Archive for October, 2012

October 30, 2012

chromatography quilt

In October, the darkness and greyness really sets in. A colour hit was necessary. Enter the Chromatography Quilt.

chromatography quilt

At junior school, when the science teacher was bored and we’d already set fire to all the available magnesium ribbon, we’d be told to make chromatographs. Did you ever make them? You cut two parallel slits to the centre of a disc of filter paper, dab a droplet of ink in the centre, then leave it with the stalk dipped into a beaker of water and wait for a spectrum to spread itself across the paper.

If you’re wondering why that was considered a treat, bear in mind we only had four TV channels at the time.


I wanted to play around with traditional Log Cabin patterns, so made four blocks three feet square then sewed them together. It was pretty quick to complete; I can’t imagine making a quilt out of normal, small blocks, because I’m so pathologically lazy I would never finish it.

Not sure why, but I hardly ever keep the stuff I make, and duly this quilt is now living with my friend Jim. For once, I think I’ll miss having it around the place.

October 27, 2012

Next Radio

In September Olly and I spoke at Next Radio, a great one-day event with lots of rapid-fire talks about the radio industry and where it is headed (there are broadly two schools of thought: 1. somewhere more magnificent than ever 2. straight to Fucktown).

As we began making a podcast in my living room with no knowledge whatsoever, we could hardly go onstage in front of a roomful of radio experts and teach them much they don’t already know. So instead we plumped for a romp through some of the weirdest and silliest things to have happened to us since we started Answer Me This!, and here’s the video of our talk:

Thanks very much to James Cridland and Matt Deegan for letting us take part; click here to view videos of other talks from the day, they are well worth your while.

What you can’t tell from the videos is that we were at the Magic Circle headquarters! While the auditorium was very normal-looking, the corridors and rooms were full of display cases with magicians’ props, puppets, magic coffins etc.

What I hope you can’t tell from the video is that this was my first ever Powerpoint presentation! I rarely get the opportunity to make one in my ‘line’ of ‘work’.

October 26, 2012

Readable music videos: The Wanted

I watched the video of ‘I Found You’ by The Wanted so you don’t have to.

Before you read this post, seek the advice of your parents, because:

However, this is the real warning sign:

There’s a director credit, and some unnecessary aspect ratio bars at the top and bottom. Which means that you need to strap in, because this is aspiring to be arty.

Meet The Wanted.

From left to right: The Bouncer, The Farmer, The Preteen Sensation, The Tall One and Inspector Clouseau.

Since their last single, The Wanted gained a sixth member:

Chicks can’t resist the puppy eyes.

The Wanted are taking the dog for a walk. Dogs require regular walkies, hence The Wanted spend much of this video walking.

See Spot run. See The Wanted walk.

The Wanted stroll to a bar for refreshment. The Preteen Sensation stays outside with a packet of peanuts, because he won’t be able to get served for at least another eight years. Meanwhile, the rest of The Wanted make eyes at somebody across the crowded room.

They are truly enraptured, but by whom?

Ryan Gosling!

“Hey girl…oh, sorry Siva.”

Too bad the ukulele romance will have to wait, because The Wanted have got a job to do and they need to do it now, because if The Preteen Sensation doesn’t get home by 6pm, his mum won’t allow him to have any Frubes for pudding.

I’ve never seen a dog’s bum look less impressed. If you need a door broken down…don’t ask a boyband to do it.

Anyway, remember the pretty gagged blonde lady? Here are two of her extremities:

She put on that duct tape because she heard it gets rid of verrucas. Then it slipped up her feet and now her legs are incapacitated; what a fine mess she got herself into! Thank Christ there’s a boyband on the way to sort it all out.

The Wanted have their duffing-up faces on

and are about to have a big old fight on the stairs. This is what a Wanted fight looks like:

You should have seen the other guy!

Punches are punched. Shoves are shoved. Men fly. Glasses shatter. DVDs are put back on the shelf out of alphabetical order.


Despite her plight, the bound blonde seems entertained by the spectacle of The Wanted beating up the men, because frankly 80% of the Wanted look like they couldn’t even beat up a meringue.

