Have I been out running, eating healthily, and losing weight?  No.  Although I did lose three pounds.  Then went out, got hideously swearily offensively drunk and had a curry.

Have I been putting the blog to one side while I focus my creative energy on my novel?  Have I fuck.

Have I become addicted to playing iPhone games in my every spare waking moment?  Yes.  Oh Lord yes.

I imagine I’ve followed a well-trodden path.  You get your iPhone and you want to try as many of the alleged 100,000 apps on offer.  But no games, you tell yourself.  No games; only useful apps that will come in useful.  Like a tube map, online banking and something that tells you where the nearest pub is.  Useful apps that come in useful.

And then you get Paper Toss.  It can’t hurt, you tell yourself, to get one silly little time-wasting game, the object of which is to flick your finger up the screen to toss a scrunched up ball of paper into a bin across an office, accounting for the wind effect of strategically placed desk fans. 

But then paper toss gets a bit easy, and you need something else to fill your idle moments.  And then, before you know, you’re a big iPhone game-playing nerd.

Then, one evening, your girlfriend asks if you’re OK.  You’ve been spending a lot of time on the toilet lately, she says.  Is everything OK?  You weigh up your options: which is less embarrassing?  Do you tell the truth?  Do you admit you’ve been sitting on the toilet for half an hour playing The Settlers (building a tiny cartoon village from scratch, build up your economy and create an army before killing the inhabitants of another cartoon village over the course of several hours)?

Or do you say you think you might be constipated? 

You go for the latter.  “I think I might be constipated,” you say.  “It might be IBS,” she says, cheerily; “probably stress-related”.  “Yeah,” you say.  That’s it: stress-related bowel issues.  Far less embarrassing.

Now, back to my cartoon village…

NYR#1v2 (going from an obese 120kg to a just ‘overweight’ 108kg)

At my weekly weigh-in today I found I’d lost another 0.8kg.  (You may have noticed I’m referring to my weight in kilos.  This is because it feels less shameful writing 118.5kg than it does 18st 9lb, even though, on the flip side, losing 0.8kg — or 800g — sounds quite pathetic.  Essentially I am a man of twenty-nine years and 6 feet 4 inches who feels embarrassed to be on a diet and be celebrating losing the equivalent weight of a large poo.)

I have an all-singing all-dancing spreadsheet, which actually neither dances nor sings but instead allows me to graph my weight loss against a linear ‘target’ line starting at 120.2kg on 04/01/10 and sloping down to 108kg on 09/04/10.  I am currently a gnat’s cock below (i.e. better than) my target.  When the graph starts to look slightly more impressive (e.g. some space opens up between the two lines, or the weight loss line starts to trend tragically and enivitably northwards) I might even let you have a gander.  Something to look forward to there, eh? 

I’ve decided this week that I need to introduce some kind of routine against which I can measure myself, inspired by but not wanting to imitate this page from FHM.com (well done to any men who manage to scroll past the image of Lucy Pinder to the actual text).  But anyway, I’m going to come up with a routine and try and stick to it.  If I can be arsed.  Then, I’ll, you know, blog about it when I fuck up.

Lucy Pinder: You could play with them all night long and never touch the same bit twice

NYR#2 (finishing my novel)

Nothing to report.  Well, I had an idea today, but I’ve not written anything and I’m not sure if it was a good idea or not.

Spangly new blog bits

A couple (well, OK, just the one) of people (person) have asked if they can subscribe to the blog so they get an e-mail informing them (him) that spacemonkeygaz.com has been updated with a blog and their day is about to get fractionally better (worse).  You may or may not at all want to click on the “subscribe by e-mail here” link in the top right hand corner of the blog, under the “Search the archives” box and above the “the world is your lobster” (a Peter Kay gag from Phoenix Nights, if you were wondering) box, and enter your e-mail address if you want.  Or don’t.  Whatever.

Peter Kay as Max the bouncer in Phoenix Nights

Now, I’m not very good at the technical aspects of blogging.  (You could of course argue that I’m not much good at the actual writing bit of it either.)  I have tried to add a little doobry that allows you to tick a box when making a comment at the bottom of a post, which notifies you if/when someone else comments after you.  This may or may not be of interest, but if anyone fancies leaving a comment then please let me know if it gives you an option to be notified.  I hope that all made sense because I really can’t be arsed to read it again.

Be good.

