So I looked around and I noticed there wasn't a chair

So, off to the fjords of Norway I went. I set off last Wednesday from Stanstead and came home on Bank Holiday Monday - spent most of the time flopping around and about this stunning 'hut' overlooking a huge lake. Idyllic.
Crossing the border into Sweden, I checked out the swedes at the supermarket. They were of a fine quality. I was particularly impressed to find that all the cans and jars of fish were labelled: 'Abba'. I even came across some bottled beer called 'God Lager' which was tempting.

Didn't we have a luverly time?

For some reason which I can't quite fathom, this blog-keeping malarkey was so much easier when I didn't have to work for a living. But, seeing as I do, less will have to be more. And I'm sure it is. Less that is. Less said the better. Who said that? Les.

I have torn myself away from the Eurovision Song Contest to do this. Actually, that's not quite as a generous gesture as it may appear. But I can still hear Tel's baileys-oiled tones in the background, so I think I'll pull through. Scary stuff.




Yeah - I went to Margate. It was great. Here's a picture - nice ha? Then there was Broadstairs (nothing like Broadmoor which I had got stuck in my head) and nothing like wide steps which would have been more appropriate. Anyway, Broadstairs is classy. It's like I imagine an English seaside town should be - but without the disappointing tat which I always forget until I get there. At Broadstairs even the knickerbocker glories wear sensible pants.










My art course continues apace. That Tintoretto was handy with a paintbrush and make no mistake.

Standing up in the National Gallery for two plus hours at the end of the working day is a bit of a challenge, but it's a question of mind over matter. I don't mind so it doesn't matter.












The Wine Fair at Excel blew me away. More wine than time to drink it. People were spitting great gobfuls of wine in every direction, it was a skill just to avoid the flying globules of gargled vino as they swooshed all over the shop. Personally I prefer to swallow. Spitting just seems ungrateful and ungraceful. Unfortunately this leads to wobbly leg syndrome and a tendency to leave before the end of the party due to one of my heads coming one.




More art - this time Crivelli - I like this guy! He doesn't go over the edges when he colours in.

I was fortunate enough to be taken to the Oslo Court restaurant in St Johns Wood for lunch. This has to be the campest dining experience in London. It's the waiter with the dessert trolley that took the wafer. When I said I wanted the cheesecake he retorted, "Yes, I think I already know what you want darling." Damn sauce. Actually, the sauce was quite nice.

Next week - Norway! I'm going to stay in a wooden hut up a mountain next to a lake.
Will there be a lonely goatherd?

And is Heidi's grandfather misunderstood for good reason? This, I intend to find out. Yeah, OK, wrong country. But let's just put that down to artistic licence. Which I intend to get, just incase you're thinking of sending round one of those detector vans. I'll go to the Post Office on Monday and fill in a form and get it rubber-stamped. You see if I don't.

Come back soon.

Head full of dreadful

Jesse, I'm lonely, come home

Whew, where did that week go? And why am I asking you? Who are you anyway? You come in here, giving it all that.

Quick re-cap. I came of age on Tuesday. Of the age of 37 that it is. After work H and I went for dinner at Gabriels Wharf and then on to see the utterly fantastic Janis Ian (An Evening With) at the Queen Elizabeth Hall.
How good is Janis Ian? About as bloody brilliantly good as anybody singing with a guitar can be. It was a goose-pimply evening - and that's not a criticism of the air-co. The new stuff was great, Janis was funny, and those old songs. Wow. And the silver ball atop of the icing on the well-iced cake was Jesse as an encore. I could hardly speak when we left and walked back to Waterloo.

I have started taking evening classes again - and this Wednesday marked the second part of 'Collecting for the Nation'. It's all about how the major London art galleries came into being...why they exist at all and how changes in taste have shaped what they are.
The evening was spent at the National Gallery peering at the paintings which formed the orginal collection at 100 Pall Mall. Fascinating stuff. Well I think so.

Thursday I'm back on my bike and the sun is shining down like it's some crazy hot country. The tube lines buckle, and Jude nearly collapses from heat exhaustion halfway round her evening walk. I have started to read 'The Bell' by Iris Murdoch and only a dozen or so pages in I am totally captivated by Murdochism. I find it hard to believe that I have only ever read one novel by her - 'The Sea, The Sea' - which has to be one of the best books I have ever read. There's nothing like having a really good book on the go.

