessed the same sin of having broken a marble elephant and hiding its trunk down the back of the sofa.

Anyway, I am attempting to get my body clock back in order, so I take my leave of you now gentle readers. Bonne nuit.

As you can see dear readers, the blackboard is happily not barking orders at me to WRITE anymore. I fear I was a little optimistic in scheduling a social appointment every day of the week and I am exhausted. By happy chance, Meg has requested our rendezvous to be moved to the evening so I was able to languish in bed until 1pm. I was vaguely considering going out and running some errands but having just signed up to last.fm, I think that perhaps any thoughts of venturing outside the house are to be banished. The past few days have been taken up with extraordinary amounts of shopping, wine-drinking and generally doing nothing purely because I can do so without feeling guilty. As proof of this, I present to you a blackboard that Stuart requested:



If any of my readership want to request a blackboard message, please press 1 on hearing the beep.

So, Tuesday was taken up with shopping at the poor-chav's Bluewater, Lakeside. (I once saw Jodie Marsh and then boyfriend, Fran Cosgrove shopping at Lakeside. FACT. EDIT Well, when I say saw, I mean that my friends pointed them out to me and I saw their departing backs. I did not see Jodie's Trivial Persuit wedge. Ahem.) My trip being a little over a week away, I desperately need some, whisper it, practical clothing. Living in London, the idea of practical clothing is alien to me. It's all very well to throw on a pair of slouchy jeans and ballet pumps but I'm afraid that this favoured combination of mine will not fare me very well for 3 weeks in Eastern Europe. So, it is with trepidation that I went in search of a pair of combats and hoped that I didn't look like I was on a one-woman mission to resurrect late-1990s, All Saints inspired workwear. I found myself cooing over all the pretty skirts that are being hauled out in preparation for summer. It was then I realised that I wasn't really cut out for this trip. What on earth made me think I could be a earth-mother type, being at one with the goats and the dirt and without my favourite MAC products and my curling tongs?? Well, I shall either return a convert to backpacking ways or swearing off any travelling that does not involve a bed and a shower of some sort.

Anyway, having bought a pair of the required cropped trousers, I turned my attention to far more pressing matters. Namely, my ever continuing search for the perfect face powder. After my last powder disaster with Clinique's Gentle Light powder (too glittery, too child-rummaging-around-in-mother's-make-up-box), I was determined to stick with my original choice, the Yves Saint Laurent Matt & Radiant Pressed Powder:



It is a truly humbling experience to discover that in fact, you are always right and that in fact, you should always stick with your initial instinct rather than getting swayed by such matters as loyalty card points. The powder comes gorgeously packaged, which as any make-up junkies know is half the fun of buying make-up (this is also where MAC falls short with its minimalist matt black packaging. Please MAC, take note from Pout and Paul & Joe.) The actual compact is rather fabulously Dallas-tacky, gold and emblazoned with the YSL logo and inside, the powder is pressed into the shape of a heart. The powder itself lives up to it's name, it gives a gorgeous matt finish and sets your make-up without giving you that cakey, flat look that a lot of matt powders give. I attribute this to how finely milled the powder is, it's pretty invisible and you also don't need to use a lot. My make-up splurging didn't end there. Yesterday, whilst in Covent Garden, I took the opportunity to visit the MAC shop and check out the new line of liquidlast eyeliners and I just fell in love with this:



The picture doesn't accurately convey how vibrant and gorgeous the colour is. It's very much like the Limited Edition glitter eyeliners from last Christmas, the turquoise colour Peacocky sold out around the country and was going on eBay for £25 per tube. Anyway, Aqualine is very close to Peacocky but without the glitter, instead it has an irridescent effect. It also doesn't seem to come off which in many ways in a good thing but I imagine at the end of a drunken night out, it is not so desirable to spend 10 minutes rubbing frantically at your eye with a cotton wool pad.

Unfortunately, the weather did not allow for a celebratory picnic in Hyde Park yesterday, so myself and Lindsey ended up in the refurbished Smollensky's on The Strand which was splendid and does a fabulous Polish Martini. Rather worryingly, I found that after one martini with lunch, I found myself slightly staggering out of the door, blinking in the watery afternoon sun. I put it down to the bison grass vodka that goes in those Polish Martinis. For those of you who have never had the good fortune to come across a Polish Martini, they come with the highest recommendation (namely that they are now my drink du choix). Imagine the sweet and comforting taste of apple pie made liquid and alcholic and you're halfway there.

As the picnic was nixed, we had to find alternative entertainment and so we wandered over to Leicester Square to find a film and we ended up watching the latest Uma Thurman vehicle, Prime. Why Thurman can never seem to choose a good script is beyond me, she has proven herself to be a capable and charming actress and yet continually seems to choose Kate Hudson's castoffs. Anyway, there was nothing intrinsically wrong with the film, it was just a little odd. Uma Thurman and Bryan Greenberg (diet Jake Gyllenhaal: "all the flavour of Gyllenhaal with 50% less charisma!") have no chemistry whatsoever. In a bizarro-land twist, Madhur Jaffrey makes a cameo as a therapist. Meryl Streep phones in her performance. The whole thing seemed very much like a short-pants karaoke version of a Woody Allen film. It was brimming with the usual New Yoik stereotypes: slouchy arty kids living in the Village; Upper West side Jewish psychoanalysists, uber-camp fashionistas, shimmering shots of the city at night and characters tripping off to the Hamptons. However, I think perhaps it isn't the chick-flick that the advertising suggests (another casualty of In Her Shoes syndrome) and I think that probably I'm in the wrong demographic to really appreciate the film.