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On a completely unrelated topic I came into ownership of Warren Zevon’s (Born 24th Jan 1947 — died 7th Sep 2003) entire back catalogue at the weekend. Now Warren Zevon (pronounced Warren Zeeeeevon in an American drawl) was a proper rock star. I’m guessing you’ve never heard of him, which is not surprising. But you know that Kid Rock song from two summers ago? The piano riff that plays all the way through it (da-dah, da-dah, da-dah-da-dah — yeah, you know what I mean) is from Zevon’s most well-known song Werewolves of London (which I’m not actually that keen on), but I digress.

Where was I? Ah, yes, Warren Zevon was a proper rock star. Marriage, divorce, alcoholism, finding out he’d been dropped by his record label from reading the Rolling Stone gossip column, drugs, rehab, collaborations with Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young, Bob Dylan. Songs with titles like Life’ll Kill Ya, and My Shit’s Fucked Up, songs with subtle, political subthemes. And, as far as I’m aware, he never minced around on stage under a giant lemon mirrorball demanding we cancel third world debt.

In 2002 — having not been to a doctor in twenty years — Zevon was diagnosed with a form of inoperable lung cancer. In his final interview on the Late Show With David Letterman he said “I guess I made sort of a tactical error by not going to the doctor’s in twenty years. Just one of those phobias that didn’t pay off.” When asked if he knew something more about life and death now, he offered, “Enjoy every sandwich.”

I’m sure Zevon would have ticked all the boxes comedian Bill Hicks (another killed by cancer) looked for in a rockstar:

“I want my rockstars dead! I want them to fucking play with one hand and put a gun in their other fucking hand and go, ‘I hope you enjoyed the show.’ Bang! Yes! Yes! Play from your fucking heart! I am available for children’s parties, by the way.”

Are you listening Paul Hewson? Kelly Jones? A little self-destruction never hurt anyone you know.

At the risk of sounding a bit fucked-up, my favourite Warren Zevon song is ‘Excitable Boy’. The song is four simple verses, each of two lines, each line ending “He’s just an excitable boy” in which Zevon tells the story of a juvenile sociopath who (literally) gets away with murder because all through his life people shrug and say he’s just an excitable boy whenever he does wrong. When I first heard the song I thought it was hilarious. You may think it’s crude, offensive and insensitive. Being dense at understanding song meanings, I searched the internet for other people’s opinions. A few examples:

“A not so subtle dig at all these politically-correct liberal wankers who try to explain away bad behaviour with trite comments such as “he’s just an excitable boy”. Frankly, when someone’s evil, there’s no excuse – he/she should be locked up forever!”

“this song has something to do with the rise and fall of rock music as Zevon sees it.”

“This is him taking shots at those who try to make up excuses for what people do and try to excuse their behavior… cough terrorism cough”

“Excitable Boy seems more autobiographical than anything. No political stance on coddling the mentally disturbed. It strikes me more as a balance between wish-fulfilment and urge-denial.”

“like most of Zevon’s other songs: it’s just meant to be funny!”

“this song always spoke to me because i believe that there are people who should never be parents. it starts with the excuses made by the parents, and then society. when your child is a shit head, discipline him. when an adult man is a shit head, it may be a result of parenting, but it is not an excuse.”

“this song is just a witty ironic “joke” it has a catchy pop riff, the lyrics are goofy, and at the end he throws in the disturbing lyrics for their irony because you would not expect that in a catchy song. That is all, no liberal bashing, political commentary, or anything like that.”

A pot roast, the kind an Excitable Boy might rub all over his chest

In just eight lines he’s created something that people are still debating over 30 years after it was first released, and seven years after his death. I find this fascinating. Delving into his back catalogue I find that most of his songs are, on the face of it amusing and often crude ditties, but when you peel back the layers there are dark political, cultural and biblical references. Genius.

I’d be happy to think anyone would even remember me after I’m gone. If they give a fuck about anything I’ve ever written then great. But I need to write something first. This was New Year’s Resolution #2 (or NYR#2), you may remember. So far in 2010 I have added to my novel — drum roll please — zero words. But, I have done some ‘planning.’ Actually genuine planning. Not say-it-whilst-doing-that-wanky-inverted-comma-finger-thing ‘planning’ sense. I have actually done some quite crucial planning. Honest.

And I’ve lost 0.9kgs (NYR#1v2). That was Friday. Then I got pissed, twice, and ate a lot of food.

