Films Dogs Might Enjoy

And that, readers, is the topic of a BBC Radio Shropshire discussion. I urge you all to tune in, if not tonight, whenever you're in the area. In fact, it's worth moving to the area - the late night DJ is really that good. Still not good enough however, to keep my friend, Pete, in town. He's moving back to Uni tomorrow, but not without a few fond memories of a fairly fun summer. Tonight will surely rank up there with some of the least rank evenings of the past few months, as plans for a farewell few in Shrewsbury were shelved in favour of drinks at Telford's newest and I suspect only Italian American bar, Frankie and Benny's.

We arrived feeling a little underdressed but nevertheless utterly surprised at Telford's alarmingly large, pinstriped Italian American community. To our further surprise was the way in which bar staff served glasses on napkins and lit our cigarettes for us. (So impressed was I that I gestured a tip on the counter, which was ultimately retracted and spent on booze. There's a tip for you.)

Nothing could prepare us however - not even the Italian for Beginners tape playing in the bathroom - for the surprisingly moving speech by one half of the Frankie and Benny brand. With the words of leadership and wisdom usually reserved for the Presidents, football coaches and Morgan Freemen of American movies, Frankie or Benny (it was hard to tell which, or if indeed it was either), spoke to the small crowd of kitchen staff, waiters, bar men, managers and us, waiting patiently for our mention in the long list of thank yous.

It never came. The applause signaled the end of the speech (though I half expected an orchestral crescendo) and, drying a glass (I suspect, only for effect), the bar man leaned in. "We actually don't open until Monday," he said. "This is an invitation only event."

Then, with a courtesy not bestowed the Italian American stereotype of cinema, we were politely asked to leave. "You guys just sort of snuck in," he said. It was the easiest break in yet, and a rather painless break out. No violence, no guns, no hitmen: hardly Reservoir Dogs. Now there's a film a dog might enjoy...I'm calling Radio Shropshire. Goodnight.

Whatever happened to Corey Haim?

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=%22corey+haim%22 If you were wondering...

It's great to be here in...Knoxville, Tennessee

Such is the enormous power of the Internet that I can locate my visitors geographically; though - no longer concerned with the surfing habits of my ex-girlfriend - I've neglected that resource somewhat lately. This afternoon however, in a fun filled lunch hour, I got back in the habit, so to speak, and was alarmed at the stats, which, they assure me, don't lie people. They beg the question however, who do I know in Knoxville, Tennessee? And to all my fans in Croatia...who are you?

http://guru.msn.com

Like all cow-respecting, yoga practising, PVC preferring Hindus we have our own guru, a holy man who tours his teachings to families nationwide, who, in return for his wisdom, blessings and soothsaying, house him for up to two weeks. We did so a few summers ago. In fact, he insisted that he sleep in my bed, since - and I may have chuckled when he said this - it was untouched by the impurity of sex. Still, I let him have my bed. After all, he had just chewed part of his dinner and offered it as a sort of Holy Communion, and, after reading my cousin's palm, told him he had the hands of a killer. It was the least I could do.

Having relinquished (most of) his worldly belongings, the guru is actually homeless and survives on the kind donations of temple goers, the support of priests, and the communication link provided by his otherworldly Nokia mobile phone. It was from said device that my mum received the message that the guru is now undertaking a vow of 'silence' and, in his liberal interpretation of the vow, can only be reached by e-mail and instant message. I better go - guru_uk@hotmail.com has just signed in...

The Best a Man Can Get...

(...and pretty good for a woman too.)

I've often wondered where it will all end. When Gillette brought out the Mach 3 in 1999 I thought they'd peaked. "Four blades surely," I thought, "is too much." And yet, Wilkinson Sword, "makers of the finest swords and knives in the world since 1772" (and David to Gillette's Goliath since the Sensor Excel days of '92), this week announce the release of Quattro, "the world's first four blade razor..." As if we're supposed to gasp in amazement...when to be honest, anyone who can count might have seen this coming. Four, after all, follows three. The sword makers turned cosmeticians may see themselves as a cut above the rest now, but in five years time will run into problems when U.N. Special Forces are called in to keep 9-blade razors - weapons of face destruction - off the streets.