Friday and I've got Monday on my mind...or is that...oh I don't know. I finally get an evening to paw over my lovely birthday presents. Mmm...CDs: Lou Reed's The Bells, Toyah's Anthem (oh yes - I am not ashamed to admit that I regard this as a classic pop album), Belle & Sebastian, the Kooks, The Zutons...then there's the DVD's - Sparks Live, Dave's Serious Moonlight (ooh that hair - wowser - yellow meringue), Woody Allen in Play It Again Sam and Tim Burton's Corpse Bride. Blimey, hardly time for my tea.

Saturday means an extra long walk for Jude, and for me, a day spent trying to figure out how my CD/DVD writer (another fabulous birthday present) works. The instructions are clearly written for somebody who knows what the hell he is doing and that ain't me. I manage to turn my photos into multiple files and generally get confused. Please will somebody offer to help me? So I do something I can do and cook dinner. We relax with a bottle of Rioja and the dark dark dark black comedy Happiness, which is anything but. A little Larry David raises our spirits before lights out.

Which brings me bang up to date with today. The Docklands Museum with K,H&B. It's good - really - especially if you live here I guess, and I do. Lots of things dug out of the silt. Clay pipes, whale jawbones and other bits and bobs. Great photos too by Crispin Hughes.

This was followed by an al fresco lunch at Browns which somehow lasted 3 hours. Jude and I dodged the footballs in the park. I am so paranoid about walking past people playing football because always always always the ball ends up coming flying towards me, and they always always always expect me to kick the ball back. Well, I am well aware that if I so much as attempt to kick a football I end up embarrassing myself. It never goes in the right direction, or I miss it. Or I fall over. So I pretend I am both unware of the balls which roll towards me and deaf to the cries of 'Oy, mate, over 'ere!' Jude is so ashamed of me and who can blame her.

After a rejuvenating skin peel I'm ready for my birthday

  

Twist in my sobriety

Has it really been that long? Cripes, what have I been doing with myself? Must try harder - although I think I said that before somewhere.

Anyway, here I am again, on the cusp of my 37th birthday. Time is waiting in the wings. But hold up, things are about to get interesting again around here. It's going to be like 2004 all over. Straight up guv and make no mistake Mary Poppins.

Move a little closer and I'll tell all. But first I'll get my birthday out of the way.


Come back soon.

Glue

I took a gulp out of my pint glass and simulataneously glanced across at you. You sucked on your cigarette and proceeded to blow a plume of smoke in my direction, making a whooshing sound as you did so, like an unsuccessful whistle.

'Just put your lips together and blow,' I said.

You said, 'What?'

I looked down at my pint glass. There wasn't a lot of beer left in it. I lifted my wrist so that my watch came into my line of vision thus saving me the effort of turning my head. It was late, but I fancied another pint. But then, what I fancy does not tend to be a particularly good measure of what is best.

'How's it coming on?' I had known you would ask me this eventually. 'Fancy another one?' I counter. 'Yeah, go on.' I downed the remainder of my pint and lumbered up to the bar. Within seconds I was back in position with lager reassuringly slopped on the table and dripping onto my thigh.

'How's it coming on?' My attempt at creating a diversion hadn't worked. 'Yeah, it's good.' I sucked the foam from the full glass and wiped my wet palm on my jeans, leaving a dark, moist patch.

'Can I see it?' I wouldn't meet your eyes and I wondered if you had noticed. My own eyes settled on a picture of a foxhunt above the fireplace. Do they really block the fox holes? If they didn't dress up like twats then maybe they wouldn't be so unpopular. You were still looking at me.

'Sure.' I exhaled and pressed my back teeth together before biting one side of my bottom lip. Holding this face and your gaze, I reached down into the space between my stool, the wall and the floor and picked up a crumpled supermarket bag which contained a wad of paper. I passed it across the table. It hung momentarily above the full ashtray as your face betrayed you with a uncharacteristic flicker of genuine surprise. You put out your hand and took the package from me. I felt like I had handed over my wayward child to a careworker. You removed the wad of paper from its flimsy plastic sheath with its promise of permanently low prices.

'You're not going to look at it now are you?' I realised I sounded desperate, shrill even.