N.B. spacemonkeygaz.com lawyers have asked me to point out that I wouldn’t dream of downloading anything illegally. And if I do ever manage to write anything and get it published, you’d better not download it for free or I’ll tell Bono.

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But does anyone actually bother?  I get the impression that most people talk about new year’s resolutions, but few ever actually see them through to any kind of outcome.

I’m normally no different, but this year I’d decided I would be.  I’ve got this blog to motivate me.  I can blog about my resolutions — what I’m going to do/not do — and I can publicly shame myself if I fail.  Well one of my new year’s resolutions is fucked already.  And I’m not talking about in a “I decided I was going to give up alcohol but I forgot and had an Irish coffee” type of sense, I’m talking about in a “I decided I was going to start running again to train up for the kilomathon but my knee is still knackered” type of sense.

Yup, I’m going to have to officially pull out of the kilomathon, which is a genuine shame.  I’ve been resting the knee for the six (ish) weeks since I popped it, and I’d decided that in the first week of January I’d try a couple of not-too-strenuous walks to see how it’d hold up. 

January 1^st, whatshername and I went for a short little walk, so short as to not even register on the should-I/shouldn’t-I? register.  Afterwards: felt fine.  Next day: fuck, that doesn’t feel right.  It isn’t really painful, there’s just no strength in it, and I’ve felt a couple of little warning ‘pang’s.  I haven’t even been doing anything arduous when I’ve felt them: bending down to get a beer from the fridge, rolling over in bed, etc.  There’s no way I’ll be able to run 26km in ten weeks time.

So, resolution #1: failed.  I will, however, try to lose some weight (again).  But, without the ability to do even moderate exercise, I’m going to have to eat very healthily (which, I may have mentioned, I fucking hate).  Today I weighed myself and I’m a massive 18st 12lb (pretty much back where I started when I first blogged about losing weight).  So, resolution #1(version 2): To get down to a still-but-slightly-less-massive 17 stone by, let’s say, Friday 9^th April (nearly 14 weeks).

Resolution #2: finish writing my novel before my 30^th birthday.  Today is January 4^th — that gives me 343 days.  I don’t want to be the bloke who tried to write a novel (two novels and a sitcom, but who’s counting?) and didn’t fail: rather worse, he just didn’t finish it.  So, my thirtieth birthday seems like a momentous enough occasion.  For clarity, I don’t plan for it to be published by then, or to have been accepted by an agent, I just want to have finished writing it.  It doesn’t have to be the finished article — (i.e. a completely polished ‘final draft’ — it just has to be a story that ends.

So, have you got any new year’s resolutions?  And remember, keep them SMART.

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Irony

In literary terms irony (also called dramatic irony or tragic irony) is a technique, originally used in Greek tragedy, by which the full significance of a character’s words or actions is clear to the audience or reader although unknown to the character.

A friend of mine gets especially annoyed when people misuse the term irony.  It is, by his own admission, his bête noire.  Irony is not a footballer scoring a goal after having scored an own goal earlier in the same game.  It’s definitely not rain on your wedding day, a free ride when you’ve already paid or, indeed, good advice that you just didn’t take.  It’s not even ironic that the programme Gavin & Stacey is not a comedy about the characters Gavin and Stacey, but more a self-serving vehicle for writers James Corden and Ruth Jones to hog all the supposed best jokes for themselves.  “Oh.  What’s occurring?”  “Gav-lar!” etc.

Corden and Jones take a breather between takes

It’s also not ironic when someone hands you a job application for your PERFECT JOB three days after the closing date for application of said job expired.  That’s called just plain fucking annoying.

The job itself has attracted widespread interest due to this article on the Telegraph website.  For those who haven’t work out that the blue words in bold are relevant and fascinating links that enhance the spacemonkeygaz.com experience, I will pick out the salient points from said article.

“The University of Leeds is advertising for a lap dance researcher…”

 

“…prior experience of conducting research in the female sex industry is essential.”

THIS WOULD BE MY PERFECT FUCKING JOB.  And I’m almost convinced it’s not a wind-up, due to it appearing on the University of Leeds job vacancies website.  It could of course be a honey-pot to catch sex offenders, but it’s got to be worth the gamble.