Their rivals meanwhile are wise to explore other avenues and, having acquired Duracell International, release the truly awe inspiring - and I did actually gasp when I saw this - battery powered, vibrating triple-blade razor, the M3Power. Although a somewhat unnerving experience to hold three blades against your neck in an unsteady hand, the latest offering from Gillette delivers a remarkably close shave. And when I switch it off I can almost hear the boffs at Wilkinson Sword. "Got it!" they exclaim. "How about...five blades?!"

Burn It: 'Songs in the Key of Death'

"Are you dead?" said the voice at the end of the line. It was very dark, I thought. And I was lying down. "No," I said, a finger on my pulse. "What are you doing?" "I’m calling you from Puerto Rico!" It was Beth, my ex-girlfriend in the Caribbean with current beau Krishna, delicately reminding me at 3:23am that our lives could not be more different. "I'm having pena colada and sangria – on the beach!" "You shouldn't mix your drinks like that, Beth." "Why haven't you e-mailed me with that advice?" she asked. "I thought you were dead."

I am indeed alive and well, fret not loyal readers (or royal leaders). I do apologise for my absence but this is in no way an indication of my demise. Continuing with the theme however I present to you the third in the Burn It series, following 'Songs to Fall Asleep' and 'Wake Up to'. A mix CD on the subject of death would therefore be called 'Songs to Die to', but deeming that a title too bleak I call this compilation 'Songs in the Key of Death'. Enjoy, if you can.

Songs in the Key of Death (Total time – 1:14:08)

