Anyway, the afternoon: after more than a little sodding around [and finding that the London Borough of Islington is the worst place in the western universe for car parking - thanks, Mr Arsenal] we did a little driving then dived, more through "hey, it's dry" than anything else – at Itta, a tiny pizzeria down the Kentish Town Road. Well – it did the job fine, it's nothing special; at least it's not Pizza Froggin' Hut.

Subjects included: her latest profile piece, my latest adventures in Munchland, weird religious shite, Personal Services [you must find a copy, sweetie], and why photoshopping Labour leadership candidates into schoolboy outfits would not be something that would benefit Western civilization.

Thanks, gorgeous: and I promise next time I won't make you shop for phallic umbrellas…

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Actually, it's been autumnal all round for the past ten days – for the first time in months this morning I put on my fleece to go out.

…Isn't it amazing what you find in clothes you've not worn for months? "Oooh, there's my Trout Mask Replica badge".

Those of you who closely follow my health will be glad to know that the cold/infection has just about gone, although I still have a bit of a cough. However, rumours that I've been signed up on a contract to be "the mandatory coughing fucker" at the quiet tragic bits of films, concerts and plays are, as yet, unfounded….

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In a way, the end of summer opens up a few opportunities, because it means my friends who have school-age children are less tied down to being 24/7 babysitters.

Plans include Chelmsford Market, which apparently has a "specialist" footwear purveyor; the Polish Arts Festival in Southend on Sunday 12th, in which for once the sausage I'll be ingesting will be an actual dead kielbasa; and, stuff permitting, I just might get to go further afield for once…

Watch this space.

Some spacey shit that I used to get completely out of my tree to, to accompany you whilst you're watching this space.

In other words, you ain't missed much.

I did write quite a bit whilst I had a mildly inflated temperature, mostly on paper rather than on laptop, and it was all total and utter shite. This is fairly standard for me when I'm feverish.

Coincidentally [or maybe not], this entirely mirrors the days when I used to do far too much dope; I'd produce reams of stuff, all of it useless. [The few bits that remain now are far too embarassing to transfer to an electronic medium. One of the - alas - lost gems, though, is "Dissonance", the hour-long play in which two people on an abandoned Tube train recite Fish lyrics one word at a time and be silently pretentious inbetween. I wondered whether it'd get an Arts Council grant...]

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Upcoming Wonderment, though: on Wednesday I'm in the big smoke with a bonzerly amazing person, again wandering the streets in the eternal search for decent pizza and coffee at a reasonable price. "Trust those who look for the Pizza; be sceptical of those who say they've found it."

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One in three adults takes a soft toy to bed. Which might include me. Does a bat count?

[Interfauna link]

Random Facebook Status Generator. Those of you who are "friends" with me on FB *might* think that I use this. I don't. Honest.

[The way to tell is that I've clicked the generator 100 times and it's not yet mentioned Falkirk....]

A munch is a casual lunch or dinner with other local people who have an interest or experience in BDSM (Bondage & Discipline, Dominance and submission, sadomasochism) and/or Fetish. Munch groups have many different characters depending on locations of where they meet. Some are held in locations where a demonstration can be given on different techniques, but most are held in family restaurants or bars where 'play' or fetishwear is not permitted. A munch is a great atmosphere to meet like minded locals, discuss a variety of topics, and make friends and get validation without people behaving 'in role'. [ref]

So on Tuesday night I popped along to a pub nearby – yes, a pub, I know, but since drinking wasn't going to be the main focus of the evening I guessed it would be okay – where about twenty people gathered for the monthly "munch" for the area.

I'd sort of flagged up my upcoming attendance on a forum, so that they knew to expect a long-haired bloke in a Simpsons T-shirt [note; as in the definition above, dress code is "vanilla", otherwise I might have...]

There were a few characters who immediately recognized me and took me under their wing, introducing me to whoever was there, telling me what was to be happening, letting me into their group. One [lovely] surprise was meeting *name removed* from the site beginning with "O" which we do not name any more, who I'd exchanged mails with over there. You know how it is when someone off El Interwebz suddenly turns up in your 'meatspace' – "OMG, SQUEE!"