The job title (and how good would this look on a business card?) is Research Officer – The rise and regulation of lap dancing and the place of sexual labour and consumption in the night time economy.  That even rivals “Joe Bastardi: Long Range and Extreme Weather Expert” (although he now appears to have been promoted to the less impressive-sounding Expert Senior Meteorologist), in the how-good-would-that-look-on-a-business-card stakes.

From the Job Description:

You will work on an ESRC funded study on the rise and regulation of lap dancing and the place of sexual labour and consumption in the night time economy. The post will involve qualitative and quantitative data collection and analysis. It is based in Leeds, although some travel to other cities may be necessary.

I can do Leeds, although the thought of toothless, tattooed Yorkshirewomen gyrating to R&B is less appealing than, say, Prague, Las Vegas, or Inside My Head.

Typing “leeds strip club” into Google images returns a photo of a malodorous old cretin

The JD continues:

 “Blah blah etc blah…  good interviewing, communication and organisational skills…  female sex industry…  interviews will take place on December 14…  £31,513…  equal opportunities etc blah.”

But like I said, the closing date has been and gone, so I decided to send a begging e-mail to the brilliantly named Dr Teela Sanders.

Teela from He-Man. Up there with She-Ra and Jessica Rabbit as the fittest cartoon characters ever. Not that I’ve, you know, thought about it.

Then I decided not to, because I neither have a relevant degree nor any research experience, and while £30-odd grand for interviewing strippers would be pretty good I’d quickly find it a chore and it would completely ruin the strip club experience for me in future. 

Plus the e-mail would be a complete piss-take and I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first ‘hilarious’ individual to send a jokey speculative e-mail describing in detail my vast experience of conducting research in the female sex industry and so on.  I am prepared and willing to work long and hard hours, I’d decided I would write, but then I realised that sometimes the obvious jokes just don’t need to be said, something the writers of Gavin & Stacey would do well to note.

On a completely unrelated note, the stats package on this blog shows me all the search engine terms, i.e. “terms people used to find your blog.”  Yesterday someone had stumbled upon the blog having typed in “jedward appearances December 2009” and today I notice someone found it by simply searching for “cheeky girls.” 

Brilliant.

Last night I wiped away the tears as loveable, talentless goons Jon & Edward were finally eliminated from the X-Factor singing contest/talent contest/entertainment show/freak show (delete based on opinion).  In the immediate aftermath of their elimination, I saw a smile spread across one of their gormless faces.  Their relief was palpable.  No longer would they have to stumble around on stage looking confused to a chorus of boos and jeers (not until the X-Factor Live Tour 2010, anyway).  It was as if they thought the pain was finally over.  Well, sorry boys, but it’s only just beginning.  And here’s what will prove to be an eerily accurate prediction of how I think it will all pan out.

In the week or two after their X-Factor eviction they’ll move from magazine interview to TV interview to magazine interview.  They’ll make a bit of money out of it, too.  They’ll quickly become flavour of the month, touted as the new Ant and Dec.  (Privately, Ant and Dec will rightly find this hugely insulting.)  There will be rumours (entirely fabricated by the tabloids) of them wanting to record and release a novelty Christmas single, but — the papers will claim — their X-Factor contract won’t allow them.  Possible headlines:

JEDWARD FURY AT SINGLE BAN

SCARED COWELL VETOES JEDWARD SINGLE

EIGHT DIE IN JEDWARD PROTEST CARNAGE

In the first week in December Jedward turn on the Christmas lights in their home town of Lucan, as well as similar appearances in a couple of depressing-sounding places like Ramsgate, Liverpool and Cardiff.  A typically shambolic live medley of their X Factor songs performed live on the 2009 Top Of The Pops Christmas special becomes the most downloaded video in the history of the internet, when one of the brothers falls off stage and breaks his arm.

February 2010 sees Jedward release their debut single, a cover of Sam Fox’s Touch Me, which hits number one in the UK.  The brothers become red-top regulars as they’re photographed leaving various nightclubs in the early hours with high-profile female twosomes like the Cheeky Girls, Samanda and Mel and Martina from Funhouse.

Pat Sharpe from Funhouse. You think he ever, you know, with the twins? I bet he tried.

After being the undoubted stars of a hugely successful X-Factor Live Tour, Jedward begin working on their debut album.  The lead single — a duet with Lily Allen titled A Dog With Two Dicks — goes straight to number one, followed a week later by the album.  By the end of 2010 Jedward have completed their own sell-out World Tour and the album Our Dream is already the biggest-seller of all-time.  All fourteen songs from the album are released as singles, and all fourteen hit number one in the UK charts.