Anyway, this brings us up to today and Meg has just gone home a little while ago. We had planned to have a night in with some dinner and one of our favourite trashy films, Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights. However, in between watching the e4 episode of Lost that I taped the other night and Big Brother, we didn't get around to it. By the way, can I just say that the northern screeching harpy that goes by the moniker of Lisa is giving my people a bad name and that rest assured, the majority of us are in no way like her. Don't even get me started on Marco Part II, Shabaz; running around the house like a hamster on speed, screeching and pawing at every housemate walked through the doors. The only housemate that I warmed to was the fabulously misanthropic Dawn ("A determined and serious lady, Dawn is a strict vegetarian who loves her own company. She takes pleasure in reading textbooks, and spends a lot of time finding fault with things.") Dawn to win please viewing public.

Anyway, I digress, in tribute to our unwatched film of choice tonight, I present to you another All Time Top Five...

All Time Top Five...Dance Movies*



One // Strictly Ballroom
The first installment of Baz Luhrmann's Red Curtain trilogy and I think it's the one that stylistically and aesthetically sticks out the most from the trilogy. Where Romeo + Juliet and Moulin Rouge! have that hyperfast MTV editing, the postmodern references and the heightened reality thing going on, Strictly Ballroom is a mock-documentary and exhibits a much more dry humour as opposed to the hyperactive farcical humour that is on display in the later films. Like all good dance films, it follows an underdog-triumph-over-adversity type storyline combined with the fairy tale ugly-duckling plot. But really, what I love about the film is the story between Fran and Scott. And also the hotness of Paul Mercurio does not go unappreciated. Oh and also, the film features the best use of Time After Time ever. Besides, how can you resist a film that features the following line of dialogue: "I have to help Wayne with his bogo pogo."

Two // Save The Last Dance
Any combination of dance film and teen film was guaranteed to be a favourite of mine. Strangely enough, I hadn't seen this film until two years ago when Priya bought it for me as a thank-you for helping her move into her new flat. Although the film is to blame for the popularity of Fatman Scoop and Be Faithful, it is hard to hate the film. Mainly because it has the luminous moon-faced Julia Stiles in it. Dancing. In a white girl manner. Fantastic!

Three // Honey
Ah, more 'urban' teen movie fare. It seems as if Dangerous Minds has a lot to answer for. (See also: Coach Carter, Sister Act 2) More triumph-over-adversity! It's a winning formula, along with Jessica Alba and her amazing rippling, oiled abs (sorry, got a little carried away there. Ahem.) and a scene-stealing cameo from everyone's favourite hip-hop lesbian mogul, Missy Elliott. Also features a cute kid with a large afro. Always the mark of a good film I say. (See also: umm...)

Four // Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights
I am aware that this is somewhat of a controversial choice. I am aware that the majority of people have probably never seen this sequel. I am aware that the majority of those who have don't prefer it to the original. However, having never seen the appeal of Patrick Swayze (Kurt Russell lite: "all the flavour of Swayze but without the famous wife!") and especially not the Swayze-penned ode to flatulance, She's Like The Wind, the charms of Diego Luna (formerly seen sexing it up with Gael Garcia Bernal in Y tu mamá también) have endeared me to the sequel. The film itself is pretty much like the original, transposing the coming-of-age story to revolutionary Cuba and also features a cameo from the now haggard Swayze (obviously fatigued from all the paedophilia/house burning that heralded his comeback).

Five // Dance With Me
For the eagle-eyed and well, frankly bored, of you, you will have noticed that last Saturday's Channel 5 Afternoon Movie was this little known gem. For all its faults (namely recycling all the cliches of the genre into one tasty yet digestible whole), it remains a rather entertaining romp. Criticise Channel 5 all you want but they certainly have their scheduling down: straight-to-DVD films go on in the afternoon, soft porn at night. The film tells the story of a young Cuban, Rafael who after having buried his mother, goes in search of his American father. His father runs a dance studio in Texas and it is there that he meets Ruby (played by Vanessa Williams: diet Vivica Fox who in turn is Jada Pinkett lite. Which really makes Vanessa Williams the Hellmann's superlight mayo of the trio.) Ruby is the typical single-mum, hardened survivor heroine of these films and predictably her heart of stone is melted by Rafael and his hips of red-hot rhythm. There is also dance competition shoehorned in at the end in an effort to showcase Elaine-from-Ally McBeal's-interpretive-dance-abilities. If this doesn't persuade you to watch this film, I don't know what will.