Everyone gathered in an upstairs room, away from the pub's [two] other customers. [It was a *very* wet Tuesday night.] The night had been advertised as having a workshop on "needle play" – not my cup of tea, I must add – though this turned out to be a workshop on safety in general in play, with information on the risks of sharing of fluids of various kinds.

Afterwards was scones and general chatter. There was a core of about four or five people in the room who I felt immediately comfortable with, and I generally went round and shook hands to introduce myself with everybody. There was no "play" – well, okay, one woman took a quick flogging – and the only way you'd distinguish it from any other social meeting would be a] slightly more black worn, and b] the collars on the "owned" subs.

It'll take some time to work out the group dynamics as a whole, and to get used to the "etiquette" of such a gathering, but that is broadly true of all social gatherings. [Tries not to engage social worker mode and go off into 'group theory'.]

It seemed to me that although there may be an inner core of "scene" which would be difficult to make one's way into even if one wanted to – and I'm not sure if I do, my interests in this area are "play" recreational rather than "lifestyle" or "scene" – it's supposed to be fun, for smeg's sake – certainly there was an overall group ethos which was open and accepting. And certainly a few women who enjoy playing with the long hair of certain men.

In the end, these things are about expectations. I went there hoping to meet some nice people who just happened to have an interest in kinky things, and that's what I got. If I'd turned up expecting to immediately force my way into being able to whack someone's hide raw, or to be suddenly King/Queen/Princess Of The Group, I'd've been disappointed – and quite rightly so.

So on the level in which I was operating, I was very pleased with myself on the night, in the way I interacted, the people I've met, and the pleasant chat I was part of. [Oh yeah, plus the bonus of "I spent three hours in a pub without once wanting to drink it dry".]

I'll be back there next month.

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Slightly related, but not really, pic:

If it hadn't been "vanilla dress code"…

[this post may not make any sense, but what the frog.]

…the other day, the splendiferous Lesley alerted my attention to a questionnaire as part of research on the subject of earworms: those tunes that get stuck in one's head, good and bad, which you can't shift no matter what you do. Apparently some London University is doing work on them [and, judging by the questions asked, may be linking them to obsessive-compulsive behaviour].

So it said: Name a frequent 'earworm' you have. To which I chose the guitar riff between the verses of The Cure's "The Same Deep Water As You" – which often plays in my head during my occasional "down" times. Then; name the last 'earworm' you had. To which I had, shamefully, to name this here crime against humanity.

But I'm not severely infected by earworms, so much as headworms. I don't suffer from obsessive-compulsive thoughts – outside of my occasional "down" times – but I do suffer from obsessive concepts. Most of them silly.

Thus; the frequent reader of my blog, my FaceArse feed or my Twunter feed may conclude that I keep returning to several key items, concepts and ideas which have no relevance whatsoever apart from the fact that they provide a unifying theme to the above feeds.

I'm sure there's some website out there that would provide a proper statistical analysis of the words I use, but in the absence of that, I'm guessing a list of "most frequently used words in Fish's Internet Ramblings" would look something like this:

1. Zebras.
2. Nicholas Parsons.
3. BEES!!!
4. Shoooooooooos!
5. Crustaceans and small sealife of various sorts.
6. Deviant sexual practice.
7. The phrase "bitchenly amazing"
8. Bonnie Langford. [AAAAAGH!]
9. Ocelots.

[People who've observed me in person at close quarters could probably add to this list.]

Numbers four and six are, of course, because I'm a pre-menopausal biological male and that's where my testosterone has happened to flow into.

Numbers two and eight are less abstracts than examples of "absolute comparatives". Think, if you will, of Platonic ideal forms: things which encapsulate the very epitome, the total essence, of a quality or adjective. Bonnie Langford is, in this sense, the negative-Platonic "form" of horrendousness.

As for the rest, I don't know why they're so prevalent. The actual "zebra" seems to be less important than the idea of a "zebra", and the comic potential of putting said hoofed mammal in surreal context.