2010 also sees Jedward’s first movie, Two 4 One, released to huge critical acclaim.  The film becomes the first to make a gazillion pounds on its opening night, and goes on to single-handedly drag the UK economy out of recession.  Both brothers are given honorary knighthoods in the new year honours list.

The second Jedward album, Who’s Laughing Now, Hey? is another global smash, but with worldwide sales of only forty-five million units, there are fears that the Jedward star is beginning to fade.  After writing Jedward: The Musical — Our Inexorable Rise To Massive Fame And Glory And Riches, the brothers decide to take a showbiz hiatus, moving to California and marrying Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen.

Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, or "Markshley", to continue the Jedward theme.

When a two year-old mobile phone video of Jedward ‘roasting’ a female student is sold to a British tabloid, The Olsen Twins file for divorce.  The grainy footage — filmed by the one of Jedward who’s taking her from behind — is found on a Sony Ericsson C902 which one of Jedward send to envirofone in exchange for a thirty pound Argos voucher.  Jedward are barely recognisable in the video until they start singing Oops I Did It Again whilst thrashing around clumsily, high-fiving each other and exclaiming, “We’re just trying our best and having the time of our lives here.”

Jedward return to the UK to find their popularity has nose-dived.  Soon, they find themselves in fifth position on E4’s 100 Thoroughly Detestable Celebrities Show, sandwiched between Gary Glitter and Robert Kilroy Silk (but behind Shirley Bassey).  By the end of 2012, Jedward are stripped of their honorary knighthoods, and flee to Ireland, begging for privacy.

Jedward, in case you had no idea who I was talking about

By 2018 the world has completely forgotten there ever lived a musical entity called Jedward, until a chance meeting with Louis Walsh when the smug music manager walks into a Dublin Subway restaurant to be offered jalapenos, gherkins or olives by one of Jedward (the other one is working on the till as he’s a bit more senior.  You know, the slightly less stupid-looking one.  No, I mean, if you look really hard, one looks slightly less stupid than the other.  Trust me.  He’s the one who used to fall about the least whilst ‘dancing’).

Jedward and Louis hit it off together instantly, and begin planning their comeback album, We’re Sorry Please Buy Our Records Again, which is released to a huge fanfare in November 2019, neatly coinciding with the ten year anniversary of the twins’ relentless shitness first being unleashed onto the British public.

A multi-million pound advertising campaign is launched to propel Jedward back into the public consciousness of the world.  At 9pm on November 22^nd 2019, exactly ten years after Dannii Minogue drawled the words, “The act I’m sending home is… Jedward,” images of the twins are simultaneously projected onto various landmarks around the world, with the words JEDWARD ARE BACK! written in whatever language is generally considered to be most prevalent in the country in which the image was being projected.  At once the whole world looks up at the towering image of Jedward (in their Ghostbusters outfit, probably).  They look up, and together, all the people of the world, united in one glorious emotion, merely shrug and carry on with their lives.  The comeback fails.  Louis Walsh, having thrown everything he owned into the Jedward reunion, is ruined.  Fortunately Jedward manage to get him a job being the one who asks what bread you want in Subway before cutting it in half.

THE END

Dannii Minogue: yeah, I probably would

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I’ve pretty much always been an angry, grumpy man (well, since my transition from boy to man, at least), and at the moment, with my shitted-up knee, I’m especially angry and grumpy and embittered.  I’m still hobbling around like an old fart, still struggling up stairs, still can’t walk far, still get the occasional twang if I try to, you know, move in a direction that isn’t straight forward.  I’m noticing that I’m more irritable than usual, which is why last night I got told off more than a few times for screaming at the television at two of my very least favourite celebrities.

I had a rant last week about X Factor, but what really grips my shit about that programme is that it seems to have propelled Cheryl Cole to “national treasure.”  This is the same Cheryl Cole who ended up in court after punching a toilet attendant (classy) in 2003.  But six years is a lifetime in celebrity culture, and Cheryl Cole has, fair play to her, crafted a new public persona for herself.  In the interest of fairness I must point out that I just find her annoying.  She’s a good singer, but fairly unremarkable.  She’s good looking, but unremarkably so.  It’s this complete mediocrity that offends me.  She’s neither a great singer nor particularly stunning (and don’t get me started on those tattoos), yet she is “a national treasure” and a role model to millions.  (It’s perhaps worth pointing out that she married a Premier League footballer.)