1. 'Sheep Go to Heaven' – Cake Chosen as the opener primarily as to avoid interrupting the compilation's otherwise sombre tone. If you don't know it, the refrain is "Sheep go to heaven/Goats go to hell," which is about the most rational lyric in the song. Others include, "I just want to play on my pan pipes..." Don’t we all, Cake lovers? Incidentally, I know a girl whose younger brother sings in the chorus as part of a children's choir. Bit of trivia for you.
2. 'Jenny Was a Friend of Mine' – The Killers A deliciously sinister update of 'Girlfriend in a Coma', in which Morrissey sang, "there were times when I could have murdered her..." Here lead singer Brandon Flowers does just that, and admits it in a police confession that sounds like a cross between Joy Division and the Cure.
3. 'Atlantic City' - Bruce Springsteen "Everything dies baby, that's a fact," sings the Boss. "Maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
4. 'Lullaby' - Emitt Rhodes I saw The Royal Tenenbaums again last night, and was reminded why I love it so much. Not least because of the two for one offer on the Wilson brothers, but the soundtrack too is amazing. I was listening to it this morning and the shifting balance effect of this song made me think my iPod was dying. Reason enough, I think, to include it on this compilation.
5. 'If You Go Before Me' - Terence Trent D'Arby If you can stomach the conceited little poem that precedes the song, in which D'arby, the artist formerly known as wanker sighs, "I’ve been the hermit and the love thief" and uses the word "extemporise", this meditation on life after life is otherwise rather brilliant. It comes from his fourth and daringly titled album, Vibrator, which is more to do with death than sex but nevertheless connects the two on more than one occasion. "One day in the year," he sings in his remarkable son-of-a-preacher-man voice, "a bullet screamed and ripped straight through you." His performance is so believable you might just check yourself for exit wounds.
6. 'Rock N Roll' - Ryan Adams There is a chance that Adams, Ryan (not Bryan), will appear on every compilation I make without fail. And that it is because he is one of the most prolific and consistently good singer-songwriters in my collection. This, from perhaps his weakest effort, a mock-rockumentary of the same name, is not what the title suggests but a simple piano ballad. "I miss my best friend," a girl can be heard sobbing, taped and looped as the track fades to a sombre close.
7. 'The Scientist' - Coldplay A break-up song that's meaning is forever changed by a video in which Chris Martin, as if he didn't look strange already, sings backwards and like the Superman of the first film, reverses the death of his Gwyneth. It nevertheless wins the Free Willy tear jerker award and I defy anybody who has ever been in a relationship to listen Martin's falsetto refrain, "nobody said it was easy..." without a sniffle or goosebump.
8. 'What Will You Say' - Jeff Buckley Contrary to popular belief, April 5th 1994, when Kurt Cobain took his life, was not the day that the music died. Five months later and within a week of each other three classic records were released more complete and realised than anything by Nirvana. Those records were Definitely Maybe by Oasis, The Holy Bible by the Manic Street Preachers and Jeff Buckley's first and only complete album, Grace, which turns ten this month. It is a masterpiece of indisputable beauty, breadth and brashness, torn between themes of love and death, made all the more poignant but never overstated by Buckley's death in May 1997. 'What Will You Say' is taken from a live album, Mystery White Boy, and is a dialogue with the dead, a conversation with his estranged father, renowned folk singer Tim Buckley, whom Jeff never met but never quite escaped comparison. "Father, do you hear me? Do you know me? Do you even care?" he sings. "What will you say when you see my face?"
9. 'Fruit Tree' - Nick Drake Like Buckley, Nick Drake died before his career was fully realised. His records have since sold far more than they ever did in his lifetime, articles have been written, books and films proposed. The attention and respect his music now commands is justified. (Just listen to Five Leaves Left.) But the quest to understand Drake and his music is all the more intensified by his prophetic lyrics and eerie foreshadowing. The words of 'Fruit Tree' have become a reality: "Fame is but a fruit tree/So very unsound/It can never flourish/Till its stalk is in the ground/So men of fame/Can never find a way/Till time has flown/Far from their dying day."
10. 'Speedway' - Counting Crows Long before Counting Crows joined the likes of Phil Collins and Bryan Adams to record songs exclusively for children's animated films, they made some very brilliant very unchildish albums. This from their third, This Desert Life, is not their first to hint at suicide as a topic. The hint comes with the lyric, "I'm thinking about breaking myself" and continues with the line, "I'm thinking 'bout getting out," which is repeated into the song's fade.
11. 'I Know It's Over' - The Smiths Morrissey at his most morbid delivers a sensitive and intelligent song that brings the best out of his band mates - Mike Joyce (drums), Andy Rourke (bass) and Johnny Marr (guitar) - and a performance more expressive and honest than anything he's done before or (possibly) since. The image laden song about the end of a fictitious relationship is brilliantly framed by the lyric, "Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head," and explained by a middle section, in which the singer equates his forthcoming death with a feeling of utter helplessness.
12. 'Exit Music (For a Film)' - Radiohead While on tour with Alanis Morissette in September 1996, Radiohead was sent the last half-hour of Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet and asked to write a song for the closing credits. Impressed by the clip, Thom Yorke wrote this for the film. His original plans to use lines from the Shakespeare play were (thankfully) scrapped, and he instead took inspiration from the scene in which Claire Danes's Juliet holds a Colt 45 to her head, whilst keeping in his its 1968 film outing. "I saw the Zeffirelli version when I was 13," Yorke explains. "I cried my eyes out, because I couldn't understand why, the morning after they shagged, they didn't just run away. The song is written for two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts."
13. 'Whatever Happens' - Michael Jackson Michael Jackson's sales, despite his record breaking bad publicity, better reflect the state of the music industry than the quality of his work. He may not shift the units he did in the Eighties (when Thriller became the world's biggest selling album), but for a 'has-been' it is a remarkable feat to outsell new albums by Beyonce and OutKast with a second, hastily compiled greatest hits package (Number Ones), released the day police raid his house with allegations of child sex abuse. His last studio album, Invincible, is sadly overlooked in favour of the tabloid details of those allegations, but on closer inspection reveals a focused, highly polished - if over produced - R&B record. Here is an aging Michael Jackson, facing his mortality, no longer dancing with the dead with the vigour or youth seen in the landmark 'Thriller' video. "Whatever happens," he sings. "Don't let go of my hand."
14. 'Fields of Gold' - Eva Cassidy Alone, it's a remarkably peaceful ballad. As the soundtrack to a Cancer Research television campaign, it's haunting. Sung here by Eva Cassidy, the Washington, D.C. singer who died of cancer in 1996 at the age of 33, it's even more poignant, and an evocative example of the singer's ability to cut straight to the emotional core of her music.
15. 'Hold On' - Spiritualized Even Spiritualized's back-to-basics album, Amazing Grace, has the odd moment of grandiose. Here it sandwiches Jason Pierce's simple chorus: "Hold on baby to those you hold dear/Hang on to the people you love/'cause death cannot part us/If life already has/Hold on to those you hold dear." Listening to this song, as I seldom do, transports me back to a candle-lit apartment bedroom on Rue Bugeaud, where, with Pierce's instruction, I slow danced with an American in France, before life - and my return flight home - indeed parted us.
16. 'Higher Ground' - Stevie Wonder Stevie's fascination with Eastern religion produced something far funkier than Christian Rock could ever manage: "I'm so darn glad he let me try it again/Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin..." Beat that Christian rockers.
17. 'Sometimes It Snows in April' - Prince Not quite what you'd expect from the funk-lovin', pint-sized Musicologist, 'Sometimes It Snow in April' is as beautiful as anything I've ever heard, a love song for a dead friend that rewards upon careful listening. The one word in the chorus dissonant to the song's melody is "wish", since wishes, perhaps Prince is suggesting, can be incongruous with the lives we are forced to live. "All good things, they say," he sings, "Never last."