* really the title should be All Time Top Five...Dance Movies (Subject To Change Until I See Flashdance and Footloose)

It's been the bane of my life for the past five months. That pile of 104 pages has been the cause of many a sleepless night and many hours of procrastination. But there it is, all done and it's out of my hands now. I'm free! My evenings aren't automatically prefixed by the thought of what I need to read for tomorrow's lecture. My evenings, my afternoons, my days, they're all mine to do with what I please. I could stay in bed all day, watching television and reading and whatever I please. I could start on my reading that I've put aside because I haven't had time over this past year. (I honestly cannot remember the last book that I read out of free will.) I could walk along all my favourite bridges in London, just me and my iPod. I can spend hazy evenings in the pub with my friends, talking and laughing about everything and nothing. I can go back to compiling frivolous Top Five lists. The possibilities are endless. But right now, I think I'd be more than happy with just curling up in bed and falling asleep to my Buffy DVDs because I haven't slept for 42 hours.

I can't quite decide whether this is the worst thing I've ever seen or whether it's been the highlight of my week. Actually, anything that includes the combination of Harold Bishop rapping and Karl Kennedy thrusting his hips at the camera definately falls into the former. Skip ahead to the 1:30 mark and prepare yourself for the horror (my eyes, my eyes etc etc).

Well, I would like to say that upon hearing these words, a bolt of fear was struck into my heart. However, as much as I wanted to enjoy this episode, I found it all a little underwhelming. I'm not sure if it's because after the breathless pace of the episodic format so far as conditioned me for 45 minutes gallops around time and space. Certainly, Rise of the Cybermen marks a return to a more old-school science-fiction sensibility. In a way, the Cybermen are a trope of science-fiction and this theme has been endlessly explored, especially in recent years with films such as I, Robot and The Matrix. The wonderful thing about science-fiction is that it is a veritable playground for writers. You can create a hermetically sealed universe, a world that is removed from our own reality in order to discuss issues (perhaps too controversial) that are too close to home. Science-fiction has always dealt with our anxiety about technology, specifically the line between humanity and artifical intelligence. In all good science fiction, it isn't the cold, heartless robots that are the most terrifying, it's the ones with some vestige of humanity. The daleks here are a perfect example - remember last season's encounter with the new improved daleks? To (mis)quote: "Since when did daleks believe in god?"

Anyway, this is all an incredibly prolixitous and long-winded way of saying that I didn't find the Cybermen very scary. Last year, I was fully anticipating burying my face in my pillow in fits of laughter at the return of the daleks but in fact, they were incredibly menacing and chilling. Being unfamiliar with the previous incarnations of the Cybermen, I didn't know what to expect but I certainly didn't expect 45 minutes of a badly drawn parallel universe, an ex-member of Byker Grove and some half-hearted Mary Shelly references. (Well, technically not Mary Shelly, needless to say she never penned the words, "It's alive!! Alive!!!") Perhaps I'm being a little harsh on the episode, perhaps I should reserve judgement until I see the Cybermen in their full foil-plated killing glory. You never know, by next Saturday, I could be hastily editing this entry beyond all recognition. As ever, my Doctor Who review in note form:

- Yay for continuity. Well sort of continuity I guess seeing as we've moved sideways into a parallel universe but Rose's dad is back! Mercifully (for both his reputation and our eyes), he doesn't have to don that terrible Miami Vice via Lewisham market look anymore. In Father's Day I couldn't help but think of Dennis Waterman every time he appeared onscreen.
- Oh Mickey you're so fine... Hurrah for Mickey's long-overdue character development! Though, as many on Behind the Sofa have noted, this is most probably a Portent of Doom. A sneaky Whedon-esque trick (remember Jesse anyone?) Since Noel Clarke has confirmed that he isn't going to be in Season 3, we can perhaps expect the Death of Mickey (and the death of the Oh Mickey you're so fine sections of the reviews) soon. Perhaps the Death of Mickey signals the downfall of this new arrogant Doctor? (I refer you back to the Portents of Doom in Tooth & Claw and School Reunion.)
- The one thing I did like about the Cybermen was the fabulous Art Deco look they were sporting. I mean, if the 1920s/1930s are good enough for Christina Aguilera, it's definately good enough for the Cybermen.
- I also liked John Lumic's old-school wooden wheelchair. That certainly explains his general grouchiness.
- Hey! Look It's... Blossom-off-of-Eastenders!!
- Hey! Look It's... that-one-off-of-Byker Grove (ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!)
- Pop Culture Watch As I've mentioned before, I don't think that the pop culture references sit very well in Doctor Who but I can make the exception for Tight Fit's masterpiece, The Lion Sleeps Tonight. Incidentally, this was the scariest moment of tonight's episode. (And I don't meant that in a snark-some way. It was genuinely horrifying.)
- Finally, even I could tell that it was Cardiff substituting for London. London is never that clean. Or quaint. But I can forgive the production team for that because apparently, the Cybermen decided to return to their spiritual home...Peckham:



As a treat to myself after yesterday's fiasco, I have decided to write about Doctor Who and Buffy the Vampire Slayer in my Television and Cultural Change essay. Hoorah. Credit for pontificating on my favourite television shows. Unfortunately, Tennant adoration does not get me good marks so I shall have to pour it all out here. Although, there is not much to say this week apart from: the emo glasses were back again, rrreow. Monday marks my freedom from this seemingly endless carousel of WRITING and I can get back to compiling All Time Top Five lists. I already have some great lists lined up (All Time Top Five Dance Films; All Time Top Five Songs That Use A Medical Metaphor; All Time Top Five Songs About Dancing etc etc) and I have also been meaning to do that weird thing meme that has been doing the rounds. Rather worryingly I can only think of two at the moment when I know that in reality I am just neuroses and strange habits strung together. Anyway, it is about 2 hours away from dawn and I only have 785 words done. Pip pip.