'I've waited long enough!' you said with a hint of frostiness. I looked at my hands. My fingernails needed cutting. I wished I hadn't stopped smoking because it would have been a good time to light a cigarette. My eyes settled on your fag packet and I thought for one second that I might have one. My brain roared 'No!' and I didn't. You were not looking at me anymore. You were reading the first page. My heart started to pound. I suddenly felt drunk and the room seemed to move a few degrees on an imaginary axis. I held the table to steady both it and myself. You smiled as you read and I felt sick because I thought that you were thinking that I was a joke. My delicate raft of self-confidence which had been spinning in an eddy had, without warning, plunged over the top of the waterfall. You made that whooshing sound again just as I closed my eyes and went into freefall.

Quick, easy, clean and washable

I'm not quite right at all...am I?

Gordon Bennett. Tony Hart. They had style. They had grace. Bernie Clifton and Peter Glaze.

So I came back from France and went back to work...and not a day goes by when I don't think of goblins. Must have been that Labyrinth DVD on freezeframe back in St Mandrier. That and Stephen Fry saying 'Yeeerrrs' and now I have Catherine Tate's 'How very dare you!' rattling around inside my swede, like a New York conversation.

A Picture of Britain at the Tate - ah - that's what being British is all about. David Dimbleby and rolling mountains. David Dimbleby rolling down mountains. Grand. Will Young in the pissing rain at Kenwood - moist pork pies and bits of grit caught up in my little scotch eggs. Britain Britain Britain.

Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. The Sunday Times said 'Originality has gone for a Burton' (side-clutchingly funny) while The Observer found Charlie 'Dark and delicious'. It's Roald Dahl...it's Tim Burton...it's Johnny Depp - how could this be bad it any way, shape or chocolate frog? It wasn't. And to have Grandpa Joe played by Albert, the one-armed washer-upperer from Robin's Nest was a treat beyond all candy.

I've decided to take evening classes in early Netherlandish painting. Still crazy after all these years.

Hmmm

Dahlesque madness

The Merode triptych and all that symbolism's called Rezeptionsvorgaben

Chocolat 2

Back to France

I took a week away to meet up with John down in the South of France, and to catch on a bit of R&R as I believe they say. Here's a bit of what I did see.

Bloody Marilyn by Vik Munoz

I seem to have developed a bit of a thing for the artwork of Laurent Millet

One of Hedi Slimane's smashing photos on display at Maison de la Photographie in Toulon

Ohmygod it's 'im again Officer...I'd recognise 'im anywhere

Bobbing boats in the harbour

Peaceful bay, previously seen crawling with Nazis

It's Marc and Antony - hey - there's a seed of an idea for a collaboration there. You read it here first folks.

Why did you kill Ziggy?

Afternoon PM. What are the chances of that happening?

Jude has her first joint

He followed me home mum. Can I keep him?

At one of the clock on Saturday I thought it would be interesting to sit down and watch the opening of Live8. At sometime around midnight, I got up again. My favourite bit - Pete Doherty of course. What a star. They may be laughing now, but in twenty years time that's what everybody will remember - you mark my words. Clever boy. I fell asleep during The Who and woke up to Pink Floyd. Quite a trip in itself that.

With over 750 CDs making the old place at Crapston Villas look untidy, I set about streamlining my music collection. The things you find: Kula Shaker, Bucks Fizz, Lonnie Gordon - to name but a few crimes against the human ear - which are all now safely 'archived' in a cardboard box like a Blue Peter time capsule (but no bust of Petra) for future discovery. I'm feeling all Buddhist and free.

Just watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm called 'The Doll'. One of the funniest things I have seen in ages. Go and get yourselves a copy - it's part of the second series - I guarantee you'll thank me for it.

Awww!

So that was Striding Edge then - jolly japes in the Lakes a few weeks ago

Oh the 1970's and the glamour of it all

We close our eyes to time slipping away

It must be that time of the month again. Yeah, I know, I haven't been here for a while what with one thing and another. And another thing. And another. And thing. And. A. But hey, distance or is it time makes the heart grow fonder - or is was that Jane? Or Henry. Oh God

Well, whatever happened - it was worth waiting just for the fantastic picture above, was it not. I thought so. I really did.

Saw Marc Almond last Thursday and he was looking mighty well. I think he identifies with me now, and we are similar in many ways. For example, I get a standing ovation when I walk into the Royal Festival Hall and Marc lives in Bermondsey. We're practically the same person living parallel lives - oh hang on that doesn't work. Sliding Doors kind of thing. Nope, still not happening.