Holiday in Wales

Donkey Bonding

"Better donkey bonding," or so the saying goes, "than donkey searching." And if you're unfamiliar with those words of wisdom you obviously don't know Alexandra, Pete's lady friend from Greece where that saying, which she translates for us here, is the equivalent of our "better safe than sorry." In the week that I knew Alexandra there was indeed a degree of bonding, albeit minus the donkey (perhaps Pete), and now that – a week on – she's back in Greece, preparing her place (and attractive girlfriends) for my upcoming visit I’d like to dedicate this post and picture to her.

Pains, Trains and Polyphonic Ringtones

The 8:32 is cancelled. But I'm on time. And with forty minutes to spare (or despair) I retreat to the station's humble waiting room, in which a girl, whom by probability I assume is a hairdresser (I've met three in a week) smokes beneath a no smoking sign and a teenage boy fulfils a stereotype: trucker cap, low rider jeans, skateboard. He's listening to what sounds like The Clash. "It is," he responds, when I ask to confirm.

Our conversation, if you can call it that, is interrupted by the polyphonic ringing of his phone, which plays the theme from Indiana Jones, somewhat ironically. I see this guy five mornings a week and have concluded that unlike the Harrison Ford machine of machismo he is largely a man of inaction. He sleeps on the train and I’ve yet to see him use his skateboard. Still, the thought of him leaping aboard, whip and skateboard in hand, clutching at his trucker cap before the train door closes, passes the time and elicits a silent chuckle. You might call it a smile. It too is interrupted by a polyphonic ringtone. This time mine and a text message from my boss, Em. "Meeting at 10. Will you make it?"
"I think so," is my response. "Unfortunately."