“And then I ripped off his leg and beat him to death with it.”

Against all odds, The Wanted have won the day, and found the lady! They send in The Preteen Sensation to rescue her, because the rest of the band are busy with grown-up things like tax returns and whisky-tasting.

She’s looking forward to having the circulation restored to her feet, but The Preteen Sensation has other ideas.

“Please miss, give us a snog!”
“Ugh, no – your breath smells of Dora The Explorer toothpaste.”

Now we learn that we should not have been fooled by this innocent child face, for it belies a wiley scheme! Having distracted the still-bound blonde with his juvenile osculations, from somewhere upon her body, he extracts a tiny key. And with that, it’s goodbye to the lady – losers weepers!

He’s got the key! He’s got the secre-eh-eh-et! He’s got the key to a…

…box that The Wanted drag up from the river.

Betcha wish you were that padlock, eh girls?


October 24, 2012

Readable music videos: Nicki Minaj featuring Cassie

I watched the video of ‘The Boys’ by Nicki Minaj featuring Cassie so you don’t have to.

But before the main feature, a message from the environmental lobby:

Please conserve water. For example, use your grey water to flush the loo, or to pipe through your garden water features.

Nicki demonstrates, by not wasting the leftover water from the swimming pool in ‘Superbass‘:

Ain’t no such thing as grey water in the Minajerie!

End of environmental messages; let the entertainments commence.

Nicki Minaj
‘Arson and Arse-On’

In case you missed it:

In case you missed it again:

YES WE GET IT THANKS. You’re hardly making Minaj on the Orient Express here.

It’s a bad day all round in the Minajerie, because before the song has even started, Nicki crashes her car.

“That came out of nowhere!”

“Ha, women drivers…”

Fortunately Nicki walks away unhurt, because she deployed her twin airbags.

NB Jodie Marsh styled this video.

If you think that the rear view is an all too explicit celebration of VPL, then beware the next shot: the front view is an all too explicit celebration of camel toe.

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October 20, 2012

noises on – four gigs, three cheeks

Three busy days of noise-making:

Answer Me This! Episode 233 on Thursday;
Saturday Edition on BBC 5 Live tonight;
• yesterday morning MacAulay & Co on BBC Scotland, talking about the Great British Bake-Off final with Fred MacAulay and Seann Walsh;
• and yesterday evening, the roundtable with Ian Collins on LBC, with Ned Simons of the Huffington Post UK. The podcast of the chat is available on iTunes and here’s the RSS link.

Last time I was on Ian’s show, someone tweeted that Ian, fellow guest Simon Warr and I were ‘the three cheeks of the same arse’. This time nobody tweeted that Ian, Ned and I were ‘the three ears of the same head’ or ‘the three boobs of the same chest’, which I think is a positive?

UPDATE: On Saturday Edition we talked about the Bodyform rant, with presenter Chris Warburton snorting with cynicism at the idea it had been posted by a real person rather than a Bodyform PR. And then the real person rang up to prove him wrong! WORLD EXCLUSIVE. Click here to listen from around 20 minutes in.

October 16, 2012

Readable music videos: Taylor Swift

I watched the video of Taylor Swift’s ‘We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together’, so you don’t have to.

We open on Taylor’s apartment. The wallpaper is giant cable knitting. That’s right: Taylor Swift – estimated worth $80m – lives in a tea cosy.

Taylor is in her jimjams, but also wearing immaculate red lipstick, thus issuing a conflicting message to her suitor. Are you receiving guests or are you not, Taylor? It is no wonder you’re being jerked about by your boyfriend when you are unable to make up your own mind.

Immediately from this scene, we can already see why Taylor’s boyfriend keeps dumping her. Firstly, the TV is showing a Taylor Swift video. She’s too self-obsessed to have a proper long-term relationship with somebody else. Secondly, everywhere she goes, Taylor is followed by a gang of plushies. As if this were not offputting enough, add the ‘wacky rubber doll’ facial expression worn by the chief plushy.

“Still feeling sexy? Thought not.”

The plushies possess a plethora of instruments – keytar, autoharp, white violin, a Gretsch Bo Diddley guitar – but they are wearing big furry paws so cannot play them. This is OK because the song does not seem to have much keytar in the backing track anyway.