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When I was ill in the 1990s, one of the theories that was put forward that the amount of dope I smoked prior to it meant that I'd never actually come back down yet. What I was experiencing was just a prolonged bad dope experience – paranoia, depression, listlessness, fear – strung out over some years.

Although such things are 99% in the past now, one could extend the theory to the present day thus: still suffering the effects of a massive bong party, I'm still thinking like a dopehead and I'm bound to come out with stupid crap, some of which will be humorous, some of which will be profound, but most of which will just be a series of ramblings about nothing at all. [See my surreal post-novel of the 1990s, "Sex With Your Goldfish".] "Zebra"-ism may be the last symptom of that…

[I have doubts about this, but it's still a fairly good theory. And it would certainly explain why I still spend too much time on endless Santana and Ozric Tentacles albums...]

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So is zebra-ism a "brainworm" of any significance, or just a form of comedy I have slipped into the role of? Or maybe both? In the task of rebuilding my personality from the wreck of the early 1990s, is it the defence mechanism of choice I adopted? Or is it so intrinsic now that to take it away from me would subjugate my whole identity?

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Today's Big Question: What utterly meaningless "brainworm" do you have?

So tonight – I'm typing this Sunday night – at the cluster we made a "democratic" decision that we would watch Sherlock.

Well, I say democratic…¹.

*I* liked it.  Comparisons with "New Biological Formula Doctor Who" are inevitable, given the writers/producers – and they're certainly there; focusing on the "companion" getting to know the "mystery" hero was the big theme here, as indeed it was in "Rose", the first episode of the New Who. Not necessarily a bad thing.

One innovation – is it an innovation? I've not seen it before – is how to get round the pressing problem of "Why isn't TV like real life in that out there everybody's staring zombie-like into their phone?" by having important messages, etc float as words on the screen. It cuts out a lot of the dialogue as normally one character would have to vocalize what they'd just read.

They then used the same trick, though, to "signpost" Sherlock's train of thought; when he came to a conclusion about a character, the word he thought of appeared next to the character on the screen. That was much less satisfactory, I must say.

Top billing, though, goes to Mark Gatiss' Mycroft, a large performance of old-style creepiness – though you're encouraged at first to think villainy – which managed to be both evocative and repellent at the same time [and, as such, makes anyone who enjoyed The League Of Gentlemen smile.]

It's not the most bitchenly amazing piece of television ever, sure. But it kept everyone absorbed and entertained and did its job well.

[I was going to go on to a bad bit of television, which is Family Guy's unusually [for them] pisspoor take on trans- issues from last Sunday which I only just got round to seeing today, but frog it. Complaining about Family Guy just seems wrong; you put yourself on the same side as a bunch of USA morons and nutjobs². I'm just putting it down to a bad week.]

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Old Bit Of A Film That's Been Stuck In My Head All Day: Repossessed, in which Leslie Nielsen's priest is at the hospital talking to a doctor;

"How's the flu epidemic, Doc?"

"Just as bad. *sighs* We've had three new cases brought in today."

Which is, of course, the cue for a workman to walk across the back of the shot holding a stack of three boxes, all of which have "FLU" stamped on them…

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Anyway, with the "main event" of the evening over, people are starting to drift off elsewhere whilst I type, and it seems so far like nobody will require overnight close supervision³.

This means I can usually just hang around for a few hours to make sure everyone's settled themselves before catching a bit of sleep myself. They know to poke me with a stick should they need me.

Some of this time until I get to sleep will be spent on Drop The Dead Donkey on 4oD – thanks for alerting me to its reappearance, Max; some of it will go on the inevitable paperwork; and quite a lot of it will be standing next to the kettle with a jar of coffee ready to pounce as soon as it goes "click".

I love nights. I just wish they'd put CBeebies on 24 hours a day…

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Today's Big Question: How do you get yourself to stay awake at night when you have to?