De-Gay Me

Or Is There Something Gay About Me - Part II

It was just the icing on the cake. It was lovely. And for that I must thank Pete's granny, a little old lady in a big old house between the towns of Ironbridge and Shrewsbury, in a place seemingly with no name. Similarly, I straddle the divide between two states, wandering a no man's land somewhere between bubbling hyperactivity and bloated constipation. I've had far too much cake and caffeine today, and Granny Pete's tea party was indeed the final straw, a bridge too far, or – and this is my favourite from thesaurus.com – "the straw that broke the camel's back."

Before the straw got the better of this camel's back my self-esteem also took a severe clobbering. I was walking with some friends tonight when three separate parties in the park threw what can only be described as abuse my way. On all three occasions, rather shockingly, homosexuality and its wrongful assumption formed the core of the abuse. "Are you gay or something?" asked the first passer-by. Before I had the chance to make my choice – and I would have gone for "something", by the way – his friend, also clad in shell suit and baseball cap, chimed in: "He’s über-gay!" It was a surprisingly articulate insult from such a twat. The others were not so eloquent.

It's all sticks and stones though, isn't it? It didn't bother me too much to be called "über-gay" by a bunch of people who, I think it's fair to say since they made a gross assumption of my lifestyle, will assert their heterosexuality by fathering a child before high school is through. (And by that I mean 3:45pm.) What bothers me however is the presumptions people make based on such elementary things as having styled hair, wearing a blazer and holding a briefcase. Are those really the tell-tale signs? Had I been engaged in an act of man love at the time I might have understood the assumption. Tonight however I was clueless. And my friends, one of whom I was meeting for the first time, were a little weirded out.

"We need to work on my image, Pete," I said. "De-gay me or something." "I think you need a girl for that San," he replied. "Ideally."

Moonwalking in the office

Home is where the noise is

Home, I've decided, is not necessarily where the heart is. I left mine in (or near) San Francisco, but that wasn't home. (But then that, I suppose, was its appeal.) Home, on the other hand, is what you can't wait to return to but then – soon enough – can't wait to leave. It's upstairs in this 12 X 12 room, walled in thin plasterboard, surrounded by my sister's appalling taste in music and 25 almost identical new brick houses. It's the writers' block that's kept us apart and, at the same time, the hideous muse now pushing the keys.

Are we programmed to hate our homes to build our own? Is an innate aversion to the home a necessary impetus to procreate? If we all stayed at home we wouldn't reproduce. (Of course, in some southern states of the U.S. they manage both, but we only need look to their President to see why that’s a bad idea.)

In traditional Indian culture, rather unfortunately, the youngest son (in this case, muggins here) is expected to live with his parents indefinitely. That is through teenage rebellion, his roaring twenties and marital life. So, if an evening with the blood relatives seems a bit much at least I’ve something to look forward to.

How to Lose a Girl in 10 Seconds

Appear homosexual I'm metrosexual, I've been told – smart, well-dressed, urbane. It's what your granddad might call "dapper". It's what some call "a bit gay." It's also an issue I’ve already discussed (Is there something Gay about me?). This afternoon my urbanity may have gotten the better of me, as I peered desperately through the gaps in the crowd, trying to see the shoes that would complete her near-perfect outfit: a crisp white blouse, a snug black sweater vest and the sort of pink skirt asking for a breeze and a blush. It was Sex and the City, it was 1954, it was almost French, but it all stood on a pair of shoes. To stare at them is bad. To comment is worse. "I love your shoes," I said. Strike one.

Reject hints I had no sooner finished my declaration of love for her shoes, blinked and they were gone. The train had pulled into the platform and without a word she was on her beautifully housed feet, literally running away to another inconveniently distant carriage. "I’ll see you on the inside", I thought, and boarded the train.

Be weird "You know, you look like somebody off TV," I started, realising that I'd have to finish. "Have you ever seen The O.C.?" I realise now that Sex and the City would have been better - anything on HBO would have been better. Hell, The Sopranos would have done. "Yeah," she said. "Something in common," I thought. "Good." Going with that I went on. "Do you know the character Anna?" She shook her head. It might be a failed compliment, I thought, but there was still room to impress her with my acute knowledge of the show. "She was introduced in episode 105 and dated Seth before he and Summer got together." Strike three. And out.