While they’re busy gurning and miming, over in the Cheeseplant Room, Taylor has a cross chat with her man, who is wisely wearing earphones to block out her nagging. In case you’re wondering just who is this fellow who has caused Taylor such heartache on repeat, he is holding a 12″ record. Consider his character established!

“Oh, so it’s OK for you to define yourself with retro-whimsical objects, but I’m not allowed?”
“Tee hee! Why don’t you ask my Felix the Cat clock?”

Taylor answers a call on the wall phone that she has, because she’s 22 so not old enough to remember that landlines are not actually cool at all. On the other end of the line, her gentleman caller is on a payphone – are we really to believe that neither of them have decent mobile reception?

The action moves to a place we are supposed to believe is a bar because on the wall there is a neon sign saying ‘BAR’. A case of ‘The bar doth protest too much’, for surely if a bar has succeeded in being a bar, it does not need to declare its bar-ness in such an obvious way? This leads me to believe that this is in fact a church hall which self-identifies as a bar and wishes to be treated as such by the world at large.

“I so am a bar!”

Check out the autoharp-strumming plushy wearing sunglasses in the dark bar. What a tool. He will shortly be roadkill, as Taylor and her gentleman friend zoom up in their cardboard car. “Give us a ride!” plead the plushies. “Damn, I can NOT catch a break today,” sighs Taylor’s boyfriend’s penis, as they pile into the boot.

The on-again-off-again couple finally have some alone time outside a garden centre or something, but Taylor’s mood swings strike again: she veers from ‘amorous’ to ‘way unimpressed’ in the time it takes to put a scarf on, so she scampers off for a lie-down and a big phone-moan to her interested friendthe speaking clock. Yet again, she’s using the landline, but at least this time it is a portable phone. Baby steps, Taylor.

Perhaps ‘baby’ is a risky word to use in a Swiftian context, as on her pillow is a stripy knitted toy that would wilt the boner of any adult man who ends up in that bed.

“Sorry, Casanova, I don’t do threesomes. Like EVER.”

We return to Taylor’s flat, where the plushies lure us in for a party: jumping now, dry-humping later. A man-squirrel nearly knocks a picture off the wall, but doesn’t, which is lucky, because Taylor can’t take any more upset today.

‘Knock knock!’ Taylor’s man is at the door – but oh dear, he’s not dressed as a woodland creature, so he can’t come in. HA. Finally, Taylor has managed to close the door (literally and figuratively #clever) on her relationship with Jake Gyllenhaal John Mayer Joe Jonas Taylor Lautner vinyl guy.

Then, as Taylor turns back to the party, we see that all the revellers have vanished. They may have been a product of Taylor’s overheated imagination all along, a fantasy to help her through this traumatic break-up. But she’s not alone; we see her flirting with a knitted bird outside the window.

“Wanna come in and see my etchings?”

Sadly, Taylor seems to relate better to inanimate objects, which will be an obstacle to her forming meaningful relationships with an actual human adult anytime soon. Best of luck to the person who breaks this cycle.

NB don’t break this cycle, which is standing in the kitchen NOT as another self-conscious indication of Cute Hipsterism, but because Taylor has a pedal-powered microwave.


October 16, 2012

In defence of Utah

“Why do you want to go to Utah?” said the scornful man at the immigration desk at San Francisco Airport.

“What are you going to Utah for? Just go straight to Vegas and have some fun instead,” said the lady at the alien-themed diner in the middle of nowhere, Nevada.

“Isn’t it all Mormons?” said everybody else, derisively.

I can’t vouch for Utah’s Mormon content, because I didn’t really encounter any*. I haven’t been to Salt Lake City or environs, and I understand that is that is where most of them congregate. If forced to stereotype the Utahns I did meet, they could either be categorised as dreamcatcher-manufacturers, or extreme sports enthusiasts.

My husband and I have twice visited America’s tenth least densely populated state. The second time was this Easter, and the first on our honeymoon last year, a 3,500-mile road trip from southern California to the Pacific Northwest via as many national parks as we could handle.