Ah, look at me, grinning away there. This should be what my face looks like on May 15th when I officially finish university and hand in everything (including the Accursed Dissertation). However, due to extenuating circumstances (although technically they don't fall into the category of extenuating circumstances), it appears as though the above face is going to be put on hold for another three months or so.

To put it simply, today ranks amongst the All Time Top Five Worst Days of My Life. Normally, as an eternal (ly annoying) optimist, I would count myself fortunate not to have enough days to fill up this list. However, my usual cheery facade somewhat clashes with the constant stream of profanities that is currently running through my mind. The end of semester is never a good time for any student. I am sure you've all fallen victim to your own laziness/procrastination/disorganisation and have had to frantically rectify the situation by staying up all night, typing out whatever garbled semi-formed critical thought pops into your mind. I was quite resigned to the fact that I wasn't going to have much sleep this week. (Mainly because I knew that next week, I could sleep as much as I wanted to.) However, what I wasn't prepared for was a sweaty-palmed, blind panic on the sudden realisation that I wasn't going to make my deadline. I have never missed a deadline, so I guess it had to happen some time. Unfortunately, the "some time" happens to be during my final year.

Although my university is on the other side of the river, with the combination of my cunning and slightly reckless driving, I can usually make it door-to-door in half an hour. With deadlines however, I have learnt from past experience that leaving an extra hour or so ensures that I don't go ballistic with worry at all the potential disasters that could happen between Peckham and Beckton. So, although I was running a little later than intended, I still managed to leave my house at 2:30pm. I was quite pleased with myself, I had written a 4000 word essay in the space of approximately 12 hours and it had only taken me 10 minutes to get to the Rotherhithe tunnel. Oh yes, it was going to be one of those kind of days where I listen to ELO's Mr Blue Sky on repeat. All was going to plan until I got to the Rotherhithe Tunnel approach and was confronted with a large, shiny, slightly dented (no doubt from enranged young women), yellow signed: TUNNEL CLOSED. So it was back around the roundabout and I doubled back on myself, yet another 10 minutes. The other option open to me is the Blackwall tunnel and whilst usually I would be worried about the traffic, I reasoned that it was 2:50pm on a weekday, surely everyone was at work? The next hour and a half found me alternately sitting stationary in my car or zooming off to another route that I knew of.

By the time I arrived in Lewisham, the vague thought had formed in my mind that perhaps I should ditch my car and (god forbid) use the DLR. Weighing up the odds (and my monumental laziness/tiredness), I decided that perhaps sticking with my car was better. After all, at least in my car I could listen to this week's Pop Revival (Kylie's Body Language). Another 15 minutes elapse and it's now 3:40 and I am coming up to the Cutty Sark DLR station. It is at this point that I realise nothing I do will get me to university in time for the 4pm deadline. Very much like the child sent to the back of the class with the glitter glue and safety scissors, my damned optimistic streak piped up. I could still possibly make it to university for 4:15 and beg and plead and (perhaps) cry at the administrative staff. So, I continued driving.

A few minutes later, I realised that I had an appointment with my dissertation supervisor which I was already dreadfully late for. However, by this point I was already on the Blackwall Tunnel approach and there was no time to frantically scrabble around for me phone. Straight after coming out of the tunnel, I found myself sitting in stationary traffic again. So, I take the opportunity to call my supervisor. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a large white vehicle adorned with fluro go-faster stripes pull up slowly next to me.

Uh oh.

As casually as I can, I inch the car forwards and hope that the law enforcers on my right don't figure out my cunning plan.

Uh oh. I've been rumbled.

I throw caution to the wind and decide that the only thing for it is to slide down in my seat and attempt to let the phone drop to the floor.

What an amazing idea! They will never notice the hot pink shiny thing slithering down from my ear to the car seat. Just as I am about to claim my victory and outwit the law, I look down and notice that my phone has proceeded no further than 8 inches from my ear. Stupid breasts.

It is at this point that the policemen start beeping their horn and making the international sign for "Could you please roll down your window madam?" It is at this point that I decide that crying is definately the way forward.

"You're not really paying attention to the road, are you madam?"

So, it is with little more than a mumbled "NoI'mveryverysorry" and a rush of blood to the face that I speed off, in the hopes of making 4:15pm. But, today being the Worst Day Ever, that is rather foolish of me to think that anything will go right. I eventually arrive at university at 4:30pm, two whole hours after I left my house. Inevitably, the Student Enquiry Desk is closed, so I can't hand in my essay. My supervisor is nowhere to be seen. I'm having one of those, God-why-did-I-wear-this-in-public moments. I am convinced that were I not utterly exausted to the point of delirium, I would have collapsed in a heap in the university square.