Is there something gay about me?

Maybe I picked something up in San Francisco where a straight man, to quote an episode of Frasier, is “like a Snickers bar at a Fat Camp”; maybe the abuse of neighbouring comprehensive, the Borough, was true and the seven years at an all-boys Grammar School are responsible; or maybe I’m just one of the fortunate few – a straight guy with a queer eye. Whatever the reason, there’s a blip on the gaydar and it’s me, and another case of mistaken sexual identity.

I’m not saying that I wasn’t a little bit excited when my shoes appeared on Queer Eye, or that I’m not flattered by the subtle and nervous advances of the salesman in Zara. And I did appreciate the drinks bought for me by the bearded guy in Berkeley, but I’m just saying, and for the Disco record, that I won’t be giving up my, er, seat at the gay bar, or visiting a gay bar whatsoever: I am not gay.

This wrong assumption, I’m sure, has cost me many opportunities to prove my heterosexuality, and I write now with the intention of straightening out this kafuffle, once and for all. Sure, I may watch re-runs of Frasier, shop at a clothes store called Zara, and occasionally use the word kafuffle, but to reiterate, I’m as straight as the next guy. Wait..that guy has a one in eight chance of being gay. Er...I'm like the guy next to him.

The Salon

Some homes have a gardener, a cleaner, some might have a Mexican pool cleaner; we have a hairdresser. The only Tiffany I have ever known (outside of Eighties pop music) has been keeping our family groomed for the past three years. I, on the principle that I don’t trust hairdressers with appalling hair, am growing mine and won't fall prey to her stationery scissors. This morning however my sleep was cut short by the unsettling sound of shears and the sharp sermon of a woman scorned. Tiffany, I can tell you, has been dumped by her boyfriend of two years and her conversation this morning extended beyond the usual "been on holiday?" banter we have come to expect from stylists. When she was done my mum came into my room. "Bloody hell," she said. "We're going to need a new hairdresser." I can just imagine the conversation: "It's not you, Tiffany. It’s me…"

Simply the Breast

There is one phrase that encapsulates all the things I hate, three words, four syllables and all walls of a nutshell, in which tabloid newspapers, eighties softrock and ITV can be found. Simply the Best is that phrase, was a big hit for Tina Turner in the Eighties, is the slogan of small businesses nationwide, and the name of a new ITV game show designed to pull viewers back to the once primetime Saturday night slot. It comes hot on the heels of a Channel 4 documentary, Who Killed Saturday Night TV?, and hopes to resurrect ratings by enlisting the cheekiness of Phil Tufnell and the breasts of Kirsty Gallacher, which are - frankly - worthy of the phrase and reason enough (or alone) to tune in tomorrow at 7:30pm.

The Expensive Handshake

Three years, eighteen classes, around £15,000, and it all boils down to one handshake. "Sandeep Kumar Sharma" Principal Roger Gould called, as I handed him my slip of paper, half-wishing that I'd altered it to read, "the Amazing...", "the Incredible...", or simply "sansharma.com". Careful not to trip, I walked slowly across the stage towards a flamboyantly dressed Pro-Chancellor and bent down to shake his hand. "Congratulations," he said. "Thank you," I returned, ready to clutch my gown and take flight. But he wouldn't let go. His chalky, white hand clasped mine and - I gasped - he went on. "What will you do now?" Well, I was actually planning on sitting down and watching the rest of the show, but I could hardly say that. "Um, a masters...probably." "Ah!" he exclaimed, perhaps more excited at the prospect than I was. "Here? At Lancaster?" "Er, no...I don't think so," I replied, not meaning to sound so condescending to the man handing me my degree. But then he wasn't. He was just shaking my hand, and as he released his grip I took one look at the crowd of proud parents and investors, and around for a scroll, a book token – something in return for my hard graft. Nothing. "Good luck," he added, before I left the stage, thinking that an actual certificate might be more attractive to employers.