Through deserts, beaches, rainforests, mountain ranges, calderas, cities, we saw many incredible things – an Eccles cake the size of a dinner plate; a hot-tubs-and-taxidermy-themed motel; London Bridge; a Bavarian themed town wherein lived 5,000 nutcrackers; the menacing glint of cops bearing speeding tickets, twice. But out of a catalogue of wonder, it was Utah that really smacked us in the face and left us reeling.

We knew it would be quite something before we even got there. Eating supper on the south rim of the Grand Canyon, our weary waiter, Eric, said, “This place is alright, I guess…”

[Fig.1: Grand Canyon. S’alright. Inoffensive. Humdrum.]

“…but Utah, Utah is really beautiful. You gotta go to Arches and Canyonlands. My wife and I used to go hiking there all the time.”

Cool! We’re going there in three days’ time.

“But my favourite place is Dead Horse Point. It’s amazing. I scattered my wife’s ashes there last year.”


“Which one of you was having the soup?”

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October 15, 2012

A is for…

…a three-months-late birthday present for my friend Amy.

A quilt

This quilt is about six feet square and is composed of four-inch strip patchwork. ‘Strip patchwork’ sounds like a racy game that crafters play. It isn’t.

The ‘A’ material is a sheet that used to cover our toy snooker table in the 1980s. The rest of the fabrics include pyjama legs, my husband’s shirt, tablecloths, African wax print and a New Look dress (ie a dress from New Look; I didn’t cut up a piece of Dior’s New Look). This little lobster – cotton print from Ikea – is my favourite:

I intended to stick to a limited palette of red and blue shades, but failed by the third patch. As the front was so busy, I opted for all solid colours for the back:
A quilt back

Well, almost all.

This is a variant on the traditional ‘Chinese Coins’ pattern, which I could pretend I chose because Amy spent her formative years in Hong Kong rather than because it’s easy and nice.

The main thing is, Amy seems happy. And warm!

October 8, 2012

Live 5 Live!

This is the closest I’ll ever get to being an air traffic controller.

Every Saturday evening, Olly and I discuss what’s been happening online on BBC 5 Live’s Saturday Edition with Chris Warburton. We don’t usually get to wear girlband-style headsets, but this Saturday the show was recorded in front of a Live! Studio! Audience! So a couple of dozen people crammed into the studio with us to observe the visual feast that is radio. Click here to consume that visual feast with your ears, which is really the best way to do it in this case.

In other recent fixtures, I also pipe up on the latest episode of the Guardian’s Media Talk; and I was interviewed by Persephone Magazine, so click here if you care to read me waffling on about feminism and my mum and such.

October 3, 2012

jury service

The other day, a Twitterfriend asked me what jury service was like, prompting me a year and a half after the fact to collect my thoughts upon what was one of the most interesting experiences of my life.

People either seem fascinated or horrified by the prospect of jury service and I definitely fell in the former category, perhaps because I’m freelance without a Real Job that would be disrupted by two weeks in court. Altogether it bore little resemblance to my usual existence, since in all other circumstances I eschew responsibility, gravitas and teamwork. Here is what happened.

On a Monday morning, seventy-odd jurors were summoned to a South London crown court and were sent to await the call for duty in a holding pen – a long, low-ceilinged room with hospital waiting room decor, no external windows and the old school smell of burnt cottage pie from the snack counter down one side. Whenever a new trial was about to begin, fifteen names were called, and those people would file down to one of several courtrooms, while everyone else waited on. Thankfully I’d brought a hefty book with me, because I spent six hours in the holding pen before being called. I was nonetheless relatively lucky, as some others were still waiting three days later.

Jury Tip no.1: take a good book. Free wifi? Dream on.

After an eon breathing in the cottage pie and staring out of the window onto a wall, fifteen of us trooped down to the courtroom. The judge had all our names on little cards and drew twelve, to ensure that the selection of jury members was as random as possible. The unchosen three returned to the holding pen to await another call; the rest of us took our seats. Everyone else was already in place: the judge higher than everyone, the defendant at the back behind a wall of glass. The room held a very diverse sample of society, and this particular mixture of individuals would under no other circumstances ever be brought together to share breathing space.