It is at this point that I spot my supervisor smoking outside the bar and I head over. Upon sight of my crumpled and haggard visage, she has already guessed what has happened and is all embraces and sympathy. The way that the day has progressed so far, I brace myself for a full scale attack on my dissertation, all 10,000 words of it. Instead, perhaps because of today's events, I mercifully get what I want to hear. Declining offers of a drink, fearing that alcohol would truly tip me over the edge of the precipice of sanity that I am teetering on, I decide to make my way home. So here I am, back at home, after a further two hours in first gear.

Rejoice for the end is nigh! The Accursed Dissertation is done. Well, I hope it is. I'm emailing it to my supervisor right now and I wait with bated breath for her verdict on it tomorrow. But hang on, there is no time to do an impromptu dance to a Girls Aloud tune of my choice, I fear I have left very little time in which to complete a further 3400 words on my Postmodern Literature essay which is due tomorrow. Eek.

But indulge me, gentle readers, and let me bask in my brief moment of glory:



EDIT: Even my iTunes was aware of the momentousness of the occasion. Witness the songs that it has spewed out ever since I have finished:

Mr Blue Sky - ELO
Touch The Sky - Kanye West feat. Lupe Fiasco
Show Me Love - Robin S.
Happy Together - Jason Donovan
Love Machine - Girls Aloud
I Wanna Be The Only One - Eternal feat. Bebe Winans
Suddenly I See - KT Tunstall
Things Are Getting Better - N*E*R*D
Air Hostess - Busted
Girl From Mars - Ash

Wahey, all sunny arms-aloft "choons". Perhaps some impromptu dancing is called for after all...

!!!

Almost there. I am a third of the way to freedom now. Only a postmodern lit essay on feminist authors and a television essay on postmodern cross-genre shows (Hello Mr. Whedon!) to go. Normal service (i.e. essay length pontifications on Girls Aloud) will be resumed shortly.

Quick post, Lost is about to start.

Track of the Week was going to be the fabulously bonkers Shakira with her cover of Hips Don't Lie from the Dirty Dancing 2: Havana Nights soundtrack. However, her entry has been firmly trounced by the mighty Girls Aloud with On A Round.

5 Reasons Why You Should Love On A Round

One // It was the b-side to No Good Advice which was like five schoolgirls let loose on My Sharona with tamborines. So just imagine what the flipside to that sounds like.
Two // Well, for those of you who are lacking in an imagination, On A Round sounds like an ASBO girl-gang covering Bananarama with Adam Ant drumming in a nuclear fallout shelter.
Three // It features the excellent lyrics "don't let that beat sleep in the suburbs" and "keep that boom-boom back in sound" which are almost on a par with "I flick my finger to the world below / Here I am, dirty hands, I don't give a damn / Shut your mouth because shit might show" or "Bish bash bong woo". A.M.A.Z.I.N.G.
Four // The drums are a mash-up of Prince Charming and George of the Jungle.
Five // Err, that's it really.

That's right, 7000 words.

!!!

Now, only 3000 more to go, this should be easy.

* Bonus points to whoever gets the televisual reference. No googling please children, we're civilised people here.

Quelle horreur, I forgot to watch Doctor Who on Saturday but thanks to the BBC determinedly milking Who for all its worth, I caught the repeat on BBC3 last night. And oh my, Steven Moffat you spoil us with a crunchy clockwork robot exterior and creamy shipper goodness inside. Slurp. I can only imagine what the hardcore Whovians over at Outpost Gallifrey (where no-one can hear you scream) had to say about the Doctor getting a chance to use his previously "new and unused" parts. (Although, according to this week's commentary, Moffat maintains that the dancing metaphor was merely flirtation and not a big ol' carrot for the viewers and undoubtedly filthy-minded fanfic writers.) I find myself feeling increasingly spoilt with the consistent high quality of season two so far but I wasn't immediately won over by this episode (unlike Tooth & Claw or School Reunion). Nevertheless, the more I thought about it, the more this episode grew on me:

- Over at the TWoP forums, poor Sophia Myles is taking a bit of a bashing but I thought she was an excellent guest star. It was a tough role I think, trying to portray one of the most accomplished women of the age and also trying to get across why Reinette was a match for the Doctor in 45 minutes. Note the Doctor's incredulity when he discovers that this gorgeous girl who randomly plants one on him is also the mistress of the King of France. He is more than a little starstruck and smitten. Then watch Reinette's scene with Rose, I loved how eloquent Reinette was in articulating her dismay at her life being invaded by 51st century clockwork droids. Now think about how Rose would have handled it. That's why the Doctor fell head over heels for Reinette.
- Continuity! I'm a big fan of continuity and obviously Steven Moffat is too with the repeat mentions of bananas and dancing.
- However, I would forego any continuity with bananas if it meant that the drunk Doctor scene was cut out. It's hard to take a Time Lord seriously when he has his tie wrapped around his forehead.
- Then again, any flaws in this episode were made up for by the presence of Arthur. Let's take a moment to ponder the amazingness of Arthur, the 51st century space horse:



