rARsh!

Ha ha ha bonk

I was out last night at the Playhouse in Norwhag to see Otis Lee Crenshaw in concert. Rich Hall was, perhaps unsurprisingly, the support act so we had about 45 minutes of stand-up, a 15 minute interval and then Otis Lee Crenshaw and his backing band for just over an hour.

All good stuff, although I regretted having seen Rich Hall on “Live at the Apollo” last week and also having purchased Otis Lee Crenshaw’s 2001 CD “Live - London, Not Tennessee“. I don’t regret it because the material bad, but rather because it would appear that in the past seven years, Mr Crenshaw has only added one or possibly two songs to his repertoire. Oh, and he didn’t sing the stalking song. Or the Scrabble song for that matter.

I must say that Mr Hall Mr Crenshaw is certainly gifted at adapting his songs for the audience, even when the audience member he picked on for one of them turned out to be an archaeologist - that seemed to throw him briefly although he recovered well.

It struck me that it’s curious how expectations differ when going out to be a band compared to a comedian. With a band, you’re generally hoping that most of the set will comprise songs you know and, presumably, like (why else would you be there?) with a smatter ditties from the latest album. With a comedian, you’d prefer not to hear a large amount of stuff you’ve already heard - Lyle posted on this point recently.

This means I’m currently purging all memory of anything I’ve ever seen or heard Mark Steel do before his gig next Thursday, also at the Playhouse. I’ve also booked tickets for three shows next year - Marks Watson, Thomas, the lovely Miss Definitely-not-a-Mark Lucy Porter (all in March at the Playhouse) and Richard Herring in April at the Arts Centre.

Helpful (not)

In other news, I picked a loyalty card at Waterstones the other day and got an email today from them, offering special deals and the like if I registered online. Fair enough, I thought, and did so.

I was then amused to recieve the following message in response to my registration (red bits aren’t exactly what the email said):

Dear LIONEL D’LION,

Welcome to Waterstone’s. You are receiving this email as you have
recently registered your details with Waterstones.com.

Before we tell you about some of the benefits and services you’ll enjoy
as a registered customer, we would first like to confirm the following
personal details:

Your email address: lionel@rarsh.com

Your password: ********

Your customer ID: 99999999

You will need your email address and password each time you sign in
and/or purchase from the site and recommend you keep these details safe
for future reference, by saving this email in a separate email folder,
or by printing it out. Please note all passwords are case sensitive.

I was amused because I’m fairly sure that I didn’t choose my password to be eight asterisks. If you’re not going to give out the password, what’s the point of adding “Password: ********” to the email? For that matter, what on earth is the point of including the email address? You’ve just sent me an email, so we both know you’ve got the right email address for me!

People, eh? Sheesh.

Shaping the nation

From now until Sunday I’m recording my radio listening as part of the National Radio Listening Survey. So what show must I not miss?

On second thoughts, maybe you should meet your heroes

Stupidly I put off heading into Jarrold’s book department until after 11:30. I didn’t want to be hanging around waiting for the great Mr Fry. Oh, how foolish that was. By the time arrived the queue stretched out of the book department and was winding up the stairs past the first floor (women’s wear) and heading up towards the second floor (furniture). I estimated that my position in the queue was well into three figures and Mr Fry was only scheduled to be in the department for an hour. I honestly expected not to get to meet him.

“Bloody hell!” exclaimed a passing old biddy. “I thought there were a lot of people here when Michael Palin was here.”

But ‘pon my soul, Mr Fry can sign! By the time I reached the desk (some sixty five minutes later, and forty five minutes after he arrived) he was still going strong and was even taking the time to have a few words with each and every buyer - with the person two in front he discussed the (mis)fortunes of his beloved Norwhag City, with the young lady in front of me he recognised an unusual surname, established that he taught her uncle at one point and asked her to give him his regards and in my chase asked what a Welshman was going in the dark depths of Norfolk.

I, of course, giggled like a schoolgirl and muttered something unintelligible, completely forgetting what I’d intended to say to him.

Leaving the store I noticed that the queue of eager Fryophiles was still snaking up the stairs towards the furniture department.

Next time I’ll aim to arrive an hour before the signing’s due to start.

You should never meet your heroes

Well, that’s what “they” say, but I fail to see what business it is of theirs anyway. Nosy buggers. Pah.

Anyway, tomorrow Mr Stephen Fry’s going to be in Norwhag, signing copies of the dead-tree version of his recent series about America.