Anyway, there I was today happy as Leonard Rossiter with a glass of Cinzano, bravely battling across Tower Bridge on my bicyclette, when the bloody light goes red and I have to sit there for ten minutes while some poxy wooden boat with an oversized mast passes by causing the bridge to open and half of London to come to a standstill. But the moment was saved for me entirely when a big fellow on a white BMW motorbike pulls up alongside me. With podgy white fingers he lights a Silk Cut and as he exhales smoke into the morning air, he cranks up the volume on his stereo (yes, speakers on the side of the bike) and what cool tune blasts forth? We Close Our Eyes by Go West - and I think it was the remix because it was still going when the gates opened and we sallied forth once more. I sniggered all the way to the squished egg.

I'll be back.

He was there, I was there, and the equilibrium of life as we know was restored

Hey Jude!

There's a white prism with phony jism spread across its face

Me again.

This morning my dentist asked me if I needed a polish. I said that I thought it was his job to tell me that. He said I didn't need one, but he thought he'd ask.

We have a waterfall feature over our front door as a result of a leaky gutter, which makes me feel like Daniel Day-Lewis in The Last of the Mohicans whenever I set off in the rain. I got very soggy.

I asked a French person to translate a bill I have received from the hospital where I was treated in France back in February. He read the instructions printed on the reverse of the bill to me - in beautiful French, before handing it back to me with an enigmatic smile.

I think I may be getting sick.

Here are some of those great pictures Jo took yesterday. I have been given permission to use them here, so don't get funny.

I absolutely love this picture - sent to me by two people with exquisite taste in everything.

The perverse possibilities of the Barbican - you could be invisible here - you could get a notion of floating across the City

Wh'appened then? Dear oh dear, what a bleeding great flummocky-lummox of a month. Sorry, I've been away. I've been in another place. It wasn't here. Now I'm better and I'm back. Pay attention once again. This could get really interesting, from here on in.

Looking back then. I went to Nottingham to see my very good friends Steve and Caroline. I travelled up on the train, in the midst of a blindingly boring bunch of beardy-wierdies from CAMRA - the campaign for real ale people. Anoraks or what? Jesus wept. The worst thing of all - I get to Nottingham, go for a coffee, wander around an art gallery, get on a tram and meet Steve in a pub - and who sits down at the table next to us? Yeap - the very same whiskery bores who I have barely tolerated during the two hour train journey. You can't make it up - well, you could make it up but nobody would believe you, except for the little pixie folk from the land called Gullible. The next day we went walking in the Peak District and ended up in a remote pub called The Butchers Arms where we were horribly murdered by a mad, axe-wielding barman in shiny shorts who called me 'Darling'. We were then served up as the dish of the day, and I nearly missed my train home.

The next weekend I took Hugo to see Rufus Wainwright play at the Shepherds Bush Empire - t'was one of his many marvellous birthday presents - as if I wasn't enough. It was phenomenally good - one of the best ever - toe-curlingly, goosepimplingly, hair-on-the-back-of-neck-standing-uppingly good. Rufus is a genius, a bit camp, a bit mad, and a bit bollock-blastingly-brilliant.

The next day we watched super-fit Fiona give Paula Radcliffe a run for her marathon money as she sprinted around the Isle that is of the Dogs, and then went down The Gun and drank everything they had, wobbled a bit, wobbled a lot, stood up and sat down again very quickly and had another bottle of bubbly, and had a headache on the Monday.

Last week I decided it was time to leave my job a million miles behind me. More on that next time. It's kind of 'come-to-a-crossroads' time, and I ain't going straight ahead no more no more. Now you're just going to have to keep checking back here to find out what happens next!

Jo came up yesterday and we went on a photographic tour of discovery in the City, stopping at the Barbican for a fabulous dose of Tina Barney and Christian Marclay before heading off to the White Cube to check out Gregory Crewdson's exhibition - 'Beneath the Roses' which is all very fine and nicely unsettling. Jo took sixteen-million photos, and maybe, just maybe, she might send me one of her finest to share, right here, with you. We went for an Indian meal, I bit on a chilli and felt a little queer.

Thank you for your patience. And your snakes and ladders.

How can a guy grow up in a circus like this?

Father and Son by Tina Barney

The Long Road to Mazatlan by Isaac Julien

This is a competition...who do you think this is? Clue: once described as 'the most beautiful man in the world.'

I went to see an exhibiton of the work of August Strindberg at the Tate Modern. He was clearly as mad as a bucket of frogs, and I liked him very much.