It's a horse! On a spaceship!! AMAZING.
- Brace yourself for more amazingness of the Doctor/Arthur the space horse variety:



Okay, a little misleading as Arthur has been replaced by a man and some scaffolding but the Tennant straddling something part of the equation is still there.
- Thank god we've been given a break from the constant Torchwood references. Anvillicious much? As if the JJ Abrams whoring of MI:3 on last week's Lost double-bill wasn't enough.
- I was disappointed to see Micky and Rose getting along so well after Billie's donning of her best bitchface at the end of last episode. It has been subsequently been explained that Moffat didn't read the end of the script for School Reunion and that's why they're getting along so well at the start of this episode.
- The clockwork robots were gorgeous and incredibly creepy. The "insane but logical" reasoning was marvellously chilling.
- As was the creeping realisation that the spare parts that they were referring to was actually the crew.
- This wasn't as much of a sobfest as last season's Father's Day but it was pretty close. Not only was Dame Billie of Piper fabulous in the scene in which Rose gazes up at the broken mirror, broken-hearted. It's a nice continuation of last week's themes, Rose is slowly coming around to the realisation that she isn't going to be the only girl for the Doctor (although clearly the Doctor still loves her). It's also nice to see Tennant do something outside the register of chirpy and bouncy or very! angry! protector! of! stupid! humans!

So, all in all, hurrah!

On the not-so-hurrah front (and also at Stuart's behest), this is le conseil noir for this week:



Yes, so pretty much writing writing writing for me this week. However, next week is my final deadline (hoorah, knees up Mother Brown etc etc) which means that after Monday, I am free to laze about in bed, watching back-to-back episodes of my favourite cult television programmes (and St Elsewhere which I was excited to find that more4 are running during their 2pm daytime slot now. Yay for ridiculous endings) and scarfing down peanut butter and grape jam on toast. (Ah yes, the cornerstone of any nutritional diet.) Anyway, if I am ever to reach the light at the end of this particularly torturous tunnel, I'd better stop scouring eBay for cut price cosmetics and expensive shoes and start on my mountain of writing. Pip pip.

My life, as well as being regimented by The Blackboard of Doom, is propped up on stacks of books. Everywhere I turn, there are little pillars of texts that need to be read or photocopied or quoted from. Despite the quite sizable post-graduation reading list that I have amassed, (Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell, A Series of Unfortunate Events: The Penultimate Peril, Cloud Atlas, Eleanor Rigby, The History of Love, Nights At The Circus, The Autograph Man & The Call of the Weird), I could quite happily refrain from reading for a good few months. (Well, I guess I can't tote my usual five books on holiday with me this year, a stack of books is not conducive to backpacking.)

So, my Sunday is going to be spent in front of my computer in an attempt to hammer out 4000 more words in a desperate attempt to finish the Accursed Dissertation and rid my surroundings of these looming pillars. Allow me to live vicariously gentle readers, if I had been more organised, my Sunday might have looked like this:

9:00am // Wake up. Crack one eye open and blearily squint in an attempt to focus said eye on the clock. Decide that it is inhumane hour to be up on a Sunday and promptly fall asleep again.
10:30am // Nope. Still too early. Zzzz.
12pm // Ah, that's more like it. Lie in bed thinking about strange cheese dream I had and then decide that am too hungry to stay in bed.
1:00pm // Showered and ready to face the world, decide that the best way to spend my day is in bed watching season 2 of Buffy.
4:00pm // Wander downstairs in search of food. Return triumphant with peanut butter toast and tea.
7:35pm // Rejoice for Alyson Hannigan is back on my television, alongside Doogie Howser, M.D. star, Neil Patrick Harris, in How I Met Your Mother.
8:00pm // Excellent, Top Gear is on. Cannot let anyone know that I secretly find Jeremy Clarkson quite amusing and that I rabidly fancy diminuative Richard Hammond.
9:00pm // Ooh, more trash television in the form of 50 Greatest One Hit Wonders. This is quite possibly best day ever.
12:10am // Ah, still time to watch more Buffy...
12:40am // Zzzz...

On that note, I suppose I had better refrain from writing my usual essay-length posts and concentrate my WRITING energy on my degree. Le sigh. Happy Sunday gentle readers.

Yes, today's Pop Revival belongs firmly to the band who have now become the international symbol for Danger! Reality TV Careers Go Down The Dumper Quicker Than You Can Say "It's All A Bit Karaoke."



Ah, One True Voice where did it all go wrong? That's obviously a picture of them in happier times, though what they were celebrating and punching the air in victory for, I'm not quite sure as there was really no point in their short-lived career that was worth celebrating. Except perhaps the entire lyric of their second single, Shakespeare's Way With Words. Sample: "Don't know much but I'm not thick / Know nothing much at all / But I do know one thing / I love you, really love you / And I'd give anything to tell you how I feel inside."