Cheryl Cole and her tasteful, understated body art

 

 

 

The thing I really hate about her is her complete insincerity.  She just seems so false.  She’s a role model to millions because she became famous overnight for having a pretty face and an OK voice and not having to EARN her fame.  Cheryl Cole does, however, have a talent.  There are far too many celebrities, however, that have no discernable talent.  I present to you the hideous, vacuous plastic waste of blood and organs that is Katie Price, aka Jordan.

Now, to call her stupid is technically incorrect.  I made the mistake of making this accusation to my boss.  He perhaps rightly pointed out that she’s not stupid because she’s worth about thirty million quid (a point: she isn’t worth £30million.  She may have £30million in the bank but she sure as fuck isn’t worth it).  It is a sad indictment on the modern world that this woman has managed to amass a £30m fortune and the adulation of a generation of kids.  This genuinely fucking saddens me.  And I absolutely fucking despise her.

This hatred was exacerbated a couple of years ago.  It was lunchtime, circa July 2008.  A couple of colleagues and I were in Nottingham, when we stumbled into WHSmiths.  We got the lift downstairs to be met by a heaving throng of people.  Cue lots of grumbling, What’s going on here then? etc.  I spotted a gap in the middle of the mass of people and pushed my way towards it.  I got into the empty space to be greeted by a security guard, screaming at me to GET BACK.  I ignored him.  Suddenly there was a commotion, “She’s coming!  She’s coming!”  The security guard threw himself at me and pinned me against a book stand, just as what looked like a prostitute with black, straw-like hair, anorexic-thin legs, inch-thick make-up failing to conceal her crater-face skin walked through the gap in the crowd.  It was Jordan, and it was simultaneously one of the most underwhelming and genuinely depressing moments of life as I witnessed hundreds of pre-pubescent girls screaming in delight at the sight of a former glamour model and generally-accepted example of How Not To Live One’s Life.

Where Cheryl Cole seems fake (to me, anyway — I accept I might be being harsh on her), Jordan most certainly is fake.  Maybe, at the end of this ill-thought-out rant, I actually don’t mind Cheryl Cole after all.  I find her insincere and condescending and I KNOW there’s a very nasty side to her that she’s constantly trying hard to suppress, but at least she can sing.  What can Jordan do exactly?  What has she done to amass a £30m fortune?  The woman’s a fucking car crash.  Every aspect of her life is whored out to the media, and once you sell your soul to the media you haven’t got a leg to stand on when it all gets a bit much and she wants a bit of privacy.  As for her current venture into the jungle, well, really, what the fuck was she thinking?  I hope the public keep voting for her to eat kangaroos’ arseholes and juggle angry cobras and she realises that we’ve all had enough of her, we all think she’s an annoying talentless wench and she should go away.

Katie Price: please go away

I have to go now as the nurse has arrived with my medicine.

(Oh, and sorry for the lack of fat jokes.  I lost three lbs this week, nine days after quitting running.  Go figure.  More fat jokes at my expense later this week.)

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            WHITE NOISE

            I go to see Ray because he calls and asks me to meet him.  He says he’s had a meeting with the record company and they want to call the album White Noise, which I tell him I like.  Ray shows me potential covers for the album, and the one we both agree on is of a white-coloured white noise sound-wave on a black background, with WHITE NOISE written in lower case red lettering on the cover.  JACK SMITH is written in very, very dark grey at the bottom of the cover, which I like because it’s understated.  Ray says he knew I’d say that.

            We then move on the subject of the CD single artwork, and after some heated debate I just tell him to do what he wants.  He says that’s convenient because the finished design has already been sent out.  As I’m leaving he simply winks and says “Sex sells”.  When I get home I just pace around the house for no reason at all other than I can’t relax.  I check my e-mails and notice straight away I’ve got one from Samantha saying she loves the album.  I hear her soft voice in my head as I read every word of her e-mail, as she reviews every single track.  She says her favourite three songs are—in no order—Happy Ending, Everyone Knows You’ve Been Screwing Around (Except Me) and White Noise (probably my top three as well, in that order).  She says she loves “the anger” in those songs, and says she nearly cried during Wish You Were Dead.  She says the album is bound to be a huge hit.  I smile as I read it but I wonder how honest she’s being.  I’ve heard it all before.