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1 Vote was conducted according to principle of "It's not how people vote, it's who does the counting that's important" – Josef Stalin. Ironic that it took a south-eastern part of the USA half a century later to confirm this theory. [Also see footnote 2, tho.]
2 I would like to make it clear that I acknowledge that the USA has no more morons and nutjobs per capita than any other country. It's just that for various reasons we notice them more.
3 Basically: if anyone else is awake, I have to be. Doesn't happen that often, but it's fairly crucial when it does.

I'd just turned off the dual carriageway onto the little country road leading south towards town, and thought "hey, there's a lot of bikes around" [was there a rally?]. Slowing down for an upcoming uphill right-hand blind corner, I watched the blue-and-white Suzuki – and the blue-and-white-clad rider – appear from the corner, fly across the road, and into the wooden fence two metres off the other side of the road.

I immediately pulled over and called 999; the driver behind me had stopped and went to see what was going on. Miraculously, the biker had escaped with only superficial injuries: the wooden fence had cushioned his impact. If it had been a different material – or, say, had concrete posts…

Once it was established that the ambulance wasn't needed, and that whilst the bike may not have been driveable at least the rider was, I left – and it's at that point, after one is needed, when the adrenalin/shock kicks in. Aaaaaaa…

Given the amount of miles I've done and still do – professionally and otherwise – I've seen a few cases of people and metal flying across roads. Whichever Gods there may be grant that I continue to see them and not feel them…

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And so, after much delay on the east side of London, into town: I managed to get to our meeting point about 4:15, only to find Max was similarly delayed by railway smeg-ups on the west side. It was pushing 6 by the time we met.

Finding that the restaurant we'd originally set our sights on wasn't open yet, we ended up in Ask [ok Italian chain]. Not bad pizza, except that eating it with cutlery that's blunter than a Charlie Brooker column on football is a bit of a challenge.

And so to the theatre. The Apollo Victoria is the home of "Wicked!", the offshoot musical from The Wizard of Oz. Quite why Tori had got herself into the place remains a mystery, but seeing her in a 500-seat theatre rather than a 3,500-seat concert hall would be a bonus.

The support act sounded from the foyer like an identikit dreary bloke with a guitar, so we skipped it. Little merchandise – the T-shirts were all last year's "Sinful" stuff – so at least that temptation [and strain on wallet] was avoided.

photo from here

And so to the show. The Goddess herself in blue and gold – shhh, don't mention the Botox – by herself, in contrast to 2007.  Set list from undented:

• Bells For Her
• Precious Things
• Silent All These Years
• Dragon
• Northern Lad
• The Power of Orange Knickers
• Marianne
• Space Dog
• Beauty of Speed
• Virginia
• Rattlesnakes [Lloyd Cole]
• Yes, Anastasia
• Me and A Gun
• Garlands
• Hey Jupiter
• encore
• Desperado [The Eagles]
• Personal Jesus [Depeche Mode]
• Take To The Sky

Okay, so I did spend the first two songs just sobbing like a big girl. But, hey, c'mon, talk about a double whammy…

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I liked being in the presence. I loved hearing the music straight from. But, I'm afraid, I'm getting increasingly misanthropic amongst crowds of anybody – even fellow worshippers.

Like: you've paid somewhere around £40 a ticket for this, right? How about you try watching the show, rather than watching yourself film it on your bitchenly amazing iPhone? If you have to use a flash, can it actually be a "flash", and not a blinding searchlight as used in Escape From Colditz?

Like: can we actually hear the music, and not some arse whooping in my ear?

Like: shouting "I LOVE YOU, TORI!" is, at least in this context, a little redundant. Out of the 500 or so present, how many would have said that they don't?

I conclude that as much as I appreciate seeing "live" artistes, I'm getting too old for this shit. Paying top dollar and negotiating Central London, to sit amongst people I'm becoming increasingly misanthropic about [at least when they're a crowd], is getting less and less attractive. Nor are you getting me to "Billy Elliot" over the road. Even if it has got the woman from "Prisoner Cell Block H" in it.

I guess, though, sometimes on special occasions like this was…

Happy Birthday, Max*.

* [only a month late, but who's counting?]