Anyway, I know you must be asking yourselves why on earth I have spent a significant proportion of my day today scouring the internet for One True Voice's past glories. In the grand tradition of procrastination, I have decided that far more important than the remaining 4000 words of my dissertation (not to mention the additional 7500 words that I have to write for other essays) is the Everything You Wanted To Request At The DJ Booth But Were Too Afraid To Ask CD that I have been meaning to make for Meg. So, two hours of my afternoon were spent looking for some quality pop dumper tunes to go on this compilation. I also seem to have developed an inflamed throat. These events may not be entirely unconnected.

Everything You Wanted To Request At The DJ Booth But Were Too Afraid To Ask

1 // Where Are You Baby? - Betty Boo
Obviously in no way is this an embarassing track but I find this track rather scarce on the dancefloors of London.
2 // U.G.L.Y. - Daphne & Celeste
When Daphne & Celeste first emerged, I considered myself much too cool to give them and their (cue indie-sneer) pop music any sort of recognition. Obviously, since then I have lost any semblance of musical pride and I've fully embraced the genii of Daphne & Celeste. Anyone who sees fit to include the lyric: "In your ear with a can of beer / Up your butt with a coconut" is to be the subject of idolatry.
3 // Maria (Un, Dos, Tres) - Ricky Martin
Whoopa!
4 // Bodyshakin' - 911
They used to perform this on tour in fatsuits. AMAZING.
5 // Let's Get Ready To Rumble - PJ & Duncan
It's Ant, it's Declan. They're a duo. (A twosome.) They've so many lyrics, they're frightened to use them. (Pop Fact Partners in crime, who never did time; a sentence for them ends in a rhyme. PSYCHE.)
6 // Steam - East 17
Outside it's raining but inside it's wet. Indeed. (To my chagrin, I have belatedly realised that I forgot to include this on my All Time Top Five Songs That Feature Whistling)
7 // Return Of The Mack - Mark Morrison
Only God can judge him apparently. I don't even think that God will forgive him for being the British R Kelly.
8 // Cleopatra's Theme - Cleopatra
In the grand pop tradition of bands-who-had-a-tv-show (see also: The Monkees, S Club 7 and North & South), Cleopatra were launched on their prime-time CITV soap. Frankly, they weren't very good, the lead singer had a rather irritating wobbly voice but the nation was enthralled because there was obviously a lack of bands comprised of siblings hailing from Manchester...
9 // All That She Wants - Ace of Base
a.k.a. the 1990s version of ABBA. They're Scandanavian! They have an extravagantly bearded member! Three of the members' surnames is "Berggren" which is a bit like "Bjorn" (if you squint a little. Whilst drunk.)
10 // Give It To You - Jordan Knight
Jordan Knight is to New Kids On The Block what Lance Bass is to *nsync. (note: not gay but useless and a pop and/or space aeronautical disaster.) However, we shall overlook his pop dumperdom because he made a mucky pop song ("I don't care who leads as long as we move horizontally / Anyone can make you sweat but only I can keep you wet") with lots of squelchy 'space age' noises (remember it was the late 90s) and a fairground carnival intro and outro. Hurrah!
11 // I Want You To Want Me - Letters To Cleo
This is slightly out of place on this CD as I don't think I would be embarassed about asking for Letters To Cleo at a DJ booth but I fear that at I would be met with a blank look. However, yet another track that is sadly scarce on the dancefloors of London.
12 // Summer Girls - LFO
Do you think perhaps part of LFO's failure to set the pop world alight (however briefly) was because their name stood for "Lyte Funky Ones"? Or perhaps it's because they declared in this track that "New Kids On The Block had a bunch of hits / Chinese food makes me sick / I think it's fly when girls stop by for the summer / I like girls that wear Abercrombie and Fitch."
13 // Summertime - Fresh Prince & DJ Jazzy Jeff
You gotta love a DJ whose alias (bearing in mind that he can choose ANY name) is "Jazzy Jeff". Anyway, surely for anyone who grew up in the 90s, this is a definitive summer anthem, conjouring up memories of hazy afternoons stomping the pavements in light-up LA Gears.
14 // Re-Rewind - The Artful Dodger feat. Craig David
Yes, in the summer of 2000, Craig David was all over your *boink*.
15 // Flowers - Sweet Female Attitude
Without meaning to sound old-codgerish, garage music (even garage-lite such as this track) all sounds the same to me. It's just all looped vocal ad-libs and that funny jittery beat. (I've officially made myself sound older than I ever intend to be.)
16 // All I Want (Sunship Radio Edit) - Mis-Teeq
It is lost to the annals of pop history that Mis-Teeq were tagged as the British Destiny's Child once upon a time. Granted that this comparison was made on the basis that they were an 'urban' act and that at the beginning that had quite a few member changes. Anyway, they soon transcended that to become the First Ladies of UK Garage-Pop and thus the immortal lines were uttered: "M with the I with the S T double E Q."
17 // Flip Reverse - Blazin' Squad
Many don't acknowledge the trail that the Squad blazed (no pun intended). How many people made an ASBO concept album in 2003? The Squad are also notable for spawning Kenzie who on Jodie Marsh's Wikipedia entry is described as having "the social grace of a sanitary towel" (though to be fair that description also encompasses her other conquests such as Kian Egan from Westlife, so there may be some credence to that claim.)
18 // Feel It - The Tamperer feat. Maya
A Jackson 5 sampling disco-stomper that's about a girl forgiving her love rat boyfriend but declaring war on the 'skank-ho' that he cheated with. Features possibly the best pop threat ever: "What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?"
19 // 9 to 5 - Dolly Parton
I've noticed that this track has cropped up on one of the Guilty Pleasures compilation CDs, so perhaps the stigma of asking for Dolly's best has been neutralized however, I love this song so much, I aim to get it on every compilation I make.
20 // Are You Jimmy Ray? - Jimmy Ray
Pop mogul, Simon Fuller, fresh from his victory with the Spice Girls decided to take on the niche market of cod-rockabilly teen-pop artistes. "Are you Jimmy Ray? Who wants to know, who wants to know about me?" The rest, as they say, is history.