Now I enjoyed the series, although it was far, far too short - visiting all 50 (ahem) states in just 6 episodes was always going to require editing with a chainsaw rather than a scalpel - so I’m hoping that the book will go into a little more detail on those states which were rather glossed over or mentioned only in passing on the television. It should, I’d hope, be a good read.

So, in the light of never meeting heroes advice, should I go and meet him? He does. after all, follow me on Twitter* (although I doubt he waits on tenterhooks for my next exciting tweet).

I’ve read his post on fame and won’t try to impress him with bizarre factoids, of course. Won’t point out that his book’s been reduced to less than half price on Amazon either. That would be tactless and I am known for my tact. I think. Or was it lack of tact? I forget.

Is it worth the risk of disillusionment, then?

Of course it is.

I must tell you about when I met G*ry Lin*ker, though. What a **** he turned out to be.

* I hope he doesn’t read this blog, though. Think I’m fairly safe …

Sony-u-Dislike

I met Tall Andy for lunch today and, after a lengthy whittling down process while circling the Chapelfield food court I sped things up by offering him the choice of the “finest pastie” place or Spud-u-Like.

“Spud, then. The pasties are crap.”

“But they claim to be the finest.”

“Yes, the finest in that shop. Perhaps.”

We were intrigued to spot a special “Thanksgiving” meal deal at the Spud place. Heinz baked beans and Monterey Jack cheese fillings for just £2.99. We discussed this on two levels. The first being whether or not baked beans and cheese on a baked potato could honestly be described as a special meal deal - it being, surely, one of the more common topping combinations. The second level was wondering just what warranted the additional 31 pence - as we could plainly see Baked Beans & Cheese on offer on the normal menu at £2.68.

“Ah but it’s Monteray Jack cheese.”

I wasn’t convinced. “I’m not convinced,” I said. “I very much doubt you could discern any difference between cheeses melted over beans on a baked potato let alone a difference that would warrant a 31 pence premium.”

We declined the chance to enjoy a Thanksgiving special meal deal and took our chosen repasts to a suitable brightly coloured table. It occurred to me that the whole Spud-u-Like area was on the garish side, as if designed to placate the most ADHD of five year olds. This impression was only heightened when I lifted the paper napkin to find the cutlery. It was green. Bright green, plastic and flat. Even the fork had virtually no discernable concavity and the tines, such as they were, would struggle to pick up something sticky let alone something with, for the sake of argument, a thick skin.

“Do you get the impression we need to get a parent over here to cut up our food?” I asked as I glanced across the divide at the definitely adult-orientated, comfy chaired and subdued colouration of the pastie area. There’s clearly a balance required here and it is, I fear, a tough call.

After our meal we wandered into the Sony shop to drool over extortionate gadgetry, managing to disrupt carefully set up demonstration videos by insisting on testing how finger friendly the ultramobile notebooks’ keyboards were (and the answer is very finger friendly, in case you were wondering).

“What someone needs to do,“, I remarked as I absent mindedly picked up and pocketed a leaflet, “is bring out a tiny laptop with a built in SIM card so you don’t have all the hassle of pairing the notebook to your bluetooth phone and then using the phone as a modem. It’s can be a pain in the butt with Windows and as for Linux - sheesh!”

“Hmmm” was Tall Andy’s thoughful response.

When I got home I discovered the Sony leaflet in my pocket and glanced at the ludicrously priced geegaws.

“Bastards!” I exclaimed (to Kirsti’s surprise).

I read on.

“What a bunch of bastards! How dare they!” (no reaction this time - she was ready for further outbursts). How dare that faceless corporation steal my idea before I’d even thought of it, just to avoid paying me the royalties I clearly deserve. Bastards.

And then charge so much for the oh-so-teeny-and-lovely-and-desirable notebook.

Bastards.

Stop when I’m up to 5′ 10″

It was back to the chiropractor and for another session on the rack. Thankfully it was nowhere near as painful as the first session.

“Stop when I’m up to 5′ 10″, please,” I asked politely.

Being antipodean it took Dr J_____n a while to realise what I meant but - to prove it had finally sunk in - he jested “Oops. Seven feet.”

My, how I chortled.

In spite of his claim, I’m still under 5′ 8″ tall but - on the plus side - I’m now stickless and moving around pretty much freely. Wahey! Considering that on my way from the car park to my appointment this morning I was overtaken by a little old lady who was also using a stick, I think that represents fairly dramatic progress.

God bless technology

Cake in a Mug [via popurls]