            It takes me nearly two hours to reply—I deliberate over every single word in the e-mail and wonder how she might construe it, and if it sounds good, or if it sounds stupid, and I wonder why I care so much.  I type her name into Google and look at some pictures of her.  Then I make sure to delete my history and temporary internet files.  Kate has to work late, and when she gets home I’m asleep on the sofa.

LAST week we gave you the exclusive news that stunner SAMANTHA LOUISE was to star in the new Jack Smith music video, Plastic Woman.  Our snapper was on hand to catch an exclusive shot of the couple leaving a posh London bar on Monday night. 

An onlooker said, “There was definitely a spark between the two.  Samantha looked gorgeous, and Jack—well, he’s a lucky guy!”  He sure is.

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HOW THINGS WORK

Ray calls me at ten thirty the next morning, which is first thing for him.

“Jack.”

“Ray.”

“You made the Daily Mail, but nothing else.”

“Thank God for that.  No-one who reads The Mail will have heard of me.  I’ve not lost any would-be album-buyers there.”

“Jack, that’s bad.  I hoped you might at least make one of the red-tops, but someone marginally more famous than you vomited outside an AA meeting yesterday and the gossip pages are all preoccupied with that.”

“Good.  I’m pleased they deemed someone else’s faux pas more newsworthy than mine.”

“Jack, an appearance in The Sun today would have given your career a very nice little boost.  They told me they’d print your story as well.”

“Hang on a minute—you spoke to The Sun about this?”

“Of course.  I want to see your name in the papers, because your name in the papers will sell records.  I tried all the tabloids.”

“Did you ring them?”

“Yeah of course I did.”

“Fucking hell Ray.  I can’t tell you what yesterday was like.  I didn’t sleep last night.  I thought I’d be woken up by gangs of rabid, placard-waving lunatics burning effigies of me outside the flat.”

“You need to chill out a bit, chap.  I don’t think you understand, do you?  As your manager, part of my job is to get you maximum exposure so people will go out and buy your records.  You’re not going to get plastered all over the papers for being a bloody nice bloke, are you?  You’re going to get in the papers for being a bad boy.  Although the media pretend not to like them, they love bad boys.  Good news doesn’t sell newspapers.  Fact.”

“Ray—”

“Jack, this is how things work.  Trust me.”

“Can’t I just release a good first single and a great album without too much unnecessary fuss and hope it sells because it’s a quality product?”

Ray sighs, theatrically.  “I wish it were that simple, I really do.”

“Whatever.  What was it you said yesterday about a video?”

“Ah, yes.  Let’s talk business.  I spoke to the record company guy and he says they’re willing to throw some cash at a video.”

“Which single do they like?  Everyone Knows?”

“It’s a moot point.”

“So they haven’t decided.”

“That’s a moot point.”

“Ray…”

REIGNING FHM High Street Honey SAMANTHA LOUISE is to star in the SEXIEST MUSIC VIDEO EVER, a source close to the stunner said. 

The video for the single PLASTIC WOMAN, by singer-songwriter JACK SMITH, will include the gorgeous Sam and two other lovelies dancing around in not very much at all.

To be filmed next week, Plastic Woman will overheat TV screens everywhere when it first airs next month.

.

So motivated in fact that last night I made myself chicken with orange and avocado salsa, which was very tasty and very healthy (even with a side serving of rice). 

(Sorry the pictures are a bit shit.)  Tonight I made fish pie, and this week I’ve been taking soup to work for lunch instead of sandwiches.  Fingers crossed for next week’s weigh in.

We took Poppet (the surviving rabbit) to the vets yesterday, to get her checked out and vaccinated.  We told the vet that Malcolm had died and explained the grizzly details of what had happened.  The vet’s guess was that it was probably a bacterial infection in his respiratory tract (he mentioned Pasteurella — a bacteria that lives inside many rabbits, but doesn’t necessarily affect them).  

He said rabbits tend not to show any ailments they may have — in the wild showing signs of illness/weakness makes predators more likely to attack (think lions on Wildlife On One picking on young or lame wildebeests).  Malcolm could have been ill for a few weeks but his natural instincts were not to give it away.  Obviously by the time he became so ill we could notice, it was too late.

But enough about lost weight and lost rabbits.  This week I’ll post the first bit of Happy Ending.  No really, I will this time.  Honest.