The judge was like a benevolent god. Clerks sallied in and out the room on mysterious errands, every few minutes conducting phone calls in absolute silence. We never saw anybody move; whenever a witness was brought in, we were always sent out until they were in the box. When you’re a juror, you’re always kept in the places where you’re supposed to be, and only shown what you’re supposed to see, a very theatrical effect which was enhanced by the judge, barristers and even all the clerks wearing the courtroom costume of robe, wig and elaborate high collar. When you see people wearing this get-up, you automatically know that Serious Business is taking place, and within a system which transcends individuality, i.e. I would have struggled to recognise the barrister I’d just stared at for the past six hours if I bumped into them wearing a tracksuit straight afterwards.

Jury Tip no.2: take copious notes. They provide you with pencils and paper, so write down absolutely every bit of information that is imparted. The act of note-taking helps you concentrate during proceedings, and the notes prove invaluable later during deliberation. The barristers spent the best part of six days blowing rhetorical smoke in our eyes; when we retired to deliberate, we had to force ourselves to concentrate only on the facts and ignore the impressions they had succeeded in creating in our minds.

We spent two whole days deliberating our verdict, locked in a blank white room until home-time. During deliberation, we were no longer allowed in the old beefy holding-pen; we had to enter the courthouse via an obscure back door, frequent corridors that were empty of jurors on other cases, speak about the case only to the rest of the jury, in its entirely. Aside from loo breaks, we always had to remain in the group of twelve. Always. This meant that when somebody wanted a cigarette, the following procedure had to happen:

1. We buzzed a clerk, and waited many minutes for one to reach our room.
2. We handed the clerk a written request to be allowed outside for a smoke.
3. The clerk took the note down to the judge, who was presiding over another trial.
4. Once the judge’s other trial had arrived at a suitable break, we were brought back into the courtroom.
5. The judge would tell us that we were allowed to go outside for a smoke for ten minutes, but we all had to stay together.
6. So we all stood by the back door in the cold until the cigarettes were extinguished, then returned to the deliberation room until the next cigarette craving.

I don’t smoke, and I never hated smokers more.

Jury Tip no.3: don’t smoke. Else you’ll be jittery all day without a regular fix, the non-smokers despise you, and you’re wasting the legal system’s time and resources.

Jury Tip no.4: take a flask of tea and some snacks to sustain you during deliberation. A clerk brings in service station sandwiches for lunch, and there is water, but if you’re deliberating for a long time, as we were, you may yearn for a hot drink and some food with actual nutritional value.

We deliberated and deliberated and deliberated. After a day of it, the judge dropped the unanimous requirement down to 10-2, but even then, I thought the deadlock might never end. Possibly not every juror wanted it to end. When the foreman suggested that, to clarify our thoughts, we all spend half an hour in silence writing down our perceptions of the case, the juror sitting next to me spent that time drawing a massive doodle of his name. Then he complained about wanting another cigarette.

At last we reached a verdict. We had to wait to deliver it until the judge had reached a hiatus in his new trial, and the defendant and barristers had been fetched and assumed their positions in the courtroom. So in another depressing windowless room we waited, jittery, because if we’d got it wrong, it would have a huge effect upon somebody’s life. One juror broke the tension by telling us all about how he was a psychic – the Shining runs in the family – and I’m sure I wasn’t the only person in the room to wonder whether he was fit to sit on the jury (or whether it gave him an unfair advantage, if he could read the minds of the defendant and witnesses).

Finally, we went in. The foreman gave the verdict. The defendant – who never testified, I didn’t know they were not obliged to – showed no reaction at all. Then everything turned into a movie-style final act twist, as the judge told us all sorts of other information about the defendant, including their legal history, and we knew that our verdict had been the right one.

Then we were sent back upstairs to the holding pen and all reallocated to new juries. (My next case was far more straightforward, lasting only a day, under the impatient command of a new judge who was irascible in the Paxman style.) I had spent eight intense days as part of a unique twelve-headed organism, which was now disbanded back into its constituent parts; we melted away to our different parts of London and a week later, I could no longer remember any of their names.