The Untouchables

There are few stories more inspirational than that of Monica & Gabriela Irimia and their ascent from obscurity in Transylvania, Romania to superstardom in the testing pop charts and unusually tough music industries of the UK, Germany and Japan. In 2002, now known as the Cheeky Girls, they broke into the charts of those countries with their debut single "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)" and today, almost two years later, they reached another highpoint, performing at a Twins and Triplets Festival at the Telford Town Park.

Although currently without a record label, the Romanian rump ravers were not without fans this afternoon as they performed a revue of their greatest hits. That's three songs: "Cheeky Song (Touch My Bum)", "Take Your Shoes off" and "Hooray, Hooray (It’s A Cheeky Holiday)". Not willing to pay the £10 admission charge or to pose as triplets to enable free entry, John, Pete and I snuck through the surprisingly slack security to enjoy an afternoon of 'live' music.

Although not persuaded to take off my shoes I was nevertheless impressed with their showmanship, if a little disappointed that – despite the invite – I was unable to touch their bums. Better luck next time, eh?

Three Days, Two boys, No Girls

My high school buddy, Pete and I have been hitting up the Midlands like the Hilton sisters do Manhattan. He, having returned from a year in Portugal, and I, from the similarly exotic Lancaster University (and once upon a time, California), have alternated days in each others company in an implicit programme of support.

On Saturday we met in the park where a very young boy, clearly having just grasped English, observed with some confusion that we were "two boys, no girls". Unperturbed by the juvenile naysayer we staged a gatecrash of the school governors' ball in an attempt to remedy the noted circumstance. But without suitable attire and not a quart of booze we instead and rather feebly snuck behind some trees and listened to the band.

Monday we ventured further and to the England's second city and home to its most peculiar accent, Birmingham. It is also a hotbed, we have decided, of hot totty. (And that readers, I assure you, is my first and last use of the word.) We fished sushi from a conveyer belt and established a music club whose members, currently Pete and I, buy and burn CDs for each other. First to the flames were The Killers and The Walkmen with their stellar albums, Hot Fuss and Bows + Arrows.

Wednesday, and we extended our party to three boys (still no girls) with the induction of (ooh ah) John McGrath, a current Lancaster student and recent alumnus of the University of North Carolina. With him we saw Shrek 2 and, like two ogres and a donkey, looked out at a summer together in this swamp of a town, dreaming of a land Far-Far Away where we might live Happily Ever-After.

An English July

"We ought to get you out of those wet clothes," the cliché said, before peeling off my jeans, jacket and shirt – soaked not in the sunshine of summer but the torrential downpour of an English July. And glad I am too, to be in my pyjamas and out of the flooded Weston Park stately home where, peering at my watch, Jools Holland and his Rhythm & Blues Orchestra are probably still performing.

Unperturbed by the sort of apocalyptic weather akin to the Old Testament (or the more recent smash, The Day After Tomorrow), Jools Holland waited out the driving rain, lightning and an actual tornado, before playing to a Staffordshire crowd perhaps more prepared for a plague of locusts than a lively revue of Rhythm & Blues. I wondered if the audience of middle-class white folk would otherwise listen to R&B had the tickets not been so overpriced and Holland's ensemble billed as a band rather than an "orchestra". I wanted somehow to transplant them to Beale Street, Memphis and see how they enjoyed themselves at a bar with W.C. Handy.

Tonight though, the largely inanimate crowd (save for the occasional twitch) were having a grand time, constructing elaborate dining tables complete with candelabra and quiche and all to some of the finest background music money could buy. It was an evening of triumph over adversity and a shining example of the British innate ability to make the most of a bad situation. In a country where tornadoes can occur in July it's a very good, if essential trait to have.