Moooove!

You would hope that with the kind of weather we’re having in New York right now (it’s so bad it reminds me of summer in Scotland) the tourists would have the good taste to keep off the streets. Unfortunately, they never seem to learn that they could make those of us who live here and have to manoeuvre around them to get from A to B much happier if they simply got out of our way.

I’ve decided to recommend to Hizzoner the Mayor that tourist lanes and tourist containment areas be introduced in particular in Midtown and especially the Theatre District. Minimum speed limits, no wide loads, single file… you get the idea. As an accompaniment to this I’m forming myself into a Tourist Exclusion Zone (TEZ). During inclement weather, tourists will find that they get rather wet (especially if a gaggle of them is parked under a canopy) if they get too close to me, as I shall be tipping my umbrella to remove the excess rainwater, and if a tourist happens to be in the way of the water as it falls to the ground, that’s just too bad. I was practicing that technique on 8th Avenue today. You should try it. It could catch on.

If the ideas above aren’t effective I want the use of cattle prods by New York City residents on tourists to be made legal, if not compulsory.

Note: the writer makes his living from tourism.

Patience

I’ve not been visible for a couple of days because (a) I have a nasty cold, and (b) I’m on the phone night and day to those Sharper Image delivery people demanding to know where my Piers’s new massage chair is.  While he’s hiking in Peru, I’m looking after the manse, just to make sure that my his wide-screen, high density digital television system and DVR are fully functional.  He was kind enough to order a new massage chair for me to keep me amused while he’s gone, and put me in charge of receiving it, so I’ve taken a couple of days off work just in case they call my cell phone to arrange early delivery.  You can’t be too careful, I say!  I know full well that it’s not scheduled (that’s pronounced SHED-yooled) to arrive till next week and that’s what’s really making me sick.  I may have to have it accidentally-on-purpose delivered to a certain apartment on West 56th Street.  

One step at a time

Last night, at one of those support groups for people addicted to Internets, I came out publicly and admitted my problem: I commit random acts of mindless bloggery. It all happened at Bar Rage. Famous Author Rob Byrnes was there, surrounded by his adoring public and this guy. I’m delighted to report that my avid and regular reader was present, and I had the pleasure of meeting such fantabulous wits as Patrick, whom I kept calling Jeffrey, MAK, and Bob.

Mrs T - The Country's Cuppa

Today I send warmest birthday greetings and best wishes to Margaret Thatcher, former British Prime Minister and Leader of the Conservative Party. I had the privilege of meeting her several times during her premiership.

She led the Conservative Party from 1975 to 1990 and was victorious in three general elections. Mrs Thatcher served as Prime Minister from 1979 to 1990, during which time she transformed the political and economic landscape of the United Kingdom and arguably the world. It was an exciting time to be involved in politics and her influence on my views was profound.

The Lady, as she is known, was not defeated by the British electorate. She left office during a party leadership election in which only Conservative MPs could vote. She won an overall majority in that election; unfortunately the rules required her to have more than just an overall majority. Churchill once said a majority of one vote was enough. In Maragaret Thatcher’s case it was not. In her final speech in the House of Commons as Prime Minister, she spoke in a debate on a no confidence motion, wiped the floor with the opposition, and showed her best mettle when under a barrage of heckling by the opposition declared, “I’m enjoying this!” to resounding cheers from her side of the House. At that moment many Members of Parliament and the public at large recognised that a great woman had been brought down by small men.

The Conservative Party today is going through yet another leadership election searching for someone to replace the irreplaceable. I’ve lost count of the number of guys they’ve had in that job since The Lady. It turns out that the last time I met Mrs T was at a reception in Perth, Scotland, and I rode home from that event with my friend Liam Fox and his Mum. We lived in the same town, and I used to show up one night a week to go campaigning with him when he ran for a seat on the local council. He and I also were Chairman and Vice-Chairman respectively of the West of Scotland Young Conservatives.

Today Dr Liam Fox MP is one of the leading candidates in the Conservative Party leadership election. I wish him well and look forward to the return to power of the Conservative Party at the next General Election. I’m sure he’ll feel right at home in Number Ten Downing Street and it’ll be nice having a friend running the country.