Anyway, according to my blackboard, I should have spent today WRITING (and I guess I am certainly doing that but it's not quite what my blackboard intended) and so far, no words have been written today. I've come to the conclusion that I may be suffering from some sort of low-level depression. (As evidenced by my declaration to my friends last night: "Let's get hammered!!" only to be met with pitying looks. Such is my life.) Anyway, I fear that you, my dear readers, will have to endure another two weeks of my moaning about work and writing and endless lists of pop music until I finally regain my life back.

The above is my life at the moment, regimented by a blackboard which incessantly urges me to write. It obviously doesn't work that well because I wasted a day today (well, I guess it depends on your definition of "wasting.") Rather astonishingly, I woke up at the eye-searingly early hour of 10am and immediately decided that as it was a sunny Bank Holiday, there was only one way to while away the day and it definately was not in front of my beloved computer. I managed to blackmail Lindsey into coming to Bluewater with me and I managed to deceive myself that I desperately needed to go to rectify my position as terrible-friend-to-Priya, as I had not been in attendance at her birthday celebrations, forgot to text her with a birthday salutation or even bake her a cake. As tomorrow is my last lecture ever (YAY...more on this later), I figured that it was my last chance of seeing her for a while. Not only did I accomplish my mission in buying her a fabulous gift (I was afeared that I had lost the knack of buying presents) but I also bought various treats for myself:



I have been on a search for a perfect powder, well, forever. Having bought the Clinique Gentle Light Loose Powder on a whim today (and also being suckered into spending another £10 on a lipbalm, all for precious Boots points. I should know better having once worked there. Alas, such is the life of a make-up junkie) I'm still not convinced that this is my Holy Grail and that perhaps I should have stuck with the original plan of purchasing the much-recommended, oft-praised Laura Mercier powder. So far, pros: pleasing luminous glow to skin, making me look both fragrant and lustrous; cons: on further inspection, large particles of glitter all over facing, making me look like a mucky seven-year old. Oh crap.

As my life is somewhat empty at the moment, (I tell myself that it's due to the dissertation but I suspect that this may not be the case. In any case, I am going to humour and indulge myself and continue to participate in this masquerade...) I have compiled a list of miscellaneous thoughts:

- Myself and Priya have both independently come to the conclusions that some days are good iPod days. On these golden days, the shuffle function on your iPod both filters out all the songs that are only on your iPod for show and present a selection of songs that you truly love. Today is such a day, in the last twenty minutes of writing this entry, my iTunes has cued-up a veritable feast of boys with guitars: "Actually It's Darkness", Idlewild; "American Trilogy", The Delgados; "Who's David", Busted; "One Two Three Home", Ben & Jason; "Black Hair", Nick Cave.
- Tennant Adoration from this week's Holy Moly mailout: "When new TV Time Lord David Tennant was filming Blackpool, he made Sarah Parish go to a Dr. Who convention with him so he could get his annual signed." That is so geeky, it's adorable.
- I think myself and Popjustice have mind-melded, take a look at both my own and PJ's entries for 27th April. Coincidence? I think not!
- More stolen stuff from the Holy Moly mailout: The First Annual MySpace Stupid Haircut Awards. Looking at those pictures, you would think that MySpace is completely inhabited by the residents of Camden.
- This week my blog has been frequented by people looking for naked pictures of Mark-from-Westlife's boyfriend, pop-dumper-Kevin-McDaid and also someone looking for Howard Donald's MySpace.
- Pop's favourite teenage mother and ex-Sugababe, Mutya is back! With a hideous MySpace which seems to be based on a seventeen-year old boy's lucky pulling shirt. From listening to her solo material, all I can say is that thank god she left the Sugababes. It's bad enough that she campaigned for the crunk-a-licious Gotta Be You to be on Taller In More Ways but she wanted Ace Reject off the album? (Although, it must be said that Gotta Be You does make its way into the All Time Top Five Songs That Namecheck The Artist: "Now you're talking this stuff / Seems I'm getting dissed, what?! / Newsweek would say "today look at Mutya.")*
- Finally, random body-part self-portrait:



* Am not quite sure on the other entries in this list but I am considering including a 5ive song. Any suggestions would be much appreciated.