Baroness Thatcher, as she now is, loves the United States and has described it as the greatest country in the world. Her enthusiasm is shared by Liam Fox, who has worked hard to build the ‘Atlantic Bridge’ to foster closer ties between the UK and the US. I have a sneaking suspicion that The Lady wants the young lad from Scotland to carry her torch.

WOW!

Avid and regular readers have been wondering about my recent lack of bloggery.  It’s a very long story, however, I can tell you this much: I, as the poster-child for skepticism about past-lives and all that hoo-hah, am now a convert.  I had the most amazing experience of my life on Saturday during a hypnotherapy session and I’ll be sharing some of it here in the weeks and months ahead.  All I’m saying right now is that the missing pieces of the jig-saw puzzle that is my life are falling into place, I know more about my soul than I could have ever imagined, I’m happier than you could believe, I know who my soulmate is, my faith is stronger than ever, and I have absolutely no fear of death.  There’s so much more to say, but it’ll take time for me to process it, so be patient.  And by the way, I’m not raving bonkers!    

Fifty glorious years

Congratulations to Famous Author Rob Byrnes, who today celebrates fifty glorious years of bloggery, or something like that. I'm very touched that Rob would not only think of me but also mention me in his blog on this very significant occasion in the life of the Internets.

Crazy

My subway ride to work on a Friday usually involves getting my teeth into some juicy theatre gossip courtesy of Michael Riedel in the New York Post.  Michael can be quite deadly in his commentary.  Today, however, death threats were directed at me.  Perhaps it was payback for something I wrote last week about being on the subway.  A black guy, who was sitting opposite me, decided he didn’t like the look of me, and started making threats to “murder” [that’s the word he used] me.  Here we go again, I thought to myself.  This sort of thing happens all the time.  

There’s run-of-the-mill crazy, which I encounter a lot because this is New York, and then there’s dangerous crazy.  I sensed that he fell into the latter category, so I threw caution to the wind and said loudly in my most disparaging tone, “Did you forget to take your meds this morning?”  Well, you can imagine!  That really set him off.  I haven’t heard so many references to c*ck sucking since I was in Coney Island.  

What some avid and regular readers don’t know about me is this: in my first hour in New York, on my first day in America, I was accosted at gunpoint and mugged.  Since that happened, I resolved never to take snash from anyone ever again.  It’s just as well I’m not armed and dangerous.

MetroCard Mayor

I'd heard that it could happen and this morning it did. Hizzoner Mike Bloomberg, Mayor of the City of New York and I shared a subway platform (like everyone else who uses the subway on a regular basis, he leaned over the edge of the platform to see if the train was coming) and were in the same subway car for the ride uptown from 23rd Street to wherever he got off north of 42nd Street. Isn't it amazing what keeps me amused.

Another day at the beach

This follows on from It was no day at the beach part i and part ii.

I’ll skip the long and fascinating part about meeting up with Angel at the ungodly hour of 11.00 am on Sunday, and go right to… well read on and you’ll find out. You might even enjoy some of it. Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you. I just write the thing.

We’d gone through exotic train stops such as Avenues N, P, U and X, but there didn’t seem to be an Avenue Q. I was sure that the puppets who perform in the Tony Award® -winning best musical of 2004 were simply creations of the show’s writers and technicians. I now take a rather different view, because there was an Avenue Q -type puppet on the boardwalk at Coney Island, performing with the assistance of his human handler. I guess he auditioned for the show and didn’t get a call-back. He needs to find a new agent, or better yet, a new handler.

As we ventured down the boardwalk, we were amazed by the number of women who were wearing high heels. It’s a surefire way of ruining a pair of shoes and getting a twisted ankle. Angel assured me he never wears high heels on the boardwalk. I regarded him and raised an eyebrow. Hmmmm.

I generally avoid sunbathing due to my decidedly Scottish complexion, so it became an urgent necessity to find sunscreen if the day was not to end in tears. Chances were of that the day would end in tears anyway, like it often does after having a ‘good lunch’, when the evening concludes with my being tired and emotional. But that’s a whole other baggage. Angel offered his lotion-of-choice, an oily substance designed to turn skin into a human version of pork scratching. It came with the warning “contains no sunscreen”. I declined.

At a Brighton Beach pharmacy we purchased what we hoped was a small bottle of high factor sunscreen, though we couldn’t be absolutely sure what it was, due to our abysmal ignorance of the Russian language and Cyrillic in particular. Lotions at the ready, we ventured forth. The beach, like real estate, is entirely location, location, location, and so we spent a goodly amount of time finding a prime spot, and made camp. Our first task was to attend to skin by applying the appropriate lotions. Angel coated himself in cooking oil.

“Shall I sprinkle you with some rosemary?” I asked helpfully. “How long do you cook for? Twenty minutes a pound?”

Angel replied, “I’m like one of those turkeys that has the little plastic thing that pops out when the bird is cooked. I’ll pop when I’m ready.”

I resisted making any comment on that, offered to baste him later, and began attending to my own sunscreen needs. I poured a small blob about the size of a quarter into my hand and started to spread it over my left leg. It seemed that that one small blob would be enough to coat my entire leg, which was now completely lotion-white. Soon my previously-exposed skin was coated in white mud. There was no way any rays were getting through that mud pack. Or so I thought. (By next morning I had second degree burns on my lower left leg.)

A handsome young Russian arrived and set up camp directly ahead of us. Thanks to cell phone technology, he was able to keep in touch with his important life off the beach, but we became concerned that his ability to communicate was interfering with our urgent need for him to dress down. After about fifteen minutes he ended his call and removed his shirt. Yummy. Just as things started to look up, his phone rang. “Will he never get off the phone?” I asked Angel. “You just want to see him in his Speedos,” he responded. “You got that right,” I conceded. Eventually the call ended and he revealed a beautiful pair of Russian legs attached to a perfect body. And, yes, he was wearing Speedos. We enjoyed the view for about five minutes, when, wouldn’t you just know, the phone rang again. Seconds later, our Russian friend with the legs and the body and all the right attachments, began dressing at high speed. He packed and went tearing off in the direction of the boardwalk. That must have been quite a phone call!

“I hope it wasn’t bad news,” said Angel.

“Bad for us,” I grunted with disappointment and applied another thick coat of white mud.

Angel rolled over and I basted him some more. He’d be ready to pop soon, I thought, and that was something that should be recorded for posterity using the digital camera that I had brought with me. I fumbled with it as the sun beat down. “I can’t see anything in this light... oh, there you are,” I said and pushed the button. Angel then tried taking a picture of me. Neither of us could figure out how to view the images. Several days later, when I downloaded the pictures, I discovered that we had actually taken video of each other, which ended we pressed the button. Duh!

Angel had told me several times that Brighton Beach was ‘Russia with a Mexican twist’. I knew exactly what he meant when we witnessed a gentleman from south of the border who had had such a ‘good lunch’ that his two companions had to support him physically in his efforts to walk from the beach. He’d also had an unfortunate accident that was evident in his crotch area. Or perhaps he’d simply spilled his drink into his lap. As the Mexicans made their way off the beach, who should come driving along in a beach buggy but two of New York’s finest. Timing is everything. Instantly, the two supporters disengaged themselves from their friend, who then struggled to stay upright. He looked as if he didn’t know which way was up. The beach buggy came to a stop and the policemen asked if there was a problem. Happily, as our Mexican friends were heading homeward, the nice policemen did not make an issue of the encounter, and the merry trio staggered off.

Time had marched on with a steadiness that our Mexican friend did not possess, so we decided to rinse, dry and refresh. Angel found a beach shower and I insisted that he go first. “Eeoww, it’s so cold!” he screamed as he sprayed water from a shower that seemed to be designed for use during a drought. Just before it was my turn, a couple of old Russian gentlemen arrived and helped me by making sure there would be a constant spray of cold water. It’s wasn’t horribly cold and it soon felt refreshing. I looked down into the sandy pool of water in which I stood. The water was white. The lotion that I had spread over my body was being diluted and had formed a white pool. No matter how much water was sprayed on me, I was still covered in white stuff, to the great amusement of my Russian helpers. After a while, I gave up and dried off because getting to a bar/restaurant was now the top priority.

As a result of careful research the previous week, we knew what was available nearby, so we decided to give Tatiana a try, if the waiting staff could give the correct answer to out first question. “Is the bar open and when does it close?” we demanded of the maitre d’. “It’s open and will stay open for as long as necessary,” she replied. We recounted our experience of the previous week at Winter Garden. The maitre d’ couldn’t believe it. Neither could we at the time.

Our waitress approached and said, “There’s a fifteen dollar per person minimum.”

“Don’t worry; we’ll be here for a while. We’ve got a lot of eating and drinking to do,” Angel assured her.

We ordered food and drinks and settled in for the rest of the afternoon, enjoying the opportunity to people watch.

“Look. More high heels,” said Angel pointing out a couple as they passed by.

“Oh, dear!” I said. “I don’t care for his girlfriend’s shoes either.”

The food was unquestionably excellent to the point that it made us thirsty, so we forced ourselves to have several more drinks. We then had no hesitation in making food recommendations to the couple at the next table who seem convinced that I was South African. White South African. Extremely white, but about to turn pink.

There were many other things that went on that I could set out here, but why bother. That’s what I’d be thinking if I were you. It’s been no picnic writing this and I can only imagine the hardship of reading it. So I’ll finish up and say that the next exciting adventure involving Mark and Angel will be about Little Italy because we’re just about to meet up and go there for some sort of thing that’s happening. That’s all I know for now. Catch you soon, dolls.

UPDATE

We didn't make it to Little Italy but will probably catch some of that culture during the week. Watch this space.

It was no day at the beach - part ii

Avid and regular readers may not have been too enthralled by my last act of bloggery, It was no day at the beach, so I thought I would try better this time. If you didn’t read that one, please note that what follows is the conclusion to the my previous post.

The train ride to Manhattan was unlike no other. First, there was a devastatingly handsome young Russian sitting opposite us. He seemed engrossed by his notebook and pencil. I think he was collecting phone numbers, or perhaps inside leg measurements because at the first stop when two attractive young men boarded the train, the young Russian began to cruise them with a focus that I have never before witnessed. He was like a human velociraptor with tasty prey in his sight. He made his interest in our fellow passengers abundantly clear, and when it was time for him to alight, he reluctantly got off alone.

At the next stop, three young black men boarded the train. We listened to their conversation and observed them. They looked as if they might be in their late teens. One boy was extremely fat and very vocal. His friend was a stick insect who made me look fat and didn’t have too much to say that wasn’t delivered in a tone of blind panic. The third young man was silent and instantly forgettable.

Angel whispered in my ear, “I can’t understand anything they’re saying except ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’.”

“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly. “Remember, I live in Harlem. I can translate.”

I made tried to look bored and uninterested in what was being said, but it was quite fascinating. As I explained to Angel later, when it was safe to do so, the large one was giving serious thought to perpetrating a crime that would pay off enough that eighteen months behind bars would be worth it. The stick insect knew what life was like in the big house.

[The following sentence is an edited translation for the benefit of avid and regular readers.]

“There are long tables and chairs where you eat, and big TV screens at each end, and cells all around.”

Big Boy liked the idea of TV and was convinced that he could handle doing time without any problem.

“Don’t do it, man”, Stick pleaded with his bro’. [bro’ = brother, friend, companion]

I thought that the big house would be like no fat farm Big Boy had ever been to, and he’d probably get released looking even thinner than me (though perhaps not so thin as Stick). And as for those giant TV screens, I didn’t think that with his his cellmates to consider he would have too much time for telly.

Angel was agog as I filled him in on the details. I was able to edit the story down to about half the length of the original by eliminating ‘nigga’ and ‘motherfucker’ from my version.

Anyhoo, that concludes the week before. If you haven’t fallen asleep yet (and who could blame you?) I’ll begin the next adventure. If you have fallen asleep, wake up, and get off my lawn blog er… I mean yawn blog.

It was no day at the beach - part i

My friend Angel talked me into making a trip to Coney Island recently. It's a piece of Americana that I'd not seen, so I decided to give it a whirl. After a quick walk around the amusements, we headed down the promenade (boardwalk) for a spot of people watching. Well!!! It's been years since I've spent so much time among such huge numbers of straight people. We knew when we could see in the distance a green sign for a restaurant named V**ina that we were not among the Posh Table A crowd. (Two of the letters of the restaurant's name were obscured by other signage.) To our great relief, the restaurant was named something different from the obvious, and it was a grill rather than a fish restaurant.

Despite the fact that we hadn't had a drink all day, and it was pushing 1.00 pm, we continued our forced march down Brighton Beach. Noticing the maple leaf symbols of the city parks department I commented to Angel that the maple leaves made me think of Canada. I was actually thinking that we had walked so far that it felt as if we could have been in Ottawa by then.

"Are we there yet?" I demanded.

"Where?" Angel responded.

"Canada!"

We kept going and passed several bar/restaurants that we firmly intended having a look at eating and drinking in later in our expedition. Eventually, we got to the end of the boardwalk (somewhere in the Hamptons would be my guess), took our shoes off, and started the long walk back on the beach. Not recommended, though there were some nice views along the way. Also some not so nice ones: the product of 300 years of potato diet!

Just when we thought we might never eat or drink again, we came upon the section of Russian restaurants on Brighton beach and settled on the Winter Garden because we preferred its bold but co-ordinated colour scheme over the clashing tones of Tatiana and the unmentionable one.

We selected a lovely table and settled in for a libation and a nibble. We ordered vodka shots to begin - three of them, one for me, and two for Angel. I also ordered a vodka tonic, and Angel asked for a coke. We also asked for water. Two shots arrived quickly afterwards so we had one each. We sat waiting. When we eventually able to attract the attention of our waitress we asked about our other drinks.

"Bar's closed," she said, completely deadpan.

In what I imagine was a 'Sooty moment' (British readers may recall Sooty the hand puppet), in an instant, my head shot up and swivelled 90 degrees. I had one word for her: "Closed?!?!?!" which I delivered with the full force that those exclamation marks imply. It was 4.00 pm for goodness sake, and there was a huge amount of drinking to be done.

Not wanting to make international spectacles of ourselves, we ordered cokes (again). One coke arrived. We shared it and asked for water (again). A large jug of water arrived, but no glasses. Avid and careful readers will have noticed that we had received shot glasses earlier, which by this point were empty. Necessity being the mother of invention, we poured shots of water. Perfect. Eventually, we splurged on a second bottle of coke and polished off the water before leaving. As an aside, I will say that the food was excellent. The laughs we had about the service were even better. It's amazing how much fun you can have on one tiny shot.

The journey back to Manhattan was a revelation. I'll save that story and the account of our next journey to Coney Island and Brighton Beach for another time.

Phone mystery continued

Avid and regular readers will recall my act of bloggery about a phone mystery (written exactly a month ago today). If you haven't already read it, and I can't think why you'd want to miss that one, you'd better click the link immediately, and certainly before reading any further.

At 1.47 pm today, the mystery man, Jason, called again and I spoke to him! Unfortunately, I was distracted by something important, or perhaps even a work-related matter, and did not have several hours spare to subject him to forensic questionning. However, I did glean from him that I am the voice on HIS outgoing voicemail, and he thought we met at View Bar (I would remember that because I always get nosebleeds if I travel below 42nd Street, so I rarely go that far down-state). He then remembered that we actually met at Posh! Apparently, I had provided my vocal services at Posh Table A one night. There have been several evenings that outgoing messages have been recorded by members of The Table for their friends. I thought I was the only person who had retained his, as recorded by Master Moore and Master Nichols; Jason still has his.

If you're still reading at this point, and who can blame you, you'll be wanting to know why Jason called. He needed directions to Posh! Can you believe it? He seems to think I'll be meeting him there at some point. Heavens! I can't say he never calls.

Fire!

Avid and regular readers will recall various insanities in my office building. Things settled down for a while, but it seems that a psychotic psychic has moved into an office down the corridor. On Sunday evening I slipped into the building just to check on things (I'll bet she didn't see that in her crystal ball) because there were reports of weird comings and goings at all hours, and strange cracked-out or high types people wandering the corridors. There was a faint odour of cheap incense, and wind chimes jungled each time the psychic's office door opened and closed. The wind chimes are activitate by a lot of hot air would be my guess, and my only real fear is that Dionne Warwick will appear at any moment. Anyhoo, on with the rant...

Yesterday, there was a burning smell in our office at various times of the day but we couldn't locate the source. This afternoon I left our office suite (our main door had been closed) and was assaulted by the stench of incense. I was incensed [I couldn't resist] and went storming down the corridor bellowing, "What is that stinking smell?" The wind chimes jingled very slightly and were silenced quickly. This evening there was some sort of chanting going on. I'll be dealing with the noise pollution in due course.

Wow! The chimes just went off again. It's amazing how sounds that are meant to be soothing can seem so downright disgusting. Now, where did I put that fire extinguisher?

Who wins the toaster?

From the BBC, a fabulous report that uniformed members of the British Army and Royal Air Force have participated in the Gay Pride march in Manchester, England. It could be part of the "haven't asked, don't really care" policy that has been applied in my homeland since 2000. Oh, well, if they recruit enough youngsters younglings, somebody's bound to win a toaster.

Careful readers will have noted that the Senior Service did not participate in the festivities. Manchester does not have a harbour, apparently. Perhaps someone should remind the Royal Navy about the Manchester Ship Canal. HMS Middleton sailed up it on 10 October 2001 and photographic evidence of that great naval event can be seen here. The Manchester Ship Canal people are positively encouraging cruising in bars and other places, as can be read here.

Let's do the numbers

It is now proved beyond doubt that smoking is one of the leading causes of statistics - Knebel's Law

Almost 68% of the month of August has gone and YES the ban on DRINKING and SMOKING is still going strong on Day 21. Avid and regular readers, and members of Posh Table A have expressed surprise and delight that Piers and I have done so well this month. Some have even said that they wish they had joined us aboard the wagon. The month is not over yet; it's at a very exciting stage, especially as there are rumours of a sequel after Labor Day, which takes place in a whole new month.

Oh, dear

Those Swiss really know how to party. I'm sorry to miss this one.

Phone mystery

Who are you and why are you calling me and why are you calling me at this time?

That's what I would have been asking if I'd been awake at 12.13am last Saturday when "Jason" called twice and didn't leave a message. Hmmmmmm?!?!? Who is Jason? was my first thought. Obviously I've communicated with this mystery man because his name is in my cell phone address book. The area code is for part of Kansas. The detective work hasn't helped. And it would be too easy to call his number.

There are three people I can think of whom I know who are called Jason. None of them, to my knowledge, has my cell number. Two of them work at my favourite drinking establishment, and the third lives in Boston. There are no other Jasons that come to mind right now.

Why would he call twice? The second call may have been for his own amusement or that of a companion. That's because I am blessed with two highly amusing outgoing messages. The messages are more than outgoing, they're positively gregarious. I suppose that's why there are two of them. Regular members of Table A will know why. By the way, Jason, do give a call!


UPDATE

Mystery takes a surprising turn here.

There's a Book or a Word for It

Regular or avid readers of this bloggery (if there are such people) will know that I rarely never plug anything here. That's about to change because I have some recommendations. There's a Word for It by Charles Harrington Elster (available through Amazon.com) is a must read for lovers of words.

Today is day thirteen of NO SMOKING and NO ALCOHOL in the entire month of August for me and my friend Piers, so I thought I would dip into the wealth of words in the aforementioned book that relate to alcohol, and share a few of them with my great reading public. Other dipsomaniacs who started out on this journey with us have fallen, jumped, or been pushed off the wagon. You know who you are. It's only a month, for crying out loud. And no, it's not easy, especially when you're tackling several demons at once, but come on people! Anyhoo, back to the words:

bibulous: fond of drinking, especially excessively. That's a good one to describe me and most of my friends, especially members of Posh Table A.

capernoited: slightly intoxicated, tipsy. Interestingly, this word is Scottish and can also mean irritable and peevish. Prior to the August drinking ban, I could be capernoited most evenings at Posh Table A by 8pm. Since the self-imposed ban I've been constantly capernoited (and not in the good way, as is demonstrated in paragraph two above).

downdrins: an afternoon drinking session. A major one of these is scheduled for Thursday 1 September 2005.

xertz: to gulp down, swallow quickly and greedily. Who do we know who does that? Yes, you, you, AND YOU. You know who you are.

That's enough of those words; they're making me feel as if I have alcoholic anadipsia. Let's get back to plugging stuff.

Now that Famous Author Rob Byrnes has been elevated (?) to "celebrity gay author" status (note the lack of capital letters - hmmmmmm), I feel compelled to plug his books. So check out TRL - The Rob Log and buy his books, dammit.

Here's another plug. If you're high and have the munchies, you really need Pie in the Sky by Susan G Purdy, so that you can bake cakes, pies, cookies, breads, and pastries successfully at high altitudes. Susan is perhaps America's best baker and no kitchen should be without her latest book. I also like it because I'm mentioned not once but twice. (Does that make me a celebrity? Hmmmmm?) Buy it to find out why. Then bake some cakes and save me a slice. But don't make me have to climb ev'ry mountain or get high. It' still August after all.

Imagine

EMBARGOED UNTIL THE SHOW OPENS (IF IT EVER DOES)

As of Sunday 14 August 2005 the show is open.
It remains to be seen how long Lennon will last. See updates below.


Imagine?!?!?! What were they thinking?

The first act of Lennon on Broadway is pretty bad. The second act, I can't say, because we couldn't stay. Perhaps it was because Yoko Ono was being brought beverages during the show. Bad form, doll! What next? Popcorn? The Broadhurst Theatre is not AMC-25.

The performers were great, however, this so-called musical has bad writing, bad direction and a weird concept. I can't even elevate it to the level of a train wreck. It's simply not that interesting. If you thought Good Vibrations was bad, there is no comparison. Good Vibrations would win a Tony over Lennon.

Would the morons who think that you can throw popular songs together to make a show worthy of being on Broadway please stop thinking that way. Let's have some real musicals play The Great White Way.

LENNON UPDATE - Sunday 14 August 2005

Avid and regular readers will have tuned in for Imagine.

Imagine! Who would have thunk it? This wretched show is about to open any minute now. I've just watched the arrivals at the theatre from the vantage point of my office. Yoko looked divine dressed in white with a huge hat and a big black bow. I hope she doesn't spill her beverages all over those lovely white pants. Some of the other fashion choices were less suitable. Let's just say there was a lot of mutton dressed as lamb. I know the weather is horrendously hot, but when you're pushing seventy, spandex leggings never look good.

The world now waits till morning for the critics' verdicts. I can't imagine what they'll say.


UPDATE - Monday 15 August 2005

Imagine!!!!!!!!!!!! I'm not going to say I told you so. This waste of a theatre will be gone by teatime. The critics hated it and so did I and everyone else I know who saw it. I feel sorry for the cast and crew who've worked so hard.

UPDATE - Sunday 21 August 2005 - 4.20pm

Imagine!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's still playing. That might be something to do with the fact that Yoko Ono's car is parked illegally in front of the theatre at this precise moment. She's made a surprise visit just to make sure that they don't start loading out the show. Or she was passing and wanted to have a beverage. I dunno. I just see this stuff happening and feel the need to share it with regular and avid readers. Call it a public service announcement.

Cue the queue

Getting around New York City by subway in recent days hasn't been the most pleasant experience. Not because I live in fear of a terrorist attack. It's the blasted heat that's the problem. The temperature on the street is bad enough without having to endure the furnace below ground. A few days ago I decided to take a bus, and that's something I rarely do. There seemed to be a queue at the bus stop, so I joined it, and people were quite orderly about getting on the vehicle. Then a retired middle-class gentleman geezer showed up and started elbowing past me.

"Have the good manners to wait your turn," I said.

"Why? What was I doing?" he responded.

"You were pushing in," I said, pointing out the obvious.

"Well, now you're happy you're ahead of me."

"Darling, I'm way ahead of you!" I said triumphantly and climbed onto the bus.

That little episode got me thinking that it's time people here adopted the marvellous practice of queueing. It's good manners, it's fair and it's orderly. It also helps one survive the hot days by eliminating one way of getting bent out of shape by the bad behaviour of others.

America, take my cue